The Selected Letters of Nikos Kazantzakis 9780691147024

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The Selected Letters of

Nikos Kazantzakis

Princeton Modern Greek Studies This series is sponsored by the Princeton University Program in Hellenic Studies with the support of the Stanley J. Seeger Hellenic Fund

Firewalking and Religious Healing: The Anastenaria of Greece and the American Firewalking Movement by Loring M. Danforth Kazantzakis: Politics of the Spirit by Peter Bien Dance and the Body Politic in Northern Greece by Jane Cowan Yannis Ritsos: Repetitions, Testimonies, Parentheses, edited and translated by Edmund Keeley Contested Identities: Gender and Kinship in Modern Greece, edited by Peter Loizos and Evthymios Papataxiarchis A Place in History: Social and Monumental Time in a Cretan Town by Michael Herzfeld Demons and the Devil: Moral Imagination in Modern Greek Culture by Charles Stewart The Enlightenment as Social Criticism: Iosipos Moisiodax and Greek Culture in the Eighteenth Century by Paschalis M. Kitromilides C. P. Cavafy: Collected Poems, translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard; edited by George Savidis The Fourth Dimension by Yannis Ritsos; translated by Peter Green and Beverly Bardsley George Seferis: Collected Poems, Revised Edition, translated, edited, and introduced by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard In a Different Place: Pilgrimage, Gender, and Politics at a Greek Island Shrine by Jill Dubisch Cavafy’s Alexandria, Revised Edition, by Edmund Keeley The Films of Theo Angelopoulos: A Cinema of Contemplation by Andrew Horton The Muslim Bonaparte: Diplomacy and Orientalism in Ali Pasha’s Greece by K. E. Fleming Venom in Verse: Aristophanes in Modern Greece by Gonda A. H. Van Steen A Shared World: Christians and Muslims in the Early Modern Mediterranean by Molly Greene After the War Was Over: Reconstructing the Family, Nation, and State in Greece, 1943–1960, edited by Mark Mazower Notes from the Margins: Shifting Socialities of Place and People on the GreekAlbanian Border by Sarah F. Green Catholic Pirates and Greek Merchants: A Maritime History of the Mediterranean by Molly Greene The Selected Letters of Nikos Kazantzakis, edited and translated by Peter Bien

The Selected Letters of

Nikos Kazantzakis Edited and Translated by Peter Bien

Princeton University Press Princeton and Oxford

Copyright © 2012 by Princeton University Press Published by Princeton University Press, 41 William Street, Princeton, New Jersey 08540 In the United Kingdom: Princeton University Press, 6 Oxford Street, Woodstock, Oxfordshire OX20 1TW press.princeton.edu All Rights Reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Kazantzakis, Nikos, 1883–1957.   The selected letters of Nikos Kazantzakis / edited and translated by Peter Bien.    p.  cm.  Includes bibliographical references and index.  ISBN 978-0-691-14702-4 (hardcover : acid-free paper)  1.  Kazantzakis, Nikos, 1883–1957— Correspondence.  2.  Authors, Greek (Modern)—20th century—Correspondence. I.  Bien, Peter. II. Title.   PA5610.K39Z48  2012   8899.83209—dc22   [B]      2011009484 British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available This book has been composed in Minion Pro Printed on acid-free paper. ∞ Printed in the United States of America 10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

Contents

Introduction His Importance A Maniacal Epistolographer Completeness Annotations Transliteration Acknowledgments Chronology

ix ix x xi xi xi xii xvii

The Letters I  •  At Law School in Athens 1902 Letters 1903 Letters 1904 Letters 1905 Letters 1906 Letters 1907 Letters

1 10 18 24 30 34

II  •  Pursuing Graduate Studies in Paris 1907 Letters, continued 1908 Letters

37 38

III  •  Politically Active in Greece 1909 Letters 1911 Letters 1912 Letters 1913 Letters 1914 Letters 1915 Letters 1917 Letters 1918 Letters 1919 Letters 1920 Letters

46 48 50 55 56 61 66 72 78 82

vi  • Contents

IV  •  Fleeing Greece; Resident in Austria, Germany, Italy 1922 Letters 1923 Letters 1924 Letters

84 141 191

V  •  Meets Eleni Samiou; Begins Odyssey; Divorces Galatea; Travels to Soviet Union 1924 Letters, continued 1925 Letters 1926 Letters 1927 Letters

206 215 231 245

VI  •  Resident Almost Eighteen Months in the Soviet Union 1927 Letters, continued 1928 Letters 1929 Letters

272 291 323

VII  •  Trying to Make a Career Outside of Greece, Especially in Spain 1929 Letters, continued 1930 Letters 1931 Letters 1932 Letters 1933 Letters

349 368 385 409 439

VIII  •  Back in Greece, Having Failed Elsewhere; Traveling in Far East; Odyssey Completed and Published; Visit to England 1933 Letters, continued 1934 Letters 1935 Letters 1936 Letters 1937 Letters 1938 Letters 1939 Letters 1940 Letters

460 476 480 495 501 510 516 529

IX  •  Confined to Aegina during the German Occupation; Writes Zorba and Many Plays; Begins to Translate Homer’s Iliad 1941 Letters 1942 Letters

537 545

Contents  •  vii

1943 Letters 1944 Letters

559 590

X  •  In Athens during Round Two of the Civil War; Resolves to Help Liberated Greece via Political Action; Briefly a Cabinet Minister; Marries Eleni Samiou 1944 Letters, continued 1945 Letters 1946 Letters

600 600 609

XI  •  Final Exile: Resides Briefly in England, Then in France; Writes Final Novels and Plays; Travels to China 1946 Letters, continued 1947 Letters 1948 Letters 1949 Letters 1950 Letters 1951 Letters 1952 Letters 1953 Letters 1954 Letters 1955 Letters 1956 Letters 1957 Letters

615 632 657 676 689 709 727 742 747 772 808 833

References Cited

853

Index

859

Introduction

His Importance Two remarkable literary renaissances occurred roughly in the first half of the twentieth century at the two edges of Europe: Ireland and Greece. ­Ireland, with a population then of fewer than four million, produced Yeats, Joyce, Beckett, Wilde, and Shaw; Greece, with a population then of fewer than eleven million (compare Ohio, with just over eleven million), produced Cavafy, Palamas, Seferis, Elytis, Kazantzakis, and Ritsos, plus a dozen other remarkable writers of both poetry and prose. Our focus in this volume is on Kazantzakis; yet it is important to remember that he was part of a generalized literary revival and also of a culture in which just about everybody, it seems, writes a slender book of poetry that is privately published and distributed to friends. Kazantzakis’s one indisputable uniqueness is his success in becoming known outside of Greece via translation, not to mention having three interesting movies (Celui qui doit mourir, Zorba the Greek, and The Last Temptation of Christ) made from his work. Of course, Cavafy is widely appreciated and perhaps a dozen others have been translated, but no other Greek author has attained Kazantzakis’s worldwide range. In addition, Kazantzakis was more peripatetic than the others, who stayed mostly in Greece (or in Alexandria in Cavafy’s case), whereas Kazantzakis lived in France during his final decade, attempted previously to establish a career in the Soviet Union, Germany, and Spain, traveled repeatedly to Asia and the Near East, resided for extended periods in Czechoslovakia and Italy, vacationed in Switzerland, and corresponded not only in Greek but also in French, Spanish, German, Italian, and even a little in English. Also quite remarkable was the range of his political experiences and involvements. As a child he was exposed to a Cretan insurrection against the Ottoman Empire; during the Balkan Wars he was briefly in uniform in Macedonia; he was in charge of repatriating Greeks from the Caucasus when they were being persecuted by the Russians; he lived in Vienna and then Berlin during periods of extraordinary inflation and unrest following the First World War; he was the only Greek invited to Moscow for the tenth anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution; he served as foreign correspondent in Spain during the Spanish Civil War; he resided in Greece during the Axis occupation in the Second World War, then in Athens while the Greek Civil War was being fought there. All this, and more, is recorded in more detail in the chronology below.

x  • Introduction

What, then, is his importance? I do not believe that it is as a supreme artist. As a poet, he is surely not a Goethe or a Milton; as a novelist, he is not a Dostoevsky; as a dramatist, he is far from an Ibsen or Strindberg. I believe that his importance lies in fortitude. His life was extremely discouraging—a very bad first marriage (all too evident in the letters below); estrangement from his father; inability to make a living during most of his career; early death of his best friend, Stavridakis; prolonged estrangement from his other friend, Sikelianos; being persecuted for his communistic enthusiasms long after he had abandoned them; his epic Odyssey ridiculed; his Askitiki misunderstood; being able to publish in Europe but not in Greece; a publishing house reneging after he had completed half of a French-Greek dictionary; single copies of manuscripts lost in the mail; and so on and so forth. But throughout all of this he successfully fought depression, never stopped working, and never lost his belief in eventual “salvation” for himself, his nation, his broader civilization. This fortitude—and resilience—is well worth our admiring notice.

A Maniacal Epistolographer There are many collections of extraordinary letters. My favorites are those of James Joyce, D. H. Lawrence, and Virginia Woolf. In each case these letters are not only essential resources for scholars but also useful for anyone interested in human behavior because they enable us to know what an exceptional individual was thinking, doing, hoping, fearing, even eating almost every day of his or her adult life. The same is true for the extraordinary letters of Nikos Kazantzakis. We know quite a lot about Kazantzakis’s life but nothing compared to what is revealed in these “selected letters,” even though they are only about one-tenth of the total. I chose them because of their intrinsic interest but also because I wanted to include every person to whom he wrote. Above all, the letters show his genius. Look for example at those written in the very first years of his student days at Athens University, when he was nineteen and twenty years old. His powers of expression are remarkable, as are his rich vocabulary, his tireless urge to observe everything and everyone around him, his erudition even then (when he had just finished high school). All these virtues continue for the next fifty-plus years. What we also see is his intense need to write letters and to receive them. He did not use a telephone for decades, although he occasionally sent or received telegrams; he certainly never owned a computer; nor did he type (his wife Eleni did that). His connection with others was through the written word inscribed via pen and ink at lightning speed. Did he write with the expectation that his letters would be retained by their recipients and be published? Perhaps, but no evidence for this exists. I think he wrote owing to fear that, without letters, his connection with humanity would be severed. He kept pleading with recipients to answer him quickly, extensively, and complained bitterly if they did not. When his wife Galatea did answer, he protested: “I always write you immense missives. You, two words.

Introduction  •  xi

Beyond that, you use such big letters! Three of your pages fit into one of mine.” Yes, he sometimes seemed in his letters to be trying out passages that would eventually be included in a published work; yet I believe that his primary purpose for writing was to connect with someone who would be interested and would respond with comments. I call him a maniacal epistolographer because letter writing for him was truly a mania: a zealous necessity.

Completeness My aim has been to print complete letters only. For published letters available in incomplete form, fortunately in many cases I have found corresponding manuscripts enabling me to translate these texts in their complete form. On the other hand, many manuscripts are missing, especially those of letters to Eleni Kazantzaki. To be consistent with my general aim to print complete letters only, I omit incomplete letters to her and others unless they are extraordinarily interesting. Happily, the incomplete letters to Eleni Kazantzaki that I would have liked to include here are readily available in printed form not only in Greek but also in English and French translation.

Annotations Anyone reading these letters will soon become aware of Kazantzakis’s farreaching involvement with people, places, and ideas that are likely to be unfamiliar especially to non-Greeks and even in many cases to Greeks of the twenty-first century as opposed to those of the first half of the twentieth century, his own time. Thus, I have tried to annotate just about everything, perhaps excessively. Because I do not employ footnote numbers, readers may easily ignore the annotations; conversely, because I place the annotations directly beneath each epistle rather than at the end of the volume, interested readers may access them easily. Many are borrowed from other writers, especially Pandelis Prevelakis; many are gleaned from the Internet, Greek encyclopedias, dialect dictionaries, Who’s Whos, and the like; many have been supplied by Peter Mackridge and a bevy of other friends and colleagues, all of whom are listed with thanks in my acknowledgments, below.

Transliteration Transliteration is a pain; no matter what ones does, somebody will object. I expect that objections will greet the transliterations in this volume, perhaps because the system I employ is not consistent. Mostly I try to approximate modern Greek pronunciation; this, I am happy to say, seems to be the favored mode employed now in Greece itself, especially on street signs. Thus Kazantzakis’s ancestral village Βαρβάροι is transliterated as Varvari, not Varvaroi and certainly not Barbaroi. Similarly, the proper name Ψυχάρης appears as

xii  • Introduction

Psiharis, not Psychares. The same for Χάρης, transliterated here as Haris, more or less the way it is pronounced, not as Chares (horrible!), Charis, or Kharis. On the other hand, familiar words are done more conservatively. Thus for Kazantzakis’s Οδυσέας (with one sigma!) I write Odysseas, not Odiseas, Odisseas, Odhiseas, or indeed Odysseus. Like everyone else, I tend to “correct” Kazantzakis’s spelling and accentuation, except occasionally when I indicate that these features have been retained in my text. His program of spelling reform was resisted by everyone, even his friend Prevelakis. He eliminated all double consonants that do not affect pronunciation, as well as all accents on a word’s final syllable. Even Ellada became Elada for him, but not for anyone else, which explains (I trust) my own conservatism in this area. Regarding stress, I have chosen not to include accent marks at all, which perhaps is a mistake, but does make life easier. Of course, the best solution is to utilize the Greek alphabet, avoiding transliteration altogether. This I do many times, a practice that should please readers of Greek and make no difference to those who do not read Greek, who will be just as perplexed by the transliteration in such cases. Finally, it is worth noting that I use the Greek form of female names—thus “Helen Kazantzakis” for a work published in English but “Eleni Kazantzaki” for works published in Greek.

Acknowledgments Scholarship, like many other activities, is most often communal, even though the result is often credited to only a single author or editor. Because I could never have produced this book by myself, I wish now to name all those who have helped, hoping that I have not overlooked anyone. First of all must come the late Eleni Kazantzaki. She originally asked me to translate the Four Hundred Letters of Kazantzakis to Prevelakis. I suggested to her that a volume of Selected Letters drawn from many recipients (and, of course, including the best of those to Prevelakis) would be more useful. She agreed, indeed with enthusiasm. Although I possessed a fairly good knowledge of obvious recipients, my scope was greatly enlarged by Mrs. Kazantzakis, who provided me with names, addresses, and a letter of introduction to numerous people. A Fulbright Research Fellowship to Greece in the spring of 1987 enabled me, greatly aided by my wife, Chrysanthi Yiannakou-Bien, to contact scores of recipients, to visit them, and to photocopy 221 holograph manuscripts of unpublished letters, all carefully saved in various homes, plus 140 holograph manuscripts of published letters, and 74 printed items new to me, a total of 435 items. Together with these, of course, were letters published often in periodicals and books, some of which were readily obtainable but others obtainable only by various instances of good luck or miracle. I must add that all the recipients (with one exception, whom I shall not name) were delighted, even ecstatic, to learn that some of their treasures would be published. I should naturally note as well that people who received letters from

Introduction  •  xiii

Kazantzakis tended to keep them. There were several exceptions: one recipient (Lefteris Alexiou) tore them up in anger, and several feared that they might be politically compromised if such letters were discovered in their possession. Later journeys outside of Greece produced additional unpublished letters—for example, those to Max Schuster housed now in the Columbia University library in New York. Eleni Kazantzaki initiated the project, but Chrysanthi Bien, already mentioned, nurtured it for twenty years. How many times did she glare with a magnifying glass at an almost illegible word in Kazantzakis’s frantic scrawl and manage most often to decipher it! How many times did she enlighten me regarding a term in no dictionary by saying something like “I used to play that same game in Thessaloniki as a child” or “We, too, ate that same mush for breakfast during the war.” Next I must mention Dr. Patroclus Stavrou and Professor Peter Mackridge. Dr. Stavrou, who cared for Eleni Kazantzaki in her senescence, now manages Kazantzakis Publications and controls the copyright to the letters. He approved the project from the beginning, always encouraged me, and has cooperated at every step. Professor Mackridge, recently retired from Oxford, went carefully through the entire translation in relation to the original Greek, identified errors and solecisms, and offered very fine suggestions for improvement of both text and annotations. He has saved me from numerous (sometimes embarrassing) faults. In addition, he provided extensive information for my annotations of the Anghelakis letters, discovered letters to Kay Cicellis, and also located John Mavrogordato’s diary entries as a source for my annotation about Ambassador Waterlow—overdoing collegiate camaraderie! Then there are the three great archival centers. Because this project began with the idea of translating only the letters to Prevelakis, I mention first the Prevelakis archive at the University of Crete in Rethymno. Professor Alexis Politis and Professor Emeritus Stamatis Philippides of that institution helped to facilitate my ten-week stay in Rethymno in 2007 and a month’s stay in Iraklio in 2009. Regarding the actual letters to Prevelakis, the stalwart is the curator of special collections, Eleni Kovaiou, who enabled me to view original manuscripts, who searched for the meaning of words in Cretan dialect, and who answered promptly and fully all my queries. What happened in the Rethymno archive was especially important because Prevelakis censored all of Kazantzakis’s curses directed at then-living individuals. Prevelakis’s brother Eleftherios, whom I visited in Athens in 1987, enabled me to restore some of these nasty comments if they occurred in manuscripts he chanced to possess in his apartment. But most of the restorations occurred thanks to Eleni Kovaiou, who oversees the complete archive of correspondence to Prevelakis. And what fun it was relishing Kazantzakis’s censored maledictions, all of which are now restored in this edition of the Selected Letters. The other two archival centers are the Kazantzakis Museum in the ancestral village, Varvari (renamed Myrtia), and the Historical Museum of Crete in

xiv  • Introduction

Iraklio. The former maintains many archives of letters to various recipients plus a complete collection of printed materials that are relevant. Its director, Varvara Tsaka, is another stalwart, driving me each day to and from the village, attending to my repeated needs at a time when the museum was undergoing restoration and everything was topsy-turvy, researching my queries via her extensive data bases, and continuing to respond to emailed requests regarding illegible words, dialectical terms, dates of birth and death, and other puzzles I detected after my departure. The museum’s associate curator, Andonis Leventis, installed me in his office during my time there while he busied himself with hammer and vacuum cleaner owing to the restorations. He, too, has been a source of vital information of all kinds. The latter center, in Iraklio, contains all of the manuscript letters to Galatea Kazantzaki, plus letters to various other recipients. The museum’s director, Dr. Alexis Kalokairinos, has supported the project from the start and has been most welcoming. The museum’s curator of libraries and archives, Georgia Katsalaki, helped me on a daily basis during my time in Iraklio, providing access to manuscripts, deciphering nearly illegible words, worrying about Cretan dialect, and asking various people for information on my behalf. Before proceeding with all the others, whom I am going to list alphabetically, I wish to record here the use I have made of the annotations done by Prevelakis for the Four Hundred Letters, those included in Martha AposkitouAlexiou’s collection of letters, and those done by Eleni Kazantzaki for the letters she published in Greek, English, and French. (See the References Cited for a full list of materials utilized.) Thanks, of course, to Princeton University Press’s two anonymous readers, who read the typescript with care and sent back valuable suggestions. In addition, thanks go to: Christos Alexiou for help locating people in Athens; Professor Emeritus Stylianos Alexiou for help concerning family members and difficult words; the late Yorgos Anemoyannis, founder of the Kazantzakis Museum, distinguished theatrical personality, for photocopies of numerous manuscripts of letters to Eleni Samiou Kazantzaki; Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke, Kazantzakis’s goddaughter, for several hundred photocopied manuscripts of Kazantzakis’s letters to her father, her mother, and herself; Michael Antonakes for information on the church’s opposition to Kazantzakis and for collaboration on the translation of the circular letter of 28 August 1929; Kalliopi Balatsouka for sorting out the letters to Kimon Friar in Princeton’s Firestone Library; Professor Roderick Beaton of King’s College London for vetting the letters’ first section and discovering solecisms, typos, and one egregious mistranslation; Linos Benakis for information about Elli Lambridi’s friend Loukia; Laura Braunstein and other Dartmouth reference librarians in the Baker-Berry Library, always ready to pursue research on difficult questions; my former Dartmouth colleague Laurence J. Davies, now teaching at the University of Glasgow, coeditor of nine volumes of the Conrad letters, for good pointers on

Introduction  •  xv

how to survive the ordeal of such a project; Professor Emeritus Norman A. Doenges of Dartmouth for help with ancient Greek; Professor Bruce Duncan of Dartmouth for help regarding German pronunciation and for finding the authors of some German poems; ELIA (The Greek Literary and Historical Archive) in Athens for material from the Paxinou-Minotis archive; Dimitri Gondicas, director of Hellenic Studies at Princeton, for opening up for my use the very great resources of Firestone Library; Professor Emeritus Yannis Hasiotis of the University of Thessaloniki for information regarding the letters to Stavridakis; Yiolanda Hatzi, niece of Elli Lambridi, for letters to Lambridi; Evanthis Hatzivassiliou for information regarding Greek leftists; Pro­ fessor Robert Hollander of Princeton for help with Dante; Professor John Iatrides for information about Greek Civil War figures; Dr. Aglaïa Kasdagli of the University of Crete for information about her father; Professor K. G. Kasinis for help with Palamas’s manuscripts; Muriel King, born of French parents in Saigon, for aid with Kazantzakis’s sometimes idiosyncratic French; Lia Lazou and Don Nielsen for help locating people in Athens; Maria Margarita Malagón-Kurka, an Adirondack neighbor, native of Colombia, for translating the letters to Jiménez; Amy Mims for annotations and also for snippets of translation when a bit of a letter excluded from Eleni Kazantzaki’s Greek edition (1977) is included in Mims’s prior translation of these same letters into English (Helen Kazantzakis 1968); Devin E. Naar of Stanford University for identifying the editor of the newspaper Le Progrès and supplying additional information; Francis X. Oscadel, reference librarian at Dartmouth, for general assistance; Gareth Owens, his wife, Kallia Nikolidaki, and her father in Vori for introduction to Yorgos Stefanidis and help with Cretan dialect; Lewis Owens for assistance obtaining the letters to Martinu; Ben Petre for translating part of the letter, dated 5 February 1944, to Nikos Hatzikyriakos-Gkikas; Anastasios Pourgouras of the American Farm School outside of Thessaloniki for translating a tenth-century liturgical text; Professor Ulrike Rainer of Dartmouth for translating and correcting German; Professor John Rassias of Dartmouth for help with French; Professor Kevin Reinhart of Dartmouth for help with Turkish; Professor Panayotis Roilos for guidance regarding Harvard’s resources on modern Greek; David Roth, student assistant; Professor Barry Scherr of Dartmouth for prompt and expert help with Russian, even while he was preoccupied as Dartmouth’s provost; Professor Emeritus William C. Scott of Dartmouth for help finding quotations in ancient Greek; Don Skemer for willingness to supply photocopies of manuscripts in the Princeton library’s special collections; Niki Stavrou, Patroclus Stavrou’s daughter, now working at Kazantzakis Publications, for valuable help with my annotations; Yorgos Stefanidis for information on Harilaos Stefanidis; S. E. Stephanou for the gift of photocopies of letters to his father, the Reverend Emmanuel Papastefanou; Pitsa Tsakona, librarian at the Benaki Museum, for use of the library’s collections; Angelos Tsakopoulos and his daughter Eleni for supplying the photograph of a manuscript; Miguel A. Valladares, one of Dartmouth’s

xvi  • Introduction

reference librarians, for extraordinary diligence and skill in finding information about Tomás de Malonyay, and helping me with Spanish texts; Alfred Vincent of Sydney, Australia, for expert information about Erotokritos; Cynthia Wigington for secretarial assistance, typing, and translations from German. Many thanks to all those mentioned above and to others, especially additional people who supplied letters and will be mentioned in connection with individual donations. Again, the project could never have been completed without this communal dimension. The work was done chiefly at our Adirondack farm, “Terpni,” in Riparius, New York; in the Quaker-inspired “Kendal at Hanover” retirement community in Hanover, New Hampshire, where we spend eight months of the year; and in Dartmouth College’s extraordinary Baker-Berry Library. 8 June 2010

Peter Bien

Chronology

1883. Kazantzakis is born on 18/30 February in Iraklio, Crete, then still part of the Ottoman Empire. The family of his father, Mihalis, a dealer in agricultural products and wine, was from the nearby village formerly called Varvari, currently Myrtia, now the site of the Kazantzakis Museum. Much later, Mihalis is to become one of the models for Kapetan Mihalis, the hero of the novel called Ο Καπετάν Μιχάλης in Greek and Freedom or Death in English. 1889. Cretan rebels attempt without success to win the island’s freedom from the Turks. The Kazantzakis family flees to mainland Greece for six months. 1897–98. Another Cretan rebellion takes place, resulting in the Cretan state under protection of the Great Powers. Nikos is sent for safety to the island of Naxos, where he is enrolled in a school run by French Roman Catholic monks. This begins his knowledge and love of the French language.

I  •  At Law School in Athens 1902. The letters begin. Having completed his secondary education in Iraklio, Kazantzakis moves to Athens to study law at the University of Athens. 1906. Before taking his degree, Kazantzakis publishes his essay “The Sickness of the Century” and his novel Serpent and Lily; he also writes the play Day Is Breaking. 1907. Day Is Breaking wins a drama prize and is produced in Athens, stirring up much controversy. The young Kazantzakis becomes instantaneously famous. He begins his journalistic career and is initiated as a Freemason. This chronology is based largely on the biographical summaries that Pandelis Prevelakis includes in the Tetrakosia grammata tou Kazantzaki ston Prevelaki (Prevelakis 1965, pp. 3–16, 19–22, 125–27, 383–89, 531–51). It was originally printed in volume 1 of my Kazantzakis: Politics of the Spirit (Bien 1989, pp. xvii–xxiv). Kazantzakis’s birth date is given as old style/new style. This is because Greek dates before 16 February 1923 reflect the Julian Calendar. The Gregorian reform of the Julian Calendar, although accepted in most of southern Europe during the sixteenth century and by Britain and the future United States in 1752, was delayed in Greece until 1923, when 16 February became 1 March. To convert old style (o.s.) to new style (n.s.), add twelve days if the o.s. date falls in the nineteenth century and thirteen days if the o.s. date falls in the twentieth century.

xviii  • Chronology

II  •  Pursuing Graduate Studies in Paris In October 1907 he commences graduate studies in Paris, where he continues to compose both journalistic articles and serious literature. 1908. In Paris, he attends Henri Bergson’s lectures, reads Nietzsche, and completes his novel Broken Souls. 1909. He finishes his dissertation on Nietzsche and writes the play The Master Builder.

III  •  Politically Active in Greece Returning to Crete via Italy, he publishes his dissertation, the one-act play Comedy, and the essay “Has Science Gone Bankrupt?” As president of the Solomos Society of Iraklio, a lobby advocating the adoption in schools of the demotic language (the language spoken by the common people) and the abandonment of the puristic language called “katharevousa,” Kazantzakis writes a long essay on linguistic reform that is published in an Athenian periodical. 1910. His essay “For Our Youth” hails Ion Dragoumis, another advocate of the demotic language, as the prophet who will guide Greece to new glory by insisting that it must overcome its subservience to ancient Greek culture. Kazantzakis and Galatea Alexiou, an Iraklio author, intellectual, and bluestocking, begin to live together in Athens, without marrying. He earns his bread by translating from French, German, English, and ancient Greek. He becomes a founding member of the Educational Association, the most important lobby for demoticism. 1911. He marries Galatea Alexiou. 1912. He introduces Bergson’s philosophy to Greek intellectuals by means of a long lecture delivered to members of the Educational Association and later published in the association’s bulletin. When the First Balkan War breaks out, he volunteers for the army and is assigned to Prime Minister Eleftherios Venizelos’s private office. 1914. He and the poet Angelos Sikelianos journey together to Mount Athos, the “Holy Mountain,” where they remain for forty days at various monasteries. He reads Dante, the Gospels, and Buddhist texts there; he and Sikelianos dream of founding a new religion. To earn a living, he writes children’s books in collaboration with Galatea, hoping that they will be adopted by the Ministry of Education for use in schools. 1915. Again with Sikelianos, he tours Greece. In his diary he writes: “My three great teachers: Homer, Dante, Bergson.” In retreat at a monastery,

Chronology  •  xix

he completes a book (now lost), probably on the Holy Mountain. He notes in his diary that his motto is come l’uom s’eterna (how man makes himself immortal—from Dante’s Inferno 15.85). He most likely writes the plays Christ, Odysseas, and Nikiforos Fokas in first draft. In order to sign a contract for harvesting wood from Mount Athos, he travels to Thessaloniki in October. There he witnesses the British and French forces as they disembark to fight on the Salonica Front in the First World War. In the same month, reading Tolstoy, he decides that religion is more important than literature and vows to begin where Tolstoy left off. 1917. Because of the need for even low-grade coal during the war, Kazantzakis engages a workman named George Zorbas and attempts to mine lignite in the Peloponnese. This experience, combined with a 1915 scheme for harvesting wood on Mount Athos, develops much later into the novel Life and Times of Alexis Zorbas (Zorba the Greek). In September he travels to Switzerland, where he resides as the guest of Yannis Stavridakis, the Greek consul in Zurich. 1918. He goes on pilgrimage in Switzerland to the sites associated with Nietzsche. He forms an attachment to an intellectual Greek woman, the philosopher Elli Lambridi. 1919. Prime Minister Venizelos appoints Kazantzakis director general of the Ministry of Welfare, with the specific mission of repatriating the 150,000 Greeks who were being persecuted by the Bolsheviks in the Caucasus owing to Greece’s aid to the Whites in the Russian Civil War. In July Kazantzakis departs with his team, which includes Stavridakis and Zorbas. In August he travels to Versailles to report to Venizelos, then participating in the peace conference. Afterwards, Kazantzakis proceeds to Macedonia and Thrace to oversee the installation of the refugees in villages there. These experiences are used much later in Christ Recrucified (entitled The Greek Passion in America). 1920. The assassination of Ion Dragoumis on 31 July (o.s.) dismays Kazantzakis. When Venizelos’s Liberal Party is defeated at the polls in November, he resigns from the Ministry of Welfare and departs for Paris. 1921. He tours Germany, returning to Greece in February.

IV  •  Fleeing Greece; Resident in Austria, Germany, Italy 1922. An advance contract with an Athenian publisher for a series of school textbooks enables him to leave Greece again. He remains in Vienna from 19 May until the end of August. There he contracts a facial eczema that the dissident Freudian therapist Wilhelm Stekel calls “the saints’

xx  • Chronology

disease.” In the midst of Vienna’s postwar decadence, he studies Buddhist scriptures and begins a play on Buddha’s life. He also studies Freud and sketches out Askitiki (published in English as The Saviors of God; Spiritual Exercises). September finds him in Berlin, where he learns about Greece’s utter defeat by the Turks, the “Asia Minor Catastrophe.” Abandoning his previous nationalism, he aligns himself with communist revolutionaries. He is influenced in particular by Rahel Lipstein and her cell of radical young women. Tearing up his unfinished play on Buddha, he starts it again in a new form. He also returns to Askitiki, his attempt to reconcile communist activism with Buddhist resignation. His dream being to settle in the Soviet Union, he begins to study the Russian language. 1923. The period in Vienna and Berlin is well documented owing to copious letters from Kazantzakis to Galatea, who continues to reside in Athens, refusing to join her husband. Kazantzakis completes Askitiki in April and resumes work on Buddha. In June he goes on pilgrimage to Naumburg, where Nietzsche spent his childhood years. 1924. While spending three months in Italy, Kazantzakis visits Pompeii, which becomes one of his obsessive symbols; then he settles in Assisi, completes Buddha there, and indulges his lifelong discipleship to Saint Francis.

V  •  Meets Eleni Samiou; Begins Odyssey; Divorces Galatea; Travels to Soviet Union Soon after his return to Athens he meets EIeni Samiou. Back in Iraklio, he becomes the guru of a communist cell of disgruntled refugees and of veterans from the Asia Minor campaign. He begins to plan his epic Odyssey, and he perhaps writes Symposium. 1925. His political involvements lead to his arrest, but he is detained by the police for only twenty-four hours. He composes cantos 1–6 of the Odyssey. His relationship with Eleni Samiou deepens. In October he leaves for the Soviet Union as correspondent for an Athenian newspaper, which publishes his impressions in a series of long articles. 1926. He and Galatea are divorced; she continues her professional career under the name Galatea Kazantzaki even after she remarries. He travels to Palestine and Cyprus, again as a newspaper correspondent. In August he journeys to Spain to interview Miguel Primo de Rivera, the Spanish dictator. October finds him in Rome interviewing Benito Mussolini. In November he meets Pandelis Prevelakis, his future disciple, literary agent, confidant, and biographer.

Chronology  •  xxi

1927. He visits Egypt and Sinai, again as a newspaper correspondent. In May he isolates himself on Aegina in order to complete the Odyssey. Immediately afterwards he hastily composes scores of encyclopedia articles to earn a living, then collects his travel articles for the first volume of Taksidevondas (Journeying). Dimitrios Glinos’s periodical Anayennisi (Renaissance) publishes Askitiki.

VI  •  Resident Almost Eighteen Months in the Soviet Union In late October 1927 Kazantzakis travels to Russia once again, this time as the guest of the Soviet government on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution. He encounters Henri Barbusse. He delivers a bellicose speech at a peace symposium. In November he meets Panaït Istrati, a Greek Romanian writer then very much vogue in France. With Istrati and others, he tours the Caucasus. The two friends vow to share a life of political and intellectual action in the Soviet Union. In December, Kazantzakis brings Istrati to Athens and introduces him to the Greek public via a newspaper article. 1928. On 11 January, Kazantzakis and Istrati address a throng in the Alhambra Theater, praising the Soviet experiment. This leads to a demonstration in the streets. Kazantzakis and Dimitrios Glinos, who organized the event, are threatened with legal action, Istrati with deportation. April finds both Istrati and Kazantzakis back in the Soviet Union, now in Kiev, where Kazantzakis writes a film scenario on the Russian Revolution. In Moscow in June, Kazantzakis and Istrati meet Gorki. Kazantzakis changes the ending of Askitiki, adding “The Silence.” He writes articles for Pravda about social conditions in Greece, then undertakes another scenario, this time on the life of Lenin. Traveling with Istrati to Murmansk, he passes through Leningrad and meets Victor Serge. In July, Barbusse’s periodical Monde publishes a profile of Kazantzakis by Istrati; this is the first introduction of Kazantzakis to the European reading public. At the end of August, Kazantzakis and Istrati, joined by Eleni Samiou and Istrati’s companion, Bilili Baud-Bovy, undertake a long journey in southern Russia with the object of coauthoring a series of articles entitled “Following the Red Star.” But the two friends become increasingly estranged. Their differences are brought to a boil in December by the “Roussakov affair”—that is, the persecution of Victor Serge and his father-in-law, Roussakov, as Trotskyites. In Athens, a publisher brings out Kazantzakis’s Russian travel articles in two volumes. 1929. Alone now, Kazantzakis continues his travels across the length and breadth of Russia.

xxii  • Chronology

VII  •  Trying to Make a Career Outside of Greece, Especially in Spain In April he departs for Berlin, where he lectures on the Soviet Union and attempts to publish articles. In May he settles with Eleni Samiou in a remote farmhouse in Czechoslovakia to write, in French, the novel first entitled “Moscou a crié” and then renamed Toda-Raba. This recounts his recent vicissitudes in Russia, only minimally disguised. He also completes a novel in French called “Kapétan Élia,” one of the many precursors of Kapetan Mihalis. These are his first attempts to develop a career in western Europe. At the same time, he undertakes a basic revision of his Odyssey in order to reflect his changed view of the Soviet Union. 1930. To earn money, he produces a two-volume History of Russian Literature, which is published in Athens. The Greek authorities threaten to bring him to trial for atheism on account of Askitiki. Kazantzakis remains abroad, first in Paris, then in Nice, where he translates French children’s books for Athenian publishers. 1931. Back in Greece, he settles again on Aegina, collaborating with Prevelakis on a French-Greek dictionary (demotic as well as katharevousa). In June, in Paris, he visits the Colonial Exhibition; this gives him fresh ideas for the African scenes in the Odyssey, whose third draft he completes in his hideaway in Czechoslovakia. 1932. Kazantzakis and Prevelakis plan additional collaborations to alleviate their financial woes. These involve film scenarios and translations. The plan is largely unsuccessful. Among other things, Kazantzakis translates the whole of Dante’s Divine Comedy into Greek terza rima in forty-five days. He moves to Spain in an effort to develop a career there. He begins by translating Spanish poetry for an anthology. 1933. He writes his impressions of Spain. He completes a terzina on his “general,” the painter El Greco, born in Crete—the germ of his future autobiography, Report to Greco.

VIII  •  Back in Greece, Having Failed Elsewhere; Traveling in Far East; Odyssey Completed and Published; Visit to England Unable to support himself in Spain, he returns to Aegina, where he undertakes a fourth draft of the Odyssey. After revising his Dante translation, he composes a set of terzinas. 1934. To earn money, he writes three textbooks for the second and third grades of primary school. When one of these is sanctioned by the Ministry of Education, his financial woes are alleviated for a time.

Chronology  •  xxiii

1935. After completing the fifth draft of the Odyssey, he sails for Japan and China in order to produce more travel articles. Upon his return he purchases a building lot in Aegina. 1936. Still attempting to establish a career outside of Greece, Kazantzakis writes, in French, the novel Le Jardin des rochers (The Rock Garden), drawing upon recent experiences in the Far East. He also completes a new version of the Kapetan Mihalis theme, caIling it “Mon père” (My Father). For money, he translates Pirandello’s Questa sera si recita a soggetto (Tonight We Improvise) for the National Theater; he then turns out his own Pirandellesque play, Othello Returns, which remains unknown during his lifetime. Next, he translates Goethe’s Faust, Part I. During October and November he is in war-torn Spain as a correspondent; he interviews both Francisco Franco and Miguel de Unamuno y Jugo. His home in Aegina is completed. This is his first permanent residence. 1937. In Aegina, he completes the sixth draft of the Odyssey. His travel book on Spain is published. In September he tours the Peloponnese. His impressions are published in article form; later they will become Journey to the Morea. He writes the tragedy Melissa for the National Theater. 1938. After the eighth and final draft of the Odyssey, he supervises the printing of the epic in a sumptuous edition. Publication takes place at the end of December. He suffers again from the facial eczema that occurred in Vienna in 1922. 1939. He plans a new epic in 33,333 verses to be called “Akritas.” From July through November he is in England as a guest of the British Council. While residing in Stratford-on-Avon, he writes the tragedy Julian the Apostate. 1940. He writes England and continues to sketch out “Akritas” and to revise “Mon père.” To earn money, he produces novelistic biographies for children. Mussolini’s invasion of Greece in late October makes Kazantzakis confront anew his ambivalence concerning Greek nationalism.

IX  •  Confined to Aegina during the German Occupation; Writes Zorba and Many Plays; Begins to Translate Homer’s Iliad 1941. As the Germans overrun mainland Greece and then Crete, Kazantzakis assuages his grief with work. He finishes the drama Buddha in first draft, revises his translation of Dante, and begins a novel originally entitled “The Saint’s Life of Zorba.”

xxiv  • Chronology

1942. Confined to Aegina for the duration of the war, he vows to forsake his writing as soon as possible in order to reenter politics. The Germans allow him a few days in Athens, where he meets Professor Yannis Kakridis, an expert on Homer; they agree to collaborate on a new translation of the Iliad. Kazantzakis finishes the first draft of this translation between August and October, then plans a novel on Jesus to be called “Christ’s Memoirs”—the germ of The Last Temptation of Christ. 1943. Working energetically despite the privations of the German occupation, Kazantzakis completes the second drafts of Buddha, Zorba, and the Iliad translation. Then he writes his own version of the Prometheus trilogy. 1944. In the spring and summer he completes the plays Kapodistrias and Constantine Palaiologos. Together with the Prometheus trilogy, these cover ancient Greece, Byzantium, and modern Greece.

X  •  In Athens during Round Two of the Civil War; Resolves to Help Liberated Greece via Political Action; Briefly a Cabinet Member; Marries Eleni Samiou After the Germans withdraw, Kazantzakis moves immediately to Athens, where he is offered hospitality by Tea Anemoyanni. He witnesses the phase of the civil war known as the Dekemvriana. 1945. Fulfilling his vow to reenter politics, he becomes the leader of a small socialist party whose aim is to unite all the splinter groups of the noncommunist, democratic Left. He is denied admission to the Academy of Athens. The government sends him on a fact-finding mission to Crete in order to attest to the German atrocities there. In November he marries his longtime companion Eleni Samiou and is sworn in as minister without portfolio in Themistocles Sofoulis’s coalition government. 1946. The uniting of the democratic socialist parties having occurred, Kazantzakis resigns his post as minister. On 25 March, the anniversary of the start of the Greek War of Independence, his play Kapodistrias opens at the National Theater. The production causes an uproar, including threats by a right-wing nationalist to burn down the theater. The Society of Greek Writers recommends Kazantzakis for the Nobel Prize, together with Angelos Sikelianos. In June he begins a sojourn abroad that is meant to last only forty days but that actually lasts for the remainder of his life. In England he attempts to convince British intellectuals to join him in forming an “Internationale of the Spirit”; they are neither interested nor amused. The British Council offers him a room in ­Cambridge, where he spends the summer writing a novel called “The Ascent”—one more precursor of Kapetan Mihalis. In September he

Chronology  •  xxv

moves to Paris. Political conditions in Greece force him to remain abroad. He arranges for Zorba to be translated into French.

XI  •  Final Exile: Resides Briefly in England, Then in France; Writes Final Novels and Plays; Travels to China 1947. Börje Knös, the Swedish philhellene and government official, translates Zorba. Kazantzakis, after pulling many strings, is appointed to a post at UNESCO, his job being to facilitate translations of the world’s classics in order to build bridges between cultures, especially between East and West. He himself translates his play Julian the Apostate. Zorba is published in Paris in French translation (in 1954 it wins a prize as the best foreign book). 1948. He continues to translate his plays. In March he resigns from UNESCO in order to devote himself fully to his own writing. Julian is staged in Paris (one performance only). Kazantzakis and Eleni move to Antibes, where he immediately composes the play Sodom and Gomorrah. Zorba is accepted by publishers in England, the United States, Sweden, and Czechoslovakia. Kazantzakis writes the first draft of Christ Recrucified in three months, then spends two more months revising the novel. 1949. He begins a new novel, The Fratricides, about the civil war then raging in Greece. Next come two more plays, Kouros and Christopher Columbus. His facial eczema returns; he goes to Vichy for treatment at a spa there. In December he begins Kapetan Mihalis. 1950. This novel occupies him until the end of July. In November he turns to The Last Temptation. Meanwhile, Zorba and Christ Recrucified have been published in Sweden. 1951. He completes the first draft of The Last Temptation, then revises it after reworking Constantine Palaiologos. Christ Recrucified is published in Norway and Germany. 1952. Success brings its own problems: Kazantzakis finds himself increasingly preoccupied with translators and publishers in various countries. He is also increasingly bothered by his facial ailment. He and Eleni spend the summer in Italy, where he indulges once again his attachment to Saint Francis. A severe infection in the eye sends him to the hospital in Holland, where he studies the life of Saint Francis while recovering. His novels continue to be published in Norway, Sweden, Holland, Finland, and Germany—but not in Greece. 1953. He is hospitalized in Paris, still suffering from the eye infection (he eventually loses the sight of his right eye). Examinations reveal a ­lymphatic disorder that has presumably caused his facial symptoms

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throughout the years. Back in Antibes, he spends a month with Professor Kakridis perfecting their translation of the Iliad. He writes the novel Saint Francis. In Greece, the Orthodox Church seeks to prosecute Kazantzakis for sacrilege owing to several pages of Kapetan Mihalis and the whole of The Last Temptation, even though the latter still has not been published in Greek. Zorba the Greek is published in New York. 1954. The pope places The Last Temptation on the Roman Catholic Index of Forbidden Books. Kazantzakis telegraphs the Vatican a phrase from the Christian apologist Tertullian: “Ad tuum, Domine, tribunal appello” (I lodge my appeal at your tribunal, Lord). He says the same to the Orthodox hierarchy in Athens, adding: “You gave me your curse, holy fathers. I give you a blessing: May your conscience be as clear as mine, and may you be as moral and religious as I am.” In the summer, Kazantzakis begins a daily collaboration with Kimon Friar, who is translating the Odyssey into English. In December he attends the première of Sodom and Gomorrah in Mannheim, Germany, after which he enters the hospital at Freiburg im Breisgau. His disease is diagnosed as benign lymphatic leukemia. The young publisher Yannis Goudelis undertakes to bring out Kazantzakis’s collected works in Athens. 1955. Kazantzakis and Eleni spend a month in a rest home in Lugano, Switzerland. There, Kazantzakis begins his spiritual autobiography, Report to Greco. In August they visit Albert Schweitzer in Gunsbach. Back in Antibes, Kazantzakis is consulted by Jules Dassin regarding the scenario for a movie of Christ Recrucified. The Kazantzakis-Kakridis translation of the Iliad comes out in Greece, paid for by the translators themselves because no publisher will accept this new version. A second, revised edition of the Odyssey is prepared in Athens under the supervision of Emmanuel Kasdaglis, who also edits the first volume of Kazantzakis’s collected plays. The Last Temptation finally appears in Greece, after a “royal personage” intervenes with the government in Kazantzakis’s behalf. 1956. In June, Kazantzakis receives the Soviet bloc’s Peace Prize in Vienna. He continues to collaborate with Kimon Friar. He loses the Nobel Prize at the last moment to Juan Ramón Jiménez. Dassin completes the film of Christ Recrucified, calling it Celui qui doit mourir (He Who Must Die). The collected works proceed; they now include two more volumes of plays, several volumes of travel articles, Toda-Raba translated from French into Greek, and Saint Francis. 1957. Kazantzakis continues to work with Kimon Friar. A long interview with Pierre Sipriot is broadcast in six installments over Paris radio. Kazantzakis attends the showing of Celui qui doit mourir at the Cannes film festival. The Parisian publisher PIon agrees to bring out his col-

Chronology  •  xxvii

lected works in French translation. Kazantzakis and Eleni depart for China as guests of the Chinese government. Because his return flight is via Japan, he is forced to be vaccinated in Canton. Over the North Pole his arm swells and begins to turn gangrenous. He is taken to the hospital in Freiburg im Breisgau where his leukemia was originally diagnosed. The crisis passes. Albert Schweitzer comes to congratulate him, but then an epidemic of Asian flu quickly overcomes him in his weakened condition. He dies on 26 October, aged seventy-four years. His body arrives in Athens. The Greek Orthodox Church refuses to allow it to lie in state. The body is transferred to Crete, where it is viewed in the cathedral church of Iraklio. A huge procession follows it to interment on the Venetian ramparts. Later, Kazantzakis’s chosen epitaph is inscribed on the tomb: “I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free.”

I  •  At Law School in Athens

To His Father —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 1; printed in Parlamas 1959 (incomplete), pp. 205–6, and in Alexiou and Stefanakis 1983, pp. 335–38.

Athens, 21 September 1902 My dear revered father, I arrived here just yesterday and sent you a postcard in order to announce to you that I arrived here excellently; I really never had a better journey—I didn’t get seasick, nor was I cold. My only sorrow (though great) was that I was going far away from you, far away from paternal and maternal love. I am now very sad because of this, since I am not near you. A quite sufficient consolation amid my sadness is that the family with whom I’m staying pleases me exceedingly. Their consideration is great and, above all, not just a pretense. As soon as I arrived, they had soup ready, as well as milk, coffee, and lots more. I especially like the cleanliness and fine quality of their meals. When I got up today, they brought me milk and then asked me what I wanted them to cook today. In a word, they consider me as one of their children. The room in which I sleep has been very nicely refurbished. They bought a new bed. I have my wash basin there, my desk, another table on which I place my books, a wardrobe for my clothes, and in general everything that’s needed. No one enters. I have quiet for studying. Another of this family’s advantages is that they are of a very good class and therefore able to connect me with very fine acquaintances. Their son, the same age as me, is in the Polytechnic University studying engineering. He is very calm, another Grammatikakis, and studies a lot. He knows German. Since I, too, want to learn that language because it will be exceedingly useful to me, I have decided for that reason to benefit from the opportunity and to get him to give me lessons. He accepted with great pleasure, and I’m going to start German on 1 October. In this way I will avoid the monthly stipend for a teacher I would have needed to employ. Mr. Stagalis is fifty to fifty-five years old and very educated. He is a talkative, first-rate person. He is very orderly. He has arranged for us to be at table for midday dinner exactly when the bell rings, and in the evening at eight o’clock. He wants me to return around eight in the evening. When I go out afterwards, I must go for a stroll with the family. I like this very much; it’s a

2  •  1902 Letters

way for me to avoid many dangers. He has something else that is bound to please me above all: he is a great lover of fruit. Mrs. Stagali, about forty years old, takes good care of me. Right now that I’m writing you, she is making my bed. Her characteristic is that she takes great care regarding health in the house. Last evening I wanted to go out on the roof in order to sit a little in the fresh air, and she made me put on my jacket and button it. When I went out, it was a bit damp, so she made me come back down and sit in the living room, which was warm. She knows Italian very well; consequently, I’ll benefit from that as well. I’m writing you still tired from walking everywhere yesterday. Today I intend to go up to the Acropolis; thus, I’ll see the best sections of Athens and, when university begins, I’ll be able to go to class regularly, without other disturbances because, my revered father, as I have told you previously, I want to work. Fortunately, the son of the family with which I am staying will provide an example, since he is the best in the Polytechnic. As I’m writing you, I hear the noise of this very large city through my window shutters. A person here truly feels that he is in a megalopolis. Newspaper vendors shouting as they go up and down; grocers, milkmen, carriages; trams continually racing here and there. Tomorrow—Sunday—I am going to visit Professor Mistriotis. As you see, dear father, five or six days need to go by for someone to settle in and get used to this new life. Please tell mother not to be sad because I am far away. This separation had to take place and, besides, I’ve had the great good fortune to manage to find here, too, lots of almost maternal care. In addition, convey my every kind wish to my sisters. It really is, revered father, very sad for someone to go far away from his father, mother, and siblings; however, this had to happen since you want me to become a true human being one day and not to be ashamed of calling myself your child. So, my dear parents: patience! My love and respect for you increases here away from home. In addition, you’ll have letters from me on a regular basis, and I hope that they’ll always tell you that I am in good health and doing fine. I wanted to write you more, but what? I’ve already told you what is most important: I am pleased with the family. My kind wishes to my dear Uncle Manolakis. I was very moved when he bade me farewell and am certain that he loves me more than all the other uncles do. Best wishes as well to his wife, Aunt Lenaki, and her entire family. To Aunt Chrysanthi and Theoharis; to Uncle Nikolakis; to Mr. Theakakis and his wife. Especially to Nikos, whom I ask to please write to me sometimes if he so desires. Best wishes as well to Mr. Ioannis—I’m very sorry because I saw him only when I was leaving; his care for Akladha cannot be easily forgotten.

1902 Letters  •  3

Best wishes to Yannis Karouzos, to Mr. Ioannis Kasimatis, and generally to everyone I know. (I might be forgetting someone at this moment.) Especially my very best wishes and most heartfelt respects to my dear mother. She must not cry. I’m doing fine here and, besides, it won’t be long before I see her again—the months go by quickly. Also to Anestasia and Eleni, whom I miss very much. Also to Yannis, who loves me so much; also to Despina. Again, best wishes to all my acquaintances; I might be forgetting someone now. At the present time I don’t have anything else to write you. With the most ardent hugs and kisses, your loving son, Nikolaos P.S. The moment when I was signing the letter Mrs. Stagali asked me please to write best wishes on her behalf and on behalf of her husband. My address is: Mister Nikolaos Kazantzakis Law Student Alexander the Great Street, no. 46A Athens

1  his father:  Kazantzakis’s revered (and feared) father, Mihalis Kazantzakis (1856–December 1932), was from a family that inhabited the village of Varvari (now renamed Myrtia), 15 kilometers (9.3 miles) from Iraklio. The Kazantzakis Museum is located here, in the public square.  1  21 September 1902:  This and other dates of letters written from Athens in these early years of the twentieth century are of course in old style (o.s.). Add thirteen days for new style (n.s.), which did not go into effect in Greece until 16 February 1923, which became 1 March. (For o.s. dates in the nineteenth century, add twelve days for n.s.)  1  Grammatikakis:  School friend, also fellow student in university. 1  go out on the roof:  Many homes had flat roofs on which one could sit or even sleep in hot weather.  1  Professor Mistriotis:  Georgios K. Mistriotis (1840–1916), professor of ancient Greek literature and rector of the University of Athens, specializing in Homer; adjudicator in competitions; editor of ancient texts; a great supporter of katharevousa and opponent of demotic.  1  dear mother:  Maria (Marigo) Christodoulaki (1862–March 1932), from Mylopotamos, a small village 45 kilometers (27.9 miles) from Iraklio and 40 kilometers (24.8 miles) from Rethymno.  1  Anestasia:  More properly: Anastasia (1884–1967), Kazantzakis’s sister, later Mrs. Saklambani.  1  Eleni:  Kazantzakis’s sister (1887–1992), later Mrs. Theodosiadi.

4  •  1902 Letters

To Andonis Anemoyannis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Dimakis 1979, pp. 26–30.

Athens, 16 November 1902 My dear Andonis, O speak to me, speak to me without cease! I want to feel life once again through your speech and writing, to see the Homeland once again, to spread throughout the boundless depths of my soul that sea breeze which, enclosed in your letter, comes to me from Crete, from my sweet Homeland. Write to me, Andonis. I want to allow my heart to listen to your every ­syllable—as though hearing faraway harmony arriving from there in the distance, from there where waves purl and heaven laughs more gaily. I want to see your letter, Andonis, and to say—I who live far from home—that it comes to me from the Homeland, from that land which encloses within it everything I have loved in the world, from that land which birthed me and rebirthed me with life and love. I don’t want you to say, my friend, that I am starting to daydream again. Nevertheless, my soul is seething, agitated by a certain vague desire, an incomprehensible soul-fluttering, a magical attraction, a hidden pain: —nostalgia! I go up to the Parthenon to lean my head against the marble and to plunge my sight down below—where, Andonis, I barely discern the sea shining blue, there where I surmise, beyond the indistinct depths of the horizon, my sweet Homeland, just as one discerns a star inside a cloud, beauty beneath a veil. Ah, Homeland! Sweet word! One needs to go far away from it to sense all its charm. Everything to which you are now indifferent—sky, roads, houses, trees, leaves that you watch piling palely on the ground when you go to school, that Myros standing at the door, Aristides rubbing his hands together, Kolokythopoulos gabbing, the tricks you play in the classroom, all those schoolchild emotions—all, all those eyes of the Homeland that open up new worlds in your soul, all of them, Andonis, you’ll feel deep down and will crave them when you know the pain of living in a foreign land. Oh! if only I could place a bit of my soul inside this letter, Andonis, so that it could leap out in front of you when you opened the letter and could stretch out hugely over the immense Homeland! Oh Andonis, my friend, enjoy your current life, enjoy it! A day will come when you will leave high school, when, in other words, you will separate yourself from joy and will declare, as I now declare: Oh! why should I not enjoy all the delights of the schoolboy’s life? How fortunate you are! When you finish reading my letter, you’ll go out to play tricks on Markatatis, to joke with Meïmarakis, to step on the desks, to sit in the teacher’s chair. As for me, when I finish writing this letter, I and my

1902 Letters  •  5

melancholy will take a walk to Syntagma and the Parthenon, or I’ll shut myself up in my room and will allow my pen to copy my heart into my diary. In Athens, yet unable to enjoy myself! It’s as though I were hearing you now say, “Oh, I’m not made for pleasure!” When I see some friend of mine, my laughter is thunderous, and thunderous as well is my walking stick striking the pavement. But when I go about by myself, alone, then boundless sorrow nests in my soul. But there are pleasures here. Behold! Observe how gracefully the Athenian goddesses raise their frocks! You would think that something elastic, infinitely delicate, some gently undulating jewel constitutes their bodies. They have about them something from Athena’s heaven: the same grace, the same beauty. Dawn rises from their lips; sunrays scatter from their glances. They are all statues—statues!—yet delicate, artistic, fleshly. Nevertheless alive, with all of a woman’s desires, all the shivers of sensuality. You’d think that all fathers here were Phidiases. You go for a walk. Suddenly something passes nimbly in front of you. Turning, you see nothing; you merely sense the air perfumed with the delicate aroma of violets. It was Atthis who passed. Enjoy yourself, my friend—do you like them? Unfortunately, I do not. O yes—unfortunately! Because I, too, would like to drown my sorrows even if in slime—to suck forgetfulness from lewd lips, to embrace happiness together with a whore. How carried away I’m getting, dear Andonis! I want to answer your letters, and I loosen the rein on my thoughts and sit here and write to you without realizing how boring to the other person are someone else’s daydreams. Nevertheless, don’t worry, my friend. Write me a lot, really a lot, and I give you my word that another time I won’t do this again. I’ll send you decent letters. OK? Agreed? First of all: I did receive both of your letters. Goodness gracious, dear brother! What are you trying to do with those margins and those half sheets? Write me full sheets, Andonis! You’re not busy, whereas I (!) have two or three hours at the university in the morning, Italian with a private teacher every evening, also French. On my own I study German. And as though all that weren’t enough, I correspond with fifteen individuals! I’m drowning, drowning. Whereas you! Whenever you have anything to say, write to me instead of finding me on the promenade or during school recess. Devote ten minutes a day to a person who thirsts for letters. So, Andonis, enormous letters! a.  Why do you say seven months? Five are correct. I’ll be leaving here on Easter Wednesday—just like the day after tomorrow! On Easter Thursday I’ll call at your house in the morning, pale, still staggering from the ship’s stink. On Easter Thursday in the evening, wrapped in my overcoat, I’ll be standing behind the column at Saint Minas’s Cathedral for the nighttime vigil and once again we’ll listen to the twelve gospels together.

6  •  1902 Letters

b.  Grammatikakis is in university, Fanourakis in high school. c. I’m going to be introduced to a newspaper now. But will they publish my nonsense? It’s doubtful. Anyway, perhaps this year I won’t write anything. I can’t do it in time. d.  An employee in an office? No. I don’t have time, and there’s no need this year. e.  So there’s an essay exam? O Andonis! How many emotions you students have! Oh, if only I were among you! If only I, too, were sitting at your desks and hearing once again—I, too—the high school student’s joy in my heart! f. I’m sending you the notes concerning one’s duties. g.  You’ve suggested so graciously, dear Andonis, that I might like you to send me something from Crete. Oh! Can you give me a bit of sky and a sip of air from my Homeland? Next time: large sheets of paper, filled up! Don’t forget! Clytemnestra, Orestes, or Electra? Ah, I don’t have time to read Electra carefully in order to tell you my opinion with conviction. However, do you need my advice? Certainly the major role—the most skillful and submissive—is Electra’s. If you insist on my giving you my opinion, write me, and I’ll study the play again and will tell you. Oh! if only I could come there for a moment to find you! Greetings to everyone. Very many to Myros. To Markatakis, Meïmarakis, Fotakis, Vernardos, Geronimakis, Atsalakis, Kastrinakis, Tsouderos, Karouzos, Antoniadis. Can I remember them all? Au revoir, dear Andonis. Oh, when will I return to set foot my homeland’s soil? Write me at least. I still have that consolation. I kiss you sweetly, sweetly, Nikos

1  Andonis Anemoyannis:  Fourth-year student in high school in Iraklio; his family came from Varvari, the ancestral village of Kazantzakis’s father, paternal grandfather, etc. For more on the extended Anemoyannis family, see the note on Tea Anemoyanni following the letter to Emile Hourmouzios of 15 May 1946.  1  Syntagma:  Constitution Square, the central square in Athens then and now.  1  Phidias:  Considered the greatest Greek sculptor (ca. 490–ca. 430 b.c.); active during Pericles’ rule (ca. 461–429 b.c.); created the statue of Athena (438 b.c.) in the Parthenon and the statue of Zeus (ca. 430 b.c.) in Olympia, considered one of the Seven Wonders of the ancient world, and the model for the statue of Abraham Lincoln in the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.  1  Atthis:  Mythological daughter of Cranaus; she died before marriage, and her father renamed his kingdom Attica in her honor.  1  Easter Wednesday:  Easter in Greece in 1903 was on 6 April. Easter Wednesday would therefore have been 2 April, less than five months from the date of this letter.  1  twelve gospels:  On the Thursday of Easter week, in Greek Orthodox churches, there are twelve readings from the Gospels, as

1902 Letters  •  7

f­ ollows: (1) from John 13, 14, 15, 16, and 17; (2) John 18:1–28; (3) from Matthew 26; (4) John 18:28–40, 19:1–16; (5) Matthew 27:3–32; (6) Mark 15:16–32; (7) Matthew 27:33–54; (8) from Luke 23; (9) John 19:25–37; (10) Mark 15:43–47; (10) John 19:38–42; and (12) Matthew 27:62–66, ending with the expectation that the crucified Jesus will be resurrected on the third day.

To Andonis Anemoyannis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Dimakis 1979, pp. 31–36.

Athens, 17 December 1902 8 p.m. Tuesday My dear Andonis, It’s evening, and I’m allowing my tired thoughts to wing their way close to you through my room’s open window. My soul is asleep. I’m inclining my mind toward you a little bit at a time, Andonis, lest I awaken it—because my soul is like those unruly children who eventually fall asleep and whose poor mother does not wish to rouse them because she knows that they’ll start to bawl and scream again as soon as they wake. That’s why I want my soul to lie drugged, as it is now doing, without dreams, without desires. I don’t desire anything right now. My desires have frozen in my breast. A lethargy is killing my heart. I’m writing you not because I feel the need to sip up some life from friendly breasts, but without any reason. I’m writing you because I can’t be bothered to take a few steps in order to lie down on my bed. I’m not thinking of anything. I sense nothing except dreams shuffling along soundlessly at one end of my breast—dreams and also desires, those unpacifiable desires of mine, making my head droop with sleep’s heaviness. And I sense the soul’s death and the complete stupidity of hugging my thoughts and halting every flight of the mind. Tell me, Andonis, have you ever felt spiritual torpor? 18 December, Wednesday, 11 a.m. I’ve just finished reading Michelidakis’s dull speech as well as Dionysios’s inappropriate, monotonous words. O my friend, I have so much rage inside me regarding those political factions of yours! I hate them all equally. Pity the blood that adorns those famous crags of ours! Venizelos’s megalomania and egotism plus the petty personal passions of the others will destroy our Crete. O sweet Homeland, Homeland only for those in exile: when wilt thou, too, experience the sweetness of good fortune? I don’t want to write more. Unfortunately, you are a fanatical party leader and you contribute as much as you can to your Homeland’s ruin. Oh, if only

8  •  1902 Letters

I could apportion my soul to ten Cretan breasts! But alas! alack! I cannot do anything now. I see this struggle of yours only from a distance, and I have nothing but tears to shed for my Homeland, my head bowed—nothing but tears, Andonis. Please, my friend, if you belong to one of the parties or to the other, to one or the other of the hands that wound our Homeland, do not write me anything partisan in your letters. Thursday, 19 December, 7 a.m. I’ve just gotten up. I still haven’t washed. Nevertheless, my first thought— the sunrise of my mind, one might say, Andonis—has covered your beloved face with gold. About whom do you want me to write you now? Ah, let’s talk about E. K. Well, my friend, are things really so serious? Do love, my friend. Are you fond of youth without love? Are you fond of springtime without roses, lips without kisses? But I’m starting my usual stuff again. OK, let’s quit this subject, which should not be written about in letters that can be mislaid. When we meet, I will devote howsoever many days you’d like us to talk about it together. Agreed? Oh! When will I come to my Homeland? Evening. I just returned from the university. Dimaras was lecturing about the right of possession. One of my strangest moments is when I sit at one of the desks in law school with my eyes pinned on the professor and my mind fluttering through a thousand and one things: my Homeland, my friends, everywhere—everywhere except the lesson. I’m trying to like the law because I feel such ambition inside me that I have a need to like it, an inexorable need. I try to drive poets away from my desk, poetry away from my heart. Let Paraschos give way to Dimaras, Hugo to von Savigny, Lamartine to von Jhering, poetry to reality. Yet! Open in front of me now that I’m writing you are Dante and Manzoni, while my desk is adorned with Hugo and Solomos. Yet there is a need: I must become a lawyer. Inside me is a terrible battle. I hope to like the law, yet poetry bewitches me. It’s like a marvelously beautiful enchantress and mistress in whose breast one forgets every pain and in whose glance one feels the shudder of voluptuousness. My pen slides and slides, Andonis, writing before thinking. So, let’s change the subject. How are you getting along now? Are you eager to experience university life? Are your dreams the same? Has Iraklio changed at all? Are the Three Arches still full of people every Sunday? Does our society continue to have its hatred and baseness? Have the trees shed their leaves? Has the crack in the walls gotten larger? Can one still see the clear sky from the balcony of our

1902 Letters  •  9

high school, and the hill off to the right with those unforgettable mountains opposite and the file of camels still interrupting the silence with the sound of their bells? Friday, 20 December 1902, 8 a.m. At last I need to finish this letter. What have you asked me? Ah! If I have friends? Friends in Athens? Are you serious in asking this, Andonis? Everything here is unstable: sky, friendship, weather vane, love. Love—that’s a flame you seek in vain in Athenian bosoms, Andonis. The Atthis-girls have nothing but breasts in their bosoms. Oh! would that every evening when I return sadly to my room, exhausted from the life of a day, would that I could rest my forehead on friendly breasts and scatter my tears on a loved one’s bosom! So—no friend. I have no one. Now, another answer. You ask me about journalism. Eh, I see in this interest of yours all your passion for this matter. It’s really nice, isn’t it, for a person to scatter his thoughts in a newspaper and to be read out there in his Homeland by people he loves? But I do not dare. I’m afraid I might fail. I need a strong mentor. That’s why I’ve written to be sent a letter of recommendation to I. Kondylakis, who writes every day in Embros under the pseudonym Wayfarer. Will I obtain that letter? And if I do obtain it, will I write something right and proper? I’d like to start with the new year. If you could supply a letter of recommendation of this sort, I would beg you to do so. I saw your father the other day. Need I tell you my emotion? He told me to tell you that you must acquire a firm basis for university. Is there any need for me to give advice about this to you who are so ambitious? How is everyone doing out there? Is Androklis still the same? How is Georgiadis faring? If he’s ill, do me the favor of stopping by at his house and wishing him a speedy recovery on my behalf. (Forgive me! I had written καλήν ανάρρωσιν, as though I were a pedant.) My final entreaty: Why don’t you write me longer letters? N

1  Michelidakis:  Andonios Michelidakis (1843–1926), fought in the risings of 1866 and 1878; headed various revolutionary committees; president of the Cretan legislature in 1901, 1903, and 1905, where he opposed Venizelos and supported Prince George; prime minister of Crete in 1908.  1  Dionysios:  Perhaps the bishop of Rethymno (1856–1910).  1  Venizelos:  Eleftherios Venizelos (1864–1936), Greece’s preeminent statesman in the twentieth century. Born in Crete, which was then part of the Ottoman Empire, he led the movement for union of Crete with Greece. This could not happen yet; instead, as a compromise, Crete became an autonomous state under the

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­suzerainty of the Ottoman sultan, an arrangement in which Venizelos played an important diplomatic role. Prince George of Greece was appointed high commissioner, arriving in 1898, but Venizelos, his minister of justice from 1899 to 1901, came to disagree with the high commissioner, was dismissed, and then assumed leadership of those opposed to him. This was the situation at the end of 1902, when Kazantzakis expressed his negative opinion regarding Venizelos.  1  E. K.:  Eleni Karouzou, Anemoyannis’s future wife.  1  Dimaras:  Nikolaos Dimaras (1856–1906), professor of Roman law; studied in Germany under Jhering (see below).  1  Hugo:  Victor-Marie Hugo (1802–85), French poet, novelist, playwright, author of Les Misérables and The Hunchback of Notre Dame.  1  Paraschos:  Achilles Paraschos (1838–95), Greek poet.  1  Savigny:  Friedrich Carl von Savigny (1779–1861), German jurist who wrote a famous treatise on the law of possession.  1  Lamartine:  Alphonse de Lamartine (1790–1869), French poet and politician, considered to be the first French romantic poet; an influence on Verlaine and the symbolists.  1  Jhering:  Rudolf von Jhering (1818–92), German jurist whose influence in the second half of the nineteenth century eclipsed that of Savigny in the first half.  1  Dante:  Dante Alighieri (ca. 1265–1321), author of the Divine Comedy. It is interesting that this great favorite poem of Kazantzakis’s was “open on his desk” even in 1902. The Kazantzakis Museum possesses the copy of the complete Divine Comedy that Kazantzakis often carried with him. On the inside front cover, he inscribed “Nikos Kazantzakis servus diavolicus Dei”!  1  Manzoni:  Alessandro Manzoni (1785–1873), Italian poet and novelist, author of I Promessi sposi (The Betrothed).  1  Solomos:  Dionysios Solomos (1798–1857), considered the father of modern Greek poetry.  1  Three Arches:  Τρεις Kάμαρες, the old name still used for Iraklio’s Eleftheria Square, because on this site there was an aqueduct with three arches built in 1628 by the Venetians in order to bring water from Archanes, beyond Knossos, to the Morisini Fountain, the famous “Liondaria.” The aqueduct was demolished in 1892 owing to the construction of an underground water system.  1  Kondylakis:  Ioannis Kondylakis (1862–1920), Cretan short story writer, novelist, and journalist.  1  I had written καλήν ανάρρωσιν:  The meaning is the same, but the language is much more formal and pedantic than Kazantzakis’s initial expression for “speedy recovery,” namely περαστικά. We see here perhaps the beginning of Kazantzakis’s later crusade against katharevousa (the official, “purified” Greek of scholars and politicians) and for demotic (the spoken Greek of the common people).

To Andonis Anemoyannis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Dimakis 1979, pp. 38–41.

Athens, 7 February 1903

1903 Letters  •  11

My dear Andonis, How can I tell you! Do you know where I was yesterday? Where do you think? At the theater, the Acropolis? No way! “Then you were with some lady!” “I’m moral, dear sir!” “Well, how the devil should I know where you were?” “So, since you’re unable to guess, let me tell you right now that I’m in my right mind. (Who knows if my soul isn’t going to begin daydreaming again soon?) Well, my friend, listen! Yesterday I put in an appearance at the prime minister’s together with others who wanted to support Venizelos! Will you believe it? Listen: don’t start rejoicing that I’ve joined your party! No way! But I went for fun, to see Deligiannis, to see Cretan students supporting Venizelos, etc. Well, I was sitting in a café eating my sweet when suddenly Fanourakis enters (he’s a genuine Venizelist) and grabs my hand: “‘Come on, get up,’ he shouts at me. ‘Demonstration. Venizelos. Everybody. Deligiannis.’ ‘Hey, tell me clearly what’s going on. You’re out of breath. What do you want?’ ‘Let’s go to Deligiannis’s. All of us Cretan students who support Venizelos are going there.’ ‘But I don’t support Venizelos, kiddo!’ ‘So you want me to go by myself?’ ‘OK, I’ll go—for fun.’ “So I put on my hat, wipe clean my eyeglasses, take my walking stick, and off I go. We get there and see about twenty Cretans, some students, some not. Mihalis Kounalakis with his frock coat, brand new cravat, his face shaved and polished, ready to be the spokesman and to orate. Andreadakis, Asariotis, Zoudianos, Loukakis, -akis this -akis that. (Do you think I know them all?) Then it was rumored that Deligiannis was going to postpone the audience. ‘Let’s get going,’ we shout; ‘he’s got to hear us!’ Out in front, we bang our walking sticks on the ground. What’s the Old Man of the Morea going to do? He received us. A geezer, my friend, an aged nincompoop. His face is no longer pale; it’s yellow, like wax. He was on his feet when we came. Kounalakis stood in front of him and began, not by lecturing him but simply by chatting. The Old Man listened without moving. I kept trying to make out something in his expression, to ‘psychologize’ him, as some Cretan gendarme would say these days. Nothing! He just listened, my friend, unresponsively. You can guess what they must have been saying to him: ‘There aren’t two views; everyone wants union with Greece. Papad. is the evil demon of Crete,’ and so forth. “‘Gentlemen,’ replies the Old Man, ‘are you all from Crete?’ “‘You bet we are!’ “‘I’ve been asked by Mr. Venizelos and Mr. Papad. to study this question, but I always notice something missing. Why doesn’t Mr. Venizelos declare officially that he renounces his idea?’ “‘But, Mr. President,’ replies G. Loukakis, ‘he did declare this in the Herald, and signed it.’ “‘Do you have this issue of the Herald, sir? Can you give it to me? Does it have the signature: E. Venizelos?’

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“‘Yes, it does. But I don’t happen to have that issue now.’ ” We left. What a disappointment, my friend, what a disappointment! Deligiannis came out publicly and clearly against Venizelos. It was decided to keep this visit secret so that others won’t learn about it and start ridiculing Venizelos and the rest of you. Thus, I tell you all this under two conditions: a. That you don’t say a single word about politicians in your letters, allowing only me to write impartially, since I don’t belong to any political party. If you do refer to politics in your letters, you will be more severely punished than you were by the high school principal. You’ll wait an entire month before receiving another letter from me! Yes, you will! b. That what I’m writing you remains confidential. My friend, you are right about the two bad possibilities under discussion, etc., but who tells you that you are required to follow either the one or the other? Must you adjust your own ideas to those of the other two? Ah! Odysseus should have had wings. Instead of being forced to crash into either Scylla or Charybdis, he should have proudly spread his invincible pinions and passed disdainfully overhead. Let him! But since nature is a stepmother to certain people, let’s bow our heads and proudly keep a stiff upper lip. But heaven is not only unjust; it is also malicious. It’s not enough for it to skimp in distributing its gifts to you; it mocks you by giving you ferocious, untamable dreams. You feel your heart lash out against your breast. It is carried away by desires—fierce desires—and you bring your hand to your brow and see your mind powerless to attain your dreams. You sense a pallid, flickering spirit burning like a gloomy oil-lamp next to your heart’s conflagration. Oh, my friend, there are times when this distance between my dreams and my capabilities makes me so furious that I want to die—to die from spite and also from grief. Pretentious idiot! Tell me, Andonis, is there any greater torture? N

1  Deligiannis:  Theodoros Deligiannis (1826–1905), prime minister in 1885– 86, 1890–92, 6 December 1902–27 June 1903, 29 December 1904–13 June 1905, when he was assassinated by a professional gambler in revenge for measures taken by him against gambling houses.  1  Mihalis Kounalakis:  Lawyer from Iraklio very involved in Cretan politics.  1  Papad.:  Presumably Ioannis Papadiamantopoulos (1841–1909), minister of war in the Deligiannis government.

To Andonis Anemoyannis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Dimakis 1979, pp. 42–44.

Athens, 1903 [18 February 1903]

1903 Letters  •  13

My dear Andonis, Perhaps my letter will be somewhat annoying during these days. Just imagine: a letter suddenly arrives that talks to you about Athens, love, friends, and fatherland while you are in the middle of the turmoil of political parties, the fever pitch of your partisan passions! Iraklio must be seething, eh? But let’s forget about party politics—it’s still early—and speak about other things. Aren’t you going to ask me how I fared during Carnival? Marvelously, my friend! Ah, you’ll be here for next year’s, won’t you? You’ll see real life! You’ll forget, Andonis, all the ignominiousness with which our petty, jealous, trifling society surrounds you. To see matchless beauty spilling out from heaven; to see the quiver of ­voluptuousness dawning from Attic lips! Everything! All that the spirit might covet and the flesh crave: the Parthenon, Atthis, statues, walks, lectures, kisses. Ah, I’m an enthusiastic devotee of the ἰοστέφανον ἄστυ. I was ill a little while ago and hadn’t seen Athens for two or three days. Can you guess what I felt yesterday when I went outside? Do you know what a lover feels when he sees his chosen one after having been parted from her? I boarded the tram to go from Omonoia to Syntagma and, standing there, I ardently gulped down all the Athenian air, all the looks focused on me from here and there, all the aromas emitted as I passed. I kept thinking that I was sensing once again that virgin shudder that I felt when I saw “the heart of Greece” for the first time. Those violets that flooded the streets, the men’s hands, women’s breasts—those inimitable breasts of Athenian women!—all that grace, all the movement, all the shifting colors of the sky, all bewitching sunsets that have been deeply imprinted in my soul’s most secret depths. Oh, how very much I love Athens! I love it as one loves the Homeland of beauty, as one loves poetry, or fragrances. Its Parthenon rises into my soul beautifully enmarbled; its women smile in the depths of my heart, and its scattered violets perfume my memories with myrrh. It is even more beautiful, Andonis, to have a lover or girlfriend in the evening when nighttime is born. It’s because you feel at that hour, my friend, the need to turn your soul toward some other soul and quietly to sing to her there beneath the first nighttime shiver, across from the Parthenon—to sing to her about beauty, love, virtue, to tell her how much the declining sun pacifies your heart, how much birdsong at eventide engenders kisses on your lips, kisses that are eager to fly off, to touch other lips, and die. Oh, this is true pleasure, Andonis! Behold Eros! Not in Iraklio, where you see nothing but shops or garbage on the meager streets and are surrounded by spies and jealousy—no, not there, but here where perfume encircles you, invisible kisses wing their way around you, trees whisper their evening prayers, and the moon appears with additional whiteness in order to embellish statues

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and Attic lovelies, to beautify the hoary forehead of Penteli or the pediments of the Parthenon. Now I transfer my thoughts most beautifully to E.K., your chosen beloved. How is she doing? Will she ever come to Athens? And will you come, too? Without fearing happiness’s burden? Oh do come, Andonis! Your mind will encounter new worlds of beauty, pleasure, virtue. You will become a better person, increasing your love of glory, of the good, of scholarship. A certain precaution is required at first because there are sirens. Yes, ­sirens—who sing, kill, and murder! Tell me now about anything new. Do you still love her, and in what way? But take care: not a word about political parties! What have you finished doing at school? How goes it? Is Tamiolis in his second year at the Varvakeio? Spetsiotis buys postage stamps opposite Parliament. Yesterday was the various Saint Theodoroses’ name day. Tell Hairetis “long life” on my behalf. How is Markatakis doing? I dreamed about him yesterday. Are you studying French with a private teacher? My oh my! My thoughts are a mess. Maybe because I feel dizzy from yesterday’s fever. Write me a lot in your turn. You cannot imagine how sad you made me when I saw that half of your page was blank. Thanks for Dafotis’s talk. I admire the man, but surely without being obliged also to admire his words, n’est-ce pas? N

1  Carnival:  Carnival ran for the three weeks before the beginning of Lent, which began on 17 February in 1903.  1  ἱοστέφανον ἄστυ:  “Violet-crowned city.” Kazantzakis’s quote seems to recall Ἐν ταῖσιν ἰοστεφάνοις οἰκεῖ ταῖς ἀρχαίαισιν Ἀθήναις (He lives in the violet-crowned Athens of old) from Aristophanes’ Ἱππῆς (Knights), line 1323.  1  Omonoia:  Concord Square, about sixteen blocks (1.1 kilometer, 0.7 miles) from Syntagma.  1  Penteli:  Mountain, about 20 kilometers (12.4 miles) northeast of the center of Athens. 1  Varvakeio:  The Varvakeion Lyceum (high school) in Athens was endowed by Ioannis Varvakis (ca. 1750–1825) and completed in 1859.  1  Saint Theodoroses’ name day:  One saint is celebrated on 17 February, another on 8 February. Because this letter seems to have been composed after Carnival, I suspect that its date is 18 February, not 9 February. Actually, the date for the name day varies because it is pegged to the date of Easter. In 1903, with Easter on 6 April, the general name day for Theodoros was presumably 22 February. Thus, the letter perhaps should be dated 23 February.  1  Dafotis:  Three different Dafotises were active in Cretan revolutionary risings at the end of the nineteenth century: Andonis (1845–1914), Ioannis (1868–1927), and Nikolaos.

1903 Letters  •  15

To Harilaos Stefanidis —Manuscript in Demosthenes Stefanidis family archive, Iraklio; printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, pp. 122–24.

Athens, 10 March 1903 Very dear Harilaos, How very much I like to sit all alone in my room, to forget Athenian life, which surrounds me, and to chat with you. I become better then, Stefanidis; my soul becomes cleaner, gaining beauty amid past time’s memories. Oh, would that I could bow my head and tell you my heart’s strange history, sitting with you in the deserted countryside beneath the trees’ foliage! I would give you a sense of myself, Harilaos. Sometimes my soul is flooded, flooded by strange feelings, and my breast is swollen with peculiar throbbing. Today, too, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I have just reread your letter. How melancholy you are, my friend. How sad you seem. Oh that you’d come here, to see how much you would change! I, too, was sad yesterday, without knowing why. So I go straightway to the opera. They were doing Wagner’s Lohengrin. You’ve never heard that opera? What a shame, my friend. Its music is incredible, out of this world. You forget everything, all your pains, and— bewitched—allow your soul to be surrounded by billows of harmony. ­Athens! How many pleasures one is given! And when the music pauses for a moment, you direct your eyes to the stage, where another kind of pleasure awaits you: Italian dancers occupy the stage. How beautiful they are with their protruding breasts and those most delicate veils thrown over their shoulders and head—like Neapolitans—with their glances seeking shortlived experiences of bodily sex and short-lived kisses in youthful gazes! But above all with impudent breasts, a bouquet of violets directly over the heart. “But just look, Fanourakis, for the love of God!, just look at that Italian girl.” “Hey, what a piece!” The blood boils! And when the music begins again, the body’s wanton cries subside and my soul ascends once again into heavenly daydreams. 11 March 1903. I cut short yesterday’s letter; I had an Italian lesson. In the evening I went to dance class until eleven because, as you know, Fanourakis, Grammatikakis, and I are learning how to dance. In three more weeks I’ll be returning to the Homeland! These last days, what feelings are wrestling inside me! I’ve fallen in love with Athens, Harilaos, and a boundless sorrow is flooding me now that I’m about to leave. I’ll be returning to my parents, to my friends, to the places where I spent twenty years of my life, but what will become of me after the initial sweet emotions have passed? Our society is so small-minded, Harilaos, and hides such hatred in its breast. When I raise my eyes, I will no longer see the Parthenon, the Acropolis’s glorious rock, Apollo on the Academy’s building, Rigas Feraios or

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the Patriarch in front of the University. And the perfumes of Attic beauties will no longer spread all around me. How many strange things clash inside me! All of us should be here. I was ­saying that to Grammatikakis exactly last night. Just think, I said, if our entire class were here, if we constituted a club gathered together in some room in order to have Stefanidis play violin for us. Do you still remember that Cretan tune that we used to beg you often in class to play for us and you hesitated and then played it at last, owing to repeated entreaties? Do you still remember it? The idea to come and find you when I go to Crete is stuck in my mind. How very much I’d like you to play that tune there, in the forest, with us together again! I’ll go right away to buy you various pieces of music, melancholy ones, the kind you like. Torakis arrived the other day and enrolled. Very fat, with a rotund face, fed like a “fatted calf.” Papatheodorou also came. I saw him for a moment but then lost him. Vernardos did not enroll. I wonder why. Well, my friend, Kanetakis left. I saw him the other day on Aiolou Street hurrying along with a book in hand. “Hey, Mr. Kanetakis,” I shout at him from the opposite sidewalk, “how’re you doing?” He condescended to stop for a bit, rubbed his hands together, placed a smile on his lips, and said to me, “I’m leaving.” “Leaving for the Homeland?” “Yes, what can I do here?” “Ah, you rascal, you’re leaving in order to vote. You’ll make a new mess of things over there. Who won’t come on your side, you a high-class physician?” “What are you saying, poor thing? I mix with politics?” “OK, OK, if I don’t see you again, have a good trip.” And he left. What goes on with politics in Crete today! How dismal that situation is, my friend! I fear for Crete. I’m neither for Venizelos nor for Michelidakis. And I weep because of the audacious egotism of the one and the small-mindedness of the others. What a pity that so much blood ornaments our fatherland! How are you doing now? Write to me, Stefanidis, but very much, really very very much. You have time, whereas I—I’ve got so many to write to today and can’t keep up. We’re doing well here. Splendidly. Tell me, will you come here next year? Let’s hope. Very often the three of us here take our walking sticks, and off we go all of a sudden to Patisia in daytime or to other places at night. There we drink two or three okades of beer, drink to the health of our fellow students, our friends, and our—girlfriends. The other day we came back from our beer drinking. I remembered there in Kifisias Street how Grammatikakis once upon a time was our “director general.” Remember what happened then: he really got slapped all over the place. Do you recall when you spilled the beans to me? And plop! Off comes the top hat! I’m going now to Pallis’s to buy crayons for you. Because they’re not yet yours, permit me to tell you how much they cost. But do not dare to ask me the price when it’s a question of your own things.

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What do I want from you? To write me lots and lots. Hugs and kisses from Fanourakis and Grammatikakis. I kiss you on both cheeks, my dear Harilaos. N

1  Harilaos Stefanidis:  Stefanidis (1887–1954), a high school friend of Kazantzakis’s, trained as a pharmacist and from 1922 ran a pharmacy that became a gathering place for writers until it failed in 1930, after which he returned to his ancestral mansion in Vori and led the life of a feudal lord, often helping Kazantzakis with expressions in Cretan dialect. The family archive is now controlled by George Stefanidis, son of the late Demosthenes, who was Harilaos’s nephew.  1  Academy’s building:  The Academy of Athens’ impressive building on Panepistimiou Street, next to the university, was begun in 1850 and completed in 1885. The Academy’s regular membership is limited to sixty individuals judged to be the cream of Greek scientists, artists, writers, and thinkers. Kazantzakis was denied membership in 1945, receiving only fifteen of the eighteen votes required. The whole sad story of Kazantzakis and the Academy is related in Bien 2007a, pp. 252–53.  1  Rigas Feraios:  Rigas Velestinlis (1757–98), Greek revolutionary forerunner who, living outside of Greece, developed a plan for liberation and formed a secret society for its implementation; martyred by the Turks as he was attempting to return to Greece.  1  the Patriarch:  Gregory V (1749–1821), patriarch of Constantinople, hanged by the Turks on Easter Sunday at the outbreak of the Greek Revolution. Interestingly, there is a third statue in front of the University that Kazantzakis does not mention: that of Capodistrias, about whom Kazantzakis wrote a moving play in 1944.  1  fatted calf:  From Jesus’s parable of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11–32), a calf fattened for slaughter, in order to be eaten at a festive celebration.  1  Patisia:  Section of Athens about 4 kilometers (2.5 miles) from the downtown university; semirural ca. 1903, with kitchen gardens, etc.  1  okades:  Plural of oka; Turkish system of measuring solid and liquid weight used in Greece until 31 March 1959, when it was replaced by the kilo. One oka equals 1.282 kilos or about 2.8 pounds.

To Andonis Anemoyannis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Dimakis 1979, pp. 56–57.

2 December [1903], 11 p.m. How quickly time flies, how monotonously! How much laughter occurs as it passes, and how much weeping and seasickness! To be alone with the desert or the sea stretching out boundlessly in front of you, the water calm, and for you not to be thinking anything as you sit cross-legged on the shore—devoid of love, hate, dreams, and heartthrobs—and, like another Hindu, you await

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the rosy-fingered dawn of death, yearning for “the azure expanses of infinity, Nirvana.” Do such thoughts ever enter your head, Andonis? I have a friend here who exhibits such strange feelings. But what interest does any of this have for you? It’s strange: I’m looking for something around me, trying to find something interesting to write you—but what? Everything is commonplace and vulgar. What do you expect me to speak to you about that has the freshness and grace of originality? Of the unknown? Of the not understood? You’ll read my letter, perhaps will even open it with a certain expectation; you’ll toss it afterwards into some corner; it will be torn, perhaps will fall into other hands, and someone else afterwards will read what right now in this strange spiritual moment I am sitting here and writing to you. Besides, I don’t have anything to say. If it was last year, in the good old days when I was young, I would have written you lyrical phrases, magniloquent words, and lots of melancholy unknown to others. But now? If I write you that I am reading, someone will call me pedantic; if I write that I have dreams, I’ll be called conceited; if pompous sentences, a plagiarist; if thoughts, an egotist. Now that I’m telling you that I feel nothing, am indifferent to everything, lack both hatred and love, even dreams—that disgust with life sits on my lips, that I am being choked by satiety, a glut of dreams, ideas, and love, if I write that my entire soul is convulsed with a supreme paroxysm of disgust, either I will not be believed or I will be called an egotist again or else an egotist because plagiarist, conceited narcissist, and pedant. Perhaps even you, Andonis, will not believe me. And you’ll be right. In this sinful city, amid exhalations from the widespread stench of voluptuousness and beauty, beneath that “poem in marble,” the Parthenon, surrounded by the smiles of heaven and Athenian lovelies, how can anyone be disgusted? On the other hand, Andonis, amid this swirl of aromas, the fallen rose petals, the heavy atmosphere of flesh, the whisper of bodies, and warble of kisses, disgust tears open my heart with an angelic smile. N

1  rosy-fingered dawn:  The oft-repeated Homeric figure, as in Iliad 1.477, Odyssey 3.404.

To His Mother and Sisters —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 41.

[Athens, 1904] Dear mother, I am extremely pleased with our living arrangements. We hired a cook the other day, and she cooks for us. Today we have stuffed eggplant and stuffed

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zucchini. So badly cooked! I come home at midday and see some thick eggplants filled with half-done rice as hard as bones. The zucchini is all mushy— not a trace visible. So I become furious: “Angeliki, what kind of meal is this? Come and ask me next time, since you don’t know how. The eggplants should be thin. Put them in the bottom of the pot with the zucchini on top so it won’t be mushy.” It’s really strange, Eleni, to see us in the kitchen. When we return from university, we race to the cooking pot. I’m the one who uncovers it and smells, while the other two, standing over me, ask: “Is it OK? How does it seem to you?” I taste a forkful or two, pretend to be thinking, and tell them (if I’m hungry), “Ugh, disgusting!”—in order to get Angeliki to put more on my plate, without the others beginning to complain. I’m making them follow a diet. Vegetables every day. “Good grief,” they say to me, “aren’t you going to have some meat for a change? We’ll end up forgetting about it entirely.” “Meat?” I ask them. “Meat? Do you know what diseases it brings? Do you know that a more dangerous food does not exist? Meat? So you want all of us to get sick, do you?” How is everything getting along out there? Poor Anestasia didn’t write anything in Eleni’s letter the other day. When the postman comes, I’ll definitely send her that piping at long last. How much I’d like for all of us to be able to come to Athens some year and to stay here all together for about ten days so that you can see what civilization really means. Perhaps that will happen. I see that some progress is being made, since you’re taking dancing lessons now. So you know the polka perfectly! Brava! But don’t neglect your French. I, too, will be going to the best dance school in Athens, but not now. Dear mother, Anestasia, and Eleni, I kiss you ever so sweetly. N

To Andonis Anemoyannis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Dimakis 1979, pp. 45–49.

[Athens,] 12 January 1904 My dear Andonis, There are letters that must be answered at once. That’s why I’m answering your letter, which I just received. Half of it made me very happy, reminding me of those days when we went together and allowed our youthfulness to sing out its cravings, when we—when you, first and foremost, allowed your heart to chirp its dreams. Days of yore, Andonis!

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The other half of your letter saddened me greatly. Echoing the “friends” out there, you suffused your words with provocative reverberations of irony. You write me—you toss at me—that I am going to Rome. I don’t know who told you that. I once had in mind that six months in Rome might do me some good. So, yes, I did dream of it once. I wanted to see other places. Apparently I babble in my sleep, and someone overheard my ravings. Furthermore, my dreams apparently have something terrifying about them; they are superlatively peculiar, calling forth sarcasm and mockery. That’s why one tiny one was inflated to the size of a mountain. I assure you that if anyone else had written me what you have written, I would have paid no attention to it. That’s one part of my letter. Please don’t mention this business to me again. Enough has been said: a mountain out of a molehill. The long and short of it is that I probably will go to Rome over the holidays if my parents give me permission. You see, it’s not worth the trouble of anyone repeating it. And now—please—you too forget the first part of my letter. Let’s move beyond all this. I like hearing the chirping of cravings and the sea-rustle of dreams. I like hearing you, Andonis, talk about your love and your future. You possess what is needed for success in this world: hope. And hope engenders will power. The rosy world of love has been revealed to you in a specific woman and your future in a specific stage. What a beautiful sight you provide! There is nothing more beautiful than the sight of a happy young man—youth combined with joy. I say this as a poor person would say “How nice to be a millionaire!” Youth, in my case, came without joy, springtime without roses. At first—when you met me, last year still—I was “sentimental”; I had the so-called sentimental melancholy. Now I detest sentimentality, bombastic language, the disgusting exchange of confidences about love. I’ve come to know the world better; I’ve come to know that it’s not worthwhile for anyone to fall in love. Neither with a woman nor with anything. It’s difficult to find a woman who will understand you. As for other women, it’s humiliating to stoop so low. Such love is an insult to Love, a desecration. When you find a woman who understands you, then you both need to die, to die at once, before your bodies realize something, before love’s dregs defile your lips, before both of your sexualities are defiled by touching the world. You won’t agree with my opinion, Andonis. You’ll have a different idea. You’ll think that perhaps a person can love and continue to live. Would that my experience might lead me to agree with you one day! All the above also for E. Let’s turn now to another subject. When you go to Germany and afterwards to England, doesn’t returning to Iraklio strike you as somewhat incongruous? Wouldn’t you be better off if you took your wife—now E.—and came to Athens or some other center? If you don’t do this, won’t you be like a large battleship that tries to anchor in Iraklio harbor? Doesn’t it seem to you that

1904 Letters  •  21

one must choose a domicile that is commensurate with one’s development? Perhaps you will answer that you prefer to be the head of a housefly rather than the tail of a lion, that it’s better to be first in Iraklio than second here, and the like. Perhaps that will be your answer. Then, my friend, all I can do is agree with you. 13 January 1904. Tomorrow we’re having a dinner for Kazazis at the Aktaion. I don’t recall whether you are for him or against him. As for me, however, I admire him, adore him. He is the number one Greek—with great feelings, great cravings, the splendor of the Great Idea, still waiting for Saint Romanos’s Gate to be opened. You see, he’s a visionary, a chimerical utopian with wings and no feet, the butt of those who are practical-minded, their object of ridicule. Nine-tenths of those who hear the name Kazazis smile the smile of scorn. It’s only young people who propel his chariot with enthusiasm and scatter blossoms over it. It’s only young people who gather round him and love him. It was exquisite, Andonis. His reception reminded one of the triumphs of Roman generals returning from war. Frenzy around him, a triumph of youth. I followed him then and afterwards saw him come to the rostrum in the municipal theater and preach before thousands of people that “the Fatherland is in danger.” I followed him everywhere as the wingless fledgling follows the flying eagle. Now, dazzled by so much glory, crushed by the weight of so much soul, I exclaim that I admire him, love him—and hate him. But I am carried away again; my pen always babbles. Your name day is coming soon. I don’t want to send you hackneyed regards, so what should I wish for you? A long life? What a ridiculous wish! My friend, I wish that you may achieve all that you desire. That, too, is hackneyed. Everything has already been said. Nothing pure remains in the world any longer. Write to me often, Andonis. I received your letter yesterday and have answered it at once. In my opinion, delay in answering the letters of friends is a sign of friendship’s sleep or death. Once more I beg of you: write to me. Nikos Please give the slip of paper to Pol. I’ll appreciate it.

1  E:  Eleni Karouzou, Anemoyannis’s future wife.  1  Kazazis:  Neoklis Kazazis (1849–1936), law professor at the University of Athens; author of many books on law, philosophy of history, political philosophy.  1  waiting for Saint Romanos’s Gate to be opened:  The famous hymn “On the Ascension” by the hymn writer Romanos the Melodist (sixth century) emphasizes the apostles’ distress after the Crucifixion and advises all worshipers to “raise on high our eyes and minds . . . [to] make our sight together with our sense fly to heaven’s gate” since “the heavenly and glorious doors” will be flung wide

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to welcome the resurrected Christ into heaven. Saint Romanos’s Gate, in the walls surrounding Constantinople, was one of the first through which the conquering Turks entered the city on 29 May 1453. The Great Idea was the hope of reconquering Constantinople (Istanbul) one day.  1  your name day:  17 January.  1  Pol.:  Perhaps Kazantzakis’s friend Heracles Polemarkhakis (see below, note for letter to Harilaos Stefanidis, 1 April 1905).

To Harilaos Stefanidis —Manuscript in Demosthenes Stefanidis family archive, Iraklio; printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, pp. 124–26.

[Iraklio,] 19 April [1904] My very dear, Behold! Once again our letters are beginning “to bridge the icy north wind with words of love.” Thus the years will pass, Harilaos, everything will grow old around us and die, and only our hearts, strengthened by pain and love, will survive in order to love each other forever. The time will come (I sense it deeply) when all our friends, all the hearts that lullabied our youthfulness with words of love—the time will come, my friend, when they will fly far away, will forget the years gone by, will begin to hate. The time will come, if it has not already begun to come. Tell me, Stefanidis, why I am always filled with melancholy when I write you. It’s as if I see everything black. Everything wounds me deeply. I’d like to weep with you, my friend, to weep over our former life and former friends. I would like so very much to come often to see you. Here my heart is constricted, cannot be opened. Tears are ashamed to appear. But there, beneath the boundless sky, beneath trees, in the clean air, the heart opens and pronounces its love as though it were a flower spreading its aroma. I would like so much to come. But, you see, alas! there are hindrances, delays. Dreams are beautiful. Do you think they come true? I’m interrupting the letter. In the evening, in better spirits, I decided to continue. 21 April [1904] Yesterday, Sunday, early in the morning, at four o’clock, I left Iraklio and went to the Savvathiania Monastery, near Rogdia. I stayed there all day and returned at night. They wanted to keep me there, but I did not desire to remain. You’ll ask who was with me. Neither “friends,” Stefanidis, nor former classmates. I went with two members of the working class whom you do not know

1904 Letters  •  23

but who love me in a way that the hearts of “friends” cannot. I have never experienced a more lovely day. It is really lovely, my friend, to travel on a beautiful horse, racing amid the mountains’ greenery. To scent the mountains’ virgin aroma. To hear the birds’ early morning songs. To approach the village, its fountain, and to see young girls, innocent of any guilty heartbeats, filling their jars. To dismount, ask them for water, and they lower their eyes while their hands, sunburned but chaste, give you drink. To leave again and soon to confront the cross of a church in the mountains, and then the entire monastery nestled among the trees, surrounded by cypresses. To dismount again, to feel the monks’ lips pressed against your forehead and their unkempt beards prickling your face. And to find yourself soon in a small church chiseled into the cliffside and to hear—you, the skeptic—the monks reverently reciting the saint’s miracles. “Do you see here,” the abbot asked me, “a tiny dent on the saint’s foot? The Turks came here in ’66. One of them stopped at the church door and shot the saint, but the bullet—great be the saint’s grace!—ricocheted and killed the Turk.” Afterwards to sit at the abundant table, to eat ravenously, to drink like ­Lianandonis, and to sing the Christ Is Risen together with one’s black comrades. And in the evening, at night, leaving, to feel the monkish lips again on your forehead. To bid farewell to the mountains, the daylight, and to return to where suffering and bitterness await you. All of that, my friend, I felt and enjoyed yesterday. There are medicines that anesthetize every pain and days that sweeten entire years. N I received your last letter this very moment, 9:00 a.m. But why so terse, my friend? Are you going to write me about nothing except your camera? Keep telling me to get whatever you desire, but in a P.S. of five lines at most. All the rest of the page should be filled with other things and not with sodium sulfate, waxed paper, and schoolboys’ slates. I don’t promise anything concerning the excursion. I need to ask Fanourakis first. Maybe Vernardos will come, too. Maybe. I’m on my way to buy the items you requested. Your medicines cost 1.50 drachmas. Εν παγωτοποιείω Ασάν Aγά, βοήθειά σου! The waxed paper costs 0.60 drachmas. With kisses, N

1  Rogdia:  Mountain village, now about thirty minutes by bus from Iraklio. The monastery is approximately 6 kilometers (3.7 miles) from the village;

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­ azantzakis traveled there on horseback.  1  Lianandonis:  Eating and K drinking member of an Iraklio family well known in 1904 and still today.  1  Εν παγωτοποιείω Ασάν αγά, βοήθειά σου!:  Asan Agas was a janissary (forced recruit into the Ottoman army) from the Cretan village of Axos, in the Rethymno prefecture. After the revolution of 1821 was suppressed in Crete, he settled in Anogeia, built a mansion there, and forced young Greek girls to dance for him barefoot on hard seeds. One of these girls he hit on the chest with a nettle. Her brother, Stavros Niotis, vowed to kill him for this insult and succeeded in wounding him. But all this is presumably irrelevant because in this case Asan Agas seems to be simply a Muslim seller of ice cream whose aid is requested! Kazantzakis appears to be using bloated, puristic Greek here for comic effect.

To Harilaos Stefanidis —Manuscript in Demosthenes Stefanidis family archive, Iraklio; photograph of manuscript in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, p. 131; printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, pp. 126–28.

Iraklio, [1] April 1905 [o.s.] I’m aware of your revolutionary spirit and hasten to satisfy it. I am not going to begin my letter with melancholy emotions, as I have in the past. No more aromas from roses or incense, but from thyme and the fragrance of our mountains and your beloved, invincible gunpowder. I passed by the city hall and the prefecture headquarters. The Greek flag was waving. So far no one has dared to lower it. You should see how joyfully it plays with the breeze and sweetly kisses the invisible shadows that will ­descend without fail from the heavenly Cretan Pantheon in order to worship the flag. When it was raised at prefecture headquarters, Polemarkhakis was weeping like a child. Georgiadis took leave of his senses. He told me yesterday evening that he kept clutching his head and banging it against a wall to keep from losing it! Konstandarakis was in a frenzy as was everyone else around them regarding who was going to mimic Heracles and who Georgiadis, and everyone Konstandarakis. Everyone here is worried. You don’t hear about anything else. All of our friends support the revolution. Michelidakis says he is waiting for the prince to direct him to go to Therisos. O schoolmasters! If only I were in a position to exterminate either all of you or the Bulgars, I would not hesitate, and the Bulgars are the ones who would be saved. Logiadis says: “We must not support the revolution because his Royal Highness Prince George will be displeased.

1905 Letters  •  25

You are well aware, Harilaos, of the ones I hate among the Bulgars (quite a few) and even among the schoolmasters. A few days ago an Italian gendarme apprehended Kalimerakis and several others and put them in prison in Iraklio. Everyone gathered together under Markopoulos’s leadership, surrounded the county offices, and shouted, “Long live Union! Let them out! Release them! Long live Union!” The Italian captain of the gendarmerie arrives. Everyone surrounds him. “Long live Union, captain!” The poor creature yells “Long live Union” and releases Kalimerakis & Co. A telegram came last evening, saying that people are allowed to assemble. Maybe that’s Sfakianakis’s first accomplishment in Athens. I wonder if they’ll agree to let him speak tomorrow—Sunday—at the large rally. It will be a triumph! Various rumors circulate here every hour, every moment. They say that Saklambanis is coming down with two hundred men to take possession of the Messara. They say that eighteen more—Venizelists—were captured in Hania. They say that a large rally supporting Crete took place in France. It’s difficult to learn what’s happening. When Gavriilidis came here to see Sfakianakis, somebody was behind Polychronidis’s desk when the interview took place; he took down the entire interview in shorthand. Sfakianakis was extremely peaceful at first. After the opening remarks, he said to him, “Mr. Gavriilidis, your unselfishness is remarkable, for having endangered and troubled yourself to such a degree for Cretan events. And what a misunderstanding you have suffered! Just think, Mr. Gavriilidis, what they are saying, what they dare to say about you—that at first you were against the kingdom; also they add that you were imprisoned for that. Afterwards you go to Crete, see the prince, and become 100 percent for the kingdom because you were bribed, so say the uneducated masses. Next, you go to see Manos and change your mind, because—it’s said—you were bribed. Now you come to me in order to change your mind, under the same terms. Just think, Mr. Gavriilidis, how uneducated the common people are here and what unselfishness is required on your part in order to endure all this slander without refuting it.” Do me the favor of calling at Siniora’s and sending me the letter that was brought there for me. Tell her that I didn’t forget the key. Kiss her on my behalf, if you don’t find this disgusting. Greetings to Aristotelis H. 7 April [o.s./20 April n.s.] Telegram that parliament approved Union. Church bells are ringing; the populace is racing around, shouting “Long live Union,” going down to the customshouse, taking down “Cretan State” and raising up “Kingdom of Greece” plus the Greek flag, running next to gendarmerie headquarters and

26  •  1905 Letters

raising the Greek flag there as well. Frangoulis starts to write “Kingdom of Greece” on customs documents. The same at the lawcourts. The clerk of the Justice of the Peace Court writes “Kingdom of Greece” on one of the verdicts and gives it to the Turkish employee to sign. That one hesitates: “Sir, I gave my oath to the prince.” “Shut up for your own sake! Sign!” And the poor fellow signs. All of us here are in a tizzy. Manolis doesn’t know what’s happening to him. We went for a walk last night, ten o’clock. Suddenly he takes off his hat, places it under his arm, and starts to shout “Special edition! The Great Powers’ answer and the Union of Crete and Greece.” He keeps running like a ragamuffin and shouting. People in pajamas open their doors and yell “Special Edition? Come here!” He slips away in a hurry and keeps shouting further on. We bring Markopoulos downstairs in his nightshirt, barefoot, half asleep. He came down to buy the special edition!

1  The Greek flag was waving:  The cause was the so-called Therisos Revolution of 10 March 1905 (o.s.)/23 March (n.s.), led by Venizelos in opposition to Prince George. The revolutionaries who gathered in Therisos declared the union of Crete with Greece.  1  Georgiadis:  Emmanuel (Manolis) Georgiadis, childhood friend, president of the Iraklio Chamber of Commerce, executed by the Germans in June 1942 together with his two brothers.  1  Prince George:  Second son (1869–1957) of King George I of Greece; appointed high commissioner of Crete in 1898 (his arrival is described by Kazantzakis in chapter 12 of Report to Greco); resigned in July 1906 owing to Venizelos’s success at Therisos. In 1907 he married Princess Marie Bonaparte (1882–1962), who later helped Kazantzakis overcome opposition in Greece to his novel The Last Temptation (see Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 621; Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 533).  1  Polemarkhakis:  Heracles Polemarkhakis, fellow high school student of Kazantzakis’s; lawyer, soldier, supporter of Venizelos; accompanied Kazantzakis to the Caucasus in 1919; advised Kazantzakis and Galatea on their investments.  1  Konstantarakis:  Ioannis Konstantarakis, Iraklio lawyer; friend of Kazantzakis’s who eventually accompanied him to the Caucasus in 1919. Grandson of Mihalis Korakas. Also spelled Kostantarakis.  1  Kalimarakis:  Mihael Kalimarakis (1886–1925), journalist and poet.  1  Markopoulos:  Georgios Markopoulos, journalist, newspaper publisher.  1  Sfakianakis:  Kostas Sfakianakis (1890–1946), childhood friend who became a composer and a historian of Byzantine music.  1  Saklambanis:  Mihalis Saklambanis (1868–1954), friend of Venizelos’s; lawyer; eventually a member of the Greek parliament; in 1910 married Kazantzakis’s sister Anestasia. 1  Messara:  Valley and plain in south-central Crete, region including Phaistos and Vori.  1  Gavriilidis:  Vlasios Gavriilidis (1848–1920), influential progressive journalist and author; editor in chief of the newspaper Akropolis.  1  Polychronidis:  Emmanuel Polychronidis, Cretan politician, personal friend of Prince George’s.  1  Manos:  Konstantinos Manos (1869–1913),

1905 Letters  •  27

poet and translator; associated with Venizelos and the Therisos revolution.  1  Aristotelis H:  Aristotelis Hatzidakis, lawyer, friend of Kazantzakis’s and Stefanidis’s.  1  Manolis:  See Georgiadis, above.

To Harilaos Stefanidis —Manuscript in Demosthenes Stefanidis family archive, Iraklio; printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, pp. 128–30.

[Iraklio,] 9 April [1905] Everyone here is worried. What will parliament do? Will it continue to function? Is the Great Powers’ answer true? Do you know what’s happened? Michelidakis, when the session began, rejected Daskaloyannis’s motion and moved that “parliament vote Union once again.” Logiadis supported the teacher. That’s right: Logiadis! Oh these disgraceful schoolmasters! Well, Michelidakis’s motion was voted 32 to 25. Daskaloyannis, out of his mind, immediately leaves parliament and telegraphs the Greek government, which responds at once, “Declare Union.” Union is declared the next day just as Daskaloyannis wished, with several modifications. Teacher became raving mad, so they say, when he saw the Greek government’s telegram. As for the prince—His Royal Highness, that still-blossoming rod, the “Messianic Angel of God’s Great Will”—he was in a nice fix because, convinced that parliament would vote Michelidakis’s motion (or rather the motion he gave to Michelidakis), he had announced officially in advance that he intended “to comply with parliament’s decision, whatsoever it may be.” That poor devil, that “Messianic Angel of God’s Great Will”: how could he ever have wished for what was destined to happen to him! Letters from Venizelos came tonight. Things are going very well, he says. He hopes—is almost certain—that Union will take place. Polemarkhakis and I are “exploiting” Melekos Georgiadis. He thinks he has dragged us into becoming Venizelists. So he lavishes attention on us every evening, never lets us pay, always treats us, this time for Venizelos’s sake, the next for Foumis’s, the next for Manos’s—indeed, sometimes for all three together! Yesterday evening we told him that we needed to honor the provinces, too, and drink to the health of poor Saklambanis. The proposition was accepted. So, beginning yesterday we began to drink to Saklambanis’s health. Even if Union does not take place, we’ll still be pleased that the Therisos Revolution happened. Tonight we intend to suggest to him that we drink as well for poor Daskaloyannis. As soon as the Therisos people finish, we’ll begin to drink against those who opposed Therisos: “Manolis, treat us tonight

28  •  1905 Letters

for that wretch Michelidakis, so we can drink against his health. Let him see!” Long live the Revolution 13 April [1905] Nothing new. Two English warships are at Iraklio. Others are expected. English patrols are up and down the streets day and night. The Greek flag at prefecture headquarters is being continually torn apart. Encouragement is coming regularly from Greece; they remind me of that historic “live free or die.” Did Kazazis speak at the rally? If it were a little dangerous, I would feel like going to Therisos. But right now it’s not worthwhile; it’s just public relations. Perhaps danger will exist at some point and then: Long live the revolution! It seems to me that the odor— the unknown odor—of gunpowder would enliven my womanish nerves just a bit. I kiss you sweetly. Happy Union! 15 April [1905] I am a disgraceful, vile person. Two weeks without sending you this letter! I beg you a thousand times to pardon me. I began the letter as soon as I came here, but I’m sending it only today. Things are complicated and turning gloomy, you understand. Our members of parliament intend to go again to Hania after the holidays in order to work—if they’re not beaten to a pulp, if someone isn’t found to pound them black and blue. For all employees to resign, for us to beseech the peoples of the earth, for all of us together on the mountains of Crete to seek freedom, so that we may live—that is what logic dictates now. Half measures will devour us. All of us, all of us together, must unite in one final convulsive supreme effort. Let rallies by philhellenes take place. N

1  What will parliament do?:  This refers, of course, to the Cretan parliament, not to the Greek parliament.  1  Daskaloyannis:  Perhaps a reference to one of the “schoolmasters” cited above, together with a pun on the nickname of the famous Cretan insurrectionist who was executed by the Turks in 1771.  1  Messianic Angel of God’s Great Will:  From the famous Messianic prediction in Isaiah 9:6, which begins “For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; . . . and his name will be called μεγάλης βουλής άγγελος [angel of great will].” This is the reading in the Septuagint, which of course is the version of the Old Testament that Kazantzakis would have known. Both the Douay version and the King James, strangely, omit the phrase that Kazantzakis employs so sarcastically against Prince George in order to lampoon those who consid-

1905 Letters  •  29

ered the prince a messiah.  1  Foumis:  Konstantinos Foumis (b. 1860), associated with Manos and Venizelos in the Therisos Revolution; member of Cretan parliament.

To Andonis Anemoyannis —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed in Dimakis 1979, pp. 57–61.

Athens, 29 December 1905 My dear Andonis, Five minutes ago I was sitting in the sunshine of Constitution Square, a perfect Greek, sipping my coffee and thinking. I was thinking about the lawyers’ mess, the ridiculous “future,” about everything that you and I have talked about so many times. Above all, I had in mind an acquaintance who is studying law now in Germany and at the same time is working as an employee—secretary—in a store. Returning from Constitution Square, I thought to write you and ask a favor, a favor without excuses and courtesies, with the absolute confidence that someone ought to have in a relationship like ours. This is what I was thinking about: When Mr. Gryllos was in Iraklio, he told me that he had influence at the Vatican Library should I wish to be appointed to a position there. Also that he had contacts in Italy. I thought that it would be concurrently both excellent and exceedingly practical for me to find a position in Italy—no matter whether in Rome, Naples, etc.—and to study criminal law where it far exceeds every other nation in the world: in Italy. I’m asking you now if you could please write to Mr. Gryllos and ask him to try to find this sort of position for me in Italy—for example, to handle the correspondence of some store in two, three, or even four languages (in this regard, if a position is found for me I will, on purpose, engage a tutor in business correspondence), or to do any kind of work involving writing, especially in the Vatican Library. Please write to me immediately, Andonis. Be so good as to do me the favor in this matter. I am all keyed up. Ever since I thought of it today, I have been unable to settle down. I went at once to the library and checked out all the books on criminal law that I found. If you are willing to write immediately to Mr. Gryllos asking him to answer you immediately whether he can or cannot, I will owe you the most gratitude that I can imagine. What I want is a position in which I could earn enough to cover my expenses and in which I would work six or seven hours a day, leaving me free hours for the university. When I finish university here, what am I going to do? I aim to inform my father that I want to go abroad in order to study

30  •  1906 Letters

better—but, to tell you the truth, I’m ashamed to. Since perhaps I can earn something, it’s unscrupulous and shameful for me to frazzle my father by hanging around and dawdling. This is what I wanted to tell you, my dear Andonis. I hope that you’ll be able to write to Mr. Gryllos and to stress that I would like a position at the Vatican Library. If you cannot write to Mr. Gryllos, I am sure that, with the influence you have, you will be able to do this favor for me in some other fashion. Send a letter for instance to Mr. Frangopoulos. Since you’re the one who asks him, he will want to do it and, since he’ll want to do it, I’ll be assured because of his numerous contacts in Germany! I’m considering this, feeling impatient. You’re likely to receive my letter this Sunday. You’ll have time to answer me so that I’ll receive your reply Wednesday or Thursday. Tell me whether you’ll be able to ask Mr. Frangopoulos or Mr. Gryllos. Now that I’ve told you my difficulty and have found some relief, let’s talk a little about family matters. What’s new regarding the subject you know about (21 May)? Marvelous, without a doubt! All I can do is congratulate you, my friend, and be envious. Your future is clear; mine is still being formed— vaguely, hazily, uneasily. I’m working hard, reading a great deal, but unfortunately not only in the law. Of course, there’s nothing new in Iraklio. If I’m not mistaken, New Year’s is the day after tomorrow. So, happy New Year, my dear Andonis, and may all your wishes be fulfilled. I kiss you sweetly, Nikos

1  Gryllos:  Worked as a representative of the shipping company Deutsche Levante Linie.  1  Frangopoulos:  Worked with Gryllos as a representative of the shipping company Deutsche Levante Linie; was best man at Anemoyannis’s wedding to Eleni Karouzou, and godfather of their first child.  1  21 May:  Name day for Constantine and Eleni. The reference is to E.K. (Eleni Karouzou).

To Tsiridanis —Photograph of manuscript in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, p. 133; printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, p. 134.

[Iraklio, summer 1906] My dear Tsiridanis, First of all thank you for remembering me and also writing to me today on the back of Harilaos’s, and for that postcard of yours the day before yesterday with your words of praise for lawyers. You don’t know that in medieval times

1906 Letters  •  31

there was this proverb: Advocatus et non latro—res Miranda populo. So, I wish that you’d agree with my own sorry view of lawyers. Now, regarding the language question: I am delighted to accept the glove you’ve thrown down for us to fight a duel. But you’ve first got to learn fencing. After that, the duel will begin in scholarly fashion. In other words, you’ll begin by reading the following books that you’ll find in the scholars’ section: (a) Roïdis’s Eidola, (b) Fotiadis’s The Language Question. That’s all for the time being. I think they’ll suffice to convince you. If not, I tell you to read two or three more, and then, after that program of study, we’ll duel. First of all, however, do not forget—in advance—that the languages receiving support are three: (1) puristic, (2) demotic, (3) Psiharistic. (1) and (3) are equally horrible. I support (2) and adore it. You need to be sure to make this distinction because, otherwise, as Angelopoulos (who for me is as good as dead) says in Administrative Law: “confusion and clamor come, and the discord that revolves around words rather than things.” With that advice and entreaty, I await your letter. I’ll be pleased if we reach the same opinion about the language question. With that hope, I kiss you sweetly. Nikos

1  Advocatus et non latro—res Miranda populo:  Lawyer and not a thief, something amazing for the populace.  1  puristic:  “Katharevousa,” an attempt to bring modern Greek closer to its ancient roots, ridding it of foreign words, restoring many of the ancient inflections, etc. For a full discussion, see Mackridge 2009.  1  demotic:  The written language reflecting the actual, natural spoken language of Greeks, including those who were uneducated (katharevousa had to be learned at school); much simpler grammatically than ancient Greek or katharevousa.  1  Psiharistic:  The perhaps excessive or artificial demotic advocated by Yannis Psiharis (1854–1929), linguist and novelist living in Paris whose book My Journey (1888) played a crucial early role in stimulating the demoticist movement. For details, see Bien 1972, especially pp. 75–90.  1  Angelopoulos:  Yeorgios Angelopoulos (1852–1935), professor of law and prolific author of legal books.

To Dimitrios Kaloyeropoulos —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Markakis 1959, pp. 30–32.

[Iraklio, 22 August 1906] Mr. Kaloyeropoulos, I know that I cannot be forgiven. Yet there are various things so much higher than my will that, while I knowingly neglect the most elementary form

32  •  1906 Letters

of politeness, I need to follow them. That is why I am addressing myself to you today in order to ask a great favor of you: to have the patience to read the manuscript that I am sending you. I’ve had it on my desk for ten days now without being able to stop worrying. I didn’t know whether it deserved the trouble of being read. There is no one here that I can turn to for advice. In Athens you are the only one who has been gracious and has shown forbearance regarding my initial steps, the first inarticulate cries of my literary life, which was born just eight months ago. What encourages me—unfortunately the only thing that does so—is the frankness with which I wrote the manuscript that I am sending you today. It is a heart-rending portion of myself. If I tell you that while I write I sometimes weep, suffer, and become physically exhausted, you who have cut out of your heart such beautiful portions and have tossed them to the multitude—you will believe me. It’s a dramatic work. Please do not be alarmed: it is not patriotic. I thought it out and shaped it internally for five or six days and then was foolish enough to write it down. Since then, I have not been able to correct or alter it any further. I wanted to depict a conventional falsehood—to provide a solution for the enigma of what a wife ought to do when she is overcome by the misfortune of being passionately in love, a misfortune that she is unable to struggle against or resist. The solution corresponds to the transitional age in which we live, recognizing the truth but still not daring to follow it. Lalo, the wife—cultivated, proud, sincere—knows that she has only one duty: to declare her love openly and to arrange her life in accordance with her views. But she does not dare. Our epoch is still such that it makes her unable to dare; light is still wrestling with darkness, social convention with natural law. We are just beginning to discern internally, in our soul’s rebellious thoughts, that daybreak is beginning—beginning just now. So what should Lalo do? Should she be happy in secret, acting a part and telling lies her whole life long? That is unworthy of her; she will not stoop so low. It’s the common, vulgar womanly pattern: dark mystery. Fofo is the type. Should she resist love? She did so, exhausted herself, felt fated to succumb. Should she follow truth, scorn unethical social conventions, and proclaim her love out loud? She cannot. It is not possible at present. She should have been born later, when it was no longer daybreak but full day. That is the struggle and the idea that I wished to represent. There is only one way out for her: to die. Any other solution would not be commensurate either with our age or with the character of a proud and sincere wife such as Lalo. I felt that she should not make the great leap toward truth (a) because Lalo would then be an exception and consequently would not have much importance for the theater or for life, (b) because if she conquered social conventions and departed in happiness with the man she loved, the crime of falsehood that surrounds us would not be sufficiently shown and the audience would say, “Well, social conventions are not so dangerous since we can conquer them and

1906 Letters  •  33

live happily.” A proud, unswerving character such as Lalo needs to be crushed so that the life we are forced to lead may become totally evident and so that the suffering of those who think, who recognize truth yet are forced to be crushed as they clash with falsehood, may become perceptible—since they are few, and because it is still only the beginning of daybreak. That is the idea I wanted to make evident in this play. I am describing it to you in wearisome detail so that you may see whether I succeeded in my aim. I barely managed to keep in check the revolutionary thoughts of the Doctor because he is the character who derives mostly from me because I have felt what he says and have suffered from it: all the disillusionment left by various beautiful falsehoods when they are demolished, and all the restive need for a better, more truthful life. I was unable to convey the scenery or the characters’ movement and action (a) because this was the first time I have “perpetrated” a play, (b) because I’ve gone to the theater very few times in my life—here we have nothing but Punch and Judy, vagabonds, Greek theatrical troupes starving to death, and those not every year, and (c) because while I was writing I observed that I heard the characters in whom I was placing my thoughts but did not see them. All the dialogue, the entire train of thought and psychological evolution of the portrayals, took form inside me, yet sometimes I did not observe the characters’ movements, entrances and exits, the look on their faces. I feel terribly uneasy now about the judgment that you will give. Inside me, I feel whatever I have written profoundly, to the point of pain. But is sincerity alone sufficient to make a literary work show some value? If you see that the effort has been worthwhile, Mr. Kaloyeropoulos, can the play be given to some theater? And—I am blushing terribly; it’s fortunate that you cannot see me—can Marika Kotopouli play the role of Lalo? I am grateful to you, Mr. Kaloyeropoulos, and I beg you to believe that I am deeply aware of the trouble I am giving you. N. Kazantzakis Iraklio, 22 August 1906 P.S. If it is performed and there is some financial profit, will you perhaps allow me to offer this to Pinakothiki?

1  Kaloyeropoulos:  Dimitrios Kaloyeropoulos (1868–1954), journalist and author, in 1901 founded the conservative periodical Pinakothiki, in which he published a laudatory review of Kazantzakis’s 1906 novel Serpent and Lily (Pinakothiki 5 [February 1906]: 228–29, reprinted in Nea Estia 63 [1 May 1958]: 689–90). The progressive periodical at this time (regarding demotic as well as politics) was O Noumas, published from 1903 to 1931 (except for 1917–18 and 1924–29), which played a leading role in the campaign for the demotic

34  •  1907 Letters

language; the founding editor was Dimitrios P. Tangopoulos (1867–1926).  1  the manuscript that I am sending you:  Of his play Ξημερώνει (Day Is Breaking).  1  Marika Kotopouli:  Greece’s leading actress (1886–1954) for fifty years.

To Harilaos Stefanidis —Manuscript in Demosthenes Stefanidis family archive, Iraklio; printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, pp. 135–38.

[Iraklio, 1907] I recommend that you read Socrates’ Apology. There is no conception of life that is more majestic and proud. I’ve just finished reading it, and I said: Let’s write to Myrtaios—to Harilaos—so that he, too, won’t lose the chance. With that excuse, here I am again next to you, ready to converse. I don’t remember what you wrote me, but your letter seemed sarcastic and happy. The one thing I do remember is that you might come here at the end of August. OK, friend! If only I were still a romantic and a driveling aesthete, what a beautiful subject to start off with! Right now I’m telling you most simply that I’ll be deeply pleased and will find the opportunity for us to converse once again and for me to laugh when I see how you laugh. Oh my! The things you’ve been doing out there! As for me, I have a lot to tell you. These days, I’ve read on the one hand Darwin’s system, also Büchner, on the other hand something about spiritualism. Quite literally, I’m all mixed up. I don’t know what to believe. Spiritualistic phenomena are a certainty without a doubt. Important scholars like Wallace, Richet, Crookes, Lombroso refer to them. Richet says that spiritualistic phenomena either are in accord with physical laws—not all of which we know, and which science will discover since it has already begun seriously to consider such phenomena—or are superhuman. Consequently, either the spirits of preexisting people live around us and come when summoned by an appropriate medium, or other forces exist that are superior to human beings. Most people accept the existence of unknown physical laws; however, many accept the other hypothesis. They ask how this fact may be explained: although neither the called-up spirit nor the medium, nor anyone else from out there, knows ancient Greek or Latin, or any other foreign language, the medium begins to speak and write those languages marvelously, or composes scholarly treatises. So be it! I’m in a maze; I’d be better off if I didn’t read anything. I am ill at ease now that I’m writing you. I feel that spirits are behind me, that they open the door, lean upon my shoulder, clamber up my back. I cannot remain all alone at night. I shudder if a piece of furniture creaks, a leaf falls in the courtyard, Carmen shifts position.

1907 Letters  •  35

But so be it. When you come, we’ll talk about it. Do you know that I had an operation, that the wound on my cheek still has not healed? Do you know that Evangelia Vlakhaki has tuberculosis and started to cough up blood the other day? Do you know that I’ve begun nighttime excursions? A few days ago I was with Manolis Kouzoulos (aka Georgiadis) at Archanes. We departed at six in the evening, arrived at ten, drank wine, coffee, water, and ate stuffed vine leaves, left, and reached Iraklio at daybreak. Do you know that Jeanne Karaboti has gone to Tinos and has become a nun? Do you know that we now have a marvelous puppet theater at Bedenaki and that Polemarkhakis has turned serious? Do you know the land where delectable orange-trees blossom? Well then, what do you know? My work is progressing marvelously well. How Long? is probably going to be produced now at Constitution Square. A Frenchman is translating Day Is Breaking. I’ve just begun another: “Invincible.” You see? Help comes if one waits long enough! How can I stop now? It would be shameful for this young man! Yes, it seems worth the trouble to have a purpose in life and hardly worth the trouble to pity one’s life! It’s dreadfully superficial to try to land a position and guarantee your future. Ugh! Disgusting! The supreme wisdom is to build on sand, or rather not to build at all—to do what you like, to drink life from whichever glass you desire, to be indifferent to whatever is said about you, to smile when you are insulted. Neither honor nor dishonor, joy nor sorrow! An exquisite nihilism, a profound conviction that everything is transient, momentary, glowing for a moment, only to die forever. If you conceive of life in this way, you are a scholarly, wise human being. I am beginning to be a Scholar, a Wise Man, a Human Being. I am happy, profoundly happy. N

1  Socrates’ Apology:  Plato (ca. 428–ca. 348 b.c.) presents Socrates defending himself against his judges while presenting himself as a lover of knowledge and wisdom. The word “apology” in this usage means simply “defense.” Kazantzakis published translations of seven Platonic dialogues, but not of the Apology.  1  Darwin’s system:  Kazantzakis’s charming account of the devastating effect of Darwinism on his adolescent Christianity occurs in chapter 13 of Report to Greco. Darwin’s theory of evolution became one of the most ­central tenets of Kazantzakis’s mature religious philosophy. In 1915 he published his translation of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species (1859), done presumably from an earlier French translation.  1  Büchner:  Louis Büchner (1824–99), German philosopher and physiologist, exponent of scientific materialism. Kazantzakis’s translation of Büchner’s Kraft und Stoff: Empirischnaturphilosophische Studien (1855; Force and Matter: Empiricophilosophical Studies) was published in 1915. The book advanced a materialist concept of nature, helped to popularize Darwinism in Germany, and protested against

36  •  1907 Letters

nineteenth-century romantic idealism with its theological interpretation of the universe. Büchner considered nature purely physical, without a purpose or teleology.  1  Wallace:  Alfred Russel Wallace (1823–1913), British naturalist, author of numerous articles and monographs on spiritualism, such as “The Scientific Aspect of the Supernatural: Indicating the Desirableness of an Experimental Enquiry by Men of Science into the Alleged Powers of Clairvoyants and Mediums” (1866), and the book On Miracles and Modern Spiritualism (1881), revised in 1896 with additional chapters on apparitions and phantasms.  1  Richet:  Charles Robert Richet (1850–1935), French physiologist, Nobel laureate in medicine (1913). Although most of his research and publications were strictly scientific, he experimented in spiritualism, served as president of the Society for Psychical Research, and concluded, “In certain persons, at certain times, there exists a faculty of cognition which has no relation to our normal means of knowledge.” His book Traité de Métapsychique (1922) is dedicated to Sir William Crookes.  1  Crookes:  Sir William Crookes (1832–1919), English chemist and physicist of great international renown, president of the Royal Society; started by considering spiritualism mere superstition and trickery, but then became a believer, shocking his scientific colleagues.  1  Lombroso:  Cesare Lombroso (1835–1909), Italian criminologist well known for studies (now discredited) on the relation between mental and physical characteristics. He held that criminality is inherited and that those who are “born criminal” may be identified by certain physical characteristics such as sloping foreheads, long arms, and hawklike noses. He also held that artistic genius is a form of hereditary insanity.  1  Carmen:  Kazantzakis’s pet cat.  1  Do you know the land . . . :  Kazantzakis is mimicking Goethe’s “Kennst du das land, wo die Zitronen blühn” (Do you know the land where the lemon trees blossom), from Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre, book 3, chapter 1.  1  How Long? . . . Day Is Breaking . . . “Invincible”:  The first two are Kazantzakis’s plays ΄Εως πότε; and Ξημερώνει. There is no evidence that he ever finished the third.

II  •  Pursuing Graduate Studies in Paris

To His Mother and Sisters —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 5; printed (incomplete) in Parlamas 1959, pp. 206–7.

[Paris, October 1907] Dear mother, Anestasia and Eleni, Paris still hasn’t let me return to normal. I go up and down all day long without stopping and continually see new things. Above all, it’s lovely for someone to notice how the women work here. You see women directing and serving in all the sweet shops, cafés, hotels, groceries—in all the stores. Others—female greengrocers—sell fruit from carts they drag along. Still others sell newspapers. All of them work day and night to earn their living. It’s not like home where you are forever spending your time sitting and embroidering, and when a wagon is heard outside you dart to the door to wipe away the smudges. Life here is different. You need to do battle in order to live, since three and a half million people here are struggling for bread. I visited several for whom I had letters of introduction and tried to find a position so that I would not continue to be a strain on Father. However, up to today I have accomplished nothing. They did make me promises, however. In any case I have enough money with me to live the entire months of October and November. Meanwhile I’ll be going to the university, and when I learn the language perfectly I won’t be afraid any longer. I submitted a play here to be performed, but not until a few months from now. The food here is very strange; nevertheless, I like it a lot. You eat as much bread as you like without paying. It’s just that the sky is heavy, always overcast, and it keeps raining very lightly. But it’s not cold. My room is elegant. The bed, with a quilt, is very warm, which is important for me. Did Aunt Lenaki die? How is Aunt Chrysanthi getting along, and all the relatives? Many many greetings! I also wrote you a few days ago. And I’m writing again today. Thus, I’ll be writing you twice every week, a letter on Monday and a postcard on Friday. I kiss you sweetly-sweetly, my dear mother, Anestasia, and Eleni.

38  •  1908 Letters

You cannot imagine how much I love you. The further away I am, the more I love you. Nikos Rue des Carmes 3, Paris

To His Mother and Sisters —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 6; printed (incomplete) in Parlamas 1959, p. 207; on the Web at http://www.metanastis.com/PDF/ MG-Oct04.pdf and also at http://www.historical-museum.gr/kazantzakis/gr/ life/father/f6.html.

[Paris, late 1907 or early 1908] My dear mother, Anestasia, and Eleni, I’m getting worried. I’ve sent you a thousand and one letters and still have not received anything back. But today or tomorrow—I’m waiting. I’m going to get tired telling you that my only joy here is to receive a letter from you. Anestasia, you should write to me, and you also, Eleni. Lots and lots! There is no silly Androcles here to play tricks on you. I want you to write me as though I were near you and you were conversing with me. Please realize how far away from me now is Diamanti’s knucklehead and how much I’d like to hear him. How are you doing? Who’s getting married, who has died, who has come to our house, how are father and mother getting along? I want to know everything. I’m beginning to get used to things here. I’m beginning to find their meals appetizing. If only I had fruit! Fruit! (At this point, mother will exclaim: “Oh, my child!”) Do you realize how much I crave grapes from Archanes? If I had a basket full, I’d eat the whole lot. One oka of grapes costs a drachma and a half. And what grapes—mushy, tasteless! A pear, twenty lepta. A fig, ten lepta. Cucumbers, one drachma. You cannot imagine how expensive fruit is. Only bananas are cheap, and plentiful: ten and fifteen lepta each. The salespeople here are always women. I wish you could see them. They wear wooden shoes and shout with a loud cry: Χαμιντέ μουλάς. Shall I tell you what I eat at midday? Listen: Soup, a plate of grilled meat, a plate of fish, cheese, pastry, and a bottle of wine. The whole meal: a drachma and a half. Wine here is indispensable. When I told the waiter the first time that I don’t drink wine at table, he gazed at me and said, “Monsieur must be joking.” Here, on account of the cold, everyone, men and women, drink a bottle like this at table. In any case, whether you drink or don’t drink, or eat half your dinner, you pay the same: a drachma and a half. My financial situation is still all right. I’ve gotten to know a university professor who likes me and will help me; thus, I’m no longer concerned about financial matters.

1908 Letters  •  39

How are you all doing? I dream about you each night in my sleep. Writing you every day is not tiring for me. In your turn, write to me because I love you, my dear mother, Anestasia, and Eleni, with my entire heart. Nikos

1  one oka:  Equals 1.282 kilos.  1  lepta:  Plural of lepton. Each lepton was one hundredth of a drachma.  1  Χαμιντέ μουλάς:  Moulas = mullah in English, and generally means a person loved by God. The entire phrase occurs at least eight times in Kapetan Mihalis as simply the name of a Turkish woman, Hamide mullah, the mother of Efendina. Kazantzakis’s use in this letter must be some sort of joke that his sisters would understand.

To Dimitrios Kaloyeropoulos —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Markakis 1959, pp. 35–36.

Paris, 4 January 1908 Dear Mr. Kaloyeropoulos, I feel a most beautiful pleasure now that I’m thinking that during the New Year’s holidays you will receive my letter telling you how much I remember you and with what gratitude I love you. Thus, with the new year we will once again begin to converse regularly from a distance, and I will make you forget the period when I did not write. It was a time of “drunkenness.” I am beginning now to come round. I still drink the same amount of wine, but I bear up more, feeling just a tiny bit of giddiness—a “heaviness of the head,” as the late Sevastopoulos would say. Perhaps that giddiness is preventing me from writing anything. I have a thousand things in mind and cannot finish anything. At present, I am pursuing philosophy and literature at the Sorbonne, the Collège de France, and the École des Hautes Études. I wish to formulate my own personal conception of life—a theory of the cosmos and of humanity’s raison d’être—and, in accord with that, systematically and with a fixed purpose and program, to write whatever I write. Fortunately, I’m auditing the lectures of Bergson, the famous psychologist, and I feel that I am not wasting my time. I have not made any use at all of your letters of introduction. Why should I bother these people, I tell myself, because it’s always annoying, despite what you say, for me to knock at the door of someone I don’t know, for that unknown person to appear in his dressing gown, and for me to tell him that I am so-and-so, and that he has a moral obligation toward me to appear agreeable, to enable me to pass my time, to get dressed in order to take me to a café, to treat me, and to tell me jokes so that I won’t become melancholy. And if he

40  •  1908 Letters

doesn’t do all this, I will depart unpleased, murmuring to him “A pity that you have spent time in Paris and still have not learned the meaning of civility!” For these same reasons, I also did not use the letters of introduction that Mr. Georgandis had the kindness to give me. I did go only to Ary Remé, etc. to tell him about your order for typographical plates. But he made such a bad impression on me, gave me so deeply the idea that he is nothing, absolutely nothing, that I will never again set foot in his house. I really don’t know why he made such an impression of worthlessness on me. Enough of that! My life here is pedantic. I’m eager for you to come in the spring. As the months pass, I grow correspondingly more pleased that your time of arrival is approaching. If I remain here a few more months, I will lose every hope of sociability. I don’t want to mix with the Greeks here. I’ve met some Frenchmen, but they are all shallow. They like what I do not like. As for sex, I still have not entered the fray—because there are a multitude of women here. So you see: books, pedantry, unfaithfulness to “the tree of life.” I see that Oikonomou’s Theater, and its branches, are going haywire. What a shame that they had the idea that the businesslike mind should not be in charge. Could there have been a greater idiocy than playing a work by Tangopoulos first of all? Why don’t you sometimes guide this man who thinks he’s still in Germany and does not know that if he wants to accomplish something worthwhile and to influence the public, he must first lower himself to the public’s level and offer them his hand—begin by playing a French comedy first, then a good French drama, then d’Annunzio’s La Gioconda, then Trisevyeni, and then Ibsen? So be it. I’m coming to the end of the page, and I want to write an additional word about Galatea. I haven’t received a letter from her for quite some time. Her brother is coming to Paris to study music; I’m sure that he’ll become important. Thus, Galatea is totally alone, totally alone—c’est une vie brisée. I hope that 1908 will bring you whatever you desire. With respect and love, Nik. P.S. I’ve just received your new book. Thank you very very much.

1  Sevastopoulos:  Konstantinos Sevastopoulos, who resided in England, died in 1907. The Sevastopoulos School was named in his honor.  1  Bergson:  Henri Bergson (1859–1941), French philosopher whose vitalistic theory became the most pervasive basis of Kazantzakis’s mature thought. Bergson’s Time and Free Will was published in 1889 and his Creative Evolution in 1907. Kazantzakis introduced Bergson’s philosophy to Greek intellectual circles when he lectured on him in Athens in 1913; a lengthy summary of this lecture may be found in Bien 1989, pp. 42–48, 1991, pp. 54–60. Bergson’s influence may be seen as well in the writings of Marcel Proust, George Bernard Shaw, and

1908 Letters  •  41

Virginia Woolf.  1  Ary Remé, etc.:  Ary-Remé d’Yvermont, actually the Greek poet A. Parthenis, whose poems were written in French.  1  a work by Tangopoulos:  Oikonomou’s troupe had produced D. Tangopoulos’s play Alysides, whose demoticism so enraged the supporters of katharevousa that the production failed.  1  d’Annunzio’s La Gioconda:  Gabriele d’Annunzio (1863–1938), Italian poet, novelist, dramatist, journalist, and political daredevil (!), who much influenced Kazantzakis’s very early career. His drama La Gioconda dates from 1899.  1  Trisevyeni:  An important demoticist play written by the centrally important poet Kostis Palamas (1859–1943) in 1903 and translated as Royal Blossom in 1923.  1  Ibsen:  Henrik Ibsen (1828– 1906), Norwegian playwright, one of the founders of modernism in the theater; his plays, exposing Victorian morality, were often considered scandalous. Kazantzakis was especially influenced by Et Dukkehjem (A Doll’s House, 1879) and Bygmester Solness (The Master Builder, 1892).  1  Galatea:  Galatea Alexiou (1886–1962), member of a distinguished intellectual family in Iraklio; novelist, dramatist, author of children’s books; married Kazantzakis in 1911, divorced from him in 1926; married Markos Avyeris in 1933 but retained Galatea Kazantzaki as her pen name. Her brother is, of course, Lefteris Alexiou.  1  c’est une vie brisée:  It’s a broken life.

To His Father —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 8; printed in Alexiou and Stefanakis 1983, pp. 339–40.

Paris, 25 January 1908 My dear father, I’m unable to describe to you how much I suffer by being forced to write this letter to you today. I came to Paris because my friend the professor found me a position in which I would work only two hours a week and would be able to stay here until I finished my degree. The position exists, but I need to wait a little longer until I am appointed. That is why I find myself forced now to beg you to send me five twentyfranc notes. I hope that I will have been appointed in the meantime and will not seek any more from you. Dear father, I am ashamed at my age to be still living at your expense; that is why at this moment I am so distressed. Yet I hope that you will forgive me. Do not worry about my health. I am fine, and I protect myself from the cold. I beg of you very much: do not show this letter to others at home, because I’m ashamed. It would be good if the post office or the bank could send me this money telegraphically. But don’t worry if the money is delayed a little. Every day the professor here begs me to let him know if I need money for a few days.

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I thank you very much, my dear father. With respect and love, your son, Nikos I’m enclosing for you the address that you’ll give to have the money sent.

To His Father; To Mother, Anestasia, Eleni —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 10; printed (incomplete) in Parlamas 1959, p. 208.

Paris, 9 June 1908 My dear father, I am so distressed, I’d like to spend the summer with all of you. I’ve desired to see you every day, and this yearning has been growing in me. I’ll stay with you for two or three months; then I’ll return here. I need one more year to complete my studies and receive my degree. In addition, I would like to tell you about a plan I have in mind, a very important one, and we must speak a lot about this, if you wish it to take place. The only thing keeping me from coming is the travel expense, up to three hundred francs, and also the distress I’ll cause you when I leave at the end of September in order to stay away yet another year. Thus, I don’t know what to say to you—to come or not to come. I am distressed and would be happy if I saw you; yet, on the other hand, the expense and your distress when I leave keep me from knowing what to decide. The university here has closed. I no longer have summer courses. I await your decision—which you think is better. With respect and love, your son, N My dear mother, Anestasia and Eleni, My distress increases every day. I suffered terribly yesterday above all, also today. I think I’ll become ill from my distress because the best of the two plays that I submitted to the competition, the one I had hopes for, How Long?, was not accepted, and thus I failed to win the prize. The results were decided yesterday. I expected a telegram and did not receive one, which means that I lost the prize. That’s why I’m so upset—so sad that I wrote to Father asking if he would like me to come to stay with you for two or three months. What do you think? I’ll leave at the end of September and will complete my studies here, after which we put the plan into practice. I would like very much to speak to

1908 Letters  •  43

Father about this. That is another reason why I want to come. The only problem is that I need three hundred francs for the trip (Marigo! Marigo!). But if Mother and Father decide that I should come, then listen, Marigo, to what will happen: You’ll receive this letter on 15 or 16 June. Tell Father to telegraph the three hundred francs so that I’ll receive them on 18 June, and I will leave a few days later in order to be with you on 1 July. I am insane with joy at the prospect of seeing you. I’ll work with you as much as I desire. I’ll bring only a single valise with me, leaving the other things here at a friend’s. Write to me immediately, Anestasia and Eleni, what you’d like me to bring. You, too, mother. And don’t feel ashamed. If I have some money left over, it will be my pleasure to bring whatever you say. Write me in great detail what you desire. All this will happen, so long as my trip is decided upon. I’ll wait. If I receive the money by telegram, I’m coming; otherwise, it will be too late, and I’ll stay here. On the other hand, I say that Father will send those three hundred francs to me here in any case by September. So let him send them to me now, once and for all, and I’ll come, will see you, and we’ll talk every evening about everything I’ve seen in Paris. But tell him, mother, to send the money by telegram, so that I’ll be in time. Oh, I’m insane with joy that I’ll see you. Au revoir! N

1  a plan I have in mind:  The plan was really his father’s, not his. It was that he would marry a rich woman, open a law office, and eventually be elected to the Greek parliament.

To Kostis Palamas —Manuscript in ‘Ιδρυμα Κωστή Παλαμά archive: correspondence, letters to Kostis Palamas, N. Kazantzakis file; printed in Kasinis 1986, pp. 1299–1301.

Iraklio, 12 September 1908 Mr. Palamas, Forgive me for writing you, but I am overwhelmed; I feel that only thus will my heart be relieved of its unbearable burden. A while ago I came here to my Homeland in order to stay for two or three months—came from Paris, where I had gone, and will go again, to hear Psiharis. My first task here was to write to the demoticists of Crete to ask them if it would be possible for us Cretan demoticists to organize a symposium at Arkadi and to map out a program of systematic activity, to establish societies in three or four Cretan centers, to put on lectures and simple conversations for the common people, and to see what we need to do in order for the language question to enter the Cretan parliament so that our educational renaissance will start first in Crete, since the

44  •  1908 Letters

homeland of Hortatsis and Kornaros certainly must possess the claim and the obligation to be the first to open the Great Road of Deliverance. I also wrote to Psiharis to seek his opinion about this symposium, and today I am writing to you, appealing to you to tell us your opinion. Our purpose at the Arkadi symposium is to appeal to all demoticists to institute a Panhellenic symposium as quickly as possible, because we feel that the time has come for us to close ranks and become a regular army, to stop advancing like undisciplined irregulars, and to suffer in our turn, we demoticists, we Chosen Ones, what the mainland Greek state is suffering in its turn from a linguistic purism that constricts one’s spirit. Do you not feel, Mr. Palamas, that the age of devastation has lasted long enough and that the time has come for us to gather together, to create a building plan and, on the basis of this, since the work will be apportioned at the symposium, to begin at long last to construct? No one else in Greece can invite, excite, and give the signal for building— no one else but you: the Master Builder. The way we are all scattered, fail to know each other, are not mutually supportive, we shall never move forward. At the Panhellenic symposium, we shall meet, make friends, and shore up courage by means of these friendships. Since the general aim is the practical application of our idea to everyday life, in schools and future generations, this Panhellenic symposium can also do something more: it can establish the basis for a Neohellenic Committee. Since we are without a doubt the most Chosen in Greece and since the language question is not just linguistic but also social and aspiring to become political, thus what could be more useful and practical than for us to lay down at the symposium the foundation of a demoticist influence that is broader, more efficacious, more social? Everyone who is able to accept the symposium’s directive, let him establish—in places where a society exists, a society without pretensions at first—let him establish a room to which his fellow citizens will be invited once a week so that he may speak to them about our matter without heat and insults, seriously, logically, and also about other questions that his surrounding population will find interesting. In this way our influence will be great. Our activities will be systematized, and all the rays that are now lost because scattered will be concentrated on a fixed point and will kindle the conflagration that we desire. That is why I beg of you, in the name of all the demoticists here, to do something, to energize us, to gather us together, to tell us all those words that eternally burn in the soul and act as guides and do not die out. We young people need to catch hold of each other and to resist this generation’s muddy flow. If we remain isolated, one here, another there, our backbone will sag, and we will worship falsehood—or we, the most Chosen of all, will break in two. But we desire victory, not defeat. You, since you are our greatest poet, have the obligation to take the lead and guide us. N. Kazantzakis

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1  Palamas:  Kostis Palamas (1859–1943), the most celebrated Greek poet of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries; pioneering demoticist; from 1897 general secretary of the University of Athens; author of an important play entitled Trisevyeni (1903); one of the first to recognize Kazantzakis’s talent; his funeral in 1943, during the German occupation, became an occasion for public expression of the need for liberty.  1  Arkadi:  A famous site because it was at this monastery, near Rethymno, during the Cretan rising of 1866, that the besieged Greeks within decided to blow themselves up together with the large Turkish contingent that had entered.  1  Hortatsis:  Yeorgios Hortatsis (mid-sixteenth century–early seventeenth century, an almost exact contemporary of Shakespeare). Cretan dramatist who wrote the classic modern Greek tragedy Erofili around 1600.  1  Kornaros:  Vitzentzos Kornaros (1553–1613/14), Cretan poet, author of the romantic epic Erotocritos (1595– 1605); together with Hortatsis, the principal figure in the Cretan literary renaissance.  1  Neohellenic Committee:  Committee of Greeks. Interestingly, Kazantzakis uses the Italian word for “committee”—comitato—associated most generally with Greece’s enemies, Bulgaria and Turkey, probably to suggest the revolutionary nature of his proposed project.

To Dimitrios Kaloyeropoulos —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed (misdated 17 September) in Markakis 1959, p. 37.

Iraklio, 14 September 1908 Dear Mr. Kaloyeropoulos, Thank you very much for your postcard and for Pinakothiki. I’ll be very grateful if you write me precisely which of your issues of Mercure I lost so that I may send them to you from Paris; I’m leaving for there the day after tomorrow. Naturally, the fact that I did not send them to you means that I lost them. I brought them last year in a package to deliver to you and left them in my boat cabin. I’m getting along beautifully here with the provincials. Twentyfive thousand jeer at me (that’s the population of Iraklio). I jeer at twenty-five thousand—so I get the best of it. I see Galatea from time to time. She’s writing novels, tragedies, poems, prose pieces, and comedies. N

III  •  Politically Active in Greece

To Kostis Palamas —Manuscript sent to O Noumas; printed in O Noumas, 21 August 1909 and reprinted in Kasinis 1986, p. 1302.

Iraklio (Crete), 10 June 1909 The “Solomos” Demoticists’ Society Mr. Palamas, I would like to tell you in the simplest, briefest, strongest possible words about the loud cheer of joy from all of us youthful people of Crete whom you greeted so impetuously in your article published two days ago. In addition, I would like even more to tell you, on behalf of our society, about the intractable yet at the same time reflective impetus felt by all of us here regarding the sacred Struggle to emancipate Greeks from their slavery to pedants. All the ignoramuses and nonentities have lashed out against us; consequently, our Cretan blood pressure has increased its indignation and level. We feel a bodily need now for victory—a need like hunger. Your words have arrived from Athens like Tyrtaeus’s, making rough the seas of Spartan anger inside us. Our Cretan approach to the struggle is harsh, ruthless, and barbaric. We always need an Athenian, rising up with his songlike verses amid our strident, undisciplined war cries, to teach our hands to let the hatchet fall in rhythm. That is why, O Poet, we youthful people of Crete out here hail your words with exclamations of triumph. They are the army we awaited, the army that has at last come into view as it advances from the far end of a long, dusty road! N. K.

1  Tyrtaeus:  Elegiac poet of Sparta active in the mid-seventh century b.c. The story goes that an oracle ordered the Spartans to take a commander from Athens for their war against the Messenians. The Athenians sent Tyrtaeus, a lame schoolmaster, who, contrary to expectation, so inspired the Spartans with his poems that they were able to defeat the Messenians.

1909 Letters  •  47

To Dimitrios Kaloyeropoulos —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed in Markakis 1959, pp. 37–38.

Iraklio, Crete, 22 October 1909 Dear Mr. Kaloyeropoulos, Galatea and I have undertaken a thousand projects as a way of showing our gratitude and love for you. We feel—just imagine the egotism!—that it would be best for us to publish in Pinakothiki. We have written two tableaux for you. Just as we were about to send them, what should happen but the arrival of your fine short letter that complains about us so politely. Both Galatea and I have written to you many times in the past to say how impossible it is for us ever to convey to you our entire love. You have always appeared splendid to us. No matter how much you dislike demoticist extremism, you have always managed with great courtesy and agility to treat us differently, forgiving us. I’ll be coming soon to Athens, where I will live permanently, and I will place myself at your disposal to do whatever you think I can for your Pinakothiki. Galatea, too, hopes to come quickly—in a month or two. We are working day and night now on several novels, unfortunately in extreme demotic because that is the only way we can express in a throbbing manner what is circulating in our blood. We would like somehow to conceptualize our lives’ purpose more genuinely and seriously. Since we did not wish to become a lawyer and a housewife, let us at least work as lucidly and nobly as we can, and let us climb the Golgotha or Mount Tabor of Art in a systematic, well-thought-out manner. For this reason, our life, dear friend, is much more painful than one would think if he viewed us always together in this way, whether outside on the seashore or inside at home. Perhaps it is because our ambition is so great that sometimes we feel our brows cracking open as though from the sudden spreading of an eagle’s wings. A person needs either to become something great or to die. You who know so much will smile at these juvenile impetuses of ours, yet you know extremely well that if a person is going to achieve ten he must seek a hundred. With lots and lots of love, Nikos–Galatea

1  Golgotha:  Place where Jesus was crucified, meaning “place of the skull.”  1  Mount Tabor:  Small mountain west of the Sea of Galilee, used in Scripture as a symbol of majesty, and sometimes (probably erroneously) cited as the location of Jesus’s transfiguration.

48  •  1911 Letters

To His Sister Eleni Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2 A/A 18; printed in Alexiou and Stefanakis 1983, pp. 344­–45.

Tuesday [Krasi, Crete, September 1911] My dear sister, I’m writing you two words, hastily. I missed the mailman the other day and fear that you may be worried because you didn’t receive a letter from me. The questions you write about are so complicated that they cannot be easily analyzed. In addition, it’s always better for the problems of love to remain unsolved and hazy. In this way, our entire organism feels a tenderness and an emotion that is indescribable because we do not know what constitutes that emotion and how it germinated, blossomed, and bore fruit. What is certain is that whenever I receive a letter from you I am happy because I know that I am not alone in the world. I cannot then be overcome by any distress. What could be nicer? No matter how masculine we are, we always feel the need for spiritual communication. Solitude frightens even the strongest men. As a wise man said, “Only beasts and gods can remain alone.” My life here is always the same. Lots of study, too much. However, sometimes I go on a very extensive, lovely excursion. In a day or two I’ll describe one, so that you can see what beautiful things a person encounters when he knows how to look and is capable of moving. On the other hand, worry about my book poisons the mental tranquillity of my studies and the beauty of my excursions. Today I wrote again to Michalakis; you cannot imagine how ashamed I feel about this. He’ll be annoyed, of course, but I need to remain free this year in order to complete the philosophical book that I began. That’s the cause of my great insistence; that, too, is the cause of my inability to find words to express to Michalakis how ashamed I am that I’m putting him to so much trouble. However, if I’m successful, with what gratitude shall I remember that favor of his! Give my warm greetings to mother when you see her. I’m very moved when I recall that evening at home when the three of us conversed together. I had never felt such great happiness and unhappiness. The muleteer who takes letters is in a hurry. I’m finishing. Harilaos wrote to me that he’s coming to Krasi to find me. You can understand how pleased I will be. My dear sister, I kiss you sweetly and love you very much. N

1  Krasi:  Village about 45 kilometers (28 miles) east of Iraklio, on the way to the Lassithi Plateau. It now contains busts of various distinguished mem-

1911 Letters  •  49

bers of the Alexiou family.  1  Only beasts and gods . . .:  Kazantzakis remembers “He who is unable to live in society, or who has no need because he is sufficient for himself, must be either a beast or a god; he is no part of a state,” from Aristotle’s Politics 1.2.1253a28–30. Aristotle’s preceding sentence is “Man is a political animal.”  1  Michalakis:  Anestasia’s husband, Mihalis Saklambanis.

To Ioannis Zervos —Manuscript photographed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 22; printed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 23.

[Krasi, late summer or early autumn 1911 (?)] Cher Maître Now that Lefteris has returned to Krasi, he told me that you sent me a letter and that he forgot it in his books. Thus, I do not know what you wrote. I did, however, receive your Astaris, and you can understand how moved I was. Now that I see your work before me in this way, I feel great pride because I understand it. At present I am writing “The law of relativity and life’s method,” a philosophical book that has been influenced by you, as you will see. For that reason, please allow me to dedicate it to you. I know of no other way to show you how much I respect you, love you, and am grateful to you. The idea that we are evolving toward consummate self-consciousness has not allowed me peace of mind for quite a few years. I had understood it differently: I knew that we were evolving toward the creation of God, and I had given the name of Theanthropi to those who have comprehended this great mission of superior people. After a colossal worldwide choice over millions of years, only the Theanthropi would survive as cells of the immense collective self-consciousness, cells that would possess consciousness of their individuality but also of the Collective. Thus, what takes place is an insistent aristocratic choice. The masses will lose their individual lives just as animals or plants do. When I come quite soon to Athens, I will seek your opinion after telling you all the details of the idea that is governing me in a sovereign manner. N

1  Zervos:  Yannis Zervos (1875–1944), member of Kazantzakis’s circle ca. 1911; critic; translator of the Iliad, Thucydides, Aeschylus, Aristotle, Nietzsche; director of Fexis publishing, 1909–14, where Kazantzakis issued many translations; in 1909 published a review of Kazantzakis’s dissertation on Nietzsche, reprinted in Nea Estia 64 (15 September 1958): 1373–74; later edited

50  •  1912 Letters

the nine-volume Dimitrakos Dictionary of Ancient, Medieval, and Modern Greek; Dimitrakos’s personal lawyer; author of studies of myth, and History of Ideas (1911); admired Kazantzakis’s assiduousness and his breadth of education.  1  Cher Maître:  Dear master.  1  Lefteris:  Lefteris Alexiou (1890– 1964), Galatea’s younger brother who served as headmaster of an Iraklio high school and dabbled in literary creativity. He and Kazantzakis eventually had a painful falling out.  1  Astaris:  Second basic hero of Zervos’s book History of Ideas.  1  Theanthropi:  God-men or God-people. In the singular (Theanthropos), the word refers to Jesus Christ.

To His Sister Eleni Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 17.

[Athens, spring 1912?] Dearest, The exam, although it was supposed to take place in April, has been postponed until September; thus I’m forced to wait another four months. I’m leaving again for the countryside, to have the book printed that I’m required to present. You cannot imagine the distress that this causes—trouble, changing house, terrible distress. I’m fed up with Athens and tired of reading. Bent over books, I feel that I’m losing the most beautiful years of my life. If my body weren’t so robust, I would have died from fatigue. Fortunately, despite all my studying, I am entirely well—strong and fat. However, I hope to get some peace of mind in the countryside so that I can print the book in serenity and in September sit the exam for university professor. Yesterday when I went to say goodbye to Venizelos, he told me that I should stay until the reform of the cabinet posts takes place in order that I might be appointed to the ministry in a very high position. But if I do this, I run the danger of losing the university chair, which I want in order to satisfy father’s wish. As for me, I have one and only one wish: to withdraw from the world, to live far away in the countryside in a beautiful house, and to study and work there, all alone. I hope to realize that dream next year, when I will be thirty years old and will say goodbye to the world forever. I’m writing you this because today I am a little ill at ease, and I want to tell you, my dear sister, everything that I’m thinking. I am always disgusted by the world. The more that time passes, the more I become increasingly broody and tight-lipped. I have so many things in mind and so much that I plan to do that an entire human lifetime is barely enough for me to finish everything I’m

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thinking, and to set it down in writing. That’s why I have an absolute need for countryside, quiet, solitude. In just a month or two I depart for Italy. So I’m expecting totally regular letters from you addressed to “Krasi, Nomos Irakliou.” I’ll go directly there. We’ll be in touch about meeting at Ten Saints during the summer, if possible. From there, we’ll see. The fact that I’ll be going there in order—finally—to breathe pure mountain air makes me happy. Greet mother for me and kiss her hand for me. N

1  the exam:  Kazantzakis hoped to qualify for a teaching position at the university.  1  the book:  His doctoral dissertation on Nietzsche.  1  Ten Saints:  Village south of Iraklio at the beginning of the descent to the Messara Plain, in the eastern part of the ancient city of Gortyn. It is called Agioi Deka (Ten Saints) because of the martyrdom there in a.d. 249 of ten Christians who objected to the forced worship of the Roman emperor Decius.

To Ioannis Zervos —Manuscript photographed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 30; printed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 31.

Krasi, 10 September 1912 Cher Maître I’ve been overcome these days by the demon of boredom; thus you can imagine how pleased I was to receive—like an incantation—your letter. Always within a state of divine contemplation, I “lend my ear” to your new works and struggle, calling them to mind as I am able, to gain whatever my temperament permits. In “The First Siren,” which I am writing at present, a “Prince of the Intellect” withdraws to a monastery, fashions his own personal chimera in the desert, and savors it amid a crowd of people. My “First Siren” is the 2nd Idea = action. The 3rd is Immortality. I’ve finished Nietzsche now, and I’m looking it over again. I worked extremely hard, but I’m satisfied with the result. I’ll give you “Broken Souls” in person when I come. Galatea has picked up the three signatures of R.P. Avyeris is loafing, with a continuous flow of performances. I’ll do the review of History of Ideas when I’m in a better psychological state. Right now I have an extremely profound sadness, disturbance, uneasiness,

52  •  1912 Letters

abrupt alternation of insane joy and the most unbearable anguish. My entire mind is storming. But it’s not proper for me to sit now and talk about my own writings instead of listening to you. These days we are going to leave—always at the end of September. I hope that we will not stay in Athens for long. This year I hope very much to satisfy my intellectual need to go to Italy, although Galatea is beginning to be distressed again and not to want to go far away from horrible Athens. I sense now what an extremely heavy chain a wife is and to what a degree I am squandering precious strength even when I do win—strength that would enable me to gain continuous victory. I am undergoing a crisis in my intellectual and spiritual development. I have my inner eye open and ready to scrutinize. It does scrutinize, and this makes the spectacle of my interior life all the more complicated, finely wrought, extremely clear, and insanely self-conscious. I wish I were with you now. My internal tempest makes me stony, abrupt, disdainful toward others. Desire for the absolute, ambition for the sublime, ­disgust with mediocrity, my flippant, extremely fertile revolt against relativity— all these exhaust me. I’m treading now on my thirtieth year. The awareness that I still have done nothing will kill me—or else will enlarge my powers gigantically. With admiration and love, N. Kazantzakis

1  The First Siren:  A portion of this novel had been published in 1911. It is reprinted in Nea Estia 64 (1 October 1958): 1501­–3.  1  I’ve finished Nietzsche: He has completed his doctoral dissertation on Nietzsche.  1  Broken Souls: Kazantzakis’s novel Σπασμένες ψυχές, written in Paris in 1908, was serialized in the periodical O Noumas in 1909–10 and never published in book form during Kazantzakis’s lifetime. Happily, it was issued in book form in 2007 by Kazantzakis Publications with a full, helpful prologue by Dr. Patroklos Stavrou, an interpretative essay by Professor Vangelis Athanasopoulos, an explanation by Kazantzakis himself, and copious endnotes—precisely the way all of Kazantzakis’s novels should eventually be published: in scholarly editions.  1  the three signatures of R.P.:  In printing, a “signature” is a large sheet printed with a multiple of four pages (usually sixteen pages) that, when folded, becomes a section of the book. R.P. = Galatea’s first novel, Ρίντι παληάτσο.  1  Avyeris:  Markos Avyeris (1884–1973), left-wing literary critic, poet, playwright, prose writer, physician, and civil servant who became Galatea Kazantzakis’s second husband in 1933 and often denigrated Kazantzakis’s work; employed by the Ministry of Public Works until he was dismissed in 1947 because of his communist politics. After Galatea’s death in 1962, he lived with her sister, Elli Alexiou.

1912 Letters  •  53

To His Sister Eleni Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 23; printed in Alexiou and Stefanakis 1983, pp. 132–33.

[Athens,] Friday, 2 November [1912] My dear sister, Venizelos told me that there is no more need for partisan bands. I wrote this to Saklambanis, giving the letter to Alexiou. Consequently, since it is impossible for me to depart as a partisan with Saklambanis, I’ll leave for the Thessaloniki army, perhaps tomorrow evening. I’ll write you without fail before I go. You shouldn’t be at all worried; it’s shameful for me to remain as I am, working in the security of the Ministry of War. I would have snapped a photo a long time ago, but Stefanidis kept telling me to wait until he, too, could be in uniform. Now he’s in his sailor’s suit and is an absolute scream. As for me in my army uniform, I’m unrecognizable. I’m ashamed, as though I were in a masquerade. But I’ve gotten used to it, and it strikes me as very suitable. I am leaving my work now and the beautiful home we have, to go to hardships, etc. in the heart of winter. But it was necessary, and I’m departing with great satisfaction. Yesterday I saw Nikos Thiakakis dressed as a partisan, with a black kerchief on his head. I’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll go without fail to have some pictures taken, and I’ll ask Galatea to send you one. There’s no danger that a European war, etc. will break out. Everything will go well. What Venizelos has just done is great, a miracle. This traitor has doubled the size of Greece, giving her Epirus, Macedonia, Crete, the islands. His name will be immortal. Without a doubt he is the greatest statesman in the world today. And we are fortunate that we have been deemed worthy of viewing these miracles in our day. I am going to try to accompany the Greek troops that will be advancing to join forces with the Bulgarians. Maybe we’ll enter Constantinople. No one knows yet. Polemarkhakis and Maris are in Epirus now. I would have gone with them if I hadn’t waited for Saklambanis. I’ve given Polemarkhakis a letter to hold for a friend of mine in Yannina. Our laughter is indescribable. We woke the hotel up with our shouts and guffaws. I’ll stop here and will continue tomorrow when I make a definitive decision. 6 November I managed to get Venizelos to agree to let me go. I’m leaving for Thessaloniki tomorrow evening. I’ll send you a telegram as soon as I arrive. I don’t

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know where we’ll be sent from there. In any case I’ll write you on a regular basis, and you shouldn’t worry at all. I needed to leave. I couldn’t stay any longer in Athens, and it wasn’t right for me to do so. I arranged for my photos to be sent to you as soon as they’re ready. Kiss mother’s and father’s hands for me. I’ll be traveling on his name day, but I’ll telegraph him as soon as I reach Thessaloniki. Greetings to everyone, and to you. I kiss you, my dear sister sweetly sweetly, N Anagnostopoulou 30B Wait until I write you again and send you my new address.

1  he’s in his sailor’s suit:  Photo of Stefanidis in his sailor suit standing next to Kazantzakis in his army uniform (for the First Balkan War) appears on p. 130 of Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978.  1  on his name day:  The name day for Michael is November 8.

To His Sister Eleni Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2 A/A 24; printed (incomplete) in Alexiou and Stefanakis 1983, p. 134.

[Athens,] Thursday, 6 December [1912] My dear sister, It’s now more than ten days since I wrote you, hurriedly relating my troubles. Journeys, marches, repeated fatigue, nights without sleep—and the upshot: here I am in Athens again, in Venizelos’s private office. Now that Venizelos has gone to London, our duties have decreased somewhat, and consequently I’m beginning to find time to write you. A few days ago I was drowning in work. Venizelos called me back precipitously in order to answer the letters and telegrams he receives—his correspondence. Nevertheless, I am fortunately entirely well despite all the labor, and fatter. Three weeks ago I sent you three photos of me; Galatea sent you some more at my request. Didn’t you receive them? Also, in the letter I sent you the other day I enclosed a photograph of me with Stefanidis. Did you receive all of these or not? I’m anxious for you to answer me. In my view, things are very bad. We’ll have another war with Turkey, and God grant that we don’t go to war with Bulgaria as well, on account of Thessaloniki. Our fatherland finds itself at a very crucial point; however, I keep hoping that we shall emerge victorious and maybe double in size. Yet no one

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knows anything. Our greatest enemies are the Bulgarians, and we’ll clash with them in a terrible war sooner or later. Many of my friends in the army have suffered from pneumonia and rheumatism because our great enemies now are the cold and the humidity. I’ve had a letter from our cousins Yorgos and Yannis; they’re fine, eating well, enduring. No news from Polemarkhakis. Mavilis, a great friend of mine, was killed the other day. Yesterday I went to see Yorgos in the hospital, but the doctor wasn’t there, and I was denied entrance. I’ll go again and will write at once to our uncle. Regarding the doctor’s receipt, he should remain at ease. Also, I will take the appropriate action, hoping that tomorrow I’ll receive permission from the ministry to go visit him. Tell Michalakis that I’ll do what I can for Kavalakis, whom he has recommended to me. But it’s extremely difficult. I’ll write him immediately whether or not something will happen. Greet mother for me and kiss her hand. She must not worry at all. I am entirely well and am not in any danger. Greetings also to Anestasia, Manolis, and Michalakis. I expect a letter from you at once, without delay, on whether you received my letter and the photos. Once again I greet you, again and again. I’m writing you in great haste. I continue to intend to find time to write you in detail about everything that has happened, but I always find myself buried in a thousand duties. A thousand kisses my dear sister, N Today is my name day, but I wasn’t even aware of it. My mind is plunged in a thousand other cares.

1  Mavilis:  Lorentsos Mavilis (1860–1912), poet educated in Germany; participated in Cretan rising of 1896 as head of a warrior band; welcomed Venizelos’s rise; elected to parliament in 1910, defending demoticism there against the purists; volunteered, though he was fifty-two, in First Bulgarian War; killed on 28 November 1912.

To Mihalis Saklambanis —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2 A/A 26; printed in Goudelis 1978, p. 24.

8 November 1913 My dear brother, On your name day, today, I wish you a long and happy life. This wish is not conventional; it is heartfelt, and I’d like to be able to shake your hand and tell you all my brotherly love.

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Kiss my young nephews on my behalf and greet my sister for me. I would truly like to be with all of you today, the day when both you and my father celebrate. Unfortunately, I am unable to write to my father today to convey my respect and love. That saddens me greatly. I shake your hand with brotherly love and emotion. Nikos I’ve found a few difficulties regarding your brother, but I hope to send it to you with confirmation by the next post.

To Harilaos Stefanidis —Manuscript in Demosthenes Stefanidis family archive, Iraklio; photocopy of manuscript in my possession; printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, pp. 139–40 (slightly bowdlerized) and in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 65–66 (incomplete and misdated as 1912)

Methana, 27 June [1914] My dear Harilaos, I’m writing you from a spa. You see, “for it does not come alone” (meaning wealth). I’m at these sulfur springs because I’m a little tired, or rather because I’m able to dispose of a couple of hundred drachmas. I can imagine your deadly boredom—the boredom of Iraklio, which is complicated by a thousand other poisonous substances. I know only one medicine: you should write middle school textbooks on the Greek language. I told you that years ago; now, however, my idea will strike you as less fanciful, since sixty thousand drachmas have found their way into my pocket; thus, with the rest of my assets I now have sixty thousand. And that’s not all! Just imagine: in Constantinople last year, the Patriarchate announced a competition for the four grades of elementary school. Well, then, I sent in for two (didn’t have time for more), and both won prizes accompanied by enthusiastic expressions of gratitude and admiration! So the other day I receive a telegram from the Patriarchate asking me to write (commissioned!) the other two books since none of the submissions was worth anything. I hope that I’ll have them finished and dispatched from here within ten days. Now I’m negotiating with Egypt and Cyprus. In other words, I calculate a profit of more than a hundred thousand. Let’s hope for the next four years as well. All authors will be enemies, but I will defeat them. Such are my dealings and my bragging. I’m leading a serene, hermit-like life here. Sea as pure as can be—I dive in all day long and never have enough. Invigorating sulfur springs, temperature 86 degrees. Inflamed elderly women.

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Girls bored because the men here are fewer and most are cripples. Oh! if only you were here (I say often), how tempestuously you would stir up their lives with your vivacity and sexually charged glances! Now the girls of Iraklio are enjoying you. By the way, do you remember Aphrodite? I saw her recently, very dejected. What you need is the delight and company of inanimate things—to love them intensely. Here in Methana I’m all by myself. I play with the sea all day long, stark naked (I don’t say it to shock you); the sea completely fills my existence. I feel that I do not desire anything else. It fills my heart, like love. If you created this sort of joy for yourself, down there in Iraklio, you would still be able to feel enthusiastic about life. What you lack is intensity, love for something, anything—the sea, a woman, the pharmacy, yourself, etc., etc. That’s why you’re bored. I, always adoring something, am full of gratitude and tender affection for existence. I cultivate this outlook of mine carefully, persistently, because I find it useful. Alone as I am here (Galatea remained in Athens), I barely escaped being overcome by boredom and weariness. But I have thrown myself into the sea. Little by little I have managed to convince myself that the sea possesses everything and is able to give everything. I have discovered a thousand beauties in it, adorned it with symbols, ideas, clothed it with my imagination’s total passion, and now, suddenly, after wise preparation, it appears to me as a flamboyant, all-knowing courtesan that fully soaks my body and soul, watering the slenderest roots of my mind. Inanimate matter possesses a value that we deserve to give it. Everything is a blank page, and we write something stupid, enthusiastic, or vulgar. I attempt to keep in mind the following words: “The more value I find in the world, the more value I have myself.” I always attempt to utilize enthusiasm as an instrument for perfecting myself. I am jabbering because it’s raining right now, and I’m unable to unwind by going for a walk. I’m chatting with you; thus, I emerge with all the more profit. Always! N Polychroni House, Methana

1  Methana:  Volcanic region in the eastern Peloponnese known for its hot springs.  1  for it does not come alone:  Kazantzakis is slightly misquoting the second clause of Menander’s Φοβοῦ τὸ γῆρας· οὐ γὰρ ἔρχεται μόνον.  1  with the rest of my assets I now have sixty thousand:  Aposkitou-Alexiou suggests that this is either a mistake or—more likely—a joke.  1  the next four years:  School texts were commissioned by the Ministry of Education every four years, which meant that a book in use could be replaced after four years.

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To Harilaos Stefanidis —Manuscript in Demosthenes Stefanidis family archive, Iraklio; printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, pp. 142–43.

[Athens,] 5 September 1914 Dear Hari, I received your letter with double pleasure (1) because it was “from a beloved hand” and (2) because it relieved me of an action. You cannot imagine my pleasure when I am asked not to act (the verb “act” here has no pharmaceutical significance). I still have not received a letter from that abominable monster you’ve described to me. If I do, don’t worry! I received the sixty thousand drachmas today, yet the world’s pace has not changed either within me or without. At the end of September we’re moving into a house on Constantinou Diadochou Avenue, near Ambelokipi. Marvelous garden, orchard, trees, cypresses, running water. You’ll like it so much that, if you come to Athens, you’ll never want to budge from my house because—note well—it has two floors, of which the bottom one, four rooms, will remain empty; upstairs five rooms, bathroom, etc. Something else that will interest you: we’re looking for a maid. I wrote home asking them to find me someone, but at the same time you look, too, for someone who fits your taste. Your brother’s family will know something. Go to our house and reach an agreement: young, pretty (beauty that suits your taste), housewifely, honest, with experience serving in a house. Ten napoleons a year; clothes, etc. supplied by us. Galatea in particular requests that you be snappy about it and find us someone. If you do, tell my sister Eleni, and she will telegraph me. Now something confidential. Please tear this letter up (don’t be afraid): To start, I’m thinking of starting a small commercial undertaking with Kor­ naros (publication of a book followed by others). He strikes me as a very honest individual, very practical and sensible. Am I right? You know him better; your opinion will be worth a lot of money. So don’t forget to answer me with all possible details. As for the enterprise of our pharmacy, you must think about it and give it some study. I’ve made an irreversible decision that you, I, and Manolis shall live together in Athens, entangled in a shared network of mutual advantage and feeling. I’m awaiting your answer to everything: (1) the maid, (2) Kornaros, (3) the pharmacy, (4) when you intend to occupy the bottom floor of our house. Galatea and I sweetly kiss you, N

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1  no pharmaceutical significance:  Stefanidis was a trained pharmacist. It is common in Greek to say that a medicine “acts” quickly, slowly, or in a certain time period. In this case, the particular verb for “act” specifies the action as a bowel movement!  1  abominable monster:  Kazantzakis is quoting how Euripides, in fragment 996, describes the minotaur.  1  the world’s pace has not changed either within me or without:  Kazantzakis remembers a line in a well-known poem by Vizyinos: “the world’s pace has changed within me.”  1  Kornaros:  G. Kornaros, Athenian bookseller.  1  Manolis:  Emmanuel Georgiadis.

To Harilaos Stefanidis —Manuscript in Demosthenes Stefanidis family archive, Iraklio; printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, pp. 143–44.

[Athens,] 5 October 1914 My dear, I received your letter filled with humor and Greek exuberance—received it in my new house just as Rodopi was serving us our midday meal. Rodopi is the maid we found; she’s from Trapezounta. I told her many nice things about you; when you arrive you’ll find the ground well tilled. So, for the time being, do not look for a maid. Androklis is here, shipwrecked. He saw and suffered a lot, as you’ll see in a few days, because he’s coming to Iraklio. I’m thinking how to entangle him, too, in our economic plans without being reckless. Write me how Manolis’s wife is doing. You, Manolis, Androklis, and I must definitely undertake something together. Without you, I’m unable to feel happy. But don’t worry, I’ll find something, provided you help me. Don’t forget that, three years from now, I’ll have another hundred thousand drachmas, because I need to get rich. At present I’m watering our house’s immense garden, planting vegetables and strawberries (you once told me you love them), and putting my library in order. Yesterday evening (Tuesday, 23 September 1914) at Bernitsas’s with friends— myself, Androklis, and Skordilis! We invoked the spirits—you, Manolis, Polemarkhakis, and Artanian—and passed the time with such boisterous laughter that the customers glanced at us angrily and the waiters grumbled. We talked about the grandfather clock, our common domicile, the revolution in the sixth form, about Katalagarianos, Kokkinis, Kanetakis, and we split our sides with laughter. I was sporting Galatea’s hat, a high one with peacock feathers.

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Poking about today, I discovered this letter. I intend to send you a large jar so you can make me the following prescription for Galatea’s hands: Acide Sulicyligue 0.30 menthol 0.06 oxyde de Zinc ââ amites 8.0 Vaseline 16.0 gr. The way it’s done for us here, it’s sometimes liquid, sometimes thick. If you don’t have a jar (phial with tare equal to 130 kilos), then in an urn. Galatea sends greetings and says “please.” She’s impatient for war to begin, so you can give her a little Peruvian balm once again. N

1  Trapezounta:  Port on the Black Sea, former center of Hellenism of the Pontos; also called Trabzon in Turkish, Trebizond in English.  1  Androklis: Androklis Xenakis, fellow high school student involved with Kazantzakis’s lumbering venture at Mount Athos and in 1917 with the lignite mine in the Mani.  1  Skordilis:  Andreas Skordilis, a fellow student of Kazantzakis’s in high school, working in an Athens bank. Later involved with Kazantzakis in a scheme to harvest lumber on Mount Athos.  1  Manolis’s wife:  Eleni Hatzidaki-Georgiadi. After her husband was shot by the Germans, she entered into a second marriage with the linguist G. Anagnostopoulos.  1  Bernitsas’s:  Sweet shop on Panepistimiou, Athens.  1  Katalagarianos:  Stylianos Katalagarianos, teacher of literature in Kazantzakis’s high school.  1  Kanetakis:  Emmanuel Kanetakis, fellow high school student of Kazantzakis’s who became a physician.

To Ioannis Zervos —Manuscript photographed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 32; printed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 33.

Iviron Monastery, 21 November 1914 Dear Mr. Zervos, I am extremely moved here—profoundly, truly—and I sense that I have set out from the foot of my soul in order to reach its summit. All the problems that agitated me strike me as clearer now; my mind throbs with divine emotion owing to its contact with divinity. I have found my true nature here as well as a light so far-reaching that I am able to extend my entire thought system outward without encountering darkness.

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I would have liked us to make this pilgrimage together and to read together the hymn addressed to deity that I read yesterday evening at Iviron Monastery during the nighttime vigil, holding a candle: Pass through me for the integration of my members, all my joints, my kidneys, my heart. Burn away the thorns of all my transgressions; purify my soul, sanctify my thoughts, strengthen my knees and also my bones, illumine the simplicity of my five senses. Keep purifying and cleansing me, bringing order to my ways. —N. Kazantzakis

1  Iviron Monastery:  On the Holy Mountain (Mount Athos), which Kazantzakis, together with the poet Angelos Sikelianos (1884–1951), visited in November and December 1914.  1  the hymn addressed to deity:  By the tenth-century Saint Symeon Metaphrastes (Saint Symeon the Translator), offered as thanksgiving after Holy Communion.

To His Sister Eleni Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 27; photograph of manuscript published in Haris 1961, p. 32; printed in Alexiou and Stefanakis 1983, p. 136. Bears a stamp with the motto ἓν τὸ πᾶν and the pen name Πέτρος Ψηλορείτης.

[Athens,] 26 February 1915 My dear sister, Things have taken a bad turn; Venizelos has fallen. You cannot imagine my chagrin. With him, all the people who were in power—and were my friends— have also fallen. Now everyone is unknown to me, and hostile. But this is nothing. I feel sorry for Greece because only Venizelos is worthy of governing it. Soon, at the beginning of May, there will be elections, and I hope that Venizelos will be returned again. Many friends of mine will stand for parliament, and I too would be willing if Saklambanis wished to yield his seat to me. It’s not in his best interests to live in Athens, abandoning his office and home in order to stay here. This is why I made the suggestion to him the year before last, but he did not agree. I don’t believe that he’ll agree this year either. This bothers me because it was an opportunity for me to fight in parliament now that Venizelos has such need of friends. So be it. I’ve made you dizzy with politics. I plan to take my desired trip very shortly. But Venizelos’s fall has been worrying me, and I have postponed the trip a little. We don’t have a maid, and

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I can’t let Galatea stay alone. If Calliope wished to return, I would accept her at twelve napoleons a year, but she doesn’t want to. Give greetings to everyone from me, and especially to mother. N If Saklambanis agreed, I would travel to Iraklio to reach an understanding with him.

1  ἓν τὸ πᾶν:  “Everything is one.” The meaning is confirmed in Kazantzakis’s working notes for Akritas published in Prevelakis 1965, p. 486: “ο δρόμος προς την Ενότητα. ἓν τὸ πᾶν” (the road to unity. Everything is one). He favored this motto chiefly during his pagan-revival period (in Paris, 1908–9), bearing it on his first seal ring. But he remembered it when he composed his pagan-revival play Julian the Apostate in 1939 (Kazantzakis 1956a, p. 282). The motto derives from the Eleatic school, its founder Xenophanes (ca. 570–ca. 480 b.c.) proclaiming the existence of the One: a single, all-controlling Godhead, as opposed to the Olympian multiplicity of gods.  1  I hope that Venizelos will be returned again:  Venizelos’s resignation ushered the nation into great cleavage between his supporters and those of King Constantine, the former agreeing that Greece should eventually enter the war on the side of the Entente, the latter arguing for Greece’s continued neutrality. Dimitrios Gounaris, replacing Venizelos, served until August 1915, even though Venizelos was victorious in the new elections held in June (not May). Venizelos was restored as prime minister in August but in October was forced again by King Constantine to resign.

To His Sister Eleni Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 27a; printed in Goudelis 1978, p. 24.

[Athens,] 2 April 1915 My dear sister, I just arrived from my new trip. I received a letter from Yangos that Anestasia has given birth. May the child have a long life and give her all the ­pleasure she desires! I’m thinking of having a child this year, God willing. As late as possible, because I want to be free. If I decide definitively to go to India, then yes because I’ll be away a long time and Galatea must not remain alone. My trip was excellent. We had rain, hail, wind, sunshine, springtime— weather’s every manifestation. However, everything that I saw and experienced will remain unforgettable.

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Kiss mother’s hand; give greetings to everyone. I expect a long, good letter from you as soon as the new commotion owing to the birth is over. I’m writing you in haste because I found myself buried in work the moment I returned to Athens. With lots of love, N

1  my new trip:  Touring Greece with Sikelianos.

To Ioannis Zervos —Manuscript photographed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 34; printed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 35.

Sifnos, Panayia tou Vounou, 13 July 1915 Dear Mr. Zervos, I’m finally living my life. An all-white cell, a pitcher of water, a little milk, a few eggs, and a tiny window through which I view the sea and olive trees on the mountainside. Then, outside, a large courtyard paved with flagstones, and over at one side the white tomb of the “Monachi Theofili,” on which I am now leaning and writing to you. Truly, I am most profoundly happy. It seems to me that I cannot desire anything else any longer. My soul has been liberated, and I have begun to write. I find myself continually under the wings if not of Victory then of Deliverance. How futilely people have complicated their lives with a hoard of stupid needs! From here, the absurdity of social life astonishes me. What is it all for? Life is higher, simpler. I sense it here in the courtyard in the evening when the sun sets, the moon rises, and the evening breeze blows. Or at night when I awake and, in order to believe in my happiness, open the cell door and see the all-white dome of the church and hear the dog in the distance barking at the moon. I inhale God like the mountain air, and my entire body sparkles from His presence. “Flight of the alone to the alone!” O how I would like those final words of Plotinus’s to become the beginning of a new, superior life! Yours always, N

1  Sifnos:  It’s likely that Kazantzakis, following his travels with Sikelianos, wrote on this island a work about Mount Athos that was never published as such but may have been incorporated into later works.  1  Flight of the alone to the alone!:  From Plotinus’s Ennead 6.9.11. His complete sentence is

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“Such is the life of gods and of divine and blessed men, detachment from all things here below, scorn of all earthly pleasures, and flight of the alone to the Alone.”

To Ioannis Zervos —Manuscript photographed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 36; printed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 37.

Olympia, 10 September 1915 Dear Mr. Zervos, I’m writing you a word again, because when I am moved I remember you and love you all the more keenly. My profoundest joy in Olympia has come from the labors of Heracles, that Orphean ascetic hero who performed his exploits so that, by working his heavy flesh, he could release himself from materiality and become God. I am entirely captivated by this inner significance of the myth, which stands before me as a sublime model of virtue. In Olympia I have felt a thickening of my various ethical tendencies, making me more austere, devoid of any compromise or compassion. Human beings are totally debased and dirty. There are only two solutions: horse whipping and Art. Since I didn’t happen to be born a Sulla, I will dedicate myself entirely to the enterprise of art, thinking exclusively of that so as to save myself from ugliness and to be delivered from “the ill-omened circle of grievous woe.” Thus, two or three living figures still exist upright in me. When I am moved, I want to communicate with them, joining hands with them above all the ugliness that surrounds them—even them, too. Everything else inside me consists of Greek bas-reliefs and marvelous religious icons that I have seen, exceptional verses that I have read, and splendid thoughts of the human mind—in other words, the essence of existence, that which justifies our struggle to care for our souls more than our bodies. I hope never to inhabit Athens again, God willing. If you please, write to me in Sykia. I’ll spend winter elsewhere. I might leave Greece altogether. Yours truly, always, N

1  Sulla:  Lucius Cornelius Sulla Felix (ca. 138–78 b.c.), the last dictator of the Roman Republic, often portrayed as simply a tyrant.  1  the ill-omened circle of grievous woe:  Kazantzakis is remembering (more or less) Orphic fragment 18: . . . κύκλου δ’ ἐξέπταν βαρυπενθέος ἀργαλέοιο . . .

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To Ioannis Zervos —Manuscript photographed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 38; printed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 39, misdated 21-11-19.

Holy Monastery of Saint Paul, Hermitage of John the Baptist 21 November 1915 Dear Mr. Zervos, I’ve been granted a small hermitage—three rooms (with kitchen) and the most elegant little chapel (pews, oil lamps, etc.). I’m living with a friend I found here; he’s undertaking an extensive lumbering operation using my capital. The hearth has a lighted fire day and night, the snow has affectionately shut me in, I’m at the peak of a wooded hill between very high mountains, and down below the sea deeply pounds. I have few books, but I don’t read them. I just smoke, near the fire, and have workmen who bring me oak and pine trunks to burn. A monk—Lucas—is my servant, and no worldly concern sullies my desire. If I were alone in the world, I would never leave here, because I lack nothing. However, around the end of December I will go to my horrible misery in Athens, although in March I’ll leave for my hermitage again, and as early as now I’m inviting you to come with me. Everything here is comfortable: rooms with every monkish comfort, a marvelous view, the monks all from Cephalonia—that is, interesting types. We will lead the hermit’s life in comfortable luxury for two or three months, taking long walks, fishing, and reading the New Testament, Homer, and Buddha. Only thus will we become “steadfast and immovable, abounding in the work.” But I still have my weaknesses, the clearest ones. That’s why I don’t want you to forget me and do want you to write to me. In that way my solitude will become double—more intact because all the pleasures that life can give will reside inside it. Always, N

1  Monastery of Saint Paul:  On Mount Athos. For Kazantzakis’s sojourns on Mount Athos, including the one in March (and April) 1916 projected in this letter, see Middleton 2000–2001, pp. 81–99, and, regarding 1916, for which we have no letters, especially pp. 94–95.  1  a friend I found here: Zorbas!  1  lumbering operation:  In October Kazantzakis had signed a contract with his former schoolmate Andreas Skordilis for lumbering on Mount Athos.  1  Cephalonia:  Kazantzakis was aware, of course, that Zervos was

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from a Cephalonian family.  1  steadfast and immovable, abounding in the work:  From 1 Corinthians 15:58: “Therefore, dear brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord . . .”

To Yeoryis Zorbas —Manuscript in Goudelis 1978, pp. 5–6; printed in Goudelis 1987, pp. 48–49.

Athens, Monday, 22 May 1917 My dear Zorbas, I’m arriving on Saturday evening with my best friend. I will grant him my house to stay there by himself. Therefore I’m asking you, as soon as you receive this letter, to whitewash the house and look after it, and on Saturday to remove all my belongings—clothes, shoes, everything—and take them to your house where, with your permission, I will stay. Best of all, however, would be for you to manage to rent the Eksarhouleas’s little house in Prinkipas for me for three months. Pay them in advance for the three months, eight to ten drachmas a month, have them agree to whitewash it and to have me stay there. That would be the best arrangement for me, and you’ll do me a great favor by managing it. This friend who will be coming with me is like my brother; I love him so much that I am turning over my house to him—understand. If you manage to rent the house in Prinkipas, I will be completely happy; please consider it a job. Take the camp bed we have in the office for me to sleep on. Galatea will come around the middle of June together with Farandatos and another friend of mine. Then we’ll need to rent another house. I received your long telegram and await your letter. It’s impossible for me to go to Thessaloniki. I await your letter to see how the work is progressing. The whole of Kymi, also Aliveri and Hasia, have been sold to the Allies; thus, the price of our coal is rising. I’ll be leaving Athens with my friend on Thursday. Get everything ready, the house empty and perfectly clean, also its minikitchen. And for me, if you can, prepare the Prinkipa house, and I’ll owe you much gratitude—otherwise a temporary room in your house. Galatea sends warm greetings to you and also to your children. With much love, Nikos

1  Yeoryis Zorbas:  Yeoryios Zorbas (1865–1941), the real-life character who was the inspiration for the fictional Alexis Zorba in Zorba the Greek. He was the foreman in Kazantzakis’s mining venture in the Mani in 1917, and he ­accompanied Kazantzakis to the Caucasus in 1919.  1  my best friend:  Angelos Sikelianos (1884–1951), distinguished Greek poet who accompanied

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­ azantzakis to Mount Athos in 1914, visited him in 1917 at the mine in Mani, K and was a candidate along with Kazantzakis for the Nobel Prize. But Kazantzakis felt alienated from him owing to Sikelianos’s continued aestheticism and refusal to embrace communist ideology.  1  Farandatos:  Yannis Farandatos, lawyer involved as co-owner in Kazantzakis’s mining venture; partner of Aristidis Skliros (see note to letter of 27 October 1917 to Ioannis Anghelakis, below).

To Ioannis Anghelakis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 81–82.

Grindelwald, [Switzerland,] 5 October 1917 My dear Anghelakis, “Shadowy mountains and sounding sea” between us—our voices cannot be heard. I shout, write every day sometimes to Galatea, sometimes to you, sometimes to Farandatos. I send telegrams, postcards, cards, letters, but I still have not received any replies and fear that the Italian contrôle at the border is extremely strict and sluggish; thus you’ll hear what I am shouting either later or not at all. That’s why I’m writing now on open cards, which go through more quickly. So: I don’t know anything about the books, and you can imagine my anguish. How are our affairs doing? Will you send me money? When? For better or worse I’m writing you the exchange rates for the franc: French = 0.81, English = 0.80, Italian = 0.60. Thus, it’s in my interest to receive French. Please write me two letters a month on fixed dates, regularly: one friendly letter in which the soul speaks about the eternal things that sometimes used to disturb us both during our evenings together, and one completely devoted to business, a résumé of the course of all our enterprises. I beg of you, please! My soul is still not serene. Like the pussycat who wants to give birth and races to all corners of the house—to the drawers, cupboards, beneath the beds—and is not pleased with anything because of the profound anguish and indescribable awe inside her, that’s how I race from mountain to mountain, searching where to give birth. But no, I sense that Switzerland is not right for my psychological constitution. If at least Sfakianakis would come! What’s happening to the carnet, for God’s sake? Stavridakis told me that it’s very easy to send it via diplomatic pouch. Write to me. I kiss you and love you very much, N

1  Anghelakis:  Ioannis Anghelakis (1881–1969), Kazantzakis’s lawyer, dear friend, and neighbor on Aegina. Kazantzakis was the godfather of Anghelakis’s

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daughter, the distinguished poet Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke. Anghelakis accompanied Kazantzakis to the Caucasus in 1919.  1  Shadowy mountains and sounding sea:  Iliad 1.157.  1  contrôle:  Inspection, censorship.  1  the franc:  The Swiss franc.  1  carnet:  Note pad, notebook.  1  Stavridakis: Yannis Stavridakis (1891–1919), good friend of Kazantzakis’s who served as Greek consul in Switzerland and accompanied Kazantzakis on the 1919 mission to the Caucasus, where he died at the young age of twenty-eight. He haunts the “Boss” in the novel Zorba the Greek.

To Ioannis Anghelakis —Manuscript in my possession, gift from Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 82.

Zurich, Freigutstrasse 14 27 October [1917] My dear Anghelakis, You’ll imagine my distress because I have not received a single word from Greece so far. I’m sending you this letter via diplomatic pouch so that you will be sure to receive it. Please give your answer to Galatea so that she may send it with surety in the way I’m writing her. I’m spending my time here like this: (1) materially: food with ration cards, very expensive, but not like Athens; (2) intellectually: nothing exists in Zurich except significant musical activity—no elevated stimulation in other things. Libraries exist; however, as you know, we don’t expect very much from books any longer. There are quite a few very fine paintings in the museum. I’ll go to Paris, God willing, in the spring. It is only there that I’ll feel my mind at ease. I’m not going in the winter because there is a terrible shortage of coal and heating doesn’t exist. I’m impatient for you to write me what’s happening with our enterprises: the lignite mine, books, Xenakis. I’m running out of money now and don’t know what hopes to entertain. As soon as they get to know me at the censorship office, I’ll receive mail on a regular basis and will be informed. Give my carnet to Galatea so that she can send it together with your letter. I’m waiting in vain for Kostas in order to climb a high mountain, because I’m still weak. The cities here are worthwhile for a week, then comes boredom, intellectual stagnation, unbearable bourgeoisie. The mountains in winter are splendid with snow and sun, without any wind, and with springtime temperatures. I long for your companionship in horrible Athens. I keep hoping for the miracle: that Galatea or one of you will come forth and I will exorcise my loneliness. Convey my warm greetings to Farandatos, Sperantzas, Skliros, etc. I’ve written frequently to all of them but who knows if they

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­received anything or if many letters were lost in the Italian ship that was torpedoed the other day. I shake your hand with much love, my dear Anghelakis. God grant that we may meet soon—here, somewhere. N

1  Xenakis:  See note to Androklis to letter of 5 October 1914 to Harilaos Stefanidis, above.  1  Sperantzas:  Stelios Sperantzas (1888–1962), university professor of dentistry; author, especially of poems for children, included in school readers.  1  Skliros:  Aristidis Skliros, lawyer later employed by Kazantzakis to help him receive royalties from the composer Manolis Kalomoiris (1883–1962) for his 1915 opera based on The Master Builder.

To Ioannis Anghelakis —Manuscript in my possession, gift from Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 82–83.

Zurich, Freigutstr. 14 15 November 1917 My dear Anghelakis, Today, exceedingly apropos, I received the first thousand Swiss francs you are sending me. I’d like to have a letter from you to see how our affairs are doing, because I still do not know which schoolbooks were sanctioned or how the coal, the mine, Xenakis, etc. are faring. A letter from you would give me much light and peace. Here in Zurich I’m staying at the consulate general because the consul is a very good friend of mine. I have a beautiful room and every comfort. Intellectual activity worthy of us—us Greeks, who desire what Europeans are incapable of desiring—does not exist either here or anywhere else outside of Paris. Yet Paris is inaccessible during the winter owing to lack of heating. One great thing exists here: music. Concerts every day, first-class pianists, competition between the Germans and the French in music and painting. But what I need is something else: a circle of vibrant, animated people, a sublime exaltation, a red-hot atmosphere of belief, joy, and discipline. I’m working on my own, touring the mountains. Sometimes Nietzsche’s face appears before me disturbingly, like a grievous premonition. That makes me want to be completely cured and to go up to an extremely high mountain so that I may be able to sustain the weight of my disquiet and aspiration without giving way. I think of you always with profound emotion because what unites us, I believe, is something very hidden, something having to do with racial commensurability: the same longing for the Orient, our Alma Mater. Here I have full awareness of my race’s superiority. When the whole of European civilization vanishes from the earth’s bright face, we will come once again,

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we from the East, to revivify life’s seed. Here I sit, I from the East, and like a spider eat out my heart in order to weave the strong cloth, the new warp and woof of hope. Please greet our friends: Farandatos (why doesn’t he write me, given that I wrote him so many times?), Sperantzas, Aristidis, everyone including Alfonsos. I’m writing Galatea to please ask you again for that eternal little notebook. It will be included in the Stavridakis pouch at the Foreign Ministry, and I’ll receive it for certain without any surveillance. Send me letters that way also—whatever you wish. I always shake your hand and love you. N

1  the consul:  Yannis Stavridakis.  1  intellectual activity:  Kazantzakis obviously had no contact with James Joyce, who was then living in Zurich, nor with others whose intellectual activity was indeed quite vibrant, such as Tristan Tzara (not to mention Lenin in 1916). It’s all depicted with brilliance in Tom Stoppard’s play Travesties (1974).  1  Aristidis:  Presumably Aristidis Skliros (see the previous letter).

To Ioannis Anghelakis —Manuscript in my possession, gift from Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 83–84.

Zurich, 5 December 1917 My dear Anghelakis, I just received your card of 4 November in which you say how many copies we’ve printed. You can send me letters with surety in the same way that I wrote to Galatea, without their passing through surveillance, and I’ll receive them quickly. What’s happening at Prastovas? What profit can we have from the books, and when? How is the lumbering project doing? What about the Halkidiki mine and Gkinis? Write to me about all of these because you can imagine how uneasy I feel. Oh, I wonder if we’ll ever be able to be relieved of these concerns and exist like free human beings? Here, I’m living the intensely inward, secluded life that I’ve written you about, the life of self-preservation, yet my concern about what’s happening out there with our ventures continues to eat away at me, taking away my serenity. These days I’ve just finished one work; now I’m about to start another, and I have all the nausea and apprehension of pregnancy. Tomorrow I’m leaving for Arosa, far away, on Switzerland’s highest inhabited mountain. May God allow me to find there what I am searching for, so that I may begin once again to roll up my Sisyphean boulder in the forced labor of my exquisite punishment.

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Europe has nothing to give us. My entire soul faces East, as does the Muslim when he prostrates himself and prays. In this heavy fog, humidity, and snowfall, oh how the azure mountain, the sea, a red rag on a date palm, the warm sandy beach, the Mauretanian longbow, the female fellah with the water jug on her head, barefooted, olive-skinned, high-breasted—oh how they leap up! My entire soul burns like Damascus at noontime; an Arab dance blows through my ten toes and sweeps me off my feet, peacefully, at the time when I am sitting in the European theater here watching their anemic, dwarfish ideas and pale fat women with gold teeth! Oh the aroma of an eastern harbor with its rotting oranges and watermelons, its rocking caïques left and right, its naked muddy feet! That’s what living abroad has given me: loathing of everything that is not Oriental and of my own race. I have discovered my Self once again, the descendant of Arabs in Crete: the African island. God grant that our journey to the East may take place now while our blood is still alive and flourishing! Greetings from me to everyone: Farandatos, Sperantzas, Aristidis. If they don’t write me, I won’t write them again. I’ve written to each of them three or four times. I kiss you, Anghelakis, with the deepest love. N

1  Prastovas:  The place in the Outer Mani where Kazantzakis’s mine was located. The town is actually Stoupa, slightly to the south. Kazantzakis’s dwelling was above Kalogria Beach, site now of a bust in his honor. The city that the real Zorbas visited to get supplies would have been Kalamata. Stoupa is located between Kardamili and Agios Nikolaos.  1  Gkinis:  Perhaps Angelos Gkinis (1859–1928), professor at the Athens Technical University.  1  Arosa: Swiss resort, 5,900 feet above sea level.  1  Sisyphean boulder:  In Greek mythology, King Sisyphus was condemned in Hades to roll a huge boulder up a steep hill, but before he reached the top the stone would always roll down again, forcing him to begin once more—eternally—from the beginning.

To Yannis Stavridakis —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from George Anemoyannis; missing from Kazantzakis Museum Stavridakis archive; printed in Anemoyannis 1995, p. 28.

Arosa, Wednesday, 12 December 1917 My aged heart bounded with pleasure owing to your small friendly care in sending me cigarettes. And I enjoyed once again the renewed youthfulness of my soul that—despite the “fatherly nature” of that old sophist, my mind— continues to be, and will always be, “water springing up,” a divine fountain,

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réalité jaillissante, a dove in love whose immaculate whiteness swirls in the dark blue sky. The youthfulness that bears its fruit twice a year keeps in­ toxicating me, no longer with dizziness and unconsciousness, as it did formerly, but with the brightness and solidity of Bacchic splendor. I sit here alone, burning, transubstantiating my desire and extending it in this heavy, muddy cell in which I am fashioning sadness, villainy, and malice into light. O god, how removed I am from joy and pain, how far I exist beyond frontiers, with what humility I stand outside and beat against “omnipotence’s golden barrier”! A tiny little thing makes me leap up, because I discern the law in every detail. There is nothing small or large for an eye that senses Godhead in its entirety everywhere, whether in the wing of a cicada or the wing of an angel. Everything is God’s throne, holy altar, tall chalice; everything is communion, unity, a leaping heart, “silence and grace.” Like an aged ascetic, I sense unabridged immortality in a small bird’s chirping. This small bird is my heart perched on the highest branch of my desire and looking down on earth as on a threshing floor filled with light, rumble, and action. Always, N

1  fatherly nature:  The manuscript is unclear. This might be πατρινά instead of πατρικά, in which case it would mean “from Patras”—that is, bourgeois in the worst sense, money-mad, etc., the opposite of what Kazantzakis’s wants his soul to be.  1  water springing up:  From John’s Gospel 4:14: “The water that I shall give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” Also Romanos’s hymn 79: ὕδωρ δὲ μᾶλλον ζῶν καὶ λαλοῦν σοι· / “Πρὸς τὸν πατέρα δεῦρο νῦν,” ὕδωρ ἁλλόμενον ζωῆς.  1  réalité jaillissante:  Gushing reality; Bergson’s famous description, originally cited by Kazantzakis in his 1913 lecture on Bergson. Cf. Bergson 1911, pp. 260–61, and Bien 1989, p. 250: “So, from an immense reservoir of life jets must be gushing out unceasingly . . .”  1  Bacchic:  Pertaining to Bacchus, another name for the Greek wine-god Dionysus.  1  silence and grace:  As described by Saint Irenaeus of Lyons (died a.d. 202), a key term in the ancient Gnostic thought of Valentinus (ca. 100–ca. 160), for whom “silence and grace” equaled Thought.

To Yannis Stavridakis —Manuscript missing from Kazantzakis Museum Stavridakis archive; printed in Anemoyannis 1995, pp. 34–35.

Gandria, Friday [12 April 1918]

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My dear, I’m unable to write you how tenderly my heart gamboled when I read your letter. This is the way I become suddenly aware of the blows of love. I have seldom felt, as I do today, how very much I am tied to you. To a great degree, I possess here the love—and fear—of an extraordinary woman. But my soul is not sufficiently large; it overflows and, like a waterfall, smashes the beaker positioned beneath that wishes to be filled. In the same way, my soul smashes this heart of mine every day in the act of filling it. The reason is that I have been overcome by another fear, that the crisis I am undergoing is extremely profound—namely, that I am the one being smashed beneath God’s waterfall. I am unable to write because all this strikes me as old hat, unworthy of us, crumbs offered to our famine. Not to fear anything from a woman’s love fails to be sufficiently large to contain my anguish; what’s needed is to fear my mind’s intensity, the incalculably dangerous attempt, my soul’s ongoing deadly assault. If I were less strong, I would suffer from mystical ecstasies, fainting spells, visions, bewitchment. Given God’s strength, however, my mind is firmly tied to the earth, and I see the forms of things in their wholeness before me. Also, my Cretan race does not easily give way to fainting spells! Please write to me regularly and at length. That will greatly help me, for I will sense in this way that you are by my side—serene, manly, sans peur et sans reproche. Elli sends you her greetings, and she thanks you warmly for the truffles. We drink lots of punch and muscatel wine; we walk, sit in front of the fire in the evening, and roast chestnuts. Getting up in the morning is splendid: Elli laughs, shouts like a child, while I remain quiet and happy, with low profile. I’m hoping that I won’t need to leave Gandria because the French win. Is it easy for you to give Guichard the Journal de Genève every evening to send to me? Here they bring only a limited number, and the agent will provide them for me only starting 15 April. Thus I’ll be much obliged to you until then if you order, etc. as many as you can from 2 April onward because I haven’t read them. Give warm greetings from me to Kyra. As long as you think I’m not doing any harm, I’ll remain a temporary replacement. I can get myself un-appointed just as easily afterwards. May God grant that we receive some news about Trebizond. Some action will be very good for me, nicely channeling my intellectual momentum. I keep waiting for a letter from you—but a long one, for it will do me lots of good. I love you and clasp your hand, N I’m worried because the money from Athens still hasn’t reached me. I don’t need any now, but please send another similar telegram if it is further delayed.

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1  an extraordinary woman:  Elli Lambridi (1898–1970), educator, philosopher, left-wing feminist; Ph.D. from University of Zurich; served as associate director of the Marasleion School in Athens, starting in 1930; first book (1929) was Bergson and His Philosophy; published an extensive critique of Kazantzakis’s Odyssey, translated Thucydides and other ancient Greek texts; sought to make philosophy comprehensible to nonspecialists. In 1939, going to England with support from the British Council, she studied under Wittgenstein and became director of the Press Office of the exiled Greek government during the Second World War. Returning to Athens afterwards, she endured the death of her daughter owing to a stray British bullet during the Dekemvriana episode of the civil war. Afterwards, she wrote constantly, publishing her translation of Thucydides (with introduction by Yannis Kakridis), and the first volume of her Introduction to Philosophy, the second volume being forbidden by Greek censorship. After her death, her dream of establishing a Philosophical Library was realized owing to provisions in her will and cooperation of the Academy of Athens.  1  sans peur and sans reproche:  Fearless and above reproach; originally “chevalier sans peur et sans reproche,” ­applied to a brave Frenchman of the fifteenth century named Boyard.  1  Guichard:  Servant in the consulate.  1  Kyra:  Myrsini Kleanthous (1892–1981), author of children’s books, later Mrs. Papadimitriou; currently Stavridakis’s girlfriend (mistress?).  1  temporary replacement:  Kazantzakis temporarily ran the consulate general in Zurich when Stavridakis was ill and went to the countryside and later to Paris. His calling card, in the Kazantzakis Museum, reads: “Dr Nicos Cazantzakis, Suppléant du Consul Général de Grèce, Zürich” (Suppléant du Consul Général = Acting Consul General).

To Yannis Stavridakis —Photocopy of manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Anemoyannis 1995, pp. 41–42.

Braunwald, 29 May 1918 My dear, Abandon “Women” (as you call them, with lots of perspicuity). It will always be good for them to busy themselves on our behalf, even excitedly with their hair undone—it’s the age-old history of women at the well of sexual desire. Kyra has now occupied a fixed, steady place in my heart and mind. Elli is fighting to find her place there. I know and respect the struggle and the crucial moment through which she is passing. Galatea cannot be endangered by anyone because, as you know, the two of us together constitute a rich Monad. You smile peacefully, fatherly and, as you very well know, are mistaken. Oh god, you cannot imagine my anguish concerning other faraway

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issues. Here in Braunwald the veins of my brain have opened, and I am working so well that I feel that some outside event will arrive to interrupt my happiness. Would that it were the great Yes of the Caucasus! For God’s sake, write me about that; don’t tell me any more about women, etc. Can’t you telegraph a word to Saridakis and ask him? I kept thinking about this all day yesterday—to urge you. They’re delaying a lot. Have they said anything yet? A telegram from them would let us know. Do me this favor unless you see some terrible drawback. At this point I have a full need not to hope. Kyra has written me something about Xydias-Trik (not Trikoupis, simply Trikala). What’s going on? Write me, since we three (Xydias–Stavridakis–­ Kazantzakis) are fated to constitute the opposition party in the Helladic regime in Switzerland. Write me and know that I yearn for you. Always, N

1  a rich Monad:  Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716) posited that the indivisible units of the metaphysical realm are “monads” created and ordered by God, who is the “monad of monads,” the incomprehensible Divine Unity.  1  you smile . . . fatherly:  As in the letter above, 12 December 1917, the manuscript is unclear and in this case, too, the word is likely to be not πατρικά but πατρινά, “from Patras”—that is, bourgeois in the worst sense, etc.  1  Saridakis:  Yioryios Saridakis (1905–33), lawyer, Venizelos’s nephew, employed in Venizelos’s Paris office until 1928.  1  Xydias:  Wealthy Greek living in Switzerland whom Kazantzakis hoped to involve politically, but who died somewhat later in 1918.

To Ioannis Anghelakis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

[Zurich,] 5 October 1918 My dear Anghelakis, I’m writing you today about an extremely important business. I also sent a telegram. I’m writing you (confidentially) concerning the conditions here, so you’ll know them. At the beginning of the war a contrôle entitled Societé de Surveillance Suisse (S.S.S.) was established in Switzerland. Only Swiss citizens are permitted to import tobacco, and a quota is given them based on their trade during the two years before the war started. Consequently, if we are going to import tobacco we need (1) to obtain a permit from S.S.S., (2) to obtain a permit for tonnage from the British embassy, (3) to use a dispatcher

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of tobacco who must absolutely be a Venizelist, (4) to come to an agreement with Swiss merchants who still possess a quota and have the merchandise sent in their name. I have succeeded (1) to gain a permit from S.S.S., (2) to gain a permit for tonnage from the British embassy, where I have made friends, (3) to set up a group of Swiss and Greek financiers with whom I will participate, receiving one-third in consideration of the two permits that I tendered and in consideration of agreements with merchants in Greece. I telegraphed you at once to reach an agreement with Isidoridis and to set up a group of financiers (with whom you will take part by providing the means of export to Switzerland). They should purchase large lots of tobacco, more than twenty-five thousand kilos, as much as possible. Telegraph me prices or conditions. When the transaction is enacted, you should wait until you receive all the relevant documentation from S.S.S. and the British embassy, which I will send you, and which must accompany the merchandise at the same time as does the name of the Swiss merchant in whose name the tobacco is being sent. Place of delivery: the best = Chiasso or Geneva. If this is impossible, then Marseilles; as a last resort, an Italian port. Payment: This will be made against a bill of lading that will be sent to one of the banks here, preferably the Société des Banques Suisses, Lausanne, where the equivalent amount will have been deposited and where our orders will be followed. Have samples of tobacco of every quality sent to me. You need to make sure that the merchandise is delivered to us in good condition. A Greek permit for exporting tobacco is not needed; thus you won’t find any difficulty at all. One more extremely important thing: Thanks to my relationship with foreign embassies (chiefly French and English) and with Swiss officials, I have managed to obtain export permits for the following items: machinery (agricultural, ironwork, textiles, etc.), steel, wood for building, medicines, and maybe chocolates, cheese, condensed milk. As soon as the tobacco is settled, we will assemble those items in Marseilles so that we can load the boat for its return journey. This might be useful in getting help from the government in chartering a tobacco boat. In any event, take advantage of all this with speed and secrecy because it will involve immense profit. I beg of you most ardently to write me immediately the approximate prices of the above items that I am able to export. Concurrently, telegraph me the prices of carob beans and olive oil in Crete. If you could have olive oil and carob sent to me along with the tobacco, that would be very profitable. I have already arranged with a wholesaler in Iraklio to furnish me with the greatest amounts he can. Therefore, make your inquiries with utmost delicacy, sounding out the Cretan market in a way that con-

1918 Letters  •  77

ceals our business, lest prices increase. (Telegraph me the cost of freight to Marseilles or Italy.) Write to me here. Note the word ANATOLI on the envelope so that it will be opened by my associates in case I’m away. I told Galatea to be in touch with you because it’s a question of immense profit if you manage to send me large quantities of tobacco, carob beans, and olive oil. (I repeat: be very careful with the Cretan market concerning olive oil and carob beans because I’m in contact at the moment regarding three thousand tonnes of carob beans, and I don’t want a rise in price.) I’ll be waiting. If anything more urgent arises, send a telegram. Always with much love, N

1  contrôle:  This Society of Swiss Surveillance (i.e., regulatory agency) was meant to serve the interests of the Entente (Britain and France) in the First World War.  1  it will involve immense profit:  There is no indication that this scheme ever took place or produced any profit at all.

To Yannis Stavridakis —Photocopy of manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Anemoyannis 1995, pp. 61–62.

[Zurich,] 1 November 1918 W.B.! You’re causing us lots of worry: first the marvelous vagueness of “everything” and “fine” in your telegram; then silence. We’re making plenty of guesses here; the mood is pessimistic. Pandos is leaving today, and he asks you please to telegraph him urgently as soon as you reach Geneva so that he can accompany you to Zurich. The business at the consulate is very well ordered. I telegraph Athens regularly and receive Greek citizens. I announced mobilization. I am fair, firm, and extremely polite. No need to worry. I await your news at every moment. I say to myself that if it were something very good you would telegraph me so that I could get ready to go to Athens. I’m filled with indignation concerning the degrading behavior we are being subjected to, and every morning I curse when the bell rings and I run, halfnaked, with the psychology of a beggar, to receive the telegram—the prolix lamentations—from the Agence d’Athènes. You, amid great events and things, should try to maintain intact the splendor of your wrath and judgment because, as I know, out there you can lose a little intransigence with the apparent justification of superior diplomacy or of necessity. If nothing happens regarding what we say in the memorandum,

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I will ask you to do me a great favor. I do not wish to remain any longer in Switzerland, and I do not wish to go back down to Greece alone and with everything up in the air—nor can I. Therefore, ask Venizelos if it’s possible for me to be appointed somewhere in the East with the title of consul: in Beirut, Jerusalem, or still further away, but always in the East. It’s a psychological necessity that I have, because either here or in Athens I will die from the boredom of inaction—or else I’ll cower in some corner owing to fear that I won’t want to work with you any longer the way I now do want to. I write all this to you because I have the discouraging premonition that what we have said in the memorandum was not taken into full consideration. Always, N I’m waiting for you to telegraph me whether you’ve achieved a definitive result. Now that you are near Venizelos, it’s a unique opportunity for you to speak to him and manage to make me useful. Otherwise, it’s my last chance.

1  W.B.!:  Weltanschauungsbruder (world-view brother) always used by Kazantzakis as a salutation for Stavridakis. In an undated letter of 1918 (printed in Anemoyannis 1995, p. 46) the word is written out in full.  1  Pandos:  Apparently an employee in the Zurich consulate.  1  Agence d’Athènes:  Athenian press agency.  1  memorandum:  Diplomatic report.

To Ioannis Anghelakis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 91.

[Athens,] 10 June 1919 The Director General of the Ministry of Welfare My dear Anghelakis, I’m enthusiastic because I have lots of work and am doing something beneficial without encountering many obstacles. Today I received a telegram from the minister, from Edipsos. He says he approves the memorandum that I submitted to him regarding organization of services for the repatriation of refugees, and he’s coming in three or four days in order to arrange the business fully. Does this mean that he accepts the entire design that I submitted? We’ll see. If yes, we’ll get ready quickly for the Alma Mater, and we’ll work zealously and with a system unprecedented for Greece. The struggle does me

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lots of good, as does the contact with people. As you invigorate yourself by swimming in the sea, I do so by struggling with the human element. Farm. telegraphed me that his matter has been settled. I didn’t find the Times Supplement of 3 May anywhere, neither in the bank nor in bookstores. If you have it, please send it to me. I’m hoping finally to receive a speedy answer about the two hundred francs. I wrote to the employee of our consulate, which received the money. I’m sure that it did not get lost. Write me about tickets when the time comes. Marseilles. I hope I can. I’m working extremely hard, indeed even at night now in the ministry. God’s entire face is gleaming inside me. N

1  repatriation of refugees:  Greeks in the Caucasus were being persecuted by the Bolsheviks owing to the fact that in 1919 Greece had sent troops to fight against the Bolsheviks in southern Russia during the Russian Civil War. The Greek government eventually agreed to transport these beleaguered Greeks to Greece and assigned Kazantzakis to direct this effort.  1  Farm.:  Perhaps Xenophon Farmakidis?  1  Times Supplement:  What Kazantzakis desired was the Financial Times, which did indeed publish an issue on 3 May 1919.

To Yannis Stavridakis —Photocopy of manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Anemoyannis 1995, pp. 70–73.

S.S. Kiraly again, 15/28 August [1919] W.B. I was exhausted again, preparing in one day my papers for Paris, finding money, reporting everything to Kanellopoulos, making him finally able to comprehend the refugee question (he was enthusiastic) and how it must be solved; then able to comprehend the problem’s political aspects, etc., etc.— until three in the afternoon when the boat left. All that exhausted me—with pleasure. At first Kanellopoulos resisted my going to Paris but in the end he prompted me, gave me a car, etc. He will telephone Venizelos that I’m going and will telephone Chrysanthos that he should wait, etc. O god, what a clear, dazzling mind—how rare! how Cretan!—that can formulate these totally simple things that throw Greeks into a tizzy. I spoke, asking that a regular postal service be instituted because they’re isolated. I was told: (a) a special destroyer would be needed for that, but none is available, (b) you are being sent newspapers and telegrams on a regular basis. I didn’t manage to see Katehakis. I left with the high commissioner so that we could talk and not lose time.

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Now, on the ship, there are a lot of Italian officers, all dancing the tango, laughing, and singing. As for me, I’m sullen, saying not a word; my heart, however, is like an April rose. My god, what joy I feel inside me, and how my body protects that joy, not revealing it to anyone! I did manage to see Pappas (Fotiadis’s brother-in-law). He told me very interesting things: that Venizelos had enthusiastically accepted arming the Greeks, but that a report by Katheniotis calling this solution impracticable has kept him from deciding. The high commissioner, on his own, suggested to Pappas simply that he telephone Venizelos that I’m coming and also that he telephone Chrysanthos not to leave Paris before seeing me. The patriarch is preparing a protest against Steryiadis because he harms the bishops. In addition, alas, there was an unsuccessful attempt to assassinate him. Unfortunately, I haven’t had time to learn behind-the-scenes activity to write you. I’ll wait until Paris. You should know that you will always be with me—a helping hand. Write to me in Athens at the ministry. I estimate that I’ll be there at the beginning of September. Write to me about Barbara Nikolaevna and about Popov. I truly sensed my heart beating again and trembling. Oh what a miracle life is! How the hardest tree trunk gives forth leaves and blossoms! The sweetest possible giddiness overcomes me, and I declare: Blessed be the parents who brought me into such an extraordinary world! 18 August. We’re finally arriving in Italy. I have the memorandum on the entire refugee question ready for Venizelos. I enjoyed the boat ride. I didn’t speak to anyone. I worked and went swimming every day—twice. It’s just that I wasn’t able to sleep at all at night. Paris. Bus strike. Beautiful day. My life as a student here. The coquettes wonderfully gorgeous, like images of Astarte, like the Acropolis’s Caryatids, brightly colored, bejeweled, totally sexy. I race to the Mercedes. Venizelos is gone. He’s conferring in the countryside with Lloyd George. So I wait. The next day, thanks to (all-powerful) Tsakonas, I see Politis. Cold, correct, he listens carefully to what I tell him, asks what the capital of Azerbaijan is. I tell him everything, and he seems very interested. But they have already made decisions: two days ago Chrysanthos had left for Athens with Katheniotis to organize Pontic regiments! I’m astonished, I say bluntly, at how stupid that plan is, and I explain our plan. He thinks and says to me, “Talk to the president, then leave at once to catch Chrysanthos in Athens. Whatever the two of you decide will be fine.” Dear friend W. B., Chrysanthos, that crafty monk, has made them change their minds. I asked Politis what anti-Venizelist influence he had down there. “Chrysanthos is a personal friend of mine, I tell you. I like him. But I have to say what I’m thinking. He is marvelous when he’s a friend.” “What does that mean: ‘when he’s a friend’?” (I relate to him the extent of his influence in the Pontos.)

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“That is your opinion.” “It’s not an opinion, it’s a fact. However, now that he’s probably a friend, he is invaluable.” “We have assigned the Metropolitan full authority. See him, speak to him, and, if you convince him, that will be fine.” Afterwards I tell him about your struggles out there, then about Katheniotis. “I know that Mr. Stavridakis does not like him.” “What I am telling you about is not Mr. Stavridakis’s opinion; it’s the conclusion of all the judgments I have heard from various circles that knew him. Also owing to his behavior in Constantinople (route carrossable).” However, he wasn’t convinced. Then I say to him: “The way the action for the Pontos is beginning, I am obliged to declare that I think it will fail. I have experienced the situation. I know the conditions very well, I’ve just come from there, and I say that this beginning does not agree at all with how things are today.” I stayed an hour and a half with him, and we parted. Venizelos came three days later. I managed to see him almost the same day: very tired, his mind focused entirely on the Bulgarian treaty, on Thrace. He seemed relieved that he had assigned the entire complicated question of the Pontos to Chrysanthos. “You see me tired.” (At first I sat opposite him and looked at him without speaking.) “I’ve grown very tired. I know that you have come concerning a very important matter, and I’ll listen to you with complete attention.” I spoke to him in a gentle voice, quietly, simply, with numbers, using short sentences. I was entirely at ease and master of the subject. Sometimes he interrupted me. “Why? Why that? How do you know?” I kept answering him immediately, with abundant argumentation. It lasted more than an hour. He agreed to everything—but: “I am unable to make a decision. I am extremely tired. Consult with Chrysanthos. He is about to go to Batum. He has a good mind. I feel at ease.” I departed the next day, chasing Chrysanthos. I’ll be in Athens on 4 September, and I hope to find Chrysanthos and consult with him. N

1  Kanellopoulos:  Panayotis Kanellopoulos (1902–86), poet, philosopher, sociologist, historian, frequent cabinet minister, prime minister in November 1945 and April 1967, each time for about three weeks; member of the Academy of Athens; exiled by Metaxas 1937–40.  1  Chrysanthos: Chrysanthos Philippidis (1881–1949), metropolitan of Trebizond in the Pontos. In subsequent letters to Stavridakis, Kazantzakis reveals his allegiance to Chrysanthos owing to the latter’s anti-Venizelist, pro-Dragoumis position (Anemoyannis 1995, pp. 76, 78); he also reveals his own psychic distance from Venizelos

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(Anemoyannis 1995, p. 82).  1  Katehakis:  Yeoryios Apostolou Katehakis (1881–1938), a general, born in Iraklio, who in 1919–20 was commander of the Greek military forces in Constantinople.  1  Fotiadis:  Alekos Fotiadis (1870–1943), poet.  1  Katheniotis: Dimitrios Katheniotis (1882–1947), military commander.  1  before seeing me:  Kazantzakis actually wrote “before seeing him,” but this seems to be a mistake, given what the letter says about Chrysanthos in its second paragraph.  1  Steryiadis:  Aristidis Steryiadis (1861–­1950), born in Iraklio; practiced law there; supported Venizelos; politician, cabinet minister, appointed by the Great Powers to be high commissioner of Smyrna.  1  Barbara Nikolaevna:  Barbara Nikolaevna Tamanchiev, a Georgian whom Kazantzakis considered the most beautiful woman he had ever met (Kazantzakis 1965a, p. 427; 1961, p. 514). In the letter to Eleni Samiou dated 28 September 1926, Kazantzakis writes: “Remember, once in Tiflis Barbara Nikolaevna said to me . . . ‘What do duty, homeland, and art mean? Come, let’s go away together!’” (cf. Kazantzakis 1965a, p. 428; 1961, pp. 515–16). In a letter to Stavridakis written the day before his departure from Georgia, he notes that he spent all day and almost all night (until 4:00 a.m.) with her, finally kissing her hand (Anemoyannis 1995, p. 74).  1  Popov:  Barbara Popov, another female acquaintance, whose first name Kazantzakis did not know until Stavridakis furnished it for him (Anemoyannis 1995, pp. 76, 80).  1  Astarte:  Goddess associated with fertility and sexuality, accepted by the Greeks under the name of Aphrodite.  1  Caryatids:  The sculpted female figures that served as columns on the porch of the Erechtheion on the Athenian Acropolis. The originals are now in the Acropolis Museum.  1  Mercedes:  Parisian hotel.  1  I tell you:  Kazantzakis actually wrote “I tell him,” which seems a mistake.  1  Lloyd George: David Lloyd George (1863–1945), British prime minister from December 1916 until October 1922; represented Britain at the Versailles Peace Conference.  1  Politis: Ioannis Politis (1890– 1959), minister of foreign affairs; active at the Versailles Peace Conference.  1  the President:  Venizelos.  1  route carrossable:  Literally, a road fit for vehicular traffic; perhaps the meaning is that Katheniotis’s behavior was unconstrained because on a smooth, well-paved road.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum, Iraklio, Crete; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 9–10.

Paris, 15 December 1920 Chérie, I’m leaving for Germany tomorrow on my way back to Greece. Lilika and Vasos are leaving two days later—Vasos full of enthusiasm and zest to take over the printing shop. We spoke at great length and remained entirely

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in agreement. I am very closely tied to him spiritually. I like him and have full confidence in his abilities. Terribly cold. Lilika doesn’t want to leave her room because she’s chilled to the bone. I’ll find you some beautiful things in Germany so that you won’t get angry. Do not forget me. N

1  15 December:  Kazantzakis’s date here is old style (o.s.), which was still current in Greece. The new style (n.s.) date (in Paris and the rest of western Europe) was 28 December.  1  Lilika: Elli Alexiou (1894–1988) author, Galatea’s sister; teacher; member of EAM (Εθνικό Απελευθερωτικό Μέτωπο, National Liberation Front) during the Axis occupation (1941–44); taught children in socialist countries (1949–62); imprisoned (1965).  1  Vasos:  Vasilis Daskalakis (1897–1943), novelist and translator who married Elli Alexiou.  1  printing shop:  belonged to Stylianos Alexiou (1853–1921), Galatea’s father.

IV  •  Fleeing Greece; Resident in Austria,

Germany, Italy

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 11; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 15–17.

Belgrade, Wednesday [4 May 1922 (o.s.)/17 May 1922 (n.s.)] I arrived in Belgrade last evening, and I’m leaving today. Tomorrow evening I’ll be in Vienna. The Serbian springtime was extremely beautiful from the train: rivers filled with water lilies and yellow irises, forests with blossoming acacias. I don’t think I will ever forget those acacias. Women dressed in heavy dark red aprons followed their husbands, who were plowing, while the women sowed seeds in the furrows. Large oxen with long horns; quiet, slow-moving rivers; thousands of pigs swimming in the swamps with their swineherds. A girl with bulky cheek bones and a red kerchief singing mournfully above the swamp. Grief, sweetness, indescribable compassion. Here, too, one finds the Human Being, the one and only, the humble struggler who sings, weeps, and labors. All these borders filled with hate and blood—what a horror! A Serbian beetle came in through the window, humming happily, and sat itself down on my hat. It had large, dark blue stripes and two black, silken antennae. Animals, birds, trees—what unity! How much better than humans, and how they serve the unknown purpose more surely! I’m thinking of Turks, of Bulgarians, all the people that we’ve been taught to hate. What sweetness has taken hold of my heart! I sent you all my spare money with Zorba. I’m paying off the four hundred drachmas that I owe you; the rest, ma chère femme, is my gift to you. When will you come? You’ll suffer from the heat in the railway car. I had wagon-lit; we were only two people in each car, yet what heat! From Belgrade take the steamboat to arrive in Vienna via the Danube. I was too late, and I’m in a hurry because I’m a little tired. Do you remember the two mermaids, the black ones, whom we saw at the station? They were my companions. At Skopje, where we slept and ate over the Vardar River, they put me in the middle. They’re acquaintances of Anghelakis’s and one of them is a first-class singer—the one with the protruding eyeballs.

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Don’t forget to bring me issues of Eleftheron Vima and whatever magazines come out. I want to follow what’s happening. The Serbian men resemble the Greeks very much, but they drink a lot, are drunk all day long, and are with women. The women here have lots of moustache, fat ankles, and frequently moles on the chin. Chérie, I’m writing you in haste, telling you whatever comes to mind in this horrible Belgrade heat. I love you—that’s what is essential. You are always with me; I yearn for the time when we shall meet again. Yours is the most honorable, daring, and well-balanced soul in Greece. Always, always, N My greetings to the entire troupe.

1  people we’ve been taught to hate: In the First Balkan War (1912), Greece fought Turkey; in the Second Balkan War (1913), Greece fought Bulgaria.  1  ma chère femme:  my dear wife.  1  troupe:  Galatea’s women friends: Jenny Manousi, painter; Maria Andonopoulou, pianist; Sofia Andoniadou, professor; Lilika Nakou, distinguished novelist; Dora Sotiriadou; Rika Georgala; Mitsi Peroti; Aimilia Karavia; Katy Papaïoannou; and her sister Marika Papaïoannou (1904–94), well-known pianist, student of Arthur Schnabel’s, who married Emile Hourmouzios, close friend of Nikos and Eleni Kazantzakis, who traveled with them to Cyprus and Palestine in 1926, and provided hospitality for Kazantzakis in Berlin in 1929, etc.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 12, 13; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 17–23.

Vienna, Friday [6 May 1922 (o.s.)/19 May 1922 (n.s.)] Chérie, I arrived in Vienna last night. The Serbs delayed us. As we progressed northward, springtime held firm: lilacs in bloom, apple trees, pear trees, whole forests of chestnut trees. When you come and want to leave here, you should leave during the spring so that your eyes will not miss this marvelous spectacle. The two fat mermaids helped me very much. They found a hotel for me right away and promised to find me a good pension, because they’re very familiar with Vienna. This city strikes me as intimate, like Athens. As soon as I get settled and quiet down, I hope to be able to work well. Saturday [7 May 1922 (o.s.)/20 May 1922 (n.s.)]

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I’ve been going around all day long, and I’m tired. Difficulties. I can’t find a room. A very good one was promised me on Tuesday. I’ll quiet down if I’m successful. I’ll send you this letter when I find a definitive domicile. Today I had time to go to two museums. It was a great pleasure to see Egyptian art again and also, in the natural history museum, the evolution of animals as well as a miraculously large stone inlaid with amethyst. But I’m alone and am suffocating because I’m unable to give voice to my emotions. Sfakianakis did me a very bad turn, I now realize. I won’t write even a single word to him, because one must not forgive various actions. Now, with our new conception, you cannot know how moved I am here when I see people suffering from hunger and despair. Good god, what misery! How long will it last? Today, for example, I went to buy a newspaper. A girl about fourteen years old came along. She was loaded down with a bundle full of packages that she carried on her shoulder. I went to help her unload and could not lift her burden. The girl laughed; yet her body was already misshapen, her shoulders stooped, her legs like reeds. Yesterday, a woman was sitting on the curb with one leg over the other and between them a horrible gray petticoat was visible and also her body up to the bellybutton, stark naked. She was sorrowful, cynical, and totally pale from hunger. What a luxury, of course, to be concerned about shame and nakedness the moment when you are croaking from hunger! “Decency” is a luxury for the rich. Oh! how perfectly I felt this “sister” of our new religion! Better the earth be destroyed, the firmament cleansed of contemporary life’s disgrace! I look at paintings, at beautiful bibelots in the shop windows. Formerly, even last year, I enjoyed these. Now I feel how unnatural they are—superficial masks hiding truth, enticing facades for the cowardly. I shout to myself as I walk along the wide streets, “O God, when will you, like the Great One who comes down from the peaks of Parnassus, descend like a violent wind to cleanse the earth?” I went and ordered a beautiful reproduction of Gorky for you and another of Rosa Luxemburg. They’ll come from Berlin. I hope you’ll find them here when you arrive. My program so far is to stay two months in Vienna and then go to Germany. But if you come and I get settled, I’ll stay longer. Afterwards, I need to write the histories. When I retrieve my German, I’ll become acquainted with Bolshevik circles. Oh, Chérie, if only we could accomplish a brave act before we die! In Greece at this point you are the only one who remains for me. Sikelianos and Sfakianakis took exams in my presence and failed. Lefteris has turned into a woman. Only you remain. I’m sending you the enclosed note to forward to those indicated on the back, because I promised. Get some postcards, copy the note, and mail the

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cards. Please do this chore because I gave my word and I don’t feel like starting various correspondences. Sunday, 21 May 1922 I hope to find a pension today. In the meantime, horrifying spectacles stir my heart. The enormity of Vienna in collapse is indescribable. A special police force has been organized to prevent people from throwing themselves into the Danube at night. But many escape this police protection and do jump, especially mothers with their children. At night thousands of women circulate in the streets seeking to offer themselves in order to eat. Starving sex! A more terrible sorrow does not exist! The other day there was a demonstration by 800,000 people. We’ll have a revolution here very quickly. The cause of this entire catastrophe is France, which prevents Vienna with its small hinterland from uniting with Germany to be saved, nor does it allow capitalists to lend it money. Today, before the eyes of an ignominious Europe, millions of women and children are being slowly killed by hunger. I read a most beautiful letter to a Frenchman by a German author, published in the Freie Presse. I’ve kept it to translate for you—so bitter, severe, and proud: “Do not write me sentimentalities,” he says to his French friend, his former classmate at university. “Whatever you have to say, say it clearly. Write your indignation in the newspapers. Friendly private letters are no longer sufficient. You are responsible—you, too!—for mankind’s crimes, since you are not screaming. Shout! Act! Stop writing letters! Place your shoulder next to mine, and push in your turn!” Wednesday, 24 May 1922 Yesterday, at last, I found a very good pension, six thousand crowns a day—that is, fifteen drachmas. (The black mermaids helped me. They’re called the Misses Dambou; ask Anghelakis.) A most beautiful room in which you’ll be splendidly comfortable when you come. Sunlight, nice furniture, on a very central street. Meals morning, noon, and evening. Alserstrasse 26, Wien IX. That’s my address. Please write it to Alexandria so that I can receive payment for Odysseas. I rented this room in the hope that you will come, because it will be very comfortable for you. Please, send me the spirit stove at the first opportunity. I have an absolute need for it. In the meantime, I’ll buy coffee equipment here. When you come, you’ll find beautiful things of this sort to buy. My God, I think of you so much, and my life strikes me as so tragic! As Buddha says, I am il sempre alzato. Always upright, always starting out.

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I go to concerts and museums. The change in me this year is strange. Art strikes me as a luxury. I await a letter to Alserstrasse from you. My greetings to all the troupe. Always, always, N

1  Sfakianakis:  Kostas Sfakianakis (1890–1946), a composer and historian of Byzantine music and a close friend of Kazantzakis and Galatea. He had promised to travel together to Vienna with Kazantzakis but had then changed his mind.  1  our new conception: Communism.  1  Gorky:  Maksim Gorky (1868–1936), Russian author who ended as a spokesman for the Soviet regime under Stalin. Kazantzakis had visited him in Moscow, together with Istrati, on 19 June 1928.  1  Rosa Luxemburg:  Painter and communist activist (1870 or 1871–1919), martyred by the German right-wing militia. She was much admired by Kazantzakis.  1  the histories:  Kazantzakis had contracted with the publisher Dimitrakos to write a series of history texts for elementary school.  1  Wednesday, 24 May:  Kazantzakis dated this 25 May, but Wednesday was the 24th. He was frequently a bit vague about dates.  1  Odysseas:  Play by Kazantzakis first published in 1922 in Alexandria, Egypt, serialized in the periodical Nea Zoï. Kazantzakis’s spelling of the title was of course Odyseas, owing to his system of spelling reform that eliminated double consonants. He published the work under the pseudonym A. Geranos (cf. the character Geranos in Toda-Raba, clearly a projection of Kazantzakis himself).

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 14; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 23–25.

[Vienna, end of May 1922] Chérie, if you suddenly opened the door to my room and saw me, you would feel very sorry for me. I am stretched out in bed, my face wrapped in compresses that I change every half hour. I don’t know where I contracted this eczema. You have no idea how much I’m suffering. I went to two doctors who made the wrong diagnosis and gave me medicines that inflamed me. Finally I found a university professor who is curing me. Alone in the hotel (because I haven’t gone to the pension yet on account of the illness), I make compresses, antiseptics, etc. very awkwardly—you’d observe this with much tenderness. I’m unable to eat, nor can I go outside. Yet I tolerate all this calmly and patiently. I haven’t lost my temper, although I greatly detest illness. I’ll send you this letter only when I become entirely well, so that you won’t worry. The one thing I feel sorry about is this: I lost an opportunity to be seen

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when ill by you and to divine, thanks to your look and care, that you do love me a little bit. A silly tear is issuing from my eyes at this moment, perhaps because I am ill, perhaps because I love you very much. All these days, lying in bed, I’ve been reading Freud’s famous theories about instinct and dreams. They would interest you exceedingly if you knew them. A large theosophical conference will be taking place here in a few days. I’m hoping to be able to attend. I am always expecting a letter from you telling me how you are getting along, when you will come, how the troupe is doing. Are you going to stay at home? Did you give six thousand to the National Bank, the rest to the Ionian Bank? Did you write my address to Alexandria (Alserstrasse 26, Wien IX) so they can send me the money from Odysseas? I often see a famous author here, a professor of psychology at the university. In his forthcoming work, as an epigraph, he is going to put a phrase of mine about love and will refer to three or four of my dreams that I recited to him. Oh, to become well and for you to come! (I’ll discontinue here, in order to add, tomorrow or the next day, that I am completely well.) 1 June The disease is giving way slowly and regularly but I am not allowed to go outside at all. By the time you receive this letter I’ll be well. Write to me, write to me. N

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 15, 15a, 16; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 25–31.

IX Wien, Alserstr. 26 7 June [1922] Chérie, my great pleasure in receiving letters from you during my stay abroad has begun again. If you only knew how I received today’s letter, your first! Good god, what joy! You eradicated all my sorrow. I was stretched out in a chaise longue, my face full of compresses, and was holding a rubber hot water bottle filled with ice against my forehead because the eczema has left the lips and chin and has risen to around the eyes and on the forehead. It’s been weeks since I went outside, and only the other day, when I thought I was cured, did I go to a lecture by the famous theosophist Steiner (the large

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conference of theosophists is taking place in Vienna now). But when I returned home, my eyes had swollen. I called the doctor again. He told me it was nothing, but I needed ice, quiet, etc. Your letter gave me profound pleasure in the midst of my illness. Nobody here cares about me. On my own I make the compresses (you can imagine with what awkwardness); on my own I get up day and night and renew the ointments, etc. But I haven’t lost my patience. I’m waiting peacefully for this small trial to be over and, in the meantime, I’m reading what I can here. I found someone to put me in touch with the local communists. They responded that they first needed to test me and, in order to do that, their secretary would come so that we could talk together. I hope to see an overthrow here very soon. It’s impossible for you to imagine the intensity that the horror has reached. Hunger, infamy and, next to these, people rotten through and through have gathered here from all over the world. They celebrate, celebrate, and involve themselves in infamy with unimaginable cynicism. Lots of music, dance, exhibitions of paintings, and, along with these, demonstrations by young men and women who work in factories. The other day they passed beneath my windows singing the proletariat hymn. There’s lots of action in Bulgaria. I’m sending you a newspaper clipping for Mrs. Lada to translate for you. We in Greece—only we—are a generation that has lost its steam, yet one that nevertheless will crawl along, limping, in the great dance. It seems that Lenin is dying. Trotsky, who will succeed him, will be extremely fierce. He’ll smash heads open in order to fill them with Salvation. Send me whatever periodicals you receive: Logos, O Noumas, etc. Send my address to Nea Zoï so that I can receive money, very well timed. If I can go outdoors, I’ll buy a mask of Gorky for you if I find one. Have you sent me newspapers? I know it’s a bother for you, but tell Anestasia to assume the job of sending them, without you being troubled. You haven’t written me anything about the troupe. Will any of them come here? Without fail give Anestasia the spirit stove, because it’s indispensable for me. Here where I’m staying things cost as follows: I have a splendid room, the walls are deep blue, as are the armchairs, chairs, and bedspread. Two chests of drawers with mirrors. It’s on a very central street, which you’ll like very much. In the morning I eat chocolate, tea-cakes, and jam, at midday and in the evening soup, meat, potatoes, and a sweet, and I pay six thousand crowns a day—that is, exactly twelve drachmas (the English pound now equals fifty-two thousand crowns). When you come, we’ll be splendidly comfortable. Sometimes, however, I would like hot tea. That’s what the spirit stove is for. Once again I intend to send you this letter only when I become entirely well, so that you won’t worry. You haven’t written me anything about Mr. Theotokis. Did he recover? How are you getting along? Is the pension continuing all right? 11 June

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I’m getting better little by little, forcefully. You cannot understand how much patience I need in order not to lose my temper, so that I can withstand all this misfortune all by myself. Happily, I’m much better today. The swelling on my face has subsided. I hope to be able to go outdoors tomorrow. Only then will I send you this letter, so that you may rest entirely at ease. Right now I’m thankful that you were not here to see me, because I was deformed and would have been ashamed. Life here is becoming continually more fierce. Everything has doubled in price in two days, because the crown fell. When I came here, the English pound was 41,000 crowns, today it’s 72,000! And it keeps going up. They printed 300 billion new crowns, so you can imagine what’s happening. It’s impossible now for the local people to live. Revolution is coming. Just now a renowned communist that I met here—Jewish, of course—came to my room. He is enthusiastic: “The knife is reaching to the bone; loads of people will begin to die now. Salvation is coming! Revolution!” I hope I won’t leave Vienna before my eyes see this great day. Really, writing can be valuable just as a slogan, to ignite hearts, to join anxieties together, to identify brothers. It is the impressive Precursor appearing in the wilderness. After him comes the Savior, holding a sword. In an attempt to justify my ­existence, I too am writing here. Some words are ripe, like actions. Oh, if we could only find such words to keep our anguish from dying, our soul from expiring with the wretched body! 12 June Today, praise God, I’m going out. I will breathe with such pleasure! What happiness to be healthy, to hate no one, to have a great goal in front of you, and to raise oneself upward! Good god, how much I have suffered—but serenely, because I understood that what I endured was nothing, just a caress compared to the world’s boundless misfortune. The vision of The Great Misfortune must not be engulfed by our small, insignificant miseries. This idea has given me patience and peace. It’s done! I believe that I shall accept even death with the same tranquillity. I am waiting and waiting for a letter from you. Send me newspapers without fail—that is, Eleftheron Vima. I don’t want to insulate myself from the horror of Greece’s anguish. Owing to my illness, I still haven’t gone to the embassy. I’ll go; maybe I’ll have something there. Write me about your life, whom you see, what the girlfriends are doing, how Mr. Theotokis is. For his name day I bought him a beautiful old engraving of Corfu, but I didn’t dare send it out of fear that he was seriously ill. Write me and don’t forget me. I love you, N

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Financial supplement: 1. As I wrote you, because the drachma has no value here, the money (five hundred drachmas per month from September and beyond) that Dimitrakos will give me I’ll write him to give to you, and you’ll give them to the Consortium in order to get English pounds. (Gerakaris will explain to you; he’s department head in the National Bank, and I wrote to him.) Thus, you’ll send me five pounds a month. But since the drachma will have fallen in the meantime, you will supplement the sum of five hundred drachmas with the money from Kakourdakis and from Manolis Georgiadis (who I hope in the meantime will send the thousand drachmas). Capito? Now an economic opportunity for you as well: The Consortium gives a fixed sum for the monthly living expenses of those residing abroad. So you may be successful in getting ten pounds; then you keep five together with your salary (accordingly you’ll have a substantial profit each month). If, on the other hand, they send the ten to me here, you’ll need to consult with Gerakaris or Stefopoulos regarding how this opportunity for you will take place. 2. Did you write Alexandria my address? 3. Did you give six thousand to the National Bank and the rest to the Ionian Bank?

1  Mrs. Lada: Dora Sotiriadou, a member of Galatea’s “troupe.” She was married to Professor Georgios Ladas (1852–1914).  1  Lenin is dying:  Lenin did not die until January 1924.  1  Anestasia:  Zorbas’s daughter, who lived in the Kazantzakis household.  1  Mr. Theotokis:  Konstantinos Theotokis (1872–1923), distinguished poet, novelist, and translator (e.g., of Shakespeare), who was dying of cancer. His name day was 21 May.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 18; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 32–35.

[Vienna, mid-June 1922] Chérie, a little while ago I sent you a letter about our financial condition. Now let’s talk a bit. I’ve been writing all these days, shut up in my room. I’ve been giving final form to “A Year of Solitude,” in prose. It’s written with sometimes very strong passion and always, I believe, with emotion. It still has my defects, but I hope continually to purify myself. These days of recuperation I go out alone and walk in the marvelous gardens here. Today in the lakes I saw multicolored water lilies, and Lindenbäume—lime trees, I believe—that have

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begun to blossom now. Suddenly I saw someone with a terrific resemblance to Dostoevsky. Identical—beard, look, gait. The masks of Rosa Luxemburg, Gorky, and Lenin that I ordered for you still have not come. Maybe you’ll arrive in the meantime and will get them then. We keep advancing here to the fated end, unless Vienna and Germany unite, when salvation will be postponed. Now that I’ve gotten well, I will come into intimate contact with the communists. I’ve written to Daniilidis asking if it’s possible for us to begin to publish a communist periodical here and in Berlin and to send it to Greece. But I haven’t received a reply; perhaps he changed his address. Five or six years before 1821, the Logios Ermis began to be issued here in Vienna by Anthimos Gazis, and this periodical prepared the national awakening of Greece. How nice if, once again, from here, we could start the forthcoming awakening, the human one! Always, whenever I hope for a tragic continuation of our lives, an intervention in Action, I see you the way I saw you—remember?—in my dream. I am moved because fate has given me the opportunity to walk together with you along this tiny ephemeral road of life. We started out from a dark point; we are going to another dark point and, in the half-lighted interval between the two, each distinguishes the other’s form—honest, pure, good— and is consoled. My soul is full of heroic bitterness, perhaps owing to my illness. Now I understand those heroes who worked despite bodily wretchedness. Sadness and, at the same time, owing to pride, not to generalize your sadness but to reach the other extreme—to invoke joy and health as a general law. Never had I been so ready to commit a brave act as during those days when I abhorred viewing my face—swollen, miserable, with two tiny holes through which my sight barely passed. Good god, let us not die before we are given the opportunity to demonstrate if we are worthy of transubstantiating into action all these things we say! When the critical time arrives, perhaps we will appear better than what we thought, perhaps worse. I’m reading beautiful books about Buddha and about Japanese art. I sent Lefteris a book about Einstein. Oh, if only you would come here with Jenny! I now sense that this individual is essential to my life. In this way, slowly, with detours, she has buried herself in my heart, and now whenever I see something beautiful I say: “Ah, Jenny, if only you were here!” Unfortunately, she strikes me as done-in owing to the mess her luck and weakness have made of her. Say hello to everyone from me. I’m waiting for periodicals—O Noumas, Logos—and newspapers. Write to me. I have no greater pleasure. The spirit stove with Rika. N

1  A Year of Solitude:  Never published; probably destroyed by Kazantzakis.  1  Daniilidis: Demosthenes Daniilidis (1889–1972), sociologist, socialist, one of Kazantzakis’s best friends.  1  Anthimos Gazis:  Greek clergyman (1758–1828), in Vienna, founded the periodical Logios Ermis; became a

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member of the “Friendly Society”; participated in the Greek Revolution; wrote a three-volume Lexicon of the Greek Language.  1  Jenny:  Jenny Manousi (1897–1976), painter; much appreciated instructor in the School of Fine Arts in Athens; a member of Galatea’s “troupe”; see the letter to Galatea Kazantzaki dated 4 May/17 May 1922, below, for a note on the full troupe.  1  Rika: Rika Georgala, one of Galatea’s “troupe.”

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 20; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 38–40.

Alserstr. 26, Wien IX 28 June [1922] Chérie, we are going through critical days filled with a silent, well-disciplined fever. As I wrote to you, a general strike broke out the other day: post office, telephone, telegraph, railroad. The government gave way in everything except the railroad. So the railroad strike is continuing. General strike yesterday in tram service. Now that I’m writing you, all the tram employees passed by in ranks of four, silent, going through the whole of Vienna. No shouts, no speeches, nothing. Like soldiers, in ranks of four, evenly, with a rhythmic stride that echoes in the immobile city like the vanguard of an arriving army. Rathenau was murdered the other day. I don’t know if I ever told you about my love and admiration for this greatest of contemporary German authors. I have some of his books at home and gave Anghelakis one to translate, but the office and petroleum keep him busy. There’s a great hubbub here; we’ll soon have catastrophe and resurrection. How disgusted I was by Nausicaa’s letter that described springtime in Agoriani in passionate words and her joy in waiting for Angelos! These peewee souls are still living an idyll; they keep regurgitating the eternal nougats of flowering meadows, of swallows building their nests, of thyme and fir trees. Good god, they should come here to see the great, true, holy springtime! We don’t have swallows. But we have cripples begging at every street corner, singing to attract attention. We have children who gather at the entrances of the large hotels and, as soon as the door opens, dart beneath the dinner tables to collect crumbs. And next to this we have the shamelessness of the rich—gypsy music, the shimmy dance, cabarets, and people fat and all flushed from beefsteaks and lechery. God, here, does not come down with anemones and swallows. He is heavy, full of wounds, and shouting! Who knows when you’ll receive this voice of mine! We’re shut off from the entire world. I’m impatient to communicate with Daniilidis about the periodical. The greatest difficulty will be whether we’ll be allowed to distribute it

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in Greece. We’ll see. Vendiris wrote to me from Monaco, crying out in his own right. We should meet, he says, should talk, should work. He’s going to stay in Germany and will come here; in any case, I’ll see him soon. How is the troupe getting along? Oh! how unemployed they are, how anemically they expend their resources! A shame for the young girls, because there are no men to maintain them today in their elevated disposition. Lefteris has written me a letter with fiery, missionary zeal. I’ll keep it so that you can read it when you come. He’s strange: containing both firm judgment and unexpected flame. We’ll see. Perhaps all these powers will soon be put to the test. I have confidence only in you. You alone in the whole of Greece remain unyielding, your soul never once giving way. I believe in you, unshakably. If only a single cry for freedom is heard at the most crucial moment amid Panhellenic cowardice, that voice will be yours. N

1  Rathenau:  Walther Rathenau (1867–1922) was assassinated on 24 June 1922 by right-wing army officers who were later declared national heroes by the Nazis. He was a wealthy German Jewish industrialist and author who was appointed foreign minister of the Weimar Republic on 31 January 1922 and who negotiated the Treaty of Rapallo with the Soviet Union, for which he was reviled as the promoter of “creeping communism.”  1  Nausicaa:  Nausicaa Palama, daughter of the famous Greek poet Kostis Palamas (1859–1943).  1  Agoriani:  Beautiful mountain village 850 meters (2,790 feet) high on the west side of Mount Parnassos, about 35 kilometers (21.7 miles) from Delphi.  1  Angelos:  Angelos Sikelianos, who was already beginning to think of Delphi as the site of festivals for the presentation of ancient dramas.  1  Vendiris:  Yeoryios Vendiris (1890–1954), journalist working for Patris and Akropolis; historian, author of a biography of Eleftherios Venizelos.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 20a; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 40–44.

[Vienna, late June 1922] Chérie, just as I was sending you the previous letter, the postman entered my room and gave me your letter. So I’m writing you again to describe details of my life, as you wished. I awake very early in the morning, at five o’clock. The streets are filled with workers—men and women going to their jobs. Now that we have a tram strike, they start out from the outskirts, where they usually live, and as they go you hear their steps, like an army. They eat a piece of bread, read the workers’ newspaper, do not speak—not a word.

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Well, I sit down in my turn and work now on my novel. I am writing a clean copy in large notebooks, so it will be ready. Maybe it will be printed in the periodical, if we manage to publish one in Berlin. I often work all day long, until seven. In the morning Marie (elderly cook, absolutely clean) brings me chocolate, a little marmalade, bread, and a newspaper. Mealtime again at midday. While eating, I read the newspaper. At seven ‘clock I go out (except when I was ill) and take a walk. My neighborhood is the best. To go as far as the Opera, which is considered the heart of Vienna, I pass through three exquisite gardens. I’m always alone. I have many worries. I’m suffocating in solitude. Sfakianakis did me great harm in not coming. I frequently go to the theater and to concerts. The other day I saw Hamlet with the famous actor Moissi. I go regularly to museums, especially to those of the fine arts. I receive letters from Greece chiefly from you, Velmos, rarely from home or Lefteris. Also from Skouloudis in Germany and Vendiris. Life here costs less than in Athens. Today I received the bill to pay in advance for July. Pension (food, room, etc.) costs me six thousand crowns a day. In other words, seven drachmas. So, when you get settled and come (oh! how distressed I am that we’ll move and you’ll have such a bother!), we’ll get along beautifully on a thousand drachmas a month for both of us, and with the remainder of your salary you’ll buy excellent things. But write me when you figure that our outstanding transactions will be completed, so that I can expect you here, and when we have our fill of Vienna, we’ll go to Germany, where I’ll settle down. Then you’ll leave when you’re bored. The opportunity with Gerakaris is immense. Please do what I wrote you to do, so that we give him a reserve fund for him to send me ten pounds a month. If needed, as I wrote to you, sell five of my stocks, after consulting Kastrinakis. As for the rest, whatever you do is well done. Where will I find Rika? Of course, she’ll write me where she’s living. Before you come, I’ll tell you details about your trip, to make it easier for you. However, the best would be to travel with a companion, because there are difficulties especially in Serbia. When is Nakou coming? It would be good with her. But you cannot know how much I’m waiting for you! I wonder if you’ll like western Europe? Who knows? Perhaps a lot. In any case, you’ll see something, you’ll enjoy paintings, traffic, multitudes of people, beautiful women, dance. Ah! that monster, Jenny! if she came, she would be able to keep you with me for an entire year! I am almost totally cured. I still take care not to go out very much in the sun. I still don’t shave, so the skin won’t be irritated. In every other respect I’m

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entirely fine. I eat well, sleep well, work a lot without feeling tired. I wrote twice to Marika Andonopoulou. Perhaps they fancy the postcards at the post office and keep them there! I’ll write her again today. Tell her. Thanks a lot for the newspapers, etc. I am greatly consoled when you remember me in this way. There was a little lavender inside a copy of O Noumas. My whole room smelled. We’re having cool, wintry weather here. It rains regularly; we also have splendid sunshine. Never any warmth, so far. Please, in each of your letters write me what actions you’ve taken for a domicile and where you’ve ended up. As soon as you get settled, leave Anestasia at Lilika’s until you return, and come here. I’ll wait for you here if you don’t delay too much, so we can go to Germany together. Please see Gerakaris as soon as you have Kostas’s money. As he’ll instruct you, submit an application to have their payments to me start in June. I see that our stocks have risen to over eleven hundred. Polemarkhakis’s advice has saved us. Paroritis’s critique of Theotokis’s Slaves is shallow but partially just. “Social ethography,” not a novel. Entirely correct. I’m at the end of these notes. My heart is always heavy. No matter where I go, I have no pleasure. I’m hiding. Everything that I do, write, and think strikes me as unworthy. And human beings are horrible, ignoble companions. I often think, furthermore, that the only thing worthy of our lofty nature is death. I love you. Would that I could see you again! N

1  Moissi:  Alessandro Moissi (1879–1935)—also Aleksander Moisiu—internationally celebrated actor, a protégé of Max Reinhardt’s, well known for his portrayal of Prince Hamlet.  1  Velmos:  Nikos Velmos, actor, editor of a satirical periodical.  1  Skouloudis:  Andonis Skouloudis, journalist, correspondent in Athens for the London Times.  1  Paroritis:  Kostas Paroritis (1878–1932), socialist novelist and writer of literary criticism in O Noumas.  1  Slaves:  Theotokis’s novel Οι σκλάβοι στα δεσμά τους (Slaves in Their ­Imprisonment) was published in 1922; the title of the English translation is Slaves in Their Chains.  1  ethography:  Greek term for novels dealing with manners and morals.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 21; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 44–46.

3 July [1922] Oh my god, what sadness! I’m experiencing all of your torment and indignation. Do you still fail to detest the Greeks? It’s out of weakness that you put

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up with them; don’t think that it’s out of strength. Weakness to break habits, to step back and away, to stop seeing those wretched, indispensable personalities of yours. If you were stronger, you’d abandon all this, find a room in which to store everything—that’s easy—and come here. The banks, etc. do not have an absolute need of your presence. We’ll entrust Anghelakis to obtain money, pay bills, etc. Dimitrakos will remit our salaries to the bank each month; we’ll be able to live. I’m aware of your malaise at thinking that you won’t have a home when you return to Athens. Although this malaise is so foreign to my character, I understand you well. So, as soon as you find two rooms and move in, then come here—at least then—to breathe freely a little. I say to myself: on the other hand, my companionship is so boring, how will Galatea be able to breathe freely if she’s near me? She’ll always keep looking toward Athens, toward her accustomed habits; she’ll lose her temper; our life together will become unbearable; and finally she’ll leave, and our love and mutual interest will resume from a distance. That’s the torment I feel every day. What should I do? What do I understand if I tell you I’m ill? You’ll come, you’ll sympathize and will care for me, and as soon as I get well, the old story will start again. Do whatever you wish. They’re throwing us out into the street, you find human beings disgusting, you are devoid of pleasure—yet you stay there, from cowardice. My life here is not merrymaking at all; I have sorrows that I don’t tell you about. For what purpose? The great remedy—a complete change of front—cannot happen. So, no salvation. Will we at least be given an opportunity somehow to die heroically, to spend all at once all the boring reserve funds of our lives? Very doubtful. Nevertheless, let’s wait. You won’t believe this, but if this hope did not exist, I would have killed myself lately. Because I’m unable to sleep, I start working at four o’clock. I’m in such a crisis. I’m not being misled by futile ambitions. My thoughts and heart have far surpassed the boundaries of the permissible. I say it simply because I know that it is true. I have tired you, chérie, but my sadness is unbearable. Write to me. Where should I send my letters to you? You’ll have letters from me at the old home; tell the postman. I don’t want Sfakianakis’s spirit stove. What an idea! I want the one you gave me, Theotokis’s. I beg of you, please send it to me via the first traveler who presents the opportunity. Maybe Nakou. I wrote to Sfakianakis not to take the trouble of sending it. Write to me, N

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 23; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 49–52; photograph of postscript in Dimakis 1975, p. 12, mistak-

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enly dated 1921; photograph of postscript in Elli Alexiou 1981, hors-texte, mistakenly dated 1921.

Alserstr. 26, Wien IX [July 1922] Chérie, I haven’t had a letter from you for days and days! What torment! As things go on, I feel that I possess no greater pleasure. I’m sad again. I got sick again, got better; I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve gone round to all the doctors, and the only one who I believe is right is the one I wrote you about, the university professor. It’s psychic turmoil that reveals itself on the body. Something like Saint Francis’s stigmata, he says. He told me that my psychic activity is abnormally strong and that the body suffers from the aftereffects. However, it may go away suddenly, and forever. Thus, I’ve remained in my room for weeks, struggling to work as much as I can in order not to have time for worrying. Sometimes in the evening, around twilight, I’m unable to hold back my tears. But then I pull myself together again. My great consolation is the thought that I would have ardent safeguarding if you were here. That does me good, even though I don’t have it. It’s enough that I could have had it. Right now, today, I’m entirely well once again. The situation in Vienna, from today onward, is becoming dangerous for the bourgeoisie. In the space of one month, prices have tripled because the English pound rose to 170,000 crowns (it was 42,000 when I came). The common people don’t have enough to live on any longer. Today there was a large demonstration—thousands. Red flags waved, all the shops closed at once, the cafés emptied out, and people went into hiding. No shop was broken into today. We’ll see what happens between now and tomorrow. The summer is cool here. It rains frequently. I can’t sit in my room without a jacket. The gardens are marvelous. More beautiful trees do not exist anywhere in the world. So that I can fix the length of my stay, I’d like you to write me when you figure, definitively, that you’ll be able to come. I’m planning to leave for Germany in August. If you do come, I’ll wait for you so that we may leave together. We’ll see Munich together (Vendiris is an hour away; he’s expecting us), and Nuremberg, Weimar, Dresden, Leipzig, Berlin. You’ll see so many marvelous things that perhaps you won’t feel bored with me as you pay attention to these beautiful things that you will see. It would be good if you could stay a while in Berlin, because perhaps you might arrange things at home so you won’t have any hindrance. Bring your manuscripts along with you, arrange with Dimitrakos, with Anghelakis regarding the stocks, and with Lefteris. Arrange things as though you were staying six months in western Europe. If you don’t like it, then of course you’ll return at once. If Dimitrakos wants, maybe he’ll print all the books in Germany; then we’d have greater

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economic ease. In any case, we’ll live more cheaply here than in Athens. But everything will depend on your soul. Whatever it wants, we will do. I received the newspapers and O Noumas. Thank you very much. It would be good to get rid of Nikiforos Fokas as well, but only in Alexandrian periodicals. Odysseas might be translated into German here. Someone suggested this to me. But now all those things strike me as so unworthy of mention, they don’t interest me. Sometimes I envy the childish naïveté and assurance of Sikelianos. Write to me if you have settled somewhere—I’m extremely worried. Where should I send you this letter if Jenny has gone? To Lilika’s? N Chérie, one more word. I don’t know how to tell you—I’m ashamed—that I never loved you so deeply, so desperately, as now. You say that you feel that I am very distant from you now. In the whole world there is no one I love besides you. You are the only individual existence that moves me unto death. As you say, I love all human beings, and in addition, equal to human beings, and for the same reason, all animals, trees, stars. I sense that all of them are fellow doers of exploits, like a sacred procession that starts out from a dark spot and ascends to another dark spot. No one knows why, or what meaning all this turmoil has, or whether this procession is for a wedding or a funeral. But sometimes I raise myself up above this sea of futility and throw a silent, despairing gaze at the sightless flood of organisms. I do not distinguish any faces—all are drowned in the yellow light of futility. I distinguish neither father nor sister, nor friends, nor myself. I distinguish only you, and I’d like to be able to make that entire futile, wretched, incomprehensible moment immortal. I’d like to keep seeing your face always, eternally, so that all the strength, the liveliness, the sexuality of your face would never disappear from my eyes. Yours is the only saintly face in God’s chaos. I don’t know how to utter tender words, I don’t know how to speak to you so that, for a moment, you will understand how much I love you. N

1  Saint Francis’s stigmata:  Kazantzakis made much use of his supposed “saint’s disease” in later writings. He gave the disease to Manolios in chapter 5 of Christ Recrucified. In chapter 24 of Report to Greco he ascribes his own suffering to an assignation with a Viennese woman! No wonder that this supposed “autobiography” is called “a novel” on the title page!  1  one more word:  This entire paragraph, although printed, is missing in the manuscript letter in the Historical Museum because its manuscript was given to Dimakis by Galatea. A photo of this manuscript (misdated 1921) is printed in Dimakis 1975, p. 12.

1922 Letters  •  101

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 25; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 55–59.

Alserstr. 26, Wien IX 22 July 1922 Chérie, I got your letter in which you said that you found a place to live. But where, how many rooms, which fellow occupants, if Anestasia continues etc. with anything? However, what interests me is to be able, here, to think of all the details of your life. Please write to me. Dimitrakos is going round Vienna on his own because I, unfortunately, have been in my room again for ten days. I hope that this ordeal will be over in a day or two. But it will come again. The psychologist who examined me is right. The doctors here—pathologists, dermatologists, etc.—do not understand what is happening. If this continues, what will I do? But I hope that if Sfakianakis comes and I converse with him, or now that I’ll be going to Berlin and will see Daniilidis, I’ll be able by means of words to channel this psychic intervention in my body. Laughter—ah, I think that’s what used to save me. For months now I haven’t laughed, haven’t spoken. I come and go all alone, like a rhinoceros in the forest, as the Buddhist stories say. I understand the hermits who suddenly were covered with leprosy while raising themselves up toward God in lonely solitude. Diseases of the skin are the most customary manifestation. This psychologist gave me a book that treats this subject and refers to a case exactly like my own. When you come, I’ll read it to you. When I’m able to read and write, I don’t feel very upset. The torment is when I am forced to be stretched out in bed affixing compresses every five minutes. Also at night when I have to change the compresses. If they stay too long on my face, I spring up from sleep because I’m in pain. Chérie, a secret joy has been penetrating my life during this illness because I am testing my endurance, because I don’t resent the shouts and laughter that I hear all night long through the window, because I cannot hold back my tears of joy in early morning when the first bird begins to warble softly, timidly, in the great metropolis. It seems to me that compared to all the harshness and malice that you especially have suffered (perhaps you alone), in me there is something very kind and sweet-tempered. Enough! I don’t want to write you any more about this illness. So you won’t worry, I’ll tell you simply that I’m at home now and am able to go out. In August, that is a month from now at most, maybe sooner, I’ll be leaving for Berlin. Daniilidis writes me that we need to meet in order to found the periodical. Therefore, please make a list of people who will want to help by sending a fixed sum every month. For example, one hundred drachmas from

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you, the same from Jenny. I’ll write to Sfakianakis and Lefteris. Write me what we can hope for also in the area of subscribers, because we’ll have expenses. Andonopoulou writes me that she’ll be leaving in two weeks. I wrote her to see you so that you can give her the extra spirit stove. So, it’s impossible to describe my pleasure when I light it and thus think of you and the day you gave it to me. I make tea at five in the morning and five in the afternoon. Send me all the attachments so that I’ll never be separated from the stove again. And if Andonopoulou doesn’t find me here, it can very easily be sent to Berlin. I’ll get you whatever Dimitrakos is able to carry. Certainly coffee cups, stockings, gloves, an umbrella, and shoes if I have your size. A bolt of muslin! But how will Dimitrakos take it? It’s a big nuisance at the border. When you come (how much longer will you delay?), you’ll get more. All this is a present to you from Odysseas, the peddler from Phoenicia, because I’ll buy it using his money. Sell Nikiforos Fokas as well and then, once again, we’ll see. Write me, yours truly, N Now I’ll ask you please to do something special: Ask Rinaki Alexiou when her brother is going to return and if he did return, because I would like him to finish, if possible, what we had formerly thought about with Eleni. From her letters it seems that her father has become increasingly sour-tempered as he ages, and her life is a torment. If you go to Crete, please go regularly to see my father. You’ll calm him down beautifully, and his personality will interest you. He already loves you a lot; he always had your name on his lips. If he’s out on the farm, go sometimes in the evening to see him. Oh, if only I were with you! To go along those ageold roads, to cut a bunch of grapes from the vine! Write me about Manolis Alexiou. I’d be happy if the matter ended thus. I didn’t write anything to Eleni, but I am certain that she’ll be happy with him. Don’t neglect this, and write me. It might be useful for you to go to Crete in order to clear up your uncle’s estate and to determine what we owe. Then, how happy you’ll be staying a few days in Skoiloi. I assure you that seldom in my life have I enjoyed such lovely days. I will always be grateful to your uncle Alekos and to Eftihia. I would advise you to take that trip. I just remembered: As you know, we have five bonds from the 300 million loan. The numbers are A 213836–A 213840. The first number wins a million. So keep looking to see if we win, because we need money for propaganda. (Drawings take place 25 May, August, November, and February.) And something else: Give as a condition to Grammata that they publish Nikiforos Fokas first, just as Nea Zoϊ did. On the first page. I might send Logos a part of the prose piece I’m writing. Good riddance!

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1  Rinaki Alexiou: Eirini Alexiou, Galatea’s cousin in the village Krasi.  1  Eleni:  Kazantzakis’s sister.  1  Manolis Alexiou:  Brother of Rinaki Alexiou.  1  Skoiloi:  Village near Iraklio, now called Kalloni.  1  Grammata: The periodical Neoellinika Grammata published in Iraklio did print part of Nikiforos Fokas in its first year of existence, which was 1927.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 27; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 60–64.

[Vienna,] 6 August [1922] Comrade! All day today I’ve had the most gentle, quivering joy, because I’m beginning to heal. Consciously, happily, I feel that I am being born anew, that I am beginning once again to take possession of the light. Oh god, to be well! That’s all I want. It’s as though I never walked upon the earth in a healthy state: such is the curiosity and emotion that I am feeling now that I am beginning (I hope) to become well again. I leave Vienna in three weeks. I’m waiting for Dimitrakos to come from Leipzig, to tell him about the things you ordered. If I am well tomorrow, I’ll buy shoes for you. In the photos that Vasos sent me, it was a pleasure to see your face in the waves. How fully I sensed your joy as you were in the sun and water there! The translator of Odysseas came yesterday; he keeps telephoning me to express his admiration. He brought me the first ten pages, translated. He’ll find a publisher, etc. And he will undertake afterwards to translate Nikiforos Fokas and all the rest. He is of Greek ancestry, born in Vienna, where he received his degree. I’ll let him do it, without coaching. If he only knew how little those plays express my anguish and the vision of life that is opening up inside me. By means of the intelligible Word I will never succeed in freeing myself from the outcry that is tearing apart my innards. However, I will besiege that outcry’s meaning as well as I can with works of art, and perhaps someone else, better than me, will achieve the victory. Lefteris sent me the first part of his play Odysseus Unbound. Strange! What are you writing? Whenever you write something good, send it to me. I am absolutely convinced regarding the high quality of your work. If I had your technical mastery, I would be a great man. Unfortunately, I am incapable of self-restraint. I give myself over to the flood let loose by my brain and do not select. No matter! I keep struggling, doing my duty. I’m interested more in indestructible, unyielding struggle than in victory. 7 August

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I went outdoors today, almost entirely well. The doctor assured me that I will have been cured within three days. May God grant! I bought you two pairs of shoes that I like. One is fashionable, pointed, and stitched. The other is the familiar American kind, because I didn’t dare buy you two fashionable pairs, afraid that Athens still would not be accustomed to such style. Write to me immediately if you like them. The color is dark olive. That leaves the stockings, gloves, and cups. Oh if only I could keep sending you wooden objects: beautifully elegant dressing tables, bookcases, bowls. But it’s impossible. When you come, we’ll see about it. O Noumas, periodicals, whatever Greek book is printed—don’t forget me. It’s a shame that you are unable to read German. The things printed every day in Germany are indescribable. I’ve bought a pile of books and will get as many as I can in Berlin, especially about Asian civilization and about the Russians. A few days ago a gorgeous critical study of contemporary Russian literature was published. The momentum of today’s German mind is indescribable. Really, if there is a certain provocative value for someone to live in the midst of an intellectual whirlwind, Berlin is today’s central vortex. Don’t forget Theocritus’s Idylls. I think we have a hardback copy (red and black). Did you get the books we gave to be bound at Rados’s bindery? Don’t forget to speak to Rinaki Alexiou regarding the matter I wrote you about. I’m waiting impatiently for you to write me. It’s necessary for this to end, because Eleni’s life seems to be unbearable. 9 August Dimitrakos has still not returned from Leipzig. When you come here, it will be better to be winter so that you can see entirely new landscapes. Let it be October or November, in which case you’ll also experience the autumn. I wrote Daniilidis to find me two rooms and not one room, because you’ll come in the autumn. I’ll be living surrounded by trees, outside of Berlin, and you’ll like it a lot. Only: God grant that I be well! I went outside again yesterday, trembling, but fortunately I was fine as I walked around. Oh, it seems to me that I have never enjoyed good health. I believe that a higher good does not exist. The prose piece that I am writing is turning out to be exceedingly beautiful. I surmise that some sort of business is taking place inside me that is delivering me from various weaknesses. Thus, having remained here all alone and ill, I have undergone a trial that benefited me. I’m in a hurry to print whatever I’ve written up to now so that I may devote myself entirely to a new work of mine that is clearly theological. I have already sketched out its skeleton; it will be very difficult. Oh, if only I can find peace somewhere and be sure that you are well, are working, and sometimes remember me! I desire nothing else. To work, to work impetuously, faithfully, indestructibly. To say, like the stonecutter who sits in front of a mountain with a small hammer in his hand: “You see,

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I need to keep chipping away at this mountain in order to build houses, schools, factories. Until I die.” That’s the way I, too, would like to work, because the years are going by, and I still have not done anything. I’d like you to send me “Sick City” while I’m still here in Vienna. I wish I could have it translated by my friend. Your plays are very “Hellenic” and will be incomprehensible here, but send them to me. I’m going to dedicate Odysseas to Hauptmann, who has also written an Odysseas. Only, I need to find a publisher; otherwise printing it will cost me five to six thousand drachmas, and I don’t have them. We’ll see. Keep writing me regularly about the details of your life. Whom are you seeing, what are you reading, what pleasures, what sorrows? I see Dora is with you. Isn’t Varnalis there? Where is Theotokis? You never write to me. Are you and Anestasia getting along all right? Do your quarters have conveniences? A shame, only, that they’re on the ground floor. I’m awaiting your letters. Write me Jenny’s address. Rika did not appear.

1  Vasos:  Vasilis Daskalakis, novelist, translator, amateur photographer; Galatea’s second husband.  1  outcry:  This translates one of Kazantzakis’s favorite words, κραυγή. The fuller meaning is something like “a vehement expression of hope, discontent, expectation, etc.” Cf. clamor.  1  Sick City:  Novella by Galatea about the refuge for lepers on the islet of Spinalonga off the coast of Crete; published in Alexandria, Egypt, in 1914 in the periodical Nea Zoï.  1  who has written an Odysseas:  Gerhart Hauptmann, Der Bogen des Odysseus (Berlin: S. Fischer, 1914).  1  Dora: Dora Moatsou, poet, Varnalis’s wife.  1  Varnalis:  Kostas Varnalis (1883–1974), poet, prose writer, and critic who after 1917 became one of Greece’s most preeminent Marxist intellectuals.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 31; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 71–74.

Berlin 1 September 1922 Chérie, after a lot of trouble I’ve found a place to live in a lovely suburb of Berlin, a sort of Kifissia. I’ve been entirely—miraculously!—well ever since leaving Vienna. I’m just tired from house hunting. Daniilidis is marvelous, very fine. We have begun all the preliminary work for the periodical. We found the leading communists here in Germany: scholars, artists, also some fellow travelers. All we need is to address ourselves to the Greeks. Today I’m writing to the following: Papanastasiou, Farmakidis, Andreadis, Papandreou, Doxiadis,

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Anastasiadis, Skouriotis, Dimitriadis (sculptor), Koutoupis, K. Rados. I’m asking them please to allow us to list their names as supporters and to send us material when they can. As soon as we receive their consent, we’ll publish the announcement and will seek people to sign up as subscribers. The periodical will be called Nova Graecia (indispensable title for its appearance in Europe and for its future development), an organ of the association “Osoi zondanoi.” Our contacts here are chiefly Russians. Yesterday evening I went and visited the Kastanakises for the first time. They live in Zehlendorf, in our neighborhood. The wife is charming, and they both greet you most warmly and will write you to come and see the most exceptional Russian men and women: communists, dancers, singers. There’s a great deal of action, so much that the other day a Russian wrote: “Berlin is a beautiful city, but it has many . . . Germans!” The Kastanakises promised to introduce me to their circles. When you come, I am sure that you’ll be so pleased you’ll stay a long time. Now you’ve got to make propaganda for us for the periodical. It will be published once a month, 120 pages, splendid original material. Subscription one hundred drachmas a year. But we also need donations. To establish the basis, I’ll give what I have: the coupons I brought with me—that is, up to fifty English pounds. Jenny ought to give, and Sfakianakis. I’ll write as well to Eva Sikelianou to send us one hundred dollars. I’m convinced that we will soon become a significant organizing force and will enlighten Greece’s darkness as much as we can. Portions will be written in French and German so that we can communicate with western Europe, which possesses splendid elements. I’m beginning by translating several poems by a young German poet, Klabund, who is full of heartbreak, indignation, and power. Kastanakis will begin by translating for us the marvelous poems of the Russian poet Blok, who died of famine last year in Russia. I have a terrific amount of work. I managed to get settled in my lodgings only today. I don’t know how I’ll do it all in time. I got a pile of books that I will read in order to set up Dimitrakos’s two series. I’ll be forced to translate some of them myself. Write me if you know anyone who can translate German for us. In addition, I’ll entrust you with finding someone good (perhaps Avyeris) to translate French for me (perhaps Paul Adam’s Irène). Comrade, a few days from now please go and find the people to whom I wrote about becoming supporters (or write to some of them) and obtain their written consent to allow us to enter their names among the supporters of our periodical. If we forgot anyone good, suggest him. It’s understood that you will be the periodical’s center in Athens; those in Greece who desire contact will apply to you. Oh, you cannot know how ardently I am thinking about humanity’s conflagration and resurrection! How impatient I am to receive a letter from you! How did you get along in Crete? Write me the details. Didn’t Antonopoulou go to Vienna? If yes, write me her address without fail. And also write me Rika’s. Write me about the whole troupe.

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I’m writing you in haste because I’m very tired. Get in touch with Dimitrakos to have him deposit for the Consortium the drachmas that we have (you keep one thousand from mine to pay for your trip here). Have him send the money to me together with his drachmas (he’ll send me three thousand for the translators here), so that I don’t waste a lot of time at the bank. I’m awaiting your letter. and am always yours truly, N If you send Nikiforos Fokas, write to them to send me the money c/o a bank here, because otherwise I’ll wait a whole month to collect it. Tomorrow I’ll write to you more serenely.

1  Kifissia: Upscale suburb of Athens with deluxe hotels and luxurious villas.  1  Papanastasiou:  Alexandros Papanastasiou (1876–1936), socialist politician.  1  Farmakidis:  Xenophon Farmakidis (1875–1943), folklorist from Cyprus.  1  Andreadis:  Andreas Andreadis (1876–1935), university professor of economics and statistics.  1  Papandreou:  George Papandreou (1888– 1968), lawyer and politician; director of Venizelos’s political office, 1916; minister of education in Venizelos’s government, 1930–32, greatly reforming the educational system; prime minister, 1944–45; great friend and supporter of Kazantzakis.  1  Doxiadis:  Apostolos Doxiadis (1874–1942), physician.  1  Anastasiadis: Elias Anastasiadis (1879–1949), professor of European law at the University of Athens.  1  Skouriotis:  Panayis Skouriotis (1881–1960), lawyer, director general of penology in the Ministry of Justice; governor of Iraklio prefecture in a Venizelos government; active in prison reform and the democratic cause; dismissed from his position in the ministry by the royalists in 1933.  1  Dimitriadis:  Kostas Dimitriadis (1881–1944), sculptor, director of the School of Fine Arts in Athens.  1  Koutoupis:  Thalis Koutoupis (1870– 1935), politician and journalist.  1  Rados:  Konstandinos Rados (1862–1931), journalist and author of nautical stories.  1  Nova Graecia:  “New Greece.” In the Byzantine period, especially the sixth century and following, the Greekspeaking deep south of Italy was known at Nova Graecia. In the eighteenth century and following, the area south of Naples—Apulia, Calabria, Sicily— became part of the Grand Tour taken by wealthy British men to Nova Graecia. Kazantzakis therefore chose a title that already connected Greece with his prospective European readership.  1  Osoi zondanoi:  “All the Living,” the title of a 1911 book by Ion Dragoumis concerned with the ideal future of the Greek nation. Ion Dragoumis (1878–1920), a nationalistic intellectual much admired by Kazantzakis, was opposed to Venizelos, which resulted in Dragoumis’s assassination in Athens by pro-Venizelists on 31 July/13 August 1920, the day after the failed attempt to assassinate Venizelos in Paris.  1  Kastanakises:  Loukas Kastanakis (1890–1956), journalist, and Mili Kastanaki, who had previously lived many years in Russia.  1  Eva Sikelianou: Eva

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Palmer (1874–1952), wealthy American socialite, married Angelos Sikelianos in Bar Harbor, Maine, on 9 September 1907. The newspaper account (New York Times, 10 September 1907) noted, “Miss Palmer created a mild sensation some time ago by renouncing modern dress and adopting the classic Greek tunic and sandals.” She was instrumental in financing Sikelianos’s Delphic program and in teaching Greek actresses to dress like figures on ancient Greek vases, something that was very much not appreciated by Kazantzakis. Bankrupted by the Delphic festivals, she returned to America in the 1930s and divorced Sikelianos in 1934. But after he died (1951), she returned the next year to die, herself, in Greece and be buried beside him at Delphi.  1  Klabund:  Pseudonym of Alfred Henschke (1890–1928), German expressionist poet, playwright, and novelist who adapted and translated Oriental literature, including Der Kreidekreis (1924), which inspired Bertolt Brecht to write Der kaukasische Kreidekreis (The Caucasian Chalk Circle).  1  Blok:  Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok (1880–1921), lyrical poet who became disillusioned with the Russian Revolution and was denied a visa to go abroad for medical treatment, leading to his death.  1  Paul Adam:  French novelist (1862–1920).

To Rev. Emmanuel Papastefanou —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; partial manuscript in Mitsotakis 1972, pp. 9, 24; printed version in Mitsotakis 1972, pp. 53–59; partial translation in Kazantzakis 1974, pp. 86–88; translation in Kazantzakis 1979, pp. 25–26.

Lichterfelde West Unter den Eichen 63 Berlin 5 September 1922 Brother Papastefanou! Seldom has a letter moved me so much as I was moved by your last letter. I was buried in the wilderness and was crying out the Word to stones and water. I said to myself: “Our first duty is to cry out, to cry out in the wilderness!” Good god, how alone I was, how certain and despairing! Here, western Europe is rotting. All of the beautiful works of art that even last year moved me profoundly and filled my heart, this year I feel how small, narrow, and unworthy they are any longer for humanity’s huge, contemporary hope. Fine art is beautiful, and so are music, poetry, Dante, Homer. The conclusions reached after countless centuries by humanity’s efforts in beauty, thought, and action are marvelous. But now all these seem to me like empty cast-off snakeskins, like solidified forms of a body that has passed on and now, uneasy and naked, shivering in the hostile atmosphere, is struggling to create its new embodiment.

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I roam the streets like Mohammed, who, running with his iron staff, shrieked at all the false gods of the Casbah. After seven years of preaching, his followers were only eleven, mostly women. Oh, the day they were expelled and the eleven houses closed and they took the road of exile! Oh god, when will the persecution start for us? But first must come the preaching. I think I am going to die of anguish. I cannot do it. I do not have the strength any longer to begin. My mind is fully armed, but I am unable to take the frightening leap. I am struggling here, besieging the critical moment. I fell ill. Now I am better and will continue the struggle. I say to myself: I will complete Symposium, a book I’m writing—a commentary on our religion, credo, Decalogue. We (you, Lefteris, Sfakianos, Sikelianos, and two women) converse about God, sitting around a table. Just as Plato spoke about love, we speak about God. That’s why I beg of you most ardently to write me in the greatest possible detail about your view of God’s origin. In this way you will greatly help me to put into your mouth words that are precisely appropriate for you. Each of us will incarnate the new form of the Struggler consistent with his particular soul. On a piece of paper, I am writing you the provisional formulation of our Decalogue. It would be good for each of us to make a “Credo,” a “Decalogue,” a dogmatic program, in order to think out the religion of all of us, and then to give it a definitive formulation in a synod that we will hold. To help us, I have divided the material as follows: 1. Substance of divinity (struggle, pain, joy, hope, etc.) 2. Relation between God and man: religion, metaphysics, art 3. Relation between man and man: ethics, philosophy, love 4. Relation between man and nature: experience, science, identity: En to pan But we need to be together for me to be able to explain all my thoughts in detail. Unfortunately, I never want to come to America. I don’t feel any attraction. When will you return to the old world? In two or three years? Perhaps you’ll find me still in western Europe. With a friend of mine, I intend to found a periodical (not a literary one). It will prepare our route sociologically. It will be communist, seeking the overthrow of bourgeois regimes. It will desire the “conversion into flame,” as the Stoics used to say—in other words, for the earth to be cleansed by fire (just as hayfields are scorched) so that new seed may be sown. We are going to organize the Greeks into leagues, three levels of Osoi zondanoi: The first (open) = to educate the common people in intellectual, economic, political, and religious freedom The second (hidden) = conversion into flame, the overthrow of contemporary life The third (totally mystical, our own) = religion

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But I’ll write you later, separately, about the periodical. Are there young people in America who can be organized, even on just the first level? Write me long letters, regularly. If I delay a little, don’t worry. I’m suffocating with anguish. Your voice, from the ocean’s other side, is saving me. N   1. I am the Struggling One. Without respite, I suffer, rejoice, and hope. I am not all-powerful. Internally enslaved, I fight for freedom.   2. You are my Father and my Son—collaborator, Lover, Bridegroom. Together with me, let us wage war.   3. The salvation of heaven and earth depends upon you. You bear the entire cosmos on your shoulders at every moment.   4. Listen to your heart and follow me. My path is sacrifice. Shatter your body and regain your sight: all of us are One.   5. Love human beings because you are a human being.   6. Love flora and fauna because they were what you were. Plants and animals follow you now as faithful collaborators and servants.   7. Love your body. On this earth, it is only with the body that you may wage war and spiritualize matter.   8. Love matter. Hiding within it, I wage war. Liberate me!   9. Bravely hold the narrow pass that I entrusted to you in battle. We may be saved; we may be lost. It depends upon us. 10. Await death with confidence. Death is the chosen Leader. I am the one who mobilizes the Battalion of Immortals. N

1  Rev. Emmanuel Papastefanou: Cretan friend (1883­–1955) of Kazantzakis’s from around 1905 onward; ordained a priest in 1920; departed for America in 1921. For a useful commentary in their relationship, see Stamatiou 1975.  1  Symposium:  The plan described here does not conform to what we see in the definitive version of Symposium, which seems to have been rewritten in 1926 but was never published in Kazantzakis’s lifetime. See Bien 1989, pp. 99–101, for general commentary, and p. 258, n. 2, for dating.  1  Plato spoke about love:  This was in his Symposium; thus the title of Kazantzakis’s work.  1  Osoi zondanoi:  See note to letter of 20 September 1922 to Galatea Kazantzaki, above. In the revised Symposium, Ion Dragoumis is one of the symposiasts, typifying the man of action.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 33; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 75–82.

[Berlin, mid-September 1922 (n.s.)]

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Comrade, oh god, how I await your letter! Sometimes I smile, sometimes I am moved by this youthfulness of my heart. I don’t think I ever loved you with such childishness! I have gotten settled here, after a lot of bother. I’m staying in Berlin’s Kifissia, but it has uninterrupted public transportation. It’s all villas and trees. My street is an immense line of oak trees (it takes three hours to walk from one end to the other); it’s called Unter den Eichen—in other words, under the oaks. I have a splendid room in a house with two obese old ladies who look after me and feed me with great tenderness. I have begun to work. I’m collecting material for the periodical, laying out the organization, communicating with German authors and printers. It’s raining mildly; the weather is still lovely, but I’m impatient for the snow to arrive, and for you to come. I’m counting on you being here then, so we can have Christmas together. Bring me the overcoat that Vasos gave me, because my old one can’t be worn any longer and the fur is for exceptional cold. Also the rucksack, raincoat, and whatever underwear I have, socks, etc. The high cost of such items here is terrible. I’m sending you postcards of Rosa Luxemburg to mail. Without fail send me newspapers, O Noumas, Logos, etc., and any Greek book that came out. The other day Kastanakis and I went to the Russian cabaret. I kept saying, “Oh, if only you were with us!” Russian women sang wild, soulful songs, others danced. Kastanakis knew them, and they came and sat down at our table. 9 September (o.s.)/22 September (n.s.) I’ve received your letter from Iraklio this very moment. Oh god, how upset I was that you didn’t have a good time! And I kept thinking how relieved you would be to see the former context of our life with your new light—the country roads, the sea, the ramparts, and even the people in the manner that we place them now, without illusions, without wanting recognition and recompense from them, and with our steady, inflexible wish to save them whether they like it or not. It’s humanity we feel sorry for, not rascals and nobodies— that’s why we’re fighting. I’ve been assuming that people won’t be able to afflict you, given how we now think. Oh, do come here when you can, to stay for a while! How much I love you cannot be described. What love means I am experiencing profoundly, and I no longer regret that you deny me that capacity. Nevertheless, when you arrive I will once again become the cause of your calling me cruel and callous—repeatedly, justly. Oh god, I don’t know if you sense my torment! The news from Greece that reaches here is horrifying. I wonder if the wretched Greeks will come to their senses now. I wonder if this disaster will be the start of a rebirth. That’s how I take it, and I accept it with gratitude. Victory for the current regime would be devastating for Greece. It would provide a firm base for today’s rogues and would drug the common people, who desire nothing else. Now, however, this great misfortune will either fortify

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them or obliterate them. Either eventuality is better than the wretchedly poor life they lead today. In this way, by virtue of catastrophe, Russia was reborn and so was Germany. France, by virtue of its victory, reached the height of infamy because victory fortified the capitalistic regime that governs that country. Today’s sad ordeal in Greece increases our responsibility and makes intense propaganda more indispensable. Write me regularly and at length. Velmos wrote me that when he saw you one day, he found you sad. Oh, comrade, I couldn’t grow calm all day long! You don’t know to what an extent you and I are one, how much I think of you, how much I’d like to be worthy of you! If sometimes you mock—and justly— the pipe dream that devours me, I am sorry because the warmth on your part in this regard would help me immensely to conquer and would be no longer just a consolation. Your coldness lends arguments to my judgment, thus nourishing the inner momentum that opposes my pipe dream. What do I care if I write two or three tolerable verses, if I make a good simile and a decent play? All these things strike me as sins, so strongly do I sense that they have led me astray—away from the difficult, thankless mandate with which I have burdened myself, the mandate beyond beauty and individuality. Whatever art I write seems to me an act of cowardice, a sin, a detour, because I am afraid to face the One, the only Voice that shouts inside me and desires to be born. In order to justify all this, I say that it is a preparation, a readying, an apprenticeship. But for how long? You have often told me that I have already grown old and have accomplished nothing. I have produced arguments from great individuals to help me hide the panic produced in me by your words. Yes, yes, you are right—I say it out loud. I have never done anything and never will do anything. I’ll perish in the process of preparing material for someone else. Maybe—and this is the bitterest of all—material for no one. I get lost in the search, in ephemeral works; I expend my soul in pettiness. And nobody, when I die, will surmise from my life and my pitiful writings the ­incurable, sublime exaltation of my soul. What does this mean? Nothing— because individuality is worthless. But there was something else inside me, something higher than the wretched self, broader than me, and I’m sorry that I was unable to save it. As a self I am nothing—a sack full of tears, blood, filth, and sweat, as Buddha says. But I know for sure that this was the cry of the God who called out to me “Help!” Oh, if only I could formulate my thoughts in Buddha! I think that the lure of this work will be art’s final temptation for me. The seams of my cranium grind together when I consider what richness, abundance, joy, and sadness I possess with which to fashion it. My soul has never been so ripe, so laden with fruit, so embittered, and so full of hope. Write me what you are writing, what you are thinking. Oh god, it’s been so long since you’ve spoken to me! I always write you immense letters. You, two words. Beyond that, you use such big letters. Three of your pages fit into one of mine.

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I’ve purchased a splendid book about El Greco for Lefteris. But he’ll receive it when we meet, here or there. (Ask him if he received the Einstein; I sent it to him via Mr. Kambas of the Ministry of Welfare.) For Jenny I went to buy an album about Van Gogh, printed in color, but they asked ninety thousand marks! What a shame that I don’t have millions! What a gift could I give! Say hello to her nonetheless and tell her how much I love her. Life here is frightfully expensive. I have managed in the following way. For midday dinner, my two old ladies give me whatever they have cooked (meat on Sundays only, the other days meatless but abundant, especially potatoes). In the evening I eat cocoa, butter, marmalade. The same in the morning. Also abundant apples, pears, and plums. In this way I get by financially and in accord with my taste. Comrade, I am finishing my letter at last. Send me newspapers, etc., etc. Enable me to follow the current crisis in Greece. Send me whatever printed matter illuminates it. What’s going on in Athens? What in the provinces? In the chasm of evil does the hope of deliverance exist? It does exist, it does, because Greece, in us, is alive and flourishing! N

Käthe Kollwitz There’s a woman here, old now (she was born in 1862), whom I will soon meet. She’s a great artist. I bought a series of her printed sketches. I’m sorry that I cannot send them to you, because it’s forbidden to export books. Never have contemporary anguish, hope, and the revenge of the masses been expressed with more pain and less brevity—to see poverty, revolution, death! I have them in front of me on my desk and keep regretting that you cannot share my emotion. The turmoil and fermentation here in Berlin are astounding. In art they’re searching for new ways and are turning to fierce Mexican and African gods. They’re seeking a new spontaneity, immediate contact with current needs: today’s soul naked, without embroidered frills, which are lovely but of a past era—in other words, false. New attitudes, dangerous and intoxicating, are appearing in education, sexual matters, health. It’s still chaos, but fertile, full of creativity. Has Sikelianos published any new book? He was about to print Asklepios, and I’m eager to read it because it’s extraordinarily beautiful. Please send it to me as soon as it comes out. I also sent you Oja with Tsambouras. Did you receive it?

1  Rosa Luxemburg: Revolutionary leader (1871–1919), murdered in Berlin by Freikorps soldiers. She believed that only socialism could bring social justice. Her major work, The Accumulation of Capital (1912), argued that capitalism was doomed to collapse on economic grounds. She was much admired by

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Kazantzakis.  1  your new light: Communist ideology.  1  the news from Greece:  Kazantzakis is referring to what the Greeks call the “Asia Minor ­Catastrophe”—namely, the utter defeat of their army by the Turks under Mustafa Kemal Atatürk (1881–1938), whose forces entered Smyrna on 27 August (o.s.)/9 September (n.s.) and burned the Greek, Armenian, and western European quarters on 31 August (o.s.)/13 September (n.s.). The Turkish victory resulted in the total loss to Greeks of the Anatolian coast, where they had lived for twenty-five hundred years. Kazantzakis’s date of 9 September for the second part of the letter must be old style (meaning 22 September new style) as are presumably other dates of these letters to Galatea.  1  Velmos:  Nikos Velmos, writer, publisher of the magazine Frangelio; a family friend.  1  Käthe Kollwitz:  Born in 1867, not 1862, died in 1945.  1  Asklepios:  Despite what Kazantzakis writes, Sikelianos never completed this play. It was published posthumously in its incomplete form by the French Institute of Athens.  1  Tsambouras:  Physician, friend of Galatea and Nikos.  1  The final two paragraphs printed above appear in the printed version of the letter but not in the manuscript, which ends with “It’s still chaos, but fertile, full of creativity.”

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 34; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 82–85.

[Berlin,] 17 September [1922] I delayed sending the enclosed letters to you for two days in the hope of receiving a letter from you, but so far nothing. Nevertheless, I desire so much that you write me regularly. I have no other joy. Please take care of these letters. We need to have everyone’s cooperation. Here we have as many excellent intellectuals as we want. The problem is in Greece. Ask them please to give you whatever they have, and send it to me via certified mail. Here’s another nuisance that I’ll give you. I really need the overcoat that I left there because the cold weather has started. My old coat cannot be worn any longer, whereas the fur coat is too heavy. Find a traveler—or ask if you can send it to me by post, insured. If you insure it, let’s say for a thousand drachmas, who cares if it gets lost? What saved me here was the green cloth I kept. I got it yesterday from the tailor, whom I paid only twelve thousand marks— that is, two English pounds! Thus, fortunately, I have a splendid winter change. The only thing I lack is the overcoat. If you come soon, bring it with you. The winter, which has arrived, is confronted by the people here with fear and trembling. Terrible inflation. Everything rises in price every day; wood and coal, for heat, are unobtainable. Only the foreigners here show off, dressed

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as they are like mannequins. They frequent unmentionable nighttime cabarets, especially homosexual ones (heaps in Berlin). Lots of this kind: Greeks and South Americans. These nationalities are the most degraded here, while you see university professors, famous ones like Meyer, going to the university to teach and their toes are sticking out of their shoes. The artists are even worse off, especially painters and musicians. I have bought lots of communist books, especially everything by Luxemburg (I’m sending you her postcards today, via certified mail); we’ll translate a lot in the periodical. Fortunately, I’m still healthy. I hope that the psychologist in Vienna was right and that I was cured of this psychological disease the moment I distanced myself from Vienna. Then it will be a very interesting case of neo-asceticism. My soul is calm, as though resolved, as though finished with searching, as though ripe for something good. How are you getting along? Write me a lot, a lot! Haven’t they asked for Nikiforos Fokas yet? I’d be very pleased to be released from that one, too. I’m waiting for newspapers and periodicals, and if there’s some new modern Greek book. The news from Smyrna is horrifying. You down there must know very few things, as much as the censorship allows. Here, however, the catastrophe has been reported in full. I’m certain that salvation will start now. Very bloody, very costly, but that’s why it will also be productive. Last night I dreamed of Harilaos Stefanidis. Could he have suffered something in Asia Minor, where he was? Please ask Kornaros; he’ll know. I wrote you asking whether you knew of some German-educated person to translate novels. Please write me. There are some here, but I don’t trust them. Dimitrakos has delayed in writing me. Comrade: I’m sending you these letters because otherwise there would be a danger, owing to censorship, that they would never reach their destination. I write in order to seek help for the periodical—to be sent articles. Please deliver as many as you can personally and ask them please to respond to me quickly. I’d like to amass as much material as possible before publication begins. Talk with all those you think can write. Have them give you their articles, and you send them to me by certified mail. I’m impatient to learn that you have received the enclosed letters and have distributed them. Write me at once. Again I’ve been waiting for days to get a letter from you. Don’t leave me like this. N How is your novel coming along? That would be marvelous material for our periodical. Prepare whatever you want for us. The novel would be best.

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1  show off:  A good example of Kazantzakis’s linguistic adventuresomeness. His “Greek” verb is etalaro, which isn’t Greek at all but his own importation of the French verb s’étaler (to show off, flaunt) attached to the Greek ending, -aro, typically used for loanwords. Compare Greek “parkaro,” to park one’s automobile.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 35; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 86–87.

Lichterfelde West, Under den Eichen 63, Berlin 20 September 1922 Chérie, I’ve just received your letter. I’m afraid that all the letters I sent you recently got lost. I wrote you how I react to Greece’s frightful debacle. “Osoi zondanoi” will now become evident; nevertheless, we need to work, precisely because so much infamy and cowardice have conquered our race. Moreover, you well know that Greece consists of a few people—very few. Greece’s worth is commensurate with their worth. The multitude is of use only as zeros are in integers. I sent you quite a few letters for you to distribute for the periodical. But I fear that they never reached your hands. Please write me about this, so that I can utilize another method of dispatch. I was immensely saddened by Sfakianakis’s behavior. How horrible it is that even a modicum of people are not clean, good, humble! What are we? What worth do we have before the highest creators engendered by this wretched/ splendid earth-sphere! How nice that Lefteris behaved so serenely and well, elevating the dispute from the humble level of the individual to the exalted eminence of two factions. I sense from his letters that he is continually consolidating on a high level. How sad, though, that Sfakianakis, Sikelianos, and several others are not with us. I was greatly moved by your words about Odysseas. You well know, comrade, how I receive them: with the awareness, the despair, that all these are nothings compared to our duty. A poem is beneficial for a moment and then disappears. Oh, for a brave act, a good Word! That’s the capability I’d like to have. I still have not received the newspapers. Write me, did you find the gloves in the shoe? That’s where I put them, without fail. Once again, please send me the two books I wrote you about because Daniilidis needs them: Tsouderos’s La Grèce économique (get it from Thiakakis), Zografos’s Ιστορία ελληνικής γεωργίας (Akropolis, 1921).

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Send me newspapers, periodicals, etc. We don’t know anything concerning Greece’s internal condition. The only things published here are Kemal’s communiqués. My greetings to the troupe, as many as are still there. Overcoat, etc. I wrote to you. Write to me; I have no other joy. N

1  Odysseas:  A subsequent letter shows clearly that he means his play by this name.  1  Ιστορία ελληνικής γεωργίας:  History of Greek Agriculture.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 38, 39; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 90–94.

[Berlin, very late September 1922] Chérie, the news about our revolution is reaching us unclearly. I’m worried lest there be riots and you risk some danger. If that were absent, I would be glad. I still don’t know if this revolution is the common people’s need “from below.” Or is it perhaps once again the concern of certain people that is expressed via the masses? In any case, it is a light: a pale glow of the huge conflagration to come—ours! I beg of you, please write me in detail not about the events (I’ll see those in the newspapers that you’ll send—the other newspapers I received; thanks), but about the common people’s psychology. If Venizelos comes, will he be welcomed with shouts of joy by the same persons who expelled him? So be it. But is there perhaps some profounder change? Could hunger, blood, and shame have plowed the people’s soul a little? This interests me. Write me what your splendid intellect and divine instinct have to say. Don’t send the Agriculture by Zografos that I wrote you about. I found it here. Only Tsouderos’s, if you can, by way of Thiakakis. Regarding translations from German, write me if you know any good translator. 2 October [1922] Chérie, I just received your letter, and I’m sending you a word back in haste. You wrote before the revolution, and I’m impatient to receive your next letter. Oh! how sorry I am that I distressed you. If sometimes I complain to you, it’s because I love you and esteem you so much that your slightest insensibility fills me with anguish and complaint. How can I tell you this? What can I do to show you that, for me, neither father nor mother exists, neither sister nor

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friends—only you? Oh, it must be impossible for two individuals on this earth to reach an understanding, since you and I cannot bridge our two souls. But what does that matter since I love you even though I am unable to express it? Thanks for the money you’re sending me. With the ten and the other ten pounds and with Nikiforos Fokas, if it sells, I’ll be able to live for months. Afterwards, Dimitrakos will be sending me monthly payments. Thus, I think I’ll be able to allot the coupons to the periodical. There’s a great need. Above all, because Venizelos will come and will have to be countered, it’s important that everyone in Greece doesn’t become a bootlicker all over again. We will be Greece’s free voice. These days we’re having the educational reformers’ conference here—a series of lectures from nine in the morning until half past seven in the evening, a break just for one hour at midday. I am attending with great interest. One day I’ll write you the significance. Apropos, will the strength never be given us to overthrow Greece’s infamies! I am carefully studying this educational rebirth here and have come to know the leaders personally. But I’ll write you on another day. My greetings to the troupe. And especially to Jenny, as always. I’m worried about your stomach. I beg you, please write to me. Don’t forget to diet. Maybe the revolution will provide you with a little oomph to have your body corrected. Stop telling me that you are dejected, because my chagrin is indescribable. Oh, won’t you come? When will you come? Look—it will be a great pleasure. You’ll like living abroad. I’m trying to find a good place to live, to please you when you come. You’ll see here, amid the rebirth of the entire intellectual life, how the women do battle and speak—much better than the men. Write me regularly. I always write you immediately. If letters are delayed, the fault must be the postal service’s. I love you, N Perhaps the few people who live in Greece should publish a protest regarding the massacres and atrocities by both Greeks and Turks in Asia Minor, and do so not for the eyes of the civilized world (for no civilized world exists today) but for the eyes of a humanitarian calling—a brief, simple protest full of pain. If this happens, please do not forget to include my name. It will be one of the first and most precious documents from the forefront of humanity’s new development. It will show to various extraordinary thinkers here that the essence of Greece is still alive, and it will give a valiant model to western Europe. We will publish it in our periodical, translated into two or three languages, and also in foreign periodicals.

1  our revolution:  The coup led by Colonel Nikolaos Plastiras (1883–1953) on 13 September (o.s.)/26 September (n.s.), following the Asia Minor Catas-

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trophe. King Constantine abdicated on the following day, and the Venizelist Plastiras took charge, arresting those deemed responsible for the Catastrophe. Six of them, including the former prime minister, were executed on 15 November (o.s.)/28 November (n.s.), an act considered barbarous by western Europe. Plastiras accepted responsibility for the execution of the Six. When he saw that the elections of 6 March 1933 would be won by his opponents, he organized an uprising during the night. This failed, and he fled to France. However, in 1950, he became prime minister for a very short while (15 April until August), then for a year from October 1951 to October 1952.

To Rev. Emmanuel Papastefanou —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; incomplete manuscript in Mitsotakis 1972, p. 25; printed in Mitsotakis 1972, pp. 64–69; translation in Kazantzakis 1979, pp. 27–29.

Berlin, 10 October 1922 Son of Thunder! You inflame my heart. Your voice is like the many waters rolling down. If you were next to Christ, you would be the Son of Thunder. I become aware of you on the ocean’s other shore, and my heart grows firm. Conquering time and place, I am one with you. Never have I been so much with you, because never have I been further from the Gehenna of individuality. Living abroad, how very much I experience Greece: its sky, soil, and great mission. The motionless vision of God, like light, wraps me round. I am at peace because I know that if I lift my head, if I stretch out my arm, I will touch large invisible wings. O Lord! O Lord! If I raise my eyelids, I will see thee standing before me, smiling at me with thy finger on thy mouth—but I hold thee and breathe thee in and do not hurry. With reclining head, closed eyes and mouth, I enjoy thee as thou descendest. Thou descendest from high secret sources like the great river of Egypt, heavy, thick, filled with seed, without din or haste. All God’s creatures smell the moist air with delight; calves abandon the nipple and gambol without knowing why. And thou also rollest down, without din and hurry, blood red, bubbling like boiling must, heavy with multitudes of creation. Whatever thou touchest becometh a mouth and thou drinkest. And whatever thou touchest not remains fallow forever, accursed and unsown. O Lord! O Lord! I rose up at the edge of the road like a date palm, that thou mayst water me.

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I shall raise thee to my very crown with all my roots, that thou mayst see thy work and rejoice. I shall place my heart on my highest branch to warble with its head held high, to warble toward the light like the nightingale that falls onto the ground from too much song, its beak covered with blood. Oh god, how can I find words to express the flood? It is only my head that floats above water, like Noah’s ark, and is filled with trees, animals, and people. Every seed is in it, under guard because a mortal curse has spread across the earth, drowning everything and reaching up to my neck. Like the ancient ascetic, I sometimes feel the seams of my cranium grating together. I come and go in great cities, enjoying myself quietly—and, motionless, I sense the great secret agitating this Cretan breast. Here, in a museum, I often go through its rooms that are filled with meteors, crystals, metals, bits of lava, stalactites: an endless series of bits of lifeless inorganic matter. And suddenly—behold! The first stirrings of life: the faint imprint of a tree leaf, a fanlike seashell wedged into a stone, the impression of a fish, a tiny insect inside transparent grape-shaped amber. Soon, materiality’s entire thickly inhabited womb pullulates, retaining tightly in its sacred memory all the living beings that its innards have borne as fruit. Oh joy! It seems that I have experienced the whole of immeasurable, inorganic time, all alone, despairing, passing through the ages, crying out in the wilderness. Suddenly I felt the sea grow rough, the worm ascend, the insect unfurl sail, immense companions slowly pass through the atmosphere. Weight was overcome; the weight of death sat up; trees, wild animals, and human beings advanced, full of concupiscence and hunger. Oh, how moved I am as I pass by immovable shells, weighty turtles, sluggish giants, and, feeling continually lighter, I enter with deep breaths the tiger’s deadly charm, the lion’s nimble strength, the butterfly’s beauty! Suddenly, oh, I am breathing next to upright, elevated human craniums! Never has theogony been revealed to me as so frightening, so full of patience, wandering, and struggle. I remember: I was the one in danger of suffocating amid thick tree leaves, dark animal-loins. Now I have escaped; I breathe the clear air of the human heart and battle to go beyond it, too, rising above and inhaling as I gaze at the frightful journey ahead and behind. God’s huge encampment stretches out around me. When I close my eyes, how strongly I feel my body to be a military tent in which the great general has halted for a moment to don his armor! The other day, as I was leaving an educational conference, I met a Russian Jewess, an ardent young poet. We spoke. Suddenly I turned to her brusquely and said, “Rahel, in our hearts God is crying ‘Help!’ Do you not hear him?” She was horrified. Afterwards she said to me, “Never have any words exploded in my heart with such power! I’ve felt anguish inside me for years and did not know its origin. Now everything is clear, and I see. God sits up and shouts ‘Help!’ from inside stone and worm, inside water and bodies. It’s as

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though we had buried a living person and now were hearing him pound on our body’s reliquary box and shout!” Son of Thunder, let us prepare ourselves! We are only three, not more than three. No matter! Mobilize as many souls as you can out there. Work on our project, keep preparing. An ecumenical synod must take place in two or three years. Write out our theory so that everything becomes clear in our minds; formulate our vision in simple words; find the battle slogan. The apostolic journeys will commence—the struggle, the martyrdom. The God within us leaps up in order to escape human beings. Trampling on our heads, he flickers like a flame. Oh god, there exists no pleasure more caustic, lethal, and immortal. It is his third leap. What anguish! Always, always, N Berlin, 10-10-22

1  Son of Thunder:  Jesus called James and John “sons of thunder” (Mark 3:17), perhaps in reference to their bold personalities.  1  Gehenna:  Garbage dump near Jerusalem that came to signify the destination of the wicked—that is, hell.  1  bubbling like boiling must:  The fermenting grape juice in process before it becomes wine is called “must.”  1  theogony:  Account of the origin and genealogy of the gods.  1  Rahel: Rahel Lipstein (later LipsteinMinc, 1899–1978), from Lodz, Poland, poet, writer of children’s books; one of the group of Polish Jewish communists whom Kazantzakis met in Berlin and describes in chapter 25 of Report to Greco. She became the model for Rala in the Odyssey (melded with Rosa Luxemburg), also for Rahel in Toda-Raba, perhaps Mei Ling in Buddha, Li-Te in Le Jardin des rochers, and Noemi in Kapetan Mihalis. See Stamatiou 1975, pp. 48–58, and Bien 1989, pp. 66–67. The others in the group were Itka Horowitz, Dina Matus, and Rosa Schmulewitz. For Itka, see the note for the letter to Eleni Samiou of 18 May 1928, below. Dina, a painter, was killed by the Germans in the Lodz ghetto in 1943. Rosa, a member of the Communist Party (as was Itka), was murdered in Moscow along with her husband during the Stalinist purges in 1936 or 1937. Rahel alone survived (Prevelakis 1958, p. 300).

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 40; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 94–98.

[Berlin,] 15 October 1922 Chérie, I received your letter this very moment and am answering you at once. I hadn’t received anything for weeks and was worried. I always write

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you regularly. Terribly cold this evening. I stayed at home, sad, wondering why you were delaying. I’ll answer you starting with the most urgent: 1.  Kondoglou. I can give him work, not with the periodical, because we ourselves will translate foreign contributions, but with Dimitrakos’s series. So please write me immediately if he can translate from German and from English, so I can immediately send him many months’ work. He needs to know French without fail. Then (but only if he doesn’t know German and English, because I need those languages more) tell Dimitrakos to order the following books from Paris at once: 1. P. Adam: Basile et Sophie 2. P. Adam: Irène et les Eunuques 3. L. Vigneron: L’image sainte Then you bring me in touch with Kondoglou, and I write him directions. If he knows English, then tell Dimitrakos to bring from London: 1. Harrison: Theophano 2. Kingsley: Hypatia If he knows German, write to me, and I’ll send him books from here. That takes care of Kondoglou. Now, since Kanonidis will also be in need, please communicate with Leontidis to have me send him work as well (chiefly Smirnov’s “Skliraina,” in Russian). I beg you, please take care of these two because they’re in need. Write me. 2. Dieterich wrote to me enthusiastically from Leipzig about your work and asks me to tell him if it’s been printed in separate volumes. Please send me one of your books to give him. I promised him. 3.  My life here has assumed a fixed path at last. Preparations for the periodical. At the same time I have been attending various educational and sociological conferences here. I am rewriting Buddha in a new form: something fierce and bitter. How very much I want you to like it! How very much I want to be able to save what I can of my soul! What you write me about Odysseas sweetens my anguish. Is it possible for me to write anything good? I assume that I cannot, and only the words of a sober soul like yours are able to give me courage. It’s winter now, and Germany’s anguish is indescribable. There’s no coal; the cost of living increases daily; yesterday bloody clashes took place in the streets. Gorki is here but is not receiving anyone. (However, I’m taking action and hope to see him.) He’s sick and disillusioned. He has differed with the Bolsheviks and is tired. Did you receive the Luxemburg and Liebknecht postcards? The bank notified me about the ten pounds. Thanks. I’m getting along economically because I was lucky enough to find a good place to live. I eat there (only cocoa

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in the evening), various things at midday, and meat on Sunday. Fortunately I’m in good health. As for the overcoat, ask at Giolman’s if it can be sent insured. You’ll find out there. It would be good to have it. Write me about your everyday life. That’s what interests me most profoundly. Whom do you see, where do you eat, if you are cheerful, if you see the troupe. You never write me about Jenny. O Noumas, periodicals, books—nothing. Haven’t any come out? Has Sikelianos published anything? Don’t forget newspapers. Write me about Manolis Alexiou. Keep an eye on the letters to Papandreou, etc. Will they write? What you write about the infamy of the Greeks is horrifying and correct. Yet, as I wrote you, do not forget that these people are not Greece. This filthy generation will croak. Let’s work, we two or three, so that the next generation becomes a little better. What you’re writing for children is a positive, valuable contribution. I, too, would like to write for children, as we have said. But I lack your gift of speaking simply. Let’s do our duty. Let’s us, at least us, maintain Greece pure in our hearts. Your behavior in not signing was marvelous. Honest. The infamy of the Greeks in Asia Minor is equal to that of the Turks. What interests us at this point is the Human Being, without labels. Both Greeks and Turks dishonored the Human Being in Asia Minor. One more thing now: Please tell Dimitrakos to send Kondoglou five hundred drachmas telegraphically at once, on our behalf (my September monthly payment for the Stories). It’s needful that we do not leave such a man the way he is. And write him immediately to answer me regarding the translations. Chérie, my dear wife, I have no one else in the world except you. My eyes have just grown dim from tears—tears of love, grief, and pride because God has allowed me to travel together with you. Always, N

1  Kondoglou:  Photis Kondoglou (1895–1965), distinguished Greek author, painter, and iconographer, teacher of subsequent artists such as Yannis Tsarouchis and Nikos Engonopoulos. Kondoglou had just witnessed the catastrophic events in Asia Minor and had escaped to Greece as a refugee.  1  Kanonidis:  Greek who had lived in Russia but had left after the revolution and was earning his living by doing translations from Russian; friend of Kastanakis’s.  1  Leontidis:  Another Greek friend of Kastanakis’s who had lived in Russia, had left, and was occupying himself with translations from Russian.  1  Dieterich:  Karl Dieterich (1869–1935), German scholar of Byzantine and modern Greek literature; professor at Leipzig; translator of an anthology of Neugriechische Dichtung (Modern Greek Poetry); author of Hellenism in Asia Minor (1918).  1  Liebknecht:  Karl Liebknecht (1871–1919), German communist associated with Rosa Luxemburg and murdered along with her by soldiers of the Freikorps.  1  Your behavior in not signing:  Galatea had

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refused to sign a protest against Turkish atrocities in Asia Minor because she felt that Greek atrocities were just as abhorrent.  1  Manolis Alexiou:  Kazantzakis hoped that he would marry his sister Eleni, which did not happen.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 42; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 100–103.

[Berlin, November 1922] Chérie, thanks a lot for your letter and the newspapers. Everything you say about the revolution is correct. The common people, the many zeros behind the One, seeking a new boss, have begun to shout again about infamies and now half things because the Greek race is at a crucial moment of degradation. Distinguished above all the ephemeral, dark, unconscious masses is the creator’s mind; it alone stands enlightened, seeing a temporary figure, let’s say Plastiras, and granting that figure immortality. Oh, how I sense your emotion and indignation! I wonder if the time will come when we will be able to experience and perform something more perfect. I’m beginning to acquire certitude. The world is wrenched by a terrible agony, like the throes of childbirth. You in Greece cannot feel it. Here, good god, how various people (“Franks,” as we used to call them in contempt) are struggling to save humanity! I wrote you about the conference of educational reformers. You should have seen the leaders. They are three. One stands out, Destereich, an ascetic figure, cold, about forty-five years old, tall, fierce, extremely poor—he wears frayed moleskin clothing. When he speaks, he forgets that he’s speaking about schools and begins, with fervor and hate, to demolish the significance of today’s infamous social life. Thousands of young people listen to him, blond heads, very naïve, but working class. Some weep, others organize: the fearsome Jugendbewebung (youth organization) that dominates the whole of Germany derives from their efforts. You’ve got to see these young people (beyond thirty-five years old is not allowed), both boys and girls: how they sing, how they go on excursions, how they work, how they dress, how they think! A new atmosphere, struggle for liberation not just of Germany or the working man, but of humanity. A great religious current exists in their organization. They publish books, their own newspapers, help each other. They are a spiritual army of future mobilization. “Rhythm,” another conference, also finished today. Its aim, by means of dance and movement representing bodily form, is to exhibit the various schools whose purpose is to fashion the body to become an obedient instrument of the contemporary soul. Based on movements of today’s worker, fisherman, carpenter, walker, dancer, a system of bodily training is created with marvelous results. The basis of the contemporary soul’s reformation, they

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claim, is love of the body and its cultivation. Thus, what developed is proletarian bodily training (no longer the classical hogwash of Isadora Duncan). Yesterday afternoon, Duncan, who displayed her aristocratic ballerinas and their imitations of ancient urns, etc., was hooted. “What interest does that have for us?” the young people bellowed. “What relation does it have with our life? We’re working class, all of us, and we don’t have a mania for ancient Greece!” But perhaps I am tiring you. I don’t know how Athens will be when you read this letter. Truly, the echo of Greek turmoil comes from far away and seems very tiny, like minute details. The winter that is approaching here is tragic. Germany’s misfortune and organized indignation are indescribable. As always, I await a letter from you with great impatience. Write me details and send me newspapers. My greetings to the entire troupe. Write me if Manolis Alexiou has returned and if we should now implement the plan for my sister. I beg of you, please write to me. I still have not received more than two books from Dimitrakos. I hope that it’s now easier for him to work, with the political change. Maybe some of our books will be included. I’m impatient to receive answers from those collaborating with our periodical. Before it is published, I’d like to have in hand quite a few works by Greeks. Contributions here are easy to find and will be of choice quality. What are you going to send us? Still nothing about Nikiforos Fokas? Write me if there are good translators from German, so that I can send them one or two novels to translate. Write to me. If you have a chance, don’t forget the overcoat. Winter has just about arrived here. Autumn is beautiful, but such days are ending. My greetings again to the troupe, and write me a lot, a lot. Always, N

1  the political change: Refers to the Plastiras coup. Its co-leader, Colonel Stylianos Gonatas (1876–1966), was appointed on 27 November 1922 (n.s.) as prime minister in the revolutionary government.  1  Isadora Duncan:  American dancer (1877–1927) considered the initiator of modern dance, favoring primitivism and improvisation as opposed to traditional ballet; spent 1922–24 in the Soviet Union and became a Soviet citizen.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 43;.printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 103–8.

[Berlin, November 1922]

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Chérie, I’m answering your letter at once. What you write me is correct. I know that I am not fulfilling my duty perfectly, that I am sitting here in the wilderness and shouting, like our celebrated fellow countryman, the famous phrase: “Either all of you get killed or all of us get liberated.” I’ve thought about everything you say. This is the answer I gave myself: I am not yet a complete person. I say “not yet” not out of cowardice but because I am struggling to conquer my weakness. I am good at finding what is right, at enflaming various souls, at lighting up various minds. But I am unable, on my own, to come in contact with people, to battle against indifference, ridicule, or everyday small talk. If I went back to Greece, I feel that I would still not be ready to throw myself into the struggle. I would go once again to the countryside and shut myself up there, to play host to various choice individuals and talk to them on Sundays. Beyond this? I still have not been able to conquer art. Beauty entices me in a deadly manner—the fine image, the faithful simile, life’s tragic vision formulated in words. I assume that if a political entity disappears, even a wretched one like Greece, this occurrence has no meaning—first of all because perhaps it’s the only way a bright, whimsical, really brilliant race can be liberated, secondly because it’s the way the world goes, like it or not. Let polities that give birth to hate be destroyed. If the Greeks are destroyed because unworthy, then blessed be the moment of their destruction! They will vacate that splendid corner of the sea they are polluting and other people will come who honor humanity’s name. I don’t know if it’s good or bad that I have escaped from the borders of the Greek fatherland. Yes, I am of the Greek race and its degradation is my degradation—because the elements it affords me, those with which, and only with which, I am able to work on this earth, are degraded. On the other hand, I say that I sense that our Cretan race is not Greek. Of course, the Cretans are also horrible, but that is because they have been led astray by the wretchedness of mainland Greece. Most deeply they are healthy, barbaric, pure, creative. I am struggling to escape. Everything that I have written, and Buddha that I am writing now, is the visible trace of my struggle to escape the concerns, weaknesses, and excessive riches of my imagination. In Buddha I abandon a large number of my imperfections. I say: Perhaps when I write it and unburden myself of the poetic figures weighing me down, I will be able to be ready to do my duty: to plunge into contemporary uneasiness and hope, and to work no longer with words but with people. But even then I doubt that I will come to seek out Greeks in order to preach the solution that I think will be able to save the contemporary soul. Lefteris wrote me that he wanted one day to speak to Avyeris, Varnalis & Co. about our ideas. Only you stood up and defended us, out of your contempt for the insensitive and faithless. The others laughed and insulted, while Sfakianakis remained cowardly silent. What does this mean? That I will find difficulties in Greece? Not just that. My duty then would be to do battle and conquer the difficulties. It means

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something more: People in Greece are still completely unprepared to listen to an idea and to become agitated. They are dwarfs, peewee merchants, pygmy teachers, fraidy-cats. I don’t know if in the whole of Hellenism there exist three like you—to stand up even if not completely in agreement, and honor an idea. I’m thinking a lot about going to Russia. Oh, if only we were Russians! There’s a people that has more need for an idea than for bread. All the seeds of the future are boiling and dancing in that nation’s famished, ruined innards. Even the humblest Russian souls, the émigrés here who have filled Germany with their women, music, dance, painting, cabarets, and songs, how exceedingly profound they are, full of ecstasy and giddiness! Do or die! How will I go to Russia? I don’t know how I will act, how talk to people. Insane epic visions sometimes fill my mind. Boiling in me is a crusade: Russia setting off to overrun Europe with the new god—the new proletarian god— in order to smash all the horrid, infamous political, economic, ethical, and intellectual idols and to preach to everyone a new freedom. The whole of Asia is in turmoil; crucified Russia is anticipating and fashioning the resurrection; Europe plunges into infamy and darkness without respite. I don’t know how all this worldwide earthquake presents itself in Greece, but here the chaos is visible, palpable, and the struggle to create renewed order is profound. I’m thinking of humanity. Humanity! Who cares if they’re Turks, Greeks, Jews—whatever. Let’s save them. Shall we begin with Greece? I think not. That we Greeks will disappear has no significance at all. Yet our voice would disappear, and that is unjust. This voice has died many times, falling on stones. But now that at long last the two of us are consciously following God’s footsteps upon this earth, we do not have the right to proceed without results. Oh, we should be together to converse! Nothing happens with letters. You’ll have objections to what I write, and I cannot hear them and answer you immediately. I’m flooded with words and no longer know how to write you so that my answers will be logically consistent. Write me! Answer me in your turn, since we have no other way to communicate. I sit here and—good god!—shout to you, and how many days go by before you hear me! Always, always, N

1  Either all of you get killed or all of us get liberated:  “ή όλοι να σκοτωθείτε ή όλοι να λευτερωθούμε.” The idea, although not the actual quote, is from the Memoirs of General Ioannis Makriyannis (1797–1864), a leading combatant in the Greek War of Independence, famous because of his extraordinary Memoirs much appreciated in the twentieth century (especially by George Seferis) not only for their substance but also for their unspoiled demotic language. Makriyannis, who was illiterate, learned to write in his thirty-third year so that he could compose this autobiography, which he finished in 1850.

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The manuscript was discovered in 1907 and published by Yannis Vlachoyannis. Makriyannis also inspired the political action of 3 September 1843, which resulted in Greece’s first constitution. Kazantzakis made Makriyannis an important character in his play Kapodistrias.  1  Buddha: One of Kazantzakis’s most ambitious and successful plays, but the version we know was not begun until 1941. The 1922 version, the second, was probably torn up. For a full account of the play’s genesis, see chapter 7 of Bien 2007a or 2007b.  1  Varnalis:  Kostas Varnalis (1883–1974), communist poet, prose writer, critic, journalist for Rizospastis and Avyi, recipient of the Lenin Peace Prize (1959).

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 45; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 110–114.

[Berlin, 27 November 1922] Chérie, I’m sending you this card by Kokoschka because I felt so much pleasure when I saw this painting the other day, and I wanted to spread a little pleasure to you. Its beauty is indescribable. The Russians are exhibiting their own art here. What passion! What joy! What new directions! A Russian ballet company is here and a Russian band, Russian cabaret—an invasion by the Slavic soul, a conquest of Europe. Amid the terrible misfortune of Russia today, the Russian spirit is freeing itself, is maturing; the soles of its feet are advancing through blood and mud. Does not God always advance on earth in this way? Only the mean-spirited are capable of despairing over fleshly ruin. Plowing the flesh, just like plowing a field, is perhaps necessary for new seed. May God grant a similar fate as well to the field of Greece! This generation is wretched, the Greek nation is unsettled, yet we exist—a dozen souls. My inner hopes are indomitable. The determination has arisen to undertake a crackbrained campaign against decline and wretchedness, to create a model of divinity out of this Greek mud. God is never fashioned from happiness, glory, or creature comfort, only from shame, infamy, and tears. Greece is a lost cause. Let’s commit ourselves to her. Only social climbers and businessmen love sure situations. When I think of you working for future children, when I see my heart enflamed with pride because I labor without expectation of payment, you don’t know how much I feel united with you in the fiery atmosphere of effort. My joy is great to sense you at my side. Isn’t that immense payment? I keep expecting a letter from you. Write me a lot about your life. Yesterday it started to snow here. Cold. I light the heater stove and stay at home the whole day, working. I’m preparing Buddha now. Please tell Nakou to give you Oldenberg’s Buddha that I gave her and send it to me because I need it, and

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books have become so miserably expensive that I cannot buy it again. Or better, tell her to send it to me herself, directly, so that you won’t need to bother. The other day Zorbas wrote me that his affairs are going well. We’ll see. I hope that you receive my letter in time to see about Kondoglou. In addition, see if you know of any good translator from German. Write to me without waiting for my letter. That’s the way I, too, will write to you. Write me regularly, let’s say every Sunday. I’ll do the same. That way we’ll conquer the terrible distance a little. Chérie, I just received your letter. Good god, how I agree with you regarding the Greeks’ wretchedness and how I’d like you to agree with me that it’s all for the best! I have the deepest inner conviction that all this wretchedness is needed for salvation to come—later. We will not die, comrade, without our turn coming. It will come, will come, will come! You don’t know how much faith I have and how much hidden, indomitable determination. The whole world is staggering, struggling, perishing; this cannot last for long. We must make ourselves ready; all the preparations are taking place. Others are declining, disgracing, becoming brutalized, whereas we are learning to abhor, hate, and be adamant. Do you remember the dream I had about you in which you were saying with clenched lips “Yes, indeed!”? That, for me, is a bright, unerring message from the future. I am certain that your soul, then, will be a miracle of bravery, and I feel that I will not demean myself. Keep writing to me in this way; tell me about personalities and things; denounce them! I want to see everything there with your eyes. I am working here, following the Bolshevik movement, preparing myself. May the God of revenge quickly hear our outcry! Regarding the two economic matters that you mentioned, I answer: 1.  Sperantzas: As you know, we owe Farandatos nine thousand drachmas because of the Prastovas business. In order to discharge the debt, I granted him the right to collect from Sperantzas’s modern Greek texts. We have a contract done by Synodinos. So the first nine thousand belong to Farandatos, who undertook to extort them from Sperantzas, working with Fotakis. 2.  There’s no need for you to be worried about our investments. It’s no concern of ours how much they go up or down. The income always remains the same: one English pound each time. So, don’t feel uneasy. Yet! Exactly yesterday when I was very sad, in my room on Sunday, I said to myself: We are cowards, patchers-up, hypocrites. There is only one brave act: to toss away whatever one has—fortune, comfort, habit—and to go out into the streets and shout! How are great souls distinguished from mediocre ones? Only thus: “Remove everything!” as Plotinus commanded. “Undress,” as did Saint Francis. Private property is the source of every degradation. When will I be able to do this? I remember that you have always been braver regarding financial problems. Yet lately, here, sometimes my heart, shaken with disgust, shouts at me. Who knows? My soul is so ripe, so beyond every earthly

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desire, that sometimes I am filled with horror by my sense that the great moment of deliverance is approaching me. Chérie, my beloved wife, comrade, oh! if I could only do a deed that might be worthy of you! N

1  Kokoschka: Oskar Kokoschka (1888–1980), Austrian expressionistic artist, poet, and playwright.  1  Oldenberg’s Buddha:  Hermann Oldenberg (1854– 1920), Buddha, sein Leben, seine Lehre, seine Gemeinde (Stuttgart and Berlin: Cotta, 1923; Buddha: His Life, His Doctrine, His Order).  1  Prastovas business:  the 1917 mining venture with Zorbas in the Mani that was fictionalized in the novel Zorba the Greek.  1  Synodinos:  Vasilios Synodinos (1888–1931), notary public, Athens.  1  Fotakis: Evstratios Fotakis, lawyer, public prosecutor, magistrates’ court, Athens.  1  Remove everything!:  ΄Αφελε πάντα, in Ennead 5.3.17.38. The subject is the transcendent soul. Plotinus (a.d. 204– 70), founder of Neoplatonic philosophy, teaches that the soul can be enlightened by the One but only if everything else is removed.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 46;.printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 114–19.

[Berlin, early December 1922] Chérie, I just received your letter and the newspapers. The six representatives of Greece were killed; thus the grief in your letter will exist no longer. They should have been killed by the common people, but on the other hand it’s good that Plastiras was found to utter a brave word. It’s better for us to be destroyed playing a tragedy than to remain alive playing an operetta. Here, the whole of western Europe is appalled at the barbarity. Yet people here have remained entirely indifferent to the fifty thousand made homeless or the thousands of Turks killed by the Greeks. I’m glad because I think that it’s only now that Greeks will understand that something significant has happened. The loss of Smyrna, Constantinople, and Thrace does not bother them. But for their shepherds who frequented the Doré Café to be killed in this way, like dogs, that will stupefy them and fill them with awe—and awe is always useful for such a people. I am undergoing a slow but sure development here. Who knows: for the first time in my life I seem to be just as interested in all other peoples as I am in my own people. Indeed, if I examine things more deeply, the most heartfelt representatives of the human species for me today are the Russians. They’re

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the ones who strike me today as the bearers of divinity. I’m studying Russian now, and I will try to go to Russia to prepare your arrival there as well. We need to live as much as possible in that divine, horrid, splendid Russian chaos. The books that I’m reading about the present situation in various Russian provinces speak of horrifying things—starvation, infamy, violence; yet at the same time of an unimaginable exaltation. Until now it’s been a single person— the founder of a religion—who has tried to save humanity. Now an entire people has assumed this fatal calling, and all the torment always undergone by the single person is now multiplied a thousandfold. Millions of people suffer; innumerable innards are decimated by pain. I have no illusions concerning Russia’s contemporary reality. I know that its very leaders lack a clear idea of their mandate; I know that the common people suffer unimaginably. I met Shestov here, Russia’s greatest present-day philosopher, and Remizov, a writer. Both left Russia because they were opposed, unable to tolerate the frightful details. But I also know that it’s only in the warm head of the ideologue that the idea is comfortably placed—pure, unsullied, without blood and mud. But then it is entirely unfertile, sterile, superfluous. As soon as it treads the soil of this earth of ours, it becomes covered with mud and blood, is turned over to thousands of fathers, but also becomes a mother enriching life—raising the struggling god’s exhalation a little higher. I detest romantic conceptions of the Idea. The Idea is like God. It advances slowly, wearily, ascending our craggy earth amid unimaginable crime, dishonesty, and infamy. Our duty is to attempt to find the pace of its march and, once we have found that pace, to adjust the pace of our tiny, ephemeral existences to it as well as we are able. Only in this way can we mortals manage to perform something immortal, because we are collaborating with someone who is immortal. In addition, in this way our life—that is, our action and thought—acquires unity and character. We conquer detail, conquer boredom, conquer narrowness of the heart, feel that all people and peoples—and, even more, all plants and animals—collaborate, that we ascend all together, carried away by a mysterious, invisible Breath. Where are we headed? No one knows. Do not ask! Ascend! Perhaps we are not going anywhere, perhaps no one pays for life’s hard knocks. So much the better. In this way we also conquer the last and greatest temptation: hope. We fight because that’s what we want—without recompense, for we are not mercenaries. We sing even though we know that no ear exists to hear us. We work even though there is no boss to pay us our daily wage when evening comes. We are despairing, calm, and free. That, I would say, is true heroism, humanity’s supreme feat. My dear wife, it’s impossible to express with what sweetness and peace I have been experiencing this vision of hopelessness these days. I’m working on Buddha and getting ready for Russia, to be able perhaps—who knows?—to attune my insignificant life to a significant purpose. I won’t want to write any more literature when I finish Buddha. I would like to go through the Russian

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experience and then to work out a way to formulate the religious vision by which I am possessed. We’ll see. 1.  Kondoglou: You failed to write me the most important thing—which languages he knows. If he knows German, write me that at once so that I can send him German books. If he knows English or French, then tell Dimitrakos to order the books that I wrote you about. I wrote to him as well. I told him to give them to you when they arrive; then you give him the English ones. He’ll send me the manuscript, and I’ll write Dimitrakos to reckon fifty drachmas for him per signature. You’ll receive a German book. If he knows German, give it to him at once, and he’ll translate it. Otherwise send it to Lefteris. I’ve been in touch with him. 2.  Myrsini: We exchanged two letters three months ago. Now, not a peep out of her for three months. I regret that you devoted a page to that nonentity. But are you still involved with her? 3. Troupe: Greetings from me. Especially to Jenny. Is she still not married? 4.  Newspapers without fail, continually, so I can see how that brave act happened. Aren’t periodicals coming out? 5. I sent a new play—Heracles—to Nea Zoï. They wrote me an enthusiastic letter about Odysseas and asked for another play. I sent them Heracles and thus emptied my drawer. My soul feels relieved. Any news about Nikiforos Fokas? How good it would be if I had two or three months’ stay here thanks to that play! 6. I wrote you about Kastanakis’s fifty drachmas and her five pounds. 7. I keep asking you about Manolis Alexiou. Ask in your own turn and write me. 8.  Thanks for the overcoat. I’m eager to receive it. Snow here. Write me. Write me long letters. Write me about your life, how you’re getting along. Always, N

1  the six: In western Europe there was vigorous opposition to their exe­ cution before it happened.  1  Shestov:  Lev Shestov (1866–1938), existentialist philosopher much influenced by Nietzsche and Dostoevsky; accused of nihilism; Athens and Jerusalem, his major work, argues against rationalism.  1  Remizov:  Aleksei Remizov (1877–1957), Russian modernist poet and novelist devoted to the bizarre.  1  Myrsini:  Myrsini KleanthousPapadimitriou, writer of children’s books.  1  that brave act:  The execution of “the six.”

1922 Letters  •  133

To Angelos Sikelianos —Manuscript not in Sikelianos Archive, Benaki Museum; printed in Prevelakis 1984, p. 170 and in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 113.

[Berlin,] 4 December 1922 I’m thinking of you—I, too, with sacred anticipation, awaiting the fruits of victory. But our paths have diverged, not because at one critical moment you disbelieved in the purity of my judgment, nor because you, forgetting all our decisions, set out again on the same path. These losses of nerve belong to the human portion of our existence. They are insignificant, ephemeral, and cannot burden a glance that goes beyond details and time. But I feel that my God walks continually in the wilderness and wishes to surpass the final exploit: Hope.

1  our paths have diverged: Compare what Kazantzakis writes in his letter of April 1923 to Galatea, below: “I wrote Sikelianos that our paths have now changed and we can no longer travel together. His life strikes me as false and noncontemporaneous. God grant that he may produce beautiful poems so that he does not disappear entirely.”  1  our decisions: To go to the Soviet Union.  1  the same path:  Sikelianos’s utopianism and aestheticism.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 49; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 126–32.

[Berlin, 15 or 16 December 1922 (n.s.)] Chérie, I’m replying immediately to everything you wrote me: 1.  —I am not going to become a day laborer out of romanticism or utopianism. I have never been such an insipid ideologue or such an enthusiast for the laboring masses. The reason is that for someone to remain in Russia, so far, he is required to work three hours a day. To cross the border I need to declare what work I do. If I say writer, etc., it will be difficult for them to let me in, and I’ll be under surveillance. I need to find some sort of manual labor. That’s why I’m going to learn a trade. I’m waiting for information from an acquaintance of a friend of mine in Russia that will tell me which trade is most useful there, so that I can stay more easily. I’m studying Russian in order not to be completely foreign to Russian life. Unfortunately I have no illusions—that is the source of all my weaknesses.

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If I possessed illusions, I would conquer the ridiculous, would exert the effort you advise me to do, would become a man of action. Now, up to now, my strength has been this: to think and to write. I’m not ashamed to say that I manage the first well enough. I sense that my mind is very solid, of good quality, most lucid. The second—writing—I manage only passably. My art is not clear, pure, great. The colors drown the intellectuality of the line, the images come in abundance and are formulated with hyperbole. I have not been able to discover simplicity, to conquer the flamboyant and ornamental. My heart (I say this even if you don’t believe it) suffers grievously. Perhaps because its pain does not concern details, or myself, or any specific person, perhaps because of that it seems callous and egotistic. Yet I do not know if many people on earth today suffer and hurt as much as I do. If I am away from your presence, away from my land, if I wander everywhere and never find rest, if now I want to go to Russia, all of this derives not from excessive joy but from excessive sorrow. My anguish surpasses my individual vicissitudes. I have needs that I know I shall never be able to assuage. Nothing is capable of giving me even the tiniest pleasure. I sit all day long here in this room reading and writing, and I feel such disgust at these puny occupations that sometimes I cannot control my tears. I go regularly to concerts, attend lectures, ballet, visit museums, and all those things are like Dante’s apples, filling my mouth with ashes. You tell me to come to Greece and preach the return of the Greeks to Asia Minor. This fails to correspond with any of my inner needs. I know that a civilization has always been born out of horrid, deadly uprooting of this sort. If the purpose we need to posit is “to transubstantiate matter and make it spirit,” this misfortune of the Greeks, generations later, will produce one of two results: either the destruction of this Hellenism or the uplifting, blossoming, of an Outcry amid blood and tears. Both are good. I believe that to smash comfortable habits and to renounce happiness are absolutely necessary prerequisites for every ascent. You will say to me, “You are far away and gaze with insensitivity upon these creatures as they perish, without seeing the infamy, famine, and the streets full of human wrecks.” Yes, I am far away; therefore, I see things with greater clarity and in a wider circle. If we were lured away by details, by quotidian bloodstained images, then it would be impossible for us to locate this entire huge mishap of the Greek people within a temporal span wider than our own short lives. As for me, I view all these wave-filled human trenches from outside of my own epoch, beyond my heart’s outcry, knowing that Greece has always managed to emerge from such violent shifts and from such wheat-barley blends of Europe and Asia, throwing forth the blossom of art and intellect. I write you with constricted heart. I know that you will receive all these words of mine as the abstract theories of an insensitive mind that places individuals and peoples, like pawns, in an imaginary game of chess. I have no greater woe, nor have I gotten used to it. You are the one and only person in

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the whole wide world that I have wanted to believe in me and to accept my words as they emerge from my heart. And you precisely are the one who has never believed in the sincerity of my pain. I am fighting to draw strength from this fateful tragicality of mine. In this way, I am fighting to enjoy the frightful desert of my life and to ripen my thought along such a despairing road. I do not always succeed. I often look with relief upon the hope of death. That is perhaps the most positive benefit that I have gained from your lack of trust—not to be disturbed by death, not to be afraid of it. What do I have to lose? 2.  —I wrote you about H. Palast. If Kondoglou can translate it, give it to him (I wrote you the conditions). If he cannot, send it to Lefteris (I’ve been in touch with him). Thanks for not forgetting Aunt Chrysanthi. 3.  —Re: economics. (I’m copying from the small notebook in which I had recorded the economic situation before I left, because I don’t remember any of this by heart.) But I can’t find the notebook. God only knows, but I don’t think you owe me as much as you’ve written. Did you count the 2,400 drachmas that I ought to give you for the interest on your bonds from 1 September 1922 (that’s when your coupons begin) until 1 September 1923? If you did not count them, you need to subtract them from the 4,600 drachmas that you write about; thus you’ll owe me only 2,200. When all is said and done, let’s not worry about such things. I don’t have so many qualms. Nevertheless, let’s arrange their consignment as follows: 1. Can’t you get something from the Consortium? Is it entirely impossible? 2. If you cannot, perhaps it would be better for you to deposit them as drachmas in the bank, because I hope that the drachma will appreciate a little later (peace, Venizelos, etc.). 3. Then the twenty-five coupons from your bonds (did you lock them safely in our box at the National Bank?): ask at the bank (Stefopoulos?) about the month of September 1922, how they can send me the equivalent in English pounds (they’ll be twelve and a half English pounds). If that is possible (a circular letter was issued pertaining specifically to that loan; it is possible), then everything will end well. I hope I have expressed myself clearly: The best of all is the Consortium. If that is impossible, then no. 3: coupons. If that, too, is impossible, then you take the five English pounds and give them to Mrs. Angelidi, and I therefore get them here from Kastanakis. In this way you’re saved from mailing them. With the money I have, I will be able to live here for another one and a half to two months. (I still haven’t been able to exchange my coupons because the

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banks here do not accept them and exporting is not permitted.) I’ve sent Heracles to Alexandria and hope to have ten English pounds in a month. If we sell Nikiforos Fokas as well, I’ll be secure. I need about two and a half English pounds a month here if I don’t overspend. I hope that you will receive this letter on my name day. Remember me with kindness; believe for an instant that I am better than what you think in your temperamental moments; love me a little, simply, without criticism, without nervous fits, with commiseration.

1  my name day:  6 December (o.s.)/19 December (n.s.).

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 50; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 132–37.

[Berlin, 28 December 1922] Chérie, I received your letter just this minute. Nothing grieves me more deeply than when you write me that I have forgotten you. I think that my only hope in this terrible life of mine is to know that you sense that I remember you and love you like nothing else in the world. Last night when I went to bed, I was so distressed that I could not hold back my tears. What is all this struggle for? Why am I sacrificing all my pleasure in being with you? Why does all this phantasmagoria of life break our tiny, ephemeral, totally fleshly hearts in such a complex, incurable, invincible manner? My life here is shackled to anguish. I write, read, listen to music, and nothing consoles me. I am working on the plan to go to Russia knowing what awaits me there, too, and am unable to give all of myself over to the new journey’s joy and illusion. Sometimes I am consoled by the Buddha I am writing. Now I’ve begun a new book: Askitiki. But when I lay down my pen: grief. I do not fit into all those alphabetical formulas that I set down. When your letter is good, I feel great joy, as I do when I receive a letter from Lefteris. The idea that a small legion is being formed, that—who knows?—several of us believe in a chimera, this entices me so much that my critical judgment is struck dumb, and I do manage to fit entirely into an ardent metaphysical attempt. Should I perhaps concentrate my entire struggle inside this fiery, futile circle? Should I force myself to believe that this circle is not futile, not a new invention of my fertile mind? I am composing Askitiki now, a mystical book in which I describe the method by which the soul ascends from circle to circle—there are five circles: self, humanity, earth, universe, God—until it reaches the supreme Touch: the method by which we may ascend all these steps and, when we reach the highest, may experience all the previous ones. I am writing it purposely without poetry, in

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a dry, authoritative form. You see, I’m telling you a lot about this because it’s the latest fruit of my search. How long will this search last? Or could it be that my aim is only the search—that is, the journey from point to point? Could that be God’s journey, too? Perhaps the journey (toward heights and coherence) is the Universe’s purpose, purpose and means being identical. Only those who are tired posit a goal and then relax when they reach it. Those who are tireless, when they reach the goal, change its position. God is the supreme expression of tirelessness and struggle—the indestructible, incurable Seeker. Our duty is to identify our ephemeral pace with His pace, to keep seeking indestructibly, incurably. Whoever succeeds in this and continues beyond a certain age (thirty or forty years old), whoever does not ossify his divine inner flow, such a person is inconsolably unfortunate but at the same time a faithful reflection of God, who in his own right is both unfortunate and heroic. What path should we take? The human voice, the flesh, laziness, habit, and imitation continually prod us to stop, to circle round the same point. No matter how high that point is, to remain eternally there is a sin. At the same time, however, it affords a sure, human success. You are happy, you make others happy, you leave behind a solid work, a sure, holy example. Chérie, it’s impossible to say how clearly I see the design made by my steps on earth—devoid of lyricism, illusion, and the fever of excitement. I view my journey as being as explicit as a geometric theorem. I am not ashamed to say this frequently to you because even you still consider me hotheaded—someone who wants to become a day laborer in Russia out of a romantic disposition, for example. No so-called practical person has a steadier, more pellucid mind. The difference, however, is that the circle that my sight illumines is infinitely broader; that is why it seems chimerical. I cannot wait to receive the surprise that you are sending me for my name day. What can it be? A book, one of your embroideries, or a portrait of you made by Jenny? (It took me quite some time to remember her name: Jenny, I think.) For me that is the most desirable. If it isn’t that, can’t you tell her to paint you in oils, and then you’ll send me the canvas? How nice! I’ll write to Manolis Alexiou after I first write home and come to an understanding regarding details. Thus, I’ll tell him specific things. I’m writing to Farandatos today and will make a request. I have not received a single word from any of those to whom I sent letters asking them to collaborate with the periodical. My disgust is indescribable. I know—political troubles, etc. But the boorish rudeness remains fully intact. I still have not received the overcoat, and I’m worried. When did you send it? Please don’t forget the diary I wrote you about. The elder Kastanakis asked me for it and keeps reminding me. A diary like Skotios’s or Skokos’s—that is, that has both a diary and short stories. I’m obligated because Kastanakis is teaching me Russian.

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I wrote you about the money. Keep in mind that it’s certain that the pound will lose value when our political situation gets a bit settled. Thus, the best thing would be for us to hold on to drachmas as much as possible. If, however, you are unable to send me the twenty-five coupons in pounds (ask the advice of Stefopoulos or Anghelakis), then give the five pounds to Mrs. Angelidi, and I’ll get them here from Kastanakis. That’s the simplest way. In any case, I can live here another two months with what I have. If I receive money in the meantime from Alexandria, I’ll write you and you won’t need to spend the drachmas. Please ask Dalezios (I just remembered his name) for the Bergson and keep it for me. The best would be if he could send it to me here safely via the German embassy. I’ve written to Nakou about Buddha. What about the troupe? Rika? Jenny? You haven’t written me about Kondoglou. What language is he able to translate? Did you give him Palast or send it to Lefteris? Dimitrakos ordered various books and will give them to you. Then give them out for translation in the way I’ll write you. Chérie, I hope that you have received my letters and have seen how unjust it is for you to say that I have forgotten you. Write to me regularly. I’m not getting newspapers any longer. I’m wondering if it’s impossible for you to come here in the spring. Write me. I’m forever yours. N Put this card on the piano on New Year’s day.

1  Askitiki:  Kazantzakis’s major treatise, the philosophical basis of all his f­ uture writings; published as Salvatores Dei. Ασκητική in the periodical Αναγέννηση in 1927 and distributed as an offprint; importantly revised in 1928; second (revised) edition published as Ασκητική. Salvatores Dei in 1945; English translation by Kimon Friar entitled The Saviors of God: Spiritual Exercises published in 1960 with an extensive introduction by Friar; brief analysis in Bien 1989, pp. 67–78.  1  Skokos’s:  Konstantinos Skokos (1854–1925) published the celebrated Skokos Diary for thirty-three years, from 1886 until 1919.  1  Dalezios:  Andreas Dalezios (1883–1958), translator of ancient Greek philosophical texts.  1  card: Conveyed greetings to Vasilis and Elli Daskalakis.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 51; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 138–43.

[Berlin, 31 December 1922] Chérie, I’m answering your new letter at once. No one detests the contempteur and contemplateur as much as I do (because I was formerly like

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them). When I say that we should not designate the fatherland as the purpose of our action, I say it not so that we will cross our arms and view the spectacle of the world’s peoples from on high (“on high” here meaning insensitivity and impotence), but so that we will intensify and broaden our action by shifting it to a wider circle of struggle: to the human being without labels such as Greek or Turk—to this wretched/marvelous thing that walks on earth, loving and suffering. At first, the human being used to care only for himself, afterwards for his family and home, then for his nationality and fatherland, finally for humanity. Human beings who fought for humanity have always existed in every age, from Prometheus to Lenin. But their struggle was scattered and satanic; it failed to lure the masses. Now we must battle to have this new armed camp take form and must teach the common people (first giving them our own example) to breathe beyond frontiers and to suffer and rejoice when people in China and Russia suffer and rejoice. What’s needed is a more acrimonious, crueler struggle because first of all we must conquer the oh-so-sweet conceptions within ourselves. What’s needed is daily intensity because our hearts, not having grown accustomed yet to the new circle, easily descend again to former habits or are immobilized in insensitive surveillance. Great clearness of mind is needed if we are to know what each people contributes to the common struggle and how each nation must be fashioned and armed (politically, educationally, intellectually, artistically, religiously) in order to be useful and to take its place, like a mosaic tessera, in the icon of the God who is being created. Thanks to this final need—clearness of mind—we understand how great the work is that each thinking person must do for his nation: to find in it precisely what distinguishes it from other nations and what, if nurtured, will serve the pan-human assault most usefully. But struggling in this way for his nation (to which he must first direct his efforts), he will know what he is working for—that his nation is a means and not an end—and will really know this now because he will have been released from his homeland’s exclusive collar. That is why his action, and his influence on schools, society, etc., will be qualitatively entirely different. What, therefore, will a Greek intellectual’s action be on behalf of his nation? Once we have treated the problem in a general manner, the question is expressed in this way. The answer depends upon each person’s evolution. Is there any need to establish a common perception at this moment? It would be better, I think, to grant thinkers a little time to test their solutions. I, for example, believe that our nation’s virtues are displayed only outside of state regimes. The Greek is horrible as a political functionary. As an Odysseus, wandering, working, merchandising, thinking, without his own governmental system, like the Jews, he is unique in the world. He is able, like the Jews, to become a most effective yeast to make the earth rise. This opinion of mine seems criminal. Given that national consciousness enflames and narrows various peoples, it would be exceedingly premature

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and dangerous if realized now. If my opinion were assimilated by violence to nationalistic peoples, it might endanger the character of the Greek nation. If I were a political person, not only would I refrain from voicing this idea; I would not even possess it. But I am a thinking person and, as such, I have the right to see and desire very much further than current need. Oh, conversation is so difficult via the post! No one is able to foresee the objection and to stop advancing until the objection is smoothed over. Your idea perfectly matches this perception that I’m writing to you. Whoever feels national need filling him can work perfectly well having the nation as his sole goal and circle. However, either this same person or someone who thinks more broadly (in other words, someone working inside a broader circle that includes the former individual) must know that the nation is a means to a broader fatherland: the entire world. This comprehension will control his hate, love, and contribution. I keep talking, talking, and I think only of you. Never have I loved you so much, never have I felt more deeply my guilt for wandering so far from you. Only my anguish here can atone for this. I labor, struggle, feel sorrow, am ill at ease. None of my writings is large enough to contain me. I am inconsolable. You see, I have no other justification. Good god, if I fail to accomplish anything in my life, how will I be able to be consoled for all the anguish I wasted by being so far away from you? I’ll send you this letter when I receive Kondoglou’s painting that you’ve written me about. I can’t wait. Yet I would prefer your own portrait. Can’t he make you one the same size, for you to send me? Together in this way they’d be a miracle above my head. I’ve just received the Buddha and inside it the little Buddha. Marvelously beautiful. I especially like the leaves in the garden. Oh, tell him to make a similar one for you. For me it would be the greatest pleasure. I haven’t received the overcoat, and I’m worried. When did you send it? Did you insure it? I wrote you about the money. Don’t hurry. I ‘ve written to Farandatos about Manolis. I’ve also written home to have them tell me definitively about the conditions under which this thing can happen. I’ll be happy, because I too know what an extraordinary individual Manolis is. As soon as I receive a reply, I’ll write him. It’s snowing right now; everything is completely white. Sent M’Ahesa is going to dance tomorrow evening. Do you remember her? I want to go so much that I’m afraid I’ll become ill and won’t be able to. I already have a ticket—everything. But I’m afraid. Seldom in my life have a had such a great desire. I’ll write you tomorrow night, on my return. I’m returning now from Sent M’Ahesa. I was trembling until the last moment lest I fall ill. Fortunately, I did go. I think it was one of the most beautiful pleasures of my life. She danced Indian religious dances as well as funereal

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dances of savages. In addition, an amazing religious dance with masks. There’s no possible way I can describe it to you. Yet I think that I’ll never enjoy dance in the future. After Sent M’Ahesa, the famous Johansson appeared (Anghelakis and Kostantarakis told us about her many miracles in Tiflis). I was unable to watch her. I left in the middle of her dance—the contrast was so astonishing. Sent M’Ahesa does only religious and funereal dances. She is Indian, never laughs, has an amazing seriousness and sorrow. Enough! Today, New Year’s Eve, I will be home all day long, reading. I’m always expecting newspapers. Also the Kastanakis diary. You’ll receive my letter during the holidays. I don’t know what to wish for you. I am completely filled with love, as never before. As the new year approaches, I am totally filled up with intellectual anguish. May God grant whatever is best. May He grant that our hearts remain good and brave. Always yours, N

1  contempteur and contemplateur: Denigrator and contemplator.  1  this thing:  The marriage of Manolis and Kazantzakis’s sister Eleni (which never happened).  1  Sent M’Ahesa:  Stage name of Elsa von Carlberg (1893–1970), born in Latvia, identified chiefly with Egyptian dances. “She appeared to surge with ecstatic energy, as if her body gave her great pleasure in spite of her own desire to restrain it.” Her coral tree dance, given in Berlin in 1922, contained only Asian dances. “She signified the slow, gorgeous blossoming of a coral tree without moving from an initial position. . . . This aesthetic, even when she appropriated Indian, Bedouin, Siamese, or Javanese cultures, derived from her love of Egyptian art” (Karl Toepfer, Empire of Ecstasy, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997). Kazantzakis describes her dance in Report to Greco (Kazantzakis 1965a, p. 365).

To Rev. Emmanuel Papastefanou —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; partial manuscript in Mitsotakis 1972, p. 29; printed in Mitsotakis 1972, pp. 94–99.

[Berlin, January 1923] Brother Papastefanou, I have begun a new, perfectly mystical book: Salvatores Dei Berlin 1922–23 Its purpose is to teach the method of salvation briefly, in simple words. It is divided into four increasingly larger circles: 1. emerging from the self 2. emerging from humanity and earth

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3. emerging from the universe 4. emerging from Emerging Each circle has its Decalogue, its ascetic exercises, its virtues. From the highest circle the highest initiates descend to everyday life, act with human beings, live, work, marry—but with a completely new light. Salvation’s starting-point is the Outcry. This is what one page looks like:   1. The whole human heart is an outcry. Lean down over your chest to hear it. Someone inside you is struggling and shouting.   2. Your duty at every moment—day and night, when happy or sad—is to distinguish this outcry from everyday need   3. to distinguish the outcry with impetuousness or restraint, via action or thought, as suits your nature, and to struggle to sense who is shouting   4. and what he wants   5. and how we can join together to save him.   6. Someone inside us shouts during our greatest joy: “I am in pain. I want to escape your joy. I am hiding.”   7. Someone inside us shouts during our greatest despair: “I am not in despair. I am fighting. I am hanging onto your head, issuing from the scabbard of your body, issuing from earth.   8. “I cannot fit within brains, names, actions!”   9. From within the strictest of our virtues, someone rises up in despair and shouts: 10. “Virtue is constricting; I cannot breathe! Paradise is tiny and constricting; I cannot fit within it! 11. “Your God seems like a human being to me; I do not want him!” I’ve found a cell group here of Jews and Jewesses from Russia and Poland who have accepted our religion with fervor and whose life has changed. They are ready. Speaking with them, I engender, live, and breathe as I never did in Greece. I sense you struggling in your own right and shouting in the distance. There is also Lefteris in Crete. Without fail we must found churches in various places. I gave a book to a Jewess here, inscribing it, “Rahel, inside your heart God shouts ‘Save me!’ ” I wrote it in this manner as an experiment. As soon as the Jewess saw this sentence, she jumped up and her eyes filled with tears. Since then she has been the most ardent of our faithful here. I’m eager to finish Askitiki so that I can send it to you, you can record your observations, and the three of us together can be completely in agreement before I give it to be translated (initially into Hebrew and Russian), then printed and secretly disseminated to the neophytes. In this way, far from Greece, from Venizelists and monarchists, from friends and visits, from pointless conversations, I have been working here in a foreign country, making firm the face of our God. But I am going to leave for Russia

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as soon as I can. Oh, if I only knew Russian! Oh, if only I had your warmth and divine enthrallment! I think I’d be able then to preach a new crusade against contemporary civilization and to flood Europe with millions of famished, zealous Russians. That is what I could do. The world, Lord, has rotted; we must plant a new one. The world has never been more deeply and grievously plowed than it is today. Everything is ready. What is lacking? The seed! I feel that I am holding the seed in my hands, like a grenade. Oh, if only I could hurdle the barrier of logic and toss this seed into humanity’s fields! My God is all mud, blood, desire, and vision. He is not pure, not spotless, not just, not omnipotent, omniscient, omnibenevolent. He is not light. Struggling and toiling, he transubstantiates the night in his heart of hearts and turns it into light. He mounts virtue’s ascent, panting. He cries out for help. He does not save us; we save him. Salvatores Dei! What does “we save him” mean? We save the eternal breath inside the ephemeral clay of our existence by transubstantiating flesh, air, and water into spirit. We fabricate spirit from the matter within this workshop of our body, liberating God. Our life has no other purpose. Conquer fear! Conquer virtue! Conquer hope! For what end? Why? Do not ask! Fight! Join with the eternal, embattled Essence that lies behind phenomena. This earth is good, this body is good, materiality is holy, all-holy, because it can be turned into spirit by our love and struggle. Good and evil exist only at the first stage of initiation. At the second stage, they collaborate. Do not forget that. Two strong, opposing winds—one masculine, the other feminine—met and clashed at a crossroads. These crossroads are the universe. These crossroads are my heart. My heart is a dance of the five senses. My heart is an opposing dance of the negation of the five senses. Love and war. The purpose of our life is their supreme synthesis. Dear Papastefanou, no one matches your vigilance, your fire. Fight as much as you can to unsettle souls out there where you are. Make those who are composed uneasy. Show those who are happy that they are wallowing in the mire of infamy. Awaken as many as you can. Become the founder of a religious order, expressing to them in simple words (1) our God’s essence (pain—joy— hope), (2) the relationship between humanity and God (as between soldier and general), (3) the relationship between human and human (comrades-inarms, each undertaking to defend a battle sector), (4) the relationship between humanity and nature (flora and fauna—places at which our God pitched his camp for a moment; how he is encamped in humanity; but he is darting forward, trying to escape, and therefore crying “Help!”). This confraternity of believers needs to possess fixed points of contact with reality: a definite stance regarding people’s political, social, ethical, and economic, etc. relationships. The idea by itself is not sufficient; we need to connect it to everyday life. People collapse from dizziness when they are removed far from soil. Let us raise them up.

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One, two, or three people are enough. I am founding the first churches in Berlin and Poland—all Jews. I’m the only Greek. Not Greek. Cretan! Write to me, write to me. You have never been so connected to me. Distance has never been so completely defeated. God be with you! N

1  Venizelists and monarchists: In January 1923 and the following months, with Stylianios Gonatas still prime minister, the issue of republic versus monarchy was hotly debated. Elections in December 1923 strongly favored the republican Venizelos as opposed to the monarchists. King George II was forced to go abroad on a “leave of absence” and the monarchy was abolished by plebiscite in April 1924. (But George returned as king in 1935.)

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 52; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 144–46.

Berlin Lichterfelde W. unter der Eichen 63 [14 January 1923] Chérie, I’ve just received the newspapers with O Noumas. Leafing through O Noumas, I saw a review by a certain “Tanalias.” I don’t dare to believe that it is Varnalis. It must be some retarded disciple of Palamas. Thought, prosody, rhetoric—the whole works. They’re dishing up Palamas. If it really is Varnalis, I beg of you most ardently to send me the book so that I may read it carefully. I’d like to change my opinion. Quite aside from his thought (impossible to say how “socialistically” backward it is), the prosody, the poetry are worthless rhetoric, abstract theories, and capital letters. Once again, please send the Diary for the elder Kastanakis. Tell Dimitrakos to send me one or two and charge them to me. Every time I go to the Kastanakises’ to do Russian, the old man (an eccentric curmudgeon) appears at the door with his cap on and says to me, “Please, have you received the diary from your wife?” So please send it so that he can feel at ease. Still no overcoat. I’m afraid that you failed to insure it, so it’s done and gone. I’d written you, having known. Now, if you possess a receipt for the certified mail, maybe you should inquire. So far it has not arrived. Everything is getting worse here. The French have entered Germany, taking over all her industrial centers; the repercussions, both moral and material, are tremendous. Last night I went to a large communist rally. Speeches, shouting, Internationale, and suddenly the police. Thousands of communists, all of them as one body, and I with them, went through the streets with a huge

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red flag out front, held by a working girl. A few arrests took place, nothing more. Tomorrow, a new demonstration. The goal is for French and German communists to unite thanks to this opportunity, since the French and German bourgeoisie have united owing to this coup by Poincaré (the French intervention is in the best interests of the industrialists here). Thus, the international unification of communists will begin, and the new war (which is coming) will be formulated either negatively—general strike—or positively: war between classes, not nations. Everything—food, tram, etc.—has doubled in price. When I came here, the train from Lichterfelde to Berlin was 7 marks; today it’s 80 and beginning tomorrow 160. The same with postage for letters: double beginning tomorrow. I’m reducing my expenditures as much as I can. When I need money, I’ll write you, and you’ll send me the amount that exists. But I expect to receive something from Alexandria in the meantime, and then I’ll be at ease for four months. I’m impatiently awaiting a letter from you because I haven’t received one for many days. Kastanakis sends you the enclosed Bolshevik postage stamp from Georgia. My greetings to the troupe. I hope to write you interesting news soon about the situation here, because the communists are extraordinarily agitated and Russia is on the alert. I prophesy great moments for Europe. Yours, as always, N

1  Tanalias: Dimos Tanalias was indeed the pseudonym used by Kostas Varnalis for his Το φως που καίει, a critique of Christianity, published in 1922.  1  The French have entered Germany: In January 1923 French and Belgian troops occupied the Ruhr, the main center of Germany’s coal, iron, and steel production, in order to enforce German payment of the World War I reparations stipulated by the Treaty of Versailles. This led to increased inflation, polarization, and unrest.  1  Poincaré: Raymond Poincaré (1860–1934), president of the French republic, 1913–20, during the First World War; then senator and chairman of the reparations commission; then prime minister again from January 1922, ordering the occupation of the Ruhr by force on 11 January 1923.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 53; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 146–50.

[Berlin,] 20 January 1923 Oh my God, chérie, I cannot express how fine it was to receive this letter of yours. At the time you wrote it I don’t know if you were just, but you assuredly

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were benevolent, which is the highest form of justice. For you to harbor a grudge against me is, I think, just; however, anyone who knows what I am suffering, what struggles I am undergoing, why I flee far away from you, why I cannot enjoy the peaceful pleasures of a home, the warmth of a sunshine like that of Greece, your divine companionship—anyone who knows all that will love me and view me no longer with the narrow justice of the bourgeoisie but with the benevolence “τοῦ ἐρῶντος καί ὁρῶντος Νοῦ.” God grant that you’ll be able to come in the spring. Take whatever money I have and use it for your expenses. My pleasure in seeing you and the chance of your spending several months here with satisfaction make me happy. However, let’s allow this horrible winter to disappear. In springtime everything will be fine. You cannot imagine what ferment exists in the whole of Germany now against the French. Poverty has reached a dangerous level. The pound has risen to 120,000 marks (from the 5,000 at which I first found it), and everything else has risen with it. There’s no more coal. I am able to heat my room only two days a week. And the cold is terrible. Outside, snow everywhere. (Ah, behold! Yesterday I received the overcoat and the raincoat, God be praised! I had lost hope. Thank you so very very much.) Huge rallies; hatred of foreigners. Liqueurs and dancing have been forbidden, along with extravagances in the hotels. Since yesterday it is not permitted to place foodstuffs accompanied by drinks in the shop windows, lest the starving populace see them and become provoked. Many teachers and physicians work at night as waiters in cafés and restaurants. Many pastors find work in mines. The distress is indescribable. And next to it is the impudent extravagance of the foreigners who have enough hard cash. The Greeks here (I haven’t met any of them, Daniilidis points them out to me from a distance) are despicable merrymakers, the vilest of Balkan louts. At the same time, the communists are in ferment. Meetings take place to solidify the brotherhood of French and German communists. The nationalists on the other hand (and they’re the majority here) are organizing rallies in favor of war. Russia is on the alert. If she exploits the opportunity, she might flood bourgeois Europe and give rise to the great class revolution. But Lenin, although healthy again, is still tired and without zest. Perhaps Trotsky, who is ferocious and devoid of scruples, a prodigious organizer of the masses, will play the role of an intellectual Genghis Khan. In any case, everything here is on the eve of explosion. I wrote you that I received the Buddha. I’ll inquire about the dye for Rinaki. However, I think it’s impossible that they’ll have English medicaments here. Owing to the difference in currency, no one would buy them. Therefore, I’ll see about finding a German brand and will send it to her.

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For God’s sake, the diary! Tell Dimitrakos it doesn’t matter which one, but make it like Skokos’s, etc. I wrote you about the need. Thanks a lot for the photograph you sent. You appear very beautiful; you’ve lost some weight. But the laughter, the glow of the face: that’s entirely you. Keep sending me photos when you take them. They give me great pleasure. You handled the money very well. Do whatever you wish. I’m eager to receive something from Alexandria and to relax. Please remind Dimitrakos to send me the check for three pounds; I returned it to him because he forgot to endorse it. And remind him to tell me if he received the manuscript of the history. I’m terribly worried that it may have gotten lost. Once again I’m working here in despair. I awake at dawn; now that the room is not heated, I remain in bed and work there. As I wrote you, I’m composing Askitiki. I don’t know if you will like it. It’s written tersely, as a persistent ascent from circle to circle. The whole thing seems—who knows?—like commands from a past age that I am executing now at this moment when I have finally advanced beyond them. If only I could make the “leap”—to leave writings and poetry behind me on the other shore and to speak to mankind without judging, without shame, and without weighing everything. I feel that only then would I find the form wherein my soul might breathe freely. To speak to humankind, not to one or two people, but to the masses. To interweave my idea with contemporary needs—economic, social, political. To speak and rouse people concerning the contemporary problems of their everyday lives. The abstract, fleshless, philosophic idea is unable to satisfy the carnivorous soul. Everything is clear and intact in my mind, but I lack the strength to jump the fence and conquer ridicule. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to. If not, my life will be the most profoundly incurable bitterness and attempted exertion, because what you told Skipis is correct: my sole virtue is that I keep battling, gazing ahead like Odysseus, but in my case not knowing if I will ever cast anchor in Ithaca. Unless Ithaca is the journey. Write to me. Your letters are my only joy. Do not forget me. I have caused you much pain, but I love you. I have never been able to find the words that might convince you. But when you observe my life peacefully, kindly, you will believe me. Always yours, N

1  τοῦ ἐρῶντος καὶ ὁρῶντος Νοῦ: Of the loving and beholding mind.  1  Lenin, although healthy again:  A bullet from an assassination attempt, surgically removed in April 1922, had undermined his health. But in May 1922 he suffered a stroke that paralyzed his right side. A second stroke in December 1922 forced him to resign from active politics. A third stroke, in March 1923, left him bedridden until his death, which occurred in January 1924. 

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1  Trotsky:  Leon Trotsky (1879–1940), second only to Lenin in the October 1917 Revolution, led the well-organized Reds to victory in 1920 against the Whites in the Russian Civil War. Because he opposed the rise of Stalin, he was expelled from the Communist Party in 1927 and deported from the Soviet Union in 1929. In 1940 he was assassinated by a Soviet agent.  1  Skipis:  Sotiris Skipis (1879–1952), prolific poet and dramatist.  1  Unless Ithaca is the journey: In 1923 Kazantzakis presumably did not know Cavafy’s famous poem “Ithaca,” the classic statement of Ithaca as journey; nor does he mention this poem in his section on Cavafy in Traveling: Egypt.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 54; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 151–56.

[Berlin,] 11 February 1923 Chérie, I received your letters and the diary. My only consolation in this despicable world is to know that you exist. Fighting to conquer my sadness by working, I think of you always. The idea that you might come in the spring gives me indescribable courage. Arrange your work with Dimitrakos so that you can work here as well and stay as long as possible. The Kastanakises and several other Greek families here will keep you company. In any case, life will be cheaper. Lefteris wrote me about what he is suffering in Iraklio, perhaps from the in-laws. He’s perishing and wants to escape. I wrote him that if he comes here I’ll share whatever I have with him so that he’ll be able to stay. Maybe in this way you’ll be able to come with him. Prepare the plan and may God be of help! 1.  Mrs. Kastanaki wrote you, but you didn’t answer. She’s worried and keeps asking me. She’s nice. They seem very obliging. I go to their house twice a week, and Kastanakis is teaching me Russian. Write her if you wish. 2.  Kastanakis asks you if it’s possible for you, please, to speak to some newspaper that might like to receive dispatches from him. He’s unique, especially for things Russian. He receives books, newspapers, and periodicals from Moscow and is able to report consummately to the Greek public on Russian affairs. Do what you can, because he asked me with extreme ardor. 3.  The diary relieved me concerning the elder Kastanakis. I’ll bring it to him today in triumph, to escape. 4. Daniilidis is departing for Athens in a few days. He wants now to work in Greece; he’ll come to see you at once. Thus, I’m writing you what he is: exceptionally well read and very cultured. He has read an infinite number of things, his mind is clear, and he has classified everything in it with splendid

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European lucidity. He is enterprising, good at organizing, totally honorable, indefatigable. He endures hunger. He is a socialist—that is, he desires the just arrangement of wealth without violent communist convulsions. In that we have always disagreed: I am an extreme Bolshevik, even if our impetus may not be completely logical or just. He criticizes the Russian mode of creating a new world, confusing just a bit the people who are directing it with the idea. However, he admires the Russians’ fertile soul and admires Lenin as a saint. He wants to organize the workers—the working class—in Greece, also to create a youth movement, and, finally, to help the periodical by means of speeches, tours, etc. He can do a lot because he’s educated, energetic, and honorable like no one else in Greece. Yet I’m not overvaluing his worth at all. We are apparently in agreement on almost everything. However, I always say: Yes . . . yes . . . Our words are the same but the content is different. He is a European; he admires European organization, progress, logic, propensity. I am an Anatolian. I recognize the immense worth of the European contribution to thought, art, and action, but I cannot contain it. It suffocates me. There is something else, something deep and fiery, something beyond logic that directs my innermost desires. Daniilidis lacks this. So what does he possess? All the rest. I’m writing you a great deal about this friend of mine because he’ll want to urge you to participate in organizing some sort of women’s movement beyond your individuality. I know that his zeal will probably evaporate quickly in Greece since even the greatest soul cannot keep going for very long there. The best of them fight to maintain their “little lamp”; that is already a big achievement. The people in Lapland expend all their energy, strength, and psychic essence defending themselves against the cold. That’s why they have never produced either art or thought. They don’t have time, don’t have any more strength—they have expended everything in their defense against the cold. The same in Greece: against frigidity of soul. Yesterday I went with the Kastanakises to an exhibit of contemporary Indian art. They wanted me to take them and somehow to initiate them into this art. We kept talking about you: what a splendid fiery soul matched by few others in this world. Oh, if you were only in a different environment! A little while ago I saw a woman here speak to a communist rally. How envious I was! Her voice was clear, resolute, and keen amid the coarse, vague opinions of the males. Without theories and without invoking Marx, she declared, “Words are superfluous; the time for action has arrived. Are we right? Wrong? We’ll find out through action. This world must be destroyed!” Another woman, seventy years old, Clara Zetkin, crosses borders in secret, appears at every communist demonstration everywhere in Germany, and speaks with amazing passion, impetus, and clarity. Headed by this grandma, thousands of workers traverse the main streets. Still another woman, lame and ugly, is the

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director of a famous proletarian school on the outskirts of Berlin. The other day there was a conference that all the “Resolved Reformers” attended; they spoke no longer about new pedagogical methods, but rather about the new goals that we must assign to pedagogy. Wherever Tanni went (that’s the lame director’s name), catcalls, insults, stones from the children of the other schools, the bourgeois ones. Everyone hates her in this suburb, Spandau. Only her young pupils, boys and girls from ten to fourteen years old, adore her. Fights break out between the children. The lame Tyrtaeus ignites hatred for the coming war, as well as both spiritual and corporeal love. I always think of you as I look at these women. Should you start in Greece? Your tiny light might be snuffed out, but that is the way that one helps a future hero. I don’t know what our duty is. As for me, if I were stronger perhaps I would stay in Greece, fight, and perish. Right now, living in a more fertile soil, I’m battling to save myself. Perhaps I will become strong enough to perish serenely, battling and wrestling with the despicable Greeks. With the absence of coal, life now in the winter is desperate. Everything has risen in price to an astonishing degree in just a few days. So you can understand: a book (by the philosopher Keyserling, which Lefteris wrote me to send him) cost three thousand marks a month ago. Now they’re asking seventy-two thousand! I’ve stopped buying books, limiting myself to the most essential ones. Fortunately, the library here is exceedingly rich, and I have everything I need. Don’t give the six pounds. Right now I’m still able to wait. I might get something from Alexandria. I sent Herakles two months ago. Still no news. Did it get lost? Oh, the question of the history saddens me and gives rise to the fear of thinking that I’ll need to start it all over again. The post office here sent a complaint, etc. to the Greek post office. I still have hopes. Concerning Kondoglou! He’s a peasant, a classic ingrate. But it doesn’t matter so long as he keeps writing beautifully. Don’t talk to him. Keep noticing with compassion and awe the mud that the spirit sometimes chooses to occupy. Human beings, those splendid and horrid organisms, oh how they soil God’s face! Yet it seems that God is less fussy than we are. Or, being stronger than us, He endures ugliness. Last night I dreamed continually of Jenny. Has something else happened to her? Write me; love me; don’t forget me. N

1  11 February 1923: It’s good to remember that Greece abandoned the Julian Calendar on 16 February 1923, which became 1 March. Of course, Easter, then as now, continued to be calculated by the Orthodox Church using the Julian Calendar.  1  He is a European: Ironically, Daniilidis was born in Cappadocia, and he and his family spoke Turkish.  1  Tyrtaeus:  Lame elegiac (and perhaps mythic) poet who flourished about 650 B.C. and, according to legend, was invited by the Spartans to assist them in the Second Messenian

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War. One explanation of his lameness is that it alludes to the elegiac couplet, in which one verse is shorter than the other. One of his poems, “The Spartan Soldier,” begins: “It is beautiful when a brave man of the front ranks / falls and dies, battling for his homeland, / and ghastly when a man flees planted fields and city / and wanders begging with his dear mother . . . / A turncoat gets no respect or pity; so let us battle for our country and freely give / our lives to save our darling children.”  1  Keyserling: Count Herman Keyserling (1880–1946), author of several best-selling books in the 1920s, including The Travel Diary of a Philosopher. He advocated a culture beyond nationalism and ethnocentrism.  1  the question of the history: One of the histories that Kazantzakis was writing for use in schools, commissioned by Dimitrakos. This one did get lost, and Kazantzakis eventually rewrote it in a few days, from memory.

To Rev. Emmanuel Papastefanou —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; partial manuscript in Mitsotakis 1972, p. 26; printed text in Mitsotakis 1972, pp. 72–78.

[Berlin, Early spring 1923] Brother Papastefanou! I’m continuing to work on Askitiki. The first section is “The Preparation.” It is divided into three parts: 1.  I fit within phenomena and am able to breathe and work therein with ease. The mind and science have absolute authority in the area of phenomena. No force (religion, morality, art, etc.) has the right to intervene. Intellect is absolutely sovereign. This is one reality, the scientific one. 2.  I do not fit within phenomena. Another force within me—let us call it a sixth sense, let us call it the Heart—does not fit. How annoying! How distressing! Behind phenomena, what exists? What is the mystery that engenders and maintains them? And does such a mystery exist? The mind cannot answer these questions. But another force within us asks and cries out. That is our preparation’s second stage. 3.  I sense a warring essence behind phenomena. I sense that this essence is wearily mounting a secret, endless ascent. I sense that it is hastily descending a dark, endless decline. I arrange my life accordingly. Together with the universe, I ascend and descend. Two everlasting currents join in my ephemeral heart. I realize that everything inside me is growing heavy, wishing to sink and decompose. The brain is becoming tired, the body wearing out. I cannot catch my breath. The entire earth is a millstone suspended from my neck.

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At the same time, however, I am swept away by an inner rage, an unrelenting eagerness to keep fighting so as not to decline, not to die. I understand the universe to be the same. I flow with it. Good does not exist; nor does evil. Everything is submerged in futility; everything is sacred. I waste away, wither, ache, and struggle with all other beings. But suddenly within me an outcry—“Help!”—springs out of that silent, impersonal flow. At this point Deliverance begins. I.  The “March” commences. Who called out? I sense in my heart that the ascending current, the Invisible that mounts, is the one that shouted “Help!” In this way the flow begins to separate, and we to assume our responsibility to call one of the two ways our own. Which should we choose? The downward tendency (like Buddha) or the upward slope? Without intellectual arguments, the heart decides according to its own secret momentum. My heart shouts “Ascend!” That’s how the March begins. The station-stops are: The bypassing of (1) self, (2) nationality, (3) humanity, (4) earth, (5) universe. At the March’s start, the world is revealed to me as warfare: there are good and evil, friend and enemy, God and Anti-God. Good is whatever aids the ascent, evil whatever pushes downward. This is how I grade different values, how I discover my new Decalogue, how I regulate my thought and action. The more I advance, approaching the Invisible, the more I discern that good and evil collaborate, that the March’s profoundest mode is not simply “Warfare” but rather “Militant Love.” II.  When I have lived through this entire March, the great Moment of Union arrives. The Lover, who began to arrive by waging war, does arrive and becomes a Bridegroom. It is the perfect Moment of Union with God. It is ecstasy. Ecstasy divides into two: the ecstasy of fire and the ecstasy of light. III.  When we have finally sketched out the entire Circle of Preparation for the quest and the mystical Marriage, then the great final period of ascetic practice begins: the Action. Perfectly matured and enlightened, we confront our human duty in the phenomenal world of our everyday lives: the relation between God and humans, the relation between humans and humans; the relation between humans and nature. The Bridegroom becomes the Father. I have sketched out Askitiki’s skeleton for you in a few words. Oh, how much we would be able to talk about all this if only we were together! I am proceeding wearily, attempting by means of hidden inexorable logic to give some coherence to my fiery strength. First of all, we need clearly to set in order our relationship with science. That is the initial step. Whoever fails to recognize the omniscience of science within its circle, and its impotence outside the kingdom of phenomena, cannot be saved.

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Write to me immediately if you have any observations to make. Write to me if I have left anything vague or unanswered in your mind. If you have added anything from your life out there, if you view our God differently, write everything to me—everything! Our God is the Great Ascender. He catches hold of all beings to keep Himself from falling, catches hold of our heart, and shouts. We join Him in His onward impetus, identifying our fate with His. Will we be victorious? At the first stage of initiation, we say, “Yes, we shall be victorious. The good shall win.” At the second stage, we say, “Victory and defeat, good and evil, above and below, beginning and end, matter and spirit—all are naïve distinctions made by the mind. God’s essence is undying struggle, struggle without termination, without reward, beyond every purpose. Do not ask! Ascend!” I cannot tell you what we say at the third and highest stage. No one can tell anyone else. Silence. N I wrote you that Lefteris wants to come here. I wrote him to come and that I would share what I have. We need to be carried away by great masses of people and ideas, to see every horrible contemporary need. Our outcry must not be an idyll, an aesthetic position, an answer from provincial tranquillity. Out there where you are, try to see and experience today’s wretchedness as much as you can, its excitement, infamy, and its yearning for salvation. We need enough time to adjust ourselves perfectly to life—to experience the Preparation’s third stage deeply. After that will come our need to meet, when each will have written his own Askitiki—that is, the method of salvation as he has experienced it and as he figures it will become intelligible to others. Lefteris is writing; you are; I am. We are working. Our lives are sacred; our duty is to be mindful of our each and every action and thought—to laugh, to weep, to work, and to love with the great commandment always before us. Try to introduce as many as you can—one, two, three—to your life’s tempo. Saving others, we save ourselves. No other method exists. If someone is lost, one of our limbs rots away. Your name is not “Manolis”; nor is it “Greek,” “Human Being,” or “Worldly Fruit.” It is “Universe.” You will be saved only when everyone else is saved. As I wrote to you previously, I’m living and working here only with Russian Jews. I’ll leave for Russia when I’m able to. If the foreign correspondent’s situation that you find for me allows me to write from wherever I wish (and not just from Germany), then when I return I’ll look for collaborators. Write to me. Your life is supremely holy. What do you think? How long will you stay in America? Can’t you transfer somewhere else where I’ll be able to see you? Always, N

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To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 55; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 157–63.

[Berlin, Winter 1923] Chérie, I’m replying to your letter at the same moment, just as you wished. 1.  First, no matter how many times I’ve written you concerning my joy when I receive a letter from you, nevertheless the joy always seems new to me, and I write you about it. A saintly Moslem awoke every morning before sunrise, stood at his window and waited. When the sun appeared, he began to tremble and once he was heard to cry out: “Behold! A moment ago it was nighttime and now day is breaking! God lifted up the sun!” He began to tremble and dance, so new did the sunrise seem to him each and every day. In my own right I would like to be able to tell you my joy in simple words. But grant me my own manner and believe that today (today—that is, for years) my supreme joys are two without which I would have died: my anxiety to prevent my soul from frittering away out of my body before I fix it firmly in words, and your presence by my side. When I think about it more deeply, I sense that both of these are identical, that they are one and the same joy and anxiety. My soul clutches at an idea or a soul. 2.  This month I’ll finish Askitiki. I’m a little tired. I’d like to move to a small German city in order to rest. But this is difficult because of money. I’ll wait to be paid from Alexandria for Heracles and then I’ll go on an extensive tour in order to have a breather from paper and ink. Fortunately, the days are beginning to be somewhat better; there’s less cold, and the sun has appeared. I’m able now to take a midday walk amid the fir trees near my dwelling. 3.  When I complete Askitiki, I will continue Buddha, a work that I like more than anything else I’ve written. Oriental poetic opulence combined with terse, classic formulation. I’ll send you a few pages in due course. Odysseas has been translated and is ready. I’m going to give it to a German poet, an acquaintance of mine, to check the language. Then I’ll see in what way it can be printed. 4. Regarding the Bergson article: try to answer as much as you can justly, certainly without exaggerating but also without underestimating. Confront with respect and charity the efforts of our intellectuals to express something, to react somehow, to try hard, and to run speedily even if only to the flour jar. You’ll need to approach the subject somewhat biologically—that is, to examine first what our historic, social, political, and economic environment is. I remember that quite a few years ago, perhaps seven, a periodical, Voutieridis’s Chronika, concerned itself with such matters and that many letters followed. I think that Avyeris’s answer was good. In any case, get some

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advice from Vlachoyannis (he is more useful than we think), Avyeris, ­Theotokis, and Zervos. They are in a position to give you useful information and hints for your thoughts, because what’s needed is conversation and ­discussion, a common effort, mutual replenishment. Whatever I write you from a distance will be imperfect. In any case, that’s the way you should work: first of all placing our intellectual manifestations in their natural, human framework. Afterwards, it will be easy, as a result, to express those intellectual manifestations: Palamas (his final development and why he fell into a decline), Gryparis (why he has been silent these ten years), etc., etc. Then Sikelianos (be just and recognize his amazing talent and his struggle to bring out what he can and to save his selfhood from Gehenna), Varnalis, Avyeris, Lefteris, and the remaining young ones. I advise you—still usefully, although a bit late—to read Taine’s famous work, Histoire de la littérature anglaise (especially the volume concerning Shakespeare, and the one concerning Byron, etc.). It would also be good for you to see Andreadis to become informed on what precisely Bergson, etc. desire and for what purpose—so that you may adjust the length of your essay and the points to which you will give the greatest emphasis. 5. I weighed Papandreou’s proposal and came to the following conclusions that I submit to you. The position of library director is of course good, etc., splendid for someone who is not like us. But: a. It cannot involve any action whatsoever because the library requires credit and the like, which it never had and now has less than ever. Consequently, you’ll be unable to acquire either the books you want or the additional personnel, nor will you be able to create any intellectual movement. b. I will be dependent upon the whim of thousands of people—I know what pressure university professors exert. When Papandreou falls, we will remain the prey of a multitude of nonentities, especially for such a position, which a whole crowd desires to occupy. c.  A multitude of my writings will come to a halt midway through (as happened with the ministry, where I enjoyed a much wider scope for action, and much more freedom). Unfortunately, I no longer have time to lose. The other day when I had a mild temperature and was unable to sleep, I had frightful nightmares with the constant leitmotif that I was unjustly wasting my time and would die without having completed anything. 6. I have reached another conclusion based on Papandreou’s proposal, since it indicates that he wants to appear congenial to me. He might act to have me appointed consul general in one of these countries: Spain, Italy, Scandinavia (if the position exists), Jerusalem, etc. (No qualifications are required for consul general; in addition, it would be easier for him since I formerly was director general of a ministry—that is, I held a post higher than that of consul general.)

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Thus, I would combine many things: (1) You could come and stay with me as much as you were able; (2) I would not be under the immediate pressure of all the strong men of Athens; (3) I would have few duties and would be able to appear exceedingly useful in the service, although expending little time; (4) I would not interrupt my writing at all—on the contrary, the change would renew my mind. Thus, we would provide for ourselves economically. Of all the locations, the perfect one for us would be Russia. But, unfortunately, we still do not have diplomatic relations there. However, when I am appointed it will be easy for us to transfer to Moscow. And then at last you will be with me. So, I beg of you very much, go to Papandreou when you receive this letter and tell him all this. Is he disposed to act to make it happen? It will be a real service that he’ll offer both to himself and to us. I’m waiting for you to write me the result. Of course, we won’t beg them. If they’re interested, let them do it at once. 7. I’m very worried lest the history continue to be lost. The post office here sent a complaint to the Athens post office. I wonder if there is any hope. The thought of beginning again horrifies me. 8. Don’t forget to send me, if you can, what you said to the association. Whatever you say, they deserve. But I wonder if I have the right to speak in this way. I should have been with you to fight them; yet I feel that this is no longer my duty, that it is perhaps not my own duty’s path. My work is different now; it accords with my current innermost outcry. What’s important is to keep working, to be vigilant, always to avoid capitulation. 9.  Anything concerning Nikiforos Fokas? How good it would be if it, too, went to Misri. Good riddance! My greetings to the entire troupe. You haven’t written me anything separately about Jenny. You know how much I, too, love her. Isn’t there any hope for her to take a brave step, to remove herself bodily from her mother, to loaf a little on her own in Italy, France—wherever she wants? She has all things, but lacks the One Thing. Encore une étoile qui file. Write me often! Do not forget me. God grant that some way might be found for us to meet quickly. I have a good premonition! Who knows? This coming spring? Always, N

1  Voutieridis: Elias Voutieridis (1874–1941), journalist, poet, novelist, dramatist, critic, translator, and literary historian; served as a volunteer in the Cretan uprising of 1897 sending back articles about it to Athenian newspapers; covered the Macedonian struggles in 1908 as a correspondent; contributed to O Noumas; served as a correspondent in the Asia Minor campaign in 1921; appointed secretary of the National Library in 1923.  1  Vlachoyannis:

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Yannis Vlachoyannis (1867–1945), poet and short story writer, but chiefly a historian and biographer; discovered and published the memoirs of General Makriyannis; directed the General Archives of the State.  1  Gryparis:  Yannis Gryparis (1870–1942), poet, schoolteacher, translator, demoticist, high official in the Ministry of Education, director of National Theater (1930–36); translated Aeschylus and some Platonic dialogues.  1  Taine:  Hippolyte Taine (1828–93). His history of English literature, published in 1864, originally contained four volumes to which a fifth was added.  1  Andreadis:  Andreas Andreadis (1876–1935), professor of economics and statistics.  1  I formerly was director general of a ministry: In 1919, when he was appointed first director and then director general of the newly established Ministry of Welfare, in order to repatriate the persecuted Greeks in the Caucasus.  1  the association:  The Educational Association, founded in 1910, whose purpose was “to aid in the rebirth of education in Greece.” Kazantzakis was one of the founding members. His lecture on Henri Bergson was delivered in the association’s offices in 1912 and published in its bulletin.  1  Misri:  Arabic name for Egypt.  1  Encore une étoile qui file:  Yet another star that disappears. Verse from “Les Étoiles qui filent” by Pierre-Jean Béranger, composed in 1820: “Encore une étoile qui file, / Qui file, file et disparait.”

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 56; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 163–65.

Berlin, Lichterfelde W. Unter den Eichen 63 [Winter 1923] Chérie, Daniilidis will bring this letter to you. I’ve already written you an entire letter about him. A few days ago I answered you regarding Papandreou’s proposal. My opinion continues to be the same. I hope that you agree. I’m beginning to want to leave Germany. If I don’t find what I desire, I’ll fight to be able to go to Russia. My need to experience that nation’s life increases every day. I’m making progress in the Russian language. I’ve begun to read Anna Karenina in the original, with emotion. I’m writing you early in the morning, hurriedly, while preparing to accompany Daniilidis to the train station. Terrible cold, snow. Unhappily, winter has returned. Once again I stay in bed all day long because my room is not heated. I’m sad, uneasy. I look with awe on my life and soul. Nothing satisfies me. Neither music nor painting fills my heart any longer. My everyday work is a torture. If only I could stop writing! Every morning, when I yoke myself to the paper, I shudder with anguish. What will I be able to make lucid, to save

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from wastage? How will I find the words to keep my soul from dying? This daily torture is exhausting me. Papastefanou writes me from America that he’s been in touch with someone who edits a periodical to which I should send a play. He says that they pay very well. I thought it would be good to send Nikiforos Fokas since they’ve taken such a long time in Alexandria. Could you give it to be typed (at Dimitrakos’s), to turn out two copies for me? (Pay with money you’ll get from Dimitrakos.) And send me the copies. I’m afraid to have you send me the manuscript that I left with you because I don’t have another copy and tremble lest it, too, be lost in the post. Please do this immediately, if possible, because I need a lot of money. The book Aigäische Kultur that Daniilidis will give you—send it to Lefteris together with the letter, so he can translate it. I’m expecting your letter. Write me how you’re getting along. Don’t forget me. I love you more and more every day. I’m very worried. Can’t stand Germany any longer. I received O Noumas. Thanks. If any new book comes out, or periodical, send it to me. I love you always, always, N

To Rev. Emmanuel Papastefanou —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; partial manuscript in Mitsotakis 1972, p. 30; printed text in Mitsotakis 1972, pp. 104–10; translation in Kazantzakis 1979, pp. 40–43.

[Berlin,] 1 April 1923 Brother Papastefanou I received your letter and wrote at once to Athens to have them make a typewritten copy of one of my plays, Nikiforos Fokas, so that I can send it to you. I have another play here with me, Christos, but I’m not sending it (a) because it is very long, five to six thousand verses, (b) because it will be somewhat difficult for America. Unfortunately, I do not have short stories, etc. to send as the kind of sample they want. Nor can I work on a survey and criticism of contemporary European civilization to send as a sample. It’s a difficult job that would require an entire month to collect a mass of material from which I could extract that sort of report. In any case, I’m waiting for you to send me one of the periodicals that are issued there so that I can understand the sort of text that someone might send.

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The best thing for me would be to obtain a foreign correspondent’s position of the kind that would enable me to return to Europe and to write splendid reports. Above all, I’d like to go to Russia, today’s most interesting world center, and from there to describe the creative Russian chaos. Summarizing: 1. I’ll send you Nikiforos Fokas. 2. I cannot devote a month to producing a sample. 3. What the best thing is for me. I received the check and will try to cash it (they refused to accept the other one under any circumstances). If I don’t manage, I’ll obtain a permit and will return both of them to you. The most important thing took place: your declaration. The flowering of materialistic civilization here, too, in Berlin, is immense, wondrous, and horrifying—what you write me exists here as well, in this city of six million people. But at the same time there exists a small group of ascetic people who battle against this current and prepare future humanity amid convulsions of pain. I’ve come to know several and to admire not so much the high level of their minds as their insistent, organized, systematic activism— speeches, public discussions, tours, conferences, periodicals, newspapers, advertisements, dances, music, and so forth, using all of these means in order to spread the fire that is burning them. We don’t need to borrow the content of their ideal; our own content is higher and broader. But we do need to borrow their mode of activity. If we stay the way we are now, we’ll be ruined. One cries out in America, another in Greece, a third one in between. There are several others who cry out and are not heard by us; thus, in these “personal outcries” we exhaust not only our fervor but our very life. This must not continue any longer. What do you have to say? Try to formulate it as well as you can—clearly, simply, tersely. Print it, speak it, spread it. If it is still not perfect, so much the better! It will become perfect when you throw it into the marketplace and it contacts lively souls, warm bodies, open air. Our lives are passing; we have already grown old; half of our lives are gone; we find ourselves at the most mature, elevated, fertile point of the human pyramid. What are we waiting for? As long as we dissipate ourselves in tiny, whispered, infertile teachings for the masses, we lack the right to be either hateful or loving, or to condemn our contemporaries. I am the first one guilty. I work, write, have Askitiki ready—that is, the introduction to our religion—but what does it mean? I ought to jump into the marketplace, speak to masses of people, overcome fear. Because I have seen the entire unified circle of life and death, good and evil, and since from on high I have experienced all of God’s efforts to be saved by matter, flora, fauna, and His effort now to be saved by human beings, my duty is to apply all of this high-level theory to my epoch and my everyday life.

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I feel every day now that action is the supreme form of idea. That is the fruit of the entire divine tree. Thus, enlightened by the highest survey of God’s struggle, I must discern the nature of this age in which I was born, and how, in this age, I might aid God in His ascent as much as I can. I am interested neither in the nature of humanity’s duty in past ages (“duty”—that is, the form taken by how humanity helps God) nor in the nature of humanity’s duty in future ages. The only duty I discern is the one that is mine today in an exhausted age that cries out as it engenders a new world. If God formerly took on the face of Dionysus because the conditions of life, of His development, and of a particular nationality, etc., etc. were such and such, or the face of Christ or Zoroaster or Moses or Buddha, today that possesses simply a historical value. What interests me is His contemporary face covered with blood, tears, and individual duty. For me, God’s face congeals every day as the strict image of an army general full of command and struggle, a general engaged in today’s crucial battle between eternally opposing forces. Still more specifically, my God today is the leader of the dark popular groups that are fighting to be liberated from the unjust wretchedness of bourgeois life and to breathe freely. What this means is that it is my God Himself who is fighting to breathe freely amid today’s God-bearing layers, the masses of common people. Formerly, my God, fighting to save Himself from wild beasts and natural forces, assumed the face of a king and aristocrat, whereupon He created great civilizations; after that, a bourgeois face, whereupon He created great works. Today, His former allies have lost their zest, nobility, and creative breath; they have become obstacles. My God clutches at the social class that is in pain, wanting to give birth to children. He will abandon that one, too, like the others, when it, too, becomes an obstacle. My God shouts, “Burn your home! Whoever has a home cannot receive me! Burn your ideas; smash your thoughts! I am coming! Whoever finds a solution cannot find me! I love those who are hungry and restless. I love tramps. They think eternally about rebellion, hunger, the unending road— about Me! I am coming! Abandon wife, children, ideas. Follow Me! I am the Great Tramp. Follow me! Tread upon joy and sorrow, upon peace, justice, virtue. Forward! Smash those idols, smash them—I cannot fit. Smash yourself so that I may pass! What is your conviction? I, unsheathing myself, rise above every conviction. Say that I am the betrayer and the lover. I betray what I love because I am faithful to Love’s essence. And what is Love’s essence? Amid ideas and bodies, to wish to join the Invisible One!” Once more I have written you various sentences from my Askitiki. Oh, it is impossible to say how much I suffer! I suffer because I cannot overcome ridicule and fear, because I cannot release the outcry from my throat, cannot shout. Yet I am fighting. That will be my ultimate exploit. Write to me regularly. Try to save time and to solidify your ideas on paper. Prepare your sermons. In church, practice speaking “indirectly” about our

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God. You can give no greater joy to Christ than by preparing in his temples the coming of the Comforter. Always, N

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 62; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 170–77.

[Berlin, April 1923] Chérie, I think it’s been a long time since I received a letter from you, and I’m worried. My heart is filled with uneasiness, apprehension, agitation. I wrote Askitiki and finished it yesterday. Is it any good? I don’t know. With simple words, I attempted to outline my life’s discipline as though in a confession: where I started, how I circumvented obstacles, how my anguish concerning God began, how I discovered the central meaning that now regulates my thought, writing, and action. Oh, it still does not regulate it entirely. A multitude of evil habits from my previous development prevents me from moving in accord with my God’s strict, adamant command. But I am fighting, consciously now, to remain faithful to my life’s essence. I find myself at a new watershed. The final and most holy form of theory is action. God is everywhere—in humanity, politics, daily life—and is endangered. He is not all-powerful, so that we can fold our arms in expectation of his certain victory. His salvation depends on us. And only if he is saved are we saved. Theory has value only as a preparation; the crucial struggle lies in action. That new need is something that I experience at every moment. A Work must be found in which all of us may take part, to which we may give ourselves, and with which we may be saved or destroyed. Only in this manner will we conquer life’s tedium, the infamy of people and things, and render up our maximum strength. This Work must be profoundly united to contemporary social and political anguish (without being entirely absorbed thereby). Let this world be destroyed, cease to exist any longer! That is the first duty that this Work must assume. Hatred! Its second duty: to find the new nucleus of the civilization that is coming; to elevate Hatred, transubstantiating it into a means and not an end. Hatred’s end is love. What form will the new love take? Without love as the basis, humanity’s elevation is unthinkable. But love changes in each civilization and that change is the new element that great revolutionaries have sought everywhere to find, and do not always find. The other day I was at a conference of “The Resolute.” They are a mar­ velous bellicose society of people, chiefly teachers, who seek the complete

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reformation of education—to change not the method but the pedagogical purpose. They are all communists and extreme socialists. Some other time I’ll write you about the three splendid types who direct the struggle. They organize conferences, speak in every city, are poor, wear proletarian shirts of light brown moleskin. They publish a periodical, books, manifestoes. I belong to this society and am among the most extreme. At their meeting held the day before yesterday, a young teacher spoke about Wyneken’s school. (Wyneken is among the most progressive thinkers and pedagogues in the world today. He founded a celebrated school in a forest. It uses the new pedagogy. He was accused of being a homosexual and imprisoned. He is still in prison.) The speaker extolled the splendid forest school: its music, freedom, ardent love for the body, its intellectual sensuality, its passion for the beautiful. I couldn’t restrain myself. I kept shouting, interrupting. I didn’t like this at all. When the discussion began, I said that a school, today, should not be a refuge, an island of beauty in the ocean of contemporary ugliness. It should not be art, an ideal, a sacred hermitage. Today’s school should be one thing and one thing only: a preparation—preparation for the immediate contemporary struggle that has already begun. It should not be far away in a forest and organized like an idyll (later, when we’re victorious, we can worry about beauty). Today the school must be in a commonplace ugly environment where the student is destined to live and work as he matures. Students should view this ugly environment well, with their teacher, learn to hate it, try to change it. Not to make it ideal—they must avoid a futile hope of this sort that always degenerates into discouragement. They should change it a little, as much as they can. Yes, let them go on excursions to the forest, let them desire the seashore, fresh air, but let them know that they do not have time today. I would say as well: All should not be just, regular, perfect, as in Wyneken’s school. Let the students learn to be dealt with unjustly and to resist the injustice and cry out. Let them not eat regularly and often go hungry, be thirsty, suffer. Healthy bodies, not because that’s how they become beautiful but because that’s how they become strong. How will their strength be used? To enable them to learn early on that all these things that they are taught, all the powers they amass, all learning, self-control, longing have one and only one purpose: to destroy the old world (the world of their parents) and to create a new world. A school’s purpose now must be clear, implacable, narrow. Later, when we achieve victory with the strength of our God, then we shall see. That’s when art and music will come—the idyll. If we are alive then, we will be the first to undermine things once again, in order to produce catastrophe anew, as well as creativity. But our lives are short. Along the limited track we are allotted to travel while alive, we must keep working to discern which is our epoch, which is our epoch’s vanguard, and then straightway, resolutely, without compromise, we must place ourselves at the furthermost outposts of battle and not recognize any other duty, virtue, or happiness.

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Oh god, chérie, if I could only conquer the final remnants of my former personality and throw myself into these uttermost outposts of my God, no longer only in thought but with my voice and body! I know that very few people today have seen this duty so clearly and with such passion. I am fighting to make the final leap to the other shore, leaving shame and cowardice behind me. Oh, if only I were a Russian! I wish I were able to speak with Russians. No other souls exist today that are so ready. I am wasting away! Oh! if you only knew how much I suffer, without any hope whatsoever and at the same time without any faintheartedness. The pleasures I enjoyed here at the beginning have faded. Music needs to be exceptional to be capable of capturing me momentarily. But I resist. I do not desire this opium of beauty. What I feel is (as Dehmel says—remember?): “O wife, O child, we don’t have time.” Occasionally a new painting enchants me, not because it’s beautiful but instead because it’s an outcry of protest, a color or line that rises up inside a small wooden frame and protests. I haven’t wanted to see dance any more since I once saw Sent M’Ahesa dance. I saw the best that I could; dance has ceased now to interest me. Sent M’Ahesa danced only once; she departed immediately to her villa in Munich. I don’t go any longer to antiquarian museums. They are divine, well-balanced forms from other ages. Today they are not only foreign to a lively heart but also hateful. These forms of beauty often deceive even the finest souls, leading them away from their painful, amorphous, uncertain contemporary duty. I have distanced myself from many of my friends. I wrote Sikelianos that our paths have now changed, and we can no longer travel together. His life strikes me as false and noncontemporaneous. God grant that he may produce beautiful poems so that he does not disappear entirely. Sfakianakis no longer exists for me. I love and admire him, but what does that mean? What does he contribute to the struggle? You see, that’s the only thing I ask. You are the only one who contributes. You are vigilant; you keep fighting, worrying, hating, protesting amid the cowardly Greek masses. Yet I am fated not to live together with you. I have no greater sorrow, because I know that this fate of mine cannot be cured, even if I return. At least write to me. Don’t forget that I exist. Don’t forget that I exist and love you. N P.S. Now, at the very moment I was mailing this letter, I received your fine letter. Thank you for sending me your admirably clear, honest, lively lecture to the association. Everything accurate, totally simple. It’s the association’s duty, but your speech will encourage them only slightly, out of fear. Jenny’s news is sad. Can’t anything be done? At least, let her love a living human being. I’m very sorry about Theotokis. Please write me regularly about him.

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I’ll buy you the cardigan and will try to send it. I’m hoping to find a way. Are you really going to come? I can’t believe such happiness. Don’t neglect to speak to Papandreou. It’s the only thing that I could do and that would serve me well to do for a little while. Then, without fail, have Nikiforos Fokas typed, send me the two copies, and keep the original. I’m continually writing Buddha. I’ll read it to you when you come. But maybe I’ll send you a page so you can see my method. I’m glad, very glad, that your novel is coming along so well. Don’t hurry to finish it. Events in Greece are giving you marvelous new material each and every day. Write me; keep sending me whatever Greek books appear. Don’t forget the archives of the Historical Dictionary. I’m receiving O Noumas. Write me. Yours always.

1  Wyneken:  Gustav Wyneken (1875–1964), German educational reformer and free thinker. He led the Free School Movement that founded boarding schools everywhere in Germany. He urged that youth groups be led not by adults but by older youths. He also advocated “pedagogical eros” based on the Platonic model of same-sex pedagogical relationships. He was prosecuted for homosexual immorality in 1921.  1  Dehmel:  From the poem “Der Arbeitsmann” (The Worker) by Richard Dehmel (1863–1920; also spelled Dhemel); “Wir haben ein Bett, wir haben ein Kind, / mein Weib! / Wir haben auch Arbeit . . . Nur Zeit! . . . / Nur eine kleine Ewigkeit; / uns fehlt ja nichts, mein Weib, mein Kind. . . .” Richard Strauss’s setting of this text is well known.  1  sorry about Theotokis:  He was fatally ill and died that summer at the young age of fifty-one.  1  archives of the Historical Dictionary:  What he wanted was the periodical publication Λεξικογραφικόν αρχείον της μέσης και νέας Ελληνικής issued by the editors of the Historical Dictionary of the Greek Language.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 62a; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 178–81.

[Berlin,] 3 April 1923 Cherie, I received your letter tonight. I hope that in the meantime you received a long letter from me. I wasn’t at all saddened by Papandreou’s answer, nor was I surprised. Like you, I have no illusions regarding human beings and, as I wrote you another time, I am distressed only by the internal essence

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that is chastened within human beings and fights to be delivered from them and to breathe freely. That’s why I do not wish to abandon them altogether, as you do. The human soul is nasty and dark not just in Greece but everywhere. However, among the many millions here, several may exist who are distressed, as you are. Then these few organize, come to an agreement regarding the ends and means of the struggle, parcel out jobs, and begin the war—ten years, twenty years, until they are killed or grow old or die. “The Resolute” have been warring now for twenty years, as I wrote you. No one was with them at the start. They were dismissed from their jobs, insulted; but now, twenty years later, a certain agitation is beginning to occur all over Germany. Lots of young people, still children, come and enlist in their camp. A certain breath, still very meager, is beginning to blow. One of the leaders was surprised the other day and declared, “It’s happening too quickly! Another ten years should have passed.” If I have agreed to be “used,” it is not because I hope to do some good for these people, but because this corresponds to my inner need to be able to fly to Russia a little later. I think that we will be able to live only there, not because I have new illusions regarding the Russians, but because all-in-all their soul is the deepest, darkest, and brightest—the most God-bearing soul in today’s world. At other times it was the Indians, the Greeks, the Arabs, and Europeans. Today it is the Russians. I will try to find another way. If you don’t come here, I don’t know what will become of me. To tour Germany will be difficult because money will be needed. To go elsewhere will be even more difficult. Dieterich wrote me tonight that he’s in Berlin. He’ll come to my lodgings tomorrow. (Don’t forget Άρωστη πολιτεία.) So I’ll send you this letter tomorrow and will write what we said. I saw Peroti, as I wrote you. But let’s hope that Anagnostopoulou will be less boring. Wednesday. Dieterich came home. Simple, simplistic, mediocre. He doesn’t know much about Greek literature; nor could he judge even if he did know. We ate lunch together, sharing my frugal meal. We spoke exclusively about you. I gave him biographical information (I told him that you were born in 1888—so, if he asks you, don’t say 1890 or later)—information about your work, your life, your intelligence, etc. Without fail, he wants Άρωστη πολιτεία in order to choose to translate something of yours into German. He told me that Chrysanthos of Trebizond is here—indeed, that he resides in my neighborhood. We went and found him. Vehement and frigid, as always, a mealy-mouthed hypocrite. He’s been here since December. Yesterday Nausicaa wrote me a cold “polite” letter about Easter with the customary nauseating phrases. I won’t even answer her. Oh god, how I now detest the theatricality of all those tender expressions! They observe Easter, have a lamb, go on an excursion, receive communion, all of them. What idiots! How provincial! What tiny, insignificant, criminal idylls!

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I await your letter. Write me. I always write regularly and love you as never before in my life. In your turn, do not forget me. I await O Noumas so that I may read your short story. Keep writing your novel with faith, patience, and flame, so that it becomes a great, inexorable work. I, too, am working here as much as I can, struggling in accord with my nature. God be with us! Always, N

1  Peroti:  Mitsi Peroti, a friend of Galatea’s, one of her troupe.  1  Άρωστη πολιτεία:  Galatea’s novel Άρρωστη πολιτεία (Sick City), (mis)spelled according to Kazantzakis’s reformed spelling system.  1  I told him that you were born in 1888:  Actually, she was born in 1886.  1  something of yours:  Most of Galatea Kazantzaki’s major writings came later: her first novel in 1933, her first collection of poetry in 1927. By 1923, however, she had published poems and stories, chiefly in the periodicals Pinakothiki and O Noumas. She was successful in writing schoolbooks (often with Nikos Kazantzakis’s collaboration before their divorce in 1924) and also composed many works for the theater that were performed with a certain success. Her destructive “novel” about Kazantzakis, Men and Supermen, came in 1957. She died in 1962.  1  Easter:  Greek Orthodox Easter occurred on 8 April 1923. Western Easter occurred on 1 April 1923.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 63; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 181–85.

[Berlin,] 10 April 1923 Chérie, I’m now gathering all the communist schoolbooks that have been written and all the communist children’s books. I’m going to begin to carry out an old plan of mine to write a series of books for the children of the society to come. We must be ready. Later I’ll write histories with the social struggle as their basis: the domination of one class, sometimes the king, sometimes the nobles, clergy, bourgeoisie, how civilizations are created and overthrown, and how necessary it is for us, consciously now, to lay the foundations of a new victory and a new civilization. I’m thinking of founding here a polemical group of different nationalities, one of whose aims will be to write such books, each consistent with the author’s nation, but all with a similar direction that is generally polemical and creative. A little while ago I returned from visiting a famous Russian Jewish poet who has translated Homer, etc. into Hebrew verse. We spoke for two hours.

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Oh god, when I come in contact with these famous contributors to the contemporary spiritual movement, my self-assurance and faith in myself become indescribable. I feel that everyone I have met is inferior to me. I speak with them up to a point, after which they cannot advance any further. These past few months my mind has acquired a sure, decisive direction: I now see my epoch and my duty with utmost clarity thanks to the secret, fertile theories that have pleased my soul up until now. Destroy! Destroy! Destroy! All of today’s despicable infamy must go under. Each person in his own region must destroy, preach hatred, and prepare future generations. If someone placed me in a certain part of the world, the first activity I would undertake would be to found a school to prepare combatants. In accord with the flame that is burning me, I would teach the students the histories of ancient Greece, Rome, and contemporary civilization. I would teach them why they need to become good workers, good teachers, good scholars, good and fertile fathers. I would teach them how a poem should be read, how stars, animals, people, and ideas should be viewed. Partiality! Conscientious, inexorable, intolerant partiality! No superfluous theories, no general surveys. Not “this is good, its opposite is good, everything is good, or everything is bad.” No! The world is divided into two: good and bad, above and below, God and Satan. We are God’s soldiers. What does this mean? Our duty is to hate half of the world’s direction and to love the other half. Later, when equilibrium comes i.e., after our victory), let people be taught to be harmonious, universal, and tolerant. Right now, all these virtues are weaknesses, like abandoning our shields in battle. When I happened to be talking with two or three people the other day, I suddenly felt myself so furious and vehement that I stopped, glad to be governed by so much faith. I’m writing you this as a portent of a profound change in me, a portent of action. Some additional time may be needed. I must be relieved of several remnants of former enticements. I must deliver myself from Buddha, which I am writing at the moment in order to do away with poetry. This needs to happen “internally,” the way that fruit ripens. I must see various places in order to escape their temptation. I must go through all this consistent with the system of my own temperament—that is, slowly and exhaustively. Only in this manner may I advance without looking back. When I have a discussion now with someone who attempts to refute me, I hasten to enumerate all of his arguments and to find for him additional ones that he does not know. Why? Because I have experienced his situation for years and know all of its secrets. “I was in charge of the wine cellar!” I have been a linguistic purist, a nationalist, demoticist, scholar, poet, socialist, religious fanatic, atheist, aesthete—and nothing from any of these can deceive me any longer. For four months, the metropolitan of Trebizond, Chrysanthos, has been residing in my neighborhood. Did I write to you about this? These gentlemen are cooking up something now. Nikolaïdis comes and goes, keeps in touch with several here in Munich who display Bolshevik tendencies, and

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Chrysanthos and Nikolaïdis want to go to Russia. I’m eager to see Chrysanthos again in order to speak to him a little, free from all circumspection. With Bolshevism as the apparatus, they want to become petty tsars of Greece. Having failed as royalists, failed as followers of Dragoumis, now they’ve discovered another path: that of ridiculous mystical patriots, societies of Alexander the Great! I will warn them that, if they happen to go to Russia with such an aim, they’ll be executed by firing squad within three months. I’m able to grant them this honorable death at long last. Daniilidis wrote me that he saw you. He says that you are a superior human being and that you will work with the masses. I’m eager to receive your letter to see what you say in your own right. If you reach Anagnostopoulou in time, give her the knapsack that I wrote you about with the things I wrote about, because I need them very much. In addition, the Baedeker for India! (It’s with all the Baedekers at home.) Why India now, I’ll tell you in another letter. Right now I still cannot do anything positive. If you miss Anagnostopoulou, then please send me the Baedeker by registered mail. Here a Baedeker costs 100,000 (a hundred thousand!) marks. Keep sending newspapers from time to time. And the O Noumas with your new short story. Above all, see to the copies of Nikiforos Fokas. Without fail give the enclosed to Dimitrakos. It’s necessary. And see if the French books he ordered have arrived. How is Lefteris? He hasn’t answered me for months. Marika Andonopoulou’s mother died. Let’s hope that this will be good for her (I mean for Marika). A big hello to Jenny, in spite of everything. And to the entire troupe. Rika? How is Rika? Write me, always yours, N

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 64; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 186–92.

[Berlin, April 1923) Chérie, I would very much like us to converse about everything you’ve written and to reach some conclusion about all those Myrsinis and Papandreous. The conclusions, deriving from everything I have told you, would be approximately the following: We must be uncompromising in our ideas, for two reasons: 1.  So that those who are less pure and brave than us are not led astray. We will be the light burning at the end of the road, showing the road.

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2.  So that by means of ridicule, provocation, and goading, we may compel people of action—to the degree that reality’s rigidity allows—to be sticklers regarding their efforts and never to be satisfied. We must expertly separate the nature of the Idea from the need for action. The Idea’s nature is to desire the absolute, to detest compromise, and to refuse to tolerate any concessions. Alas for an Idea that capitulates and enjoys relativity. The nature of action is accommodation. The inflexibility of habit is huge, all-powerful. So are the inflexibility of the insistence on the past, and human beings’ wretched disinclination to repeat on a regular basis the fearsome, insistent exaltation of creative renewal. What happens if a person who is the standard-bearer of an Idea manages to acquire the authority to bequeath a new mode to society’s enormous, sluggish bulk? One of two things: 1.  Not wishing to yield or to endure compromise, he disdainfully abandons action and takes refuge once again, uncompromisingly, in the elevated region of his Idea. 2.  He battles for years, sacrifices one thing in order to succeed in ten things, makes zigzag maneuvers in order to impose his Idea without deadly clashes. When he succeeds, we say (after many generations, after centuries), “Behold a supreme ideologue who, not yielding, obliged life to assume his own rhythm.” He alone knows what concessions he made, what he wanted to do and what he actually did. Viewing his work, he shudders because he discerns the often infamous, criminal, stupid caricature of his efforts. I’m copying for you here some words spoken by Lenin in one of his speeches at the November 1921 conference in Moscow: Il faut revenir en arrière, battre en retraite. Les concessions que nous avons faites sont insuffisantes. Reconnaissons nos fautes. Nous en sommes arrivés à un recul non seulement dans le capitalisme mais vers la réglementation du commerce, vers la reconnaissance de l’argent. Il faut donc regarder le péril en face et ne pas cacher à la classe ouvrière notre marche en arrière. Lenin’s life is one of the greatest, bloodiest dramas that a person can follow. I am following it here at first hand—all the convulsions of his bitterness, anguish, and tenacious attempt. He battles, yields, assaults, tolerates the opposite of what he believes, feels his Idea being humiliated by reality, promulgates laws recognizing trade, private property, money, individual enterprise, etc., attempts to inject into Russia’s gigantic body as much new blood as it is capable of receiving. From a distance or after quite a few generations, all of these compromises will have been organized into a new creation; the entire enterprise will present itself as large and devoid of detail; the entire sanguine

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tragedy of Lenin’s day-to-day activity will be reduced to two or three episodes, because the answers to all questions will come from the work itself. (The same thing has happened to Christ, Buddha—every reformer.) Why am I writing all this to you? None of it has the slightest relation to the pigmies who are always misbehaving in Greece and who make compromises not for the sake of an Idea but for the sake of their own infinitesimal selves. They are arrivistes, all these wily Greeks; to get a good job, they use as their instrument and weapon whatever humanity considers sacred. But I’m writing everything to you because we need to be generally in agreement about this subject. It’s probable that you will assume a responsible position sometime; then you’ll feel unimaginably bitter and you’ll resign immediately, or—weeping, cursing, hating (yourself and others)—you’ll make concessions in order to realize as much of the Idea that Greek reality is susceptible of tolerating. If you ever become the director of a prison, do not forget these words of mine today. I have passed through that hell. No one was ever more ready than I to discard at every moment the position given him. Yet I remained for more than a year, dying each and every day as I struggled to save some people from the Pontos so that some children could be nourished somewhat better in Macedonian orphanages and so that some families could be settled somewhat better in Thrace. What did I desire? An infinite number of things. What did I accomplish in that position? Practically nothing. A minimal something for which I paid dearly. Daniilidis is a believer. But I’m afraid that his method is too “European.” What relation do you have with Myrsini and with Avra? Would a meeting have practical value or, contrariwise, would it increase the gulf between you? Is there finally a need for a common effort with that character? In Greece we are all of us still Captain Number One, so let’s have each of us commit himself to his own small band, and let’s have a guerrilla war right now against the regime— as in 1821. If all the guerrilla captains in ’21 had begun to reach agreements and to collaborate in advance, there would never have been a revolution. On your own, commit yourself to a struggle together with a few women whom you like. Let’s have another woman commit to another struggle, if she can. There is only one goal: Revolution—our Great Goal. Let the direction be the same. We must not desire narrower unity (European-style, of course) for today’s Greece. N These days I’ve been planning to start a new book—completely revolutionary, and exclusively for Greece. I continue to be excited by the discussion concerning Wyneken’s school. I wrote you about it. Recently I completed the book’s general outline. I’ll speak about the content that must be given to the contemporary Greek school: the nature of our epoch, what Greek reality is, how the new generation needs to be nurtured and prepared. A completely communist book without a single compromise, a revolutionary manifesto occasioned by the educational problem.

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I’m going to go to some village here if I can for about a month to rest and to work in peace on this book. I am very tired. Of necessity I went the other day to one of the celebrated physicians for a general checkup. I’ve lost a lot of weight. He listened to my heart and lungs with his stethoscope, examined my entire body with X-rays, analyzed my blood, etc., and told me that I am extremely healthy but must eat more and work less. He assigned me a general diet that unfortunately will be impossible for me to follow because we are not millionaires. I told him this and he told me, then, to change location, to leave the city and go to a village. I’m inquiring about a village now. Regarding Nikiforos Fokas: I, too, horribly detest America, but I’m going ahead because I don’t want those plays to come out in book form. I very much doubt that they are worth it. In America the play might earn me more than ten pounds. It will appear far from Athens (a fact that pleases me). Finally, I’ll print it when I want. For those reasons I ask you again: please send the copies. Did Anagnostopoulou leave? Don’t forget to give her my hiking knapsack and some underwear that I wrote you about, but no shirts. I need all that very much. Also the Baedeker for India. Write to me regularly. I am more worried than I seem. I keep working in order not to have time to be by myself. All of this life of mine strikes me as exceedingly sad, aimless. Creativity is an intoxicating alcohol in this base tavern of the world. Do not forget me. I am always yours. N

1  Myrsini:  Myrsini Kleanthous, whom Kazantzakis had met in Zurich in 1917.  1  Il faut revenir en arrière . . . notre marche en arrière:  We must turn back, beat a retreat. The concessions we have made are insufficient. Let us recognize our faults. They have led us to retreat vis-à-vis not only capitalism but also the regulation of commerce and the recognition of money. We must thus look squarely at the danger before us and not hide our retreat from the working class.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 65; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 192–200.

[Berlin,] 1 May [1923] Cherie, I’ve just returned from a large communist rally in one of Berlin’s great squares. It was in front of the palace. Thousands of people had gathered, the square was filled with red flags, the statues of the old Hohenzollerns beautifully decorated with red flags, hammers and sickles. Mothers held their

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young children on their shoulders so they could see and have the spectacle imprinted on their minds. Lots of orators, familiar phrases. The crowd listened for two or three hours to the eternal phraseology and then dispersed. I had a German communist intellectual with me dressed in the uniform that the intellectuals—communist university students, schoolteachers, scholars, etc.—commonly have here: buttoned moleskin jackets with open collar, usually colored, no hat, short pants with knee-length stockings, and sandals or sturdy shoes. I told him how much this type of rally seemed old-fashioned to me and soulless. A new format needs to be found for these meetings and the communist organizations. Such rallies are for today what religious processions were in former times. How did the church organize these processions? A certain unified dramatic action took place in the streets. One member of the chorus spoke, another answered, the bishop constituted the visual unity. They halted at crossroads, invoking God, whereupon the crowd became quiet but then burst out suddenly in appeals, threats, hopes. It wouldn’t be the same; nevertheless, these processions might motivate us. The proletariat’s enthusiasm, hatred, and power should be organized in contemporary ways whenever the people pour out into the streets and hold rallies or protest-meetings. The method will be different for each nationality. What did the Germans do in the Middle Ages when they set out on crusades or when they struggled for generations to overthrow feudalism? This will lead us to a purely German contemporary form for a mass meeting. My friend agreed with me but said that either great individuals are lacking who would capture the masses’ subconscious desires or that this subconsciousness is still not sufficiently powerful to impose itself upon certain individuals and be formulated in concrete terms. I am working regularly with this friend and several others to found an international league to enlighten the common people by means of books, lectures, propaganda, etc. They insist chiefly on training choice intellectuals who would treat philosophical, scientific, artistic, etc. subjects from a communist, Marxist perspective. I insist on our need to abandon all these intellectual luxuries for now in order to see how we will address ourselves (1) generally to the common people, (2) specifically to workers, (3) to children. Another time I’ll write you more. I’ve begun the educational book that I wrote you about. The title I’ll give it is Letters to My Wife. In several series of letters I’ll write you my entire conception of the school. It must prepare the child for contemporary life. What is contemporary life? The end of one civilization, the creation of a new civilization. Accordingly, we need to prepare fighters in school who will hate the deteriorating regime and will battle to overthrow it and to create a new regime. I am going to write it in a completely polemical fashion, without the slightest sentimentality, poetry, or caution. I hope that it will be worthy of you and that you will like it.

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If God grants that I go to Russia, I’ll write you a series of letters from there about our struggle; those will be my second book for you and about you. Thus, I’m thinking of formulating a series of revolutionary books written exclusively for you. I imagine that I’ll write you another such book when I’m in Greece. And perhaps another, one day, from prison. 7 May. I’ve just received your letter. Such a long time! Such a long time! Where can I start? Ugh, Delmouzos disparages Wyneken! How I wish I had been there at that moment! Here, Wyneken’s works are always before me. He is one of the greatest thinkers now in Germany—in other words, in the world. His thoughts about religion, morality, and education are excellent. What he says about the essence of divinity is so similar to my own conception that I sought to see him. I’m waiting these days for him to be released from prison (the entire superior intellectual class rose up because he was imprisoned by the reactionaries and monarchists who prevail now in the courts). I’ll go near Weimar where his school is, in order to speak with him. Oh, the ignorance, superficiality, and wretchedness of Greeks! As much as we can, we must preserve in Daniilidis the ardor he needs in order to work. Only thus can he truly create what he sees now in his imagination. Reality consists of an insistent, systematic, ardent illusion. With your negativism, you are useful only for the undoing and for exciting believers to think they are accomplishing something. But, as you maintain, each forerunner needs to have the messiah inside him—that is to say, the nonexistent, the chimera. Otherwise, the messiah does not come. The book meant for you is advancing. I’m writing it with zest and emotion, as though I were talking with you. Oh, if only I could go to Russia now in the summer for one or two months! I have friends here in the Russian embassy and maybe I’ll be able to. I want to speak with various people there. Here I speak and discuss with them, saying what does not seem correct to me—­ especially the intemperate, inconsiderate application of Marxism in Russia and the Russian people’s loss of every faith. Maybe I’ll be able to go. A couple of plans are besieging me. I’m uneasy, work very much, do not eat as much as I should, have lost weight. However, I’m looking for a village; perhaps life there will be cheaper. I struggle to exist on two and a half English pounds a month while Mitsa in the embassy gets twenty a month. Once when I saw her, she asked me what she should do with them. If I go to Russia, I’ll write you the second book, the one about Russia. I work a lot, all day long. Fortunately, I sleep deeply and get some rest. I’m in a hurry. It seems that my hair has begun to turn gray, and I still have done nothing. I’m finishing Buddha at last. Askitiki is ready. But all those things need to be rewritten many times. Good god, what torture! Happily, the weather has improved. The chestnut trees are in bloom. Lichterfelde is a miracle. Oh, if only you were here! I cannot enjoy anything because of your absence. When will we see each other again? I had greatly desired to be appointed consul somewhere, because you would have come. I was so overwhelmed with the

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joy of your coming that I, too, wrote to Papandreou and begged him. No result, of course. But the other day I got a letter from some journalist named Athanatos assigning me “on the recommendation of the minister of the interior” the role of foreign correspondent in Germany. I’m to send him articles, interviews, telegrams, etc., etc., and he will send me as much money as I request. I answered that I accept only under two conditions: (1) full, uncompromising demotic, (2) full, uncompromising communist ideology. I’ve descended to become intransigent. Some Greek wanted to engage me in discussion the other day at the embassy. I suddenly became so indignant that I felt like tearing him apart with my bare hands. I spoke abruptly to him, I squashed his tiny, wretched brain, and he could no longer speak. Oh, when will we have power, when, leaving simple outcries, will we jump into action? If we are truly worthy, that’s when it will show. The premonition ripens within me on a daily basis that the day will come. Once again, please: the Baedeker for India. In addition, send me a dozen postcards showing a young Cretan, published by Aspiotis. Daniilidis sent me one such marvel, and I would like to send one to various people here who love Crete. I beg of you, please. For god’s sake, whenever you need money, get it from my account at Dimitrakos’s. I still have the money there from the histories. The pound has gone up, and it’s in my interest to take the money now in drachmas. When you’re in need, please take it all. What else? Just one thing. We must meet; a way must be found. I don’t know when I’ll go to Greece. That’s why the consulate was useful, since you would come. In Jerusalem, for example, or Spain or Italy. Is it impossible, I wonder. If you wish, write me to act via Vendiris, who is Alexandris’s best friend. If you wish, write me, and I’ll manage it, provided you promise that you’ll come and stay with me for a long time. Dieterich is asking for Άρωστη πολιτεία again. Write me, write me regularly. N

1  The book meant for you:  Kazantzakis never published a book called Letters to My Wife; however, in October 1923 he did publish in O Noumas (vol. 20, June, pp. 402–6 and October, pp. 566–78), using the pseudonym A. Geranos, some excerpts with this title from “a book that was written this year.”  1  from prison:  He did spend one day in prison in 1925; more accurately, he spent twenty-four hours “detained at the police station.” For the full story, see Bien 1989, pp. 88–90.  1  Delmouzos:  Alexandros (Alekos) Delmouzos (1880–1956), leading educational reformer who applied advanced educational ideas he had learned in Germany and who campaigned to have the demotic language become the basis of all education, instead of katharevousa. In 1908 he was appointed director of a girls’ school in Volos but was forced to resign and, accused of atheism, was placed on trial but declared innocent. In 1910,

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along with Kazantzakis, he was a founder of the Educational Association and afterwards a frequent contributor to its bulletin. Venizelos appointed him superintendent of demotic primary education in 1917, but this position disappeared when Venizelos lost power in November 1920. In 1923 he became director of the Marasleion School in Athens until forced out by Pangalos. From 1929 until 1938 he served as professor of education in the University of Thessaloniki. The remainder of his life he spent writing about his educational aspirations and vicissitudes.  1  Athanatos:  Kostas Athanatos (1896–1965), a journalist.  1  Alexandris:  Apostolos Alexandris (1879–1961), member of parliament, minister of education under Venizelos, 1910–12, ambassador to France, 1924–25.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 67; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 200–6.

[Berlin, May 1923] Chérie, I’ve just received your letter. Everything that Daniilidis says strikes me as missionary chamomile—well-known European recipes: “Let’s get to know reality (‘Greek reality’ in the current fashionable phrase) and act in accord with it.” What wretchedness, what poverty, what cowardice! Greek reality shouts from within us. The only certain way to find it is to listen to our Greek hearts, which know, better than documents or peregrinations, what that reality desires. Can the common people tell us anything that we fail to know better than they do? If we truly represent not our infinitesimal egos but the collectivity of the Greek people and, beyond that, the collectivity of contemporary human beings who are struggling in the midst of present-day needs and are seeking freedom, then our duty is one and one only: to formulate this outcry from our hearts by means of words or action. Only then will the common people sense with clarity (for the first time) that they are suffering and why they are suffering and what is the method of deliverance. They attribute today’s suffering and misery sometimes to politics, sometimes to poverty, sometimes to ignorance. When we speak, they will learn that their pain is something deeper; that politics, poverty, and ignorance are results and not causes; that the entire world today is agitated by an immense pain, a huge struggle; that all peoples, beyond national frontiers, must join together and make war fiercely, mercilessly, without hope of immediate reward. No people today can be saved all by itself. If Russia is not saved, Greece is not saved. If Bulgaria or Turkey suffers, Greece is not saved. We are all one. But we need to speak to the common people with clarity and bravery, without tricks and politics. The best politics in this age of dishonesty is honesty.

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Continually maturing in me is the following idea: We are entering an extended middle ages period full of frightful cruelty and struggle. What does middle age mean? One class, the one in power, has grown weak and must fall. But it is still firmly organized. It resists, does not wish to fall. The other class, the one that is treated unfairly and does the work, begins to be enlightened, begins to organize, battles to grasp power. But it is still weak because partially organized and still hypnotized by words, ideas, and morality invented by the ruling class to keep the lower class subservient. This struggle, the intervening period, the breaking apart of equilibrium, is the middle age that we are entering. Neither we nor our children will see peace. Wars will break out, at first still nationalistic ones, then mixed ones, afterwards clearly class wars. We must map out expertly and deeply in our minds this historical point through which we are passing. Let us regulate our actions in accord with it. Every attempt at improvement delays the definitive victory, for it is a contrivance and ploy by the bourgeoisie in disguise. Today we have one and only one duty: subversion. Let us finally put an end to the stage of discussion, which involves truth and correctness in agreement with logic. To subvert, we must go beyond that initial stage—discussion—and enter at last the second stage, the stage of faith, which is not discussed and does not discuss, but simply fires up hearts, engenders action, destroys civilizations and gives birth to new ones. Discussions have never renewed earth’s face; they are merely symptoms of burnout and lack of faith. What has always renewed the earth has been passion, enthusiasm, and faith without intellectual argumentation. If we have faith, then Greece will be saved. If we do not, then all of humankind’s apostolic campaigns (without Christ), afraid as they are of being pelted with rotten tomatoes, will end up ridiculous. I keep writing Letters to My Wife. Half of the book, the first part, is: What the rhythm of human history is. At what historical point we find ourselves today. What our race’s duty is. What our individual duty is in the contemporary struggle. The second part is the application of all of this to schools—that our duty is one and only one: to prepare children for future social struggle. All of education acquires unity, a definite goal: to serve contemporary need. I’m writing it with emotion and faith. The idea that I’m writing to you encourages me, adding warmth to my words. I sent you a short “letter” in case you want to publish it. I can send others as well if you desire. However, I’d like them to appear in O Noumas. I have saved all your letters and have arranged them according to dates. Thus, you can make use of them when you wish. I must have formulated my thoughts on contemporary demonstrations very badly indeed for you to have misunderstood me to such a degree. Good god, when I consider how imperfect are the means of human communication, I am overcome with awe. But I agree entirely with what you say about religions, symbols, etc. I wanted to say only one thing: every faith (and that is

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what the communist idea is today, because it has surpassed its first stage, that of “theory”)—every faith, every mass enthusiasm, always finds new external, mass means to protest, to move, to become aligned. Communism still has not discovered this formula; it therefore borrows the old ways of previous rallies. You should have been here to see how the demonstration, instead of exciting the crowd of people, mollified them. They didn’t know which way to go, how to align themselves, what would happen—and they dispersed. A new type is needed, one that is fierce, organic, with beginning, middle, and end, a fully alive means to run great organizations of the faithful. This still does not exist, but it will come. That’s what I desired and why I wrote you. No one detests the old, dead masks of divinity—the old religions—more than I do. My God’s new face, as I have often written you, is that of a worker smelling of tobacco and wine, a worker who is hungry, who labors and reacts angrily to what is unacceptable, who is dark, powerful, full of desires, and who harbors a thirst for vengeance. He is like the old Eastern chieftains with sheepskins on their feet, a double ax on their leather belt, a Genghis Khan guiding new races who are hungry, smashing the palaces and wine cellars of the overfed, and carrying off the harems of the impotent. My God is cruel, full of passion and volition, devoid of compromise, inexorable. This earth is His meadow; heaven and earth are one. I don’t get lost in metaphysics and theories. For me, metaphysics is a tool, a plow for this earth, a weapon for the contemporary struggle. Oh god! how will I be able to give proper expression to what I have inside me so that you will understand and no longer misinterpret me? It’s my fault. When I speak about these subjects that are eating away my guts, I think in leaps and bounds, I consider many unknown things as known, I’m burning up, I lack the patience to speak tranquilly. However, in the second volume of Letters to My Wife, I will speak to you exclusively about how I think about religion, morality, and art in conformity with our faith. In the third volume, I’ll speak to you about society (from Russia, if I go). I get tired, chérie, very tired. Once again I have symptoms of overwork: heaviness in the stomach, a tendency to vomit, dizziness. I’ll go to some village in order to rest. I’ll have the new book, the Letters, ready quite soon. I’m progressing with Buddha. I’m terribly fond of it; it’s becoming contemporary, the barbarians are intervening, Buddha is growing broader. Thanks for Nikiforos Fokas. I wrote to Athanatos stating the two conditions—in other words, I refused, because conditions of this sort will never be acceptable; yet I saw an advertisement in his newspaper that mentions my name as a contributor. I was overcome by indignation because they have no respect for others. I’m sending you a photo of me. I had a dozen taken, and I’ll send them to you if you wish. I’m waiting for the Baedeker and, if you find a way, the hiking knapsack. I might go on some excursions this summer, and I need it very much.

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The metropolitan of Trebizond changed residence in order to erase all traces! An old, very old hypocrite! Send me O Noumas, etc. Always, always yours, chérie, N

1  The metropolitan of Trebizond: Chrysanthos. See letter of 10 April 1923.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 69; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 209–11.

Dornburg (Goetheschloss) bei Jena 1 June 1923 Chérie, I arrived today at this small village near Jena to stay here and rest for a few days. It’s a village on the top of crag where, in the middle of a boundless garden, there is a medieval tower in which Goethe stayed. This tower has become a pension. Looking out of my window I see a marvelous, boundless valley; a river in the middle with thousands of twists and turns; thick, deep greenery everywhere. The peacefulness is unique. The pension has neither dogs nor children, just five people, and we all eat together—proprietor, gardener, guests. I brought along very few books; I intend to take long walks. Passing through Naumburg, I saw the house in which Nietzsche was born, and I was agitated again by this tragic figure who is so akin to my psychic and physical constitution. A few days ago in Berlin, a German whom I know ran up to me while I was stopping at the library to return some books and said to me with emotion that suddenly, as he saw me, he thought that he had seen Nietzsche. Several pictures of him really do resemble me unbelievably. But let’s hope that I am healthier, that my parents did not transmit the seed of insanity to me, as Nietzsche’s father did to him. At Naumburg, in its famous Gothic cathedral, I saw wonderful medieval statues, especially the one of Queen Blanche. She’s smiling, and you’d think that the entire dark church were brightly shining. I also saw two monkeys playing backgammon on the capital of a column, instead of some other decoration. I intend to relax—to relax—and I’m struggling to reconcile myself to wanting to relax. I have a premonition that I will not succeed. Here in Germany the atmosphere is filled with anguish; thus the outdoors and the serenity of isolation are out-of-date games that are no longer therapeutic. My guess is that we shall have great disturbances very quickly. They’ve already started in the Ruhr and in Dresden. The elder Kastanakis fell severely ill all of a sudden on the day I left. On the day before, young Kastanakis, his wife, and I planned how to find a way to go

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to Russia and to make you budge finally, so that you’ll leave Athens and come with us. If it turns out that we go, can you come? Send your letters to my old address. I’ve arranged to have them forwarded. I don’t know how long I’ll stay here and where I’ll go next. I’m thinking of a big excursion. Will I manage? I’m anxious to receive a letter from you. God, how many things do two lively souls have to say to each other year after year! I have so much to tell you, it seems to me that I’m meeting you for the first time and don’t know where to begin. God grant that this anxiety may last until the end of our lives! Say hello to the troupe for me, to those who remain. Once again I ask you to write to me separately about Jenny. How is her soul? Write me. And Rika? Oh my god, there are so many fine women in the world! They glow brightly for a moment, the world is pleased to uphold them, and suddenly they exist no longer. Always, N

1  the house where Nietzsche was born:  Nietzsche did spend his young years in Naumburg, living there with his mother and paternal grandmother, but he was born in the small town of Röcken bei Lützen, near Leipzig. He moved to Naumburg when he was four years old, after his father’s death.

To Elsa Lange —Unable to locate the manuscript; original in German; Greek translation printed in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 122–23, probably incomplete.

[Putschow, between 13 and 21 July 1923] The boundless sea drones in front of me like an immense heart: gray, devoured by sunshine, uneasy, powerful. I am not sad; nor am I either cheerful or indifferent. The reason is that these days, the sea having entered my sight again, my minuscule human logicality has trembled into silence and my entire naked dark-skinned body is suffused with the cosmos’s great Breath. “O beloved Universe held in my caressing hands!” I feel it warm, purposeless, mysterious—like a human body. For moments at a time I cannot control my tears. No, the more I sink into my heart here on this deserted seashore, the more I feel a boundless sorrow flooding my blood and washing it away. Thinking of Buddha, I struggle to engrave his holy, heroic figure in black granite and in this way to save just a little, very little, of my ephemeral, ardent soul. Thought is pointless; analysis is a parasite devouring life’s roots. Life is a deep, heroic outcry that pervades matter, making it fruitful. Thus as I wander

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in front of this northern sea, my sadness is converted into heroism and the tiny moment of our existence becomes a profound reality. Blessed be the sea, for it destroys the weak and awards the strong with rigorous joy! Blessed be the human heart, that great Combatant, for it wrestles with death and deprives it of its victims! Blessed and thrice blessed be the terrifying moment when two bodies, a man and a woman, meet and play on the brim of the abyss, like two small children facing the sea.

1  Putschow:  Fishing village in West Prussia, on the Baltic Sea.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 75; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 217–20, misdated 22 September.

[Berlin,] 22 July 1923 Chérie, your last letter gave me much pleasure, first because you don’t have anything serious and secondly because you are getting ready to come. I went immediately to tell the Kastanakises, and we have made a thousand plans for you when you arrive. I asked Skokos, the musician, who is leaving for Athens the day after tomorrow, to stop and see you. Because he is returning to Berlin after a month, perhaps you’ll be able to come with him. He is a splendid young man, refined, a good pianist, and his companionship will make your trip easier. Or are you perhaps thinking of coming with someone from the troupe? Jenny, for instance? Come quickly so that you’ll be in time to see what I think will be great historical moments for Germany. These months are the most crucial ones. The English pound has risen to more than one and a half million marks; life for Germans is unbelievably unbearable. Huge demonstrations are being prepared for a few days from now—29 July. The communist newspapers are calling upon the common people to fight behind the barricades. The fascists are getting ready to attack. The Russian embassy is working day and night and directing everything. We’ll most likely have bloody events the day after tomorrow. I’m planning to take a trip to Munich for a few days. That’s the heart of the fascist monarchists. Maybe the greatest clashes will be there. The communist newspapers have already begun to discuss plans for an armed assault by the proletariat against the bourgeoisie—which bridges to be blown up, which factories to be turned into workshops for the war, how many military officers are on our side, etc. The editor of Rizospastis wrote me owing to O Noumas and asked me to work with them. I promised to send regular reports to Rizospastis, without pay, if I settle in Berlin. I sent a new “Letter” to O Noumas, asking them to send it to you if they do not wish to publish it. Perhaps I’ll publish quite a few “Letters” in this way in O Noumas.

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When you come, bring along as many of your manuscripts as you can read to me. I cannot believe my delight that you’ll be coming—how this huge Babylon will seem to you, how you will confront for the first time the great works of art in the museums, how you’ll see the streets, the women, the daily scurry of thousands of people. When you come, bring all the yellow pajama shirts I have. Also go to the bank, clip the coupons for number 19 (March 1924), and bring them to me so that I can send them to London to be cashed. Don’t bring my hiking knapsack because I bought another one. I’m glad to ask you for things because that solidifies in me my joy that you are coming. Without fail, write me exactly when. Please deliver the enclosed letters. I would like very much for Kastanakis to become the foreign correspondent here for Eleftheros Logos. If you have time, please stop at Rizospastis to see Kordatos. I wrote to him but forgot to tell him that it would be good for him to send me here a foreign correspondent’s card for Rizospastis. Give him a photograph of me for this card. All that—if you have time and appetite to see Kordatos. Write to me. Everything here awaits you impatiently. Come! God be with you! N Thanks to Vasos for sending me today a photo of you on the couch, drinking coffee.

1  Skokos:  Andonis Skokos (1896–1951), pianist, teacher in the Athens conservatory.  1  the editor of Rizospastis:  Yannis Kordatos (1891–1961), Marxist cultural historian and sociologist who wrote a thirteen-volume history of Greece from 1453 to 1961, plus studies of modern Greek literature and politics; edited Rizospastis, 1922–24.  1  Rizospastis: Daily newspaper published in Athens by the Communist Party of Greece.  1  Vasos:  Vasilis Daskalakis, amateur photographer; husband of Elli Alexiou.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 74; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 216–17.

[Berlin, after 14 August 1923] Chérie, once again it’s weeks since I received a letter from you, and I’m worried. How good it would be if you had been in Berlin these days! We’re at the eve of a revolution. The shop windows of stores that sell food are empty, the banks have discontinued payments, one English pound equals twenty

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million marks, strikes have begun, a general strike is planned. In South Germany, where I was a few days ago, nationalism—Kaiserism—is triumphant; here in the North it’s the socialists. But the socialists are namby-pamby, unable to dare, and the communists—who do dare—are few. That’s why nobody can predict anything. The communists and I are in close contact. Under consideration is the possibility of my editing a German communist periodical with an entirely new intellectual direction. I’ll be in touch these days with the Bolshevik ambassador here; perhaps we’ll come to an agreement. However, it’s difficult because I, very much emphasizing Bolshevism’s ethical and metaphysical range, consider mankind’s economic liberation as a means. What is the end? A new Kultur. What is the content of this new civilization? That will be the periodical’s purpose. We’ll see. I’d like to enter the realm of blood and to abandon the realm of ink for a while. Write a lot to me, chérie, and regularly. Come! Decide! If you don’t like it, you can leave. There’s always something you’ll like, something you’ll see. Maybe you’ll be more satisfied than you estimate. You’ll have company now with Skokos and Saridakis. I am eagerly awaiting a good word from you. I’ve written a new “Letter” for O Noumas. It may be published. If so, I’ll send others. I’m going to start writing for Rizospastis. I’m preparing several lectures here for Greece. God give us strength! I’m a bit tired, and I’m sad. I want to work in order to conceal my anguish. Do not forget me. Always, always yours. N

To Rev. Emmanuel Papastefanou —Manuscript missing in Kazantzakis Museum Papastefanou archive; partial manuscript in Mitsotakis 1972, p. 28; printed in Mitsotakis 1972, pp. 81–90.

[Berlin, autumn (?) 1923] Brother Papastefanou! I received your superb letter after so many months, praise be to God! Where to begin? Alas, nothing can be conveyed by letters from such a distance. What’s needed are gestures, one’s voice, one’s silence, laughter, paleness, hands touching, the entire warm, mysterious atmosphere that circulates between two people who talk and struggle. I call “Silence” the highest degree, but not because I give Silence the content that you do. It is not utmost despair. It is not annihilation, not incurable ignorance. Silence means that each person who has accomplished the first two degrees and has completed his term of service to every achievement, then

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reaches the highest summit of his selfhood, beyond every achievement, beyond all subject matter, beyond purpose, certainty, joy, or hope. All these struggles are achievements that preceded and have been surpassed. He no longer needs them. Now he does not question, does not compete, does not differentiate. Together with the Universe, he ripens—all of him—silently, indestructibly, unyieldingly. At long last he has accommodated himself, has glued himself inside the Abyss like a male sperm inside the female’s womb. The Abyss is now his wife. He drives her, shackles her, opens her, ravages her innards, transubstantiates her blood, quakes with her, laughs, weeps, ascends, descends—does not leave her. How can a person reach the Abyss’s womb in this way and make it fruitful? This cannot be stated, cannot be transmitted in words. Absolute freedom! Each person possesses his own road. There is no teaching, no Redeemer to open up the road. Each person rises above his own height, escaping time and place. Nevertheless, we are required to converse. What someone senses in an ecstatic state can never be expressed; yet one must battle unceasingly to express it, must fight to express it with the aid of myths, similes, allegories, images, rare words, outcries, laughter. God, the Great Ecstatic, does this same. As well as he can, he speaks, battles to speak in order to stabilize his ecstasy, does so with similes, plants, animals, people, ideas, wings, colors, horns, nails, leaves, fruit. We here, likewise, have a duty to follow his method. What you write me—“mankind’s love for the spiritual, the absolutely beautiful”—that is not God. No! No! God is something deeper that contains all those things as well as their opposites, indeed hates all those things and abandons them for naïve, goodly souls who remain behind on the road. If we say, “God is an erotic Wind that shatters bodies in order to pass” and if we think that Eros always works by destroying individuals amid blood and tears, then we approach God’s fearsome face a little better. As I wrote to you once before, God for me is the Struggler who strives to sit up at every moment and in every body because He is encased inside the casket of matter as well as inside the casket of soul. He shouts, sits up a little, breathes with difficulty via plants but, failing this, suffocates. Gasping for breath, He leaps forward in an effort to speak now via animals, but His outcry is inarticulate, erratic, full of hunger and wrath. Struggling, crawling on his belly among the bodies of human beings, clutching hold, He releases upon them all the passion and darkness that He can, and creates via them. This is our turn. He uses us, struggles through our bodies and brains, continuously seeks to escape. How? To save Himself, He has two great exits: sex and death. Urged by Him, we transmit the spark of life—of His life—from son to son, always seeking, always urging that the son surpass the father. He creates, destroys, creates again—performs His task. As for us, we work neither for our individual selves nor for humankind, as sociologists and philosophers claim. We work for another Someone inside us and everywhere, a Someone who ascends without compassionating or caring for

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animals, humans, ideas, or feelings. Although they are all His weapons, His ammunition and nourishment, He tramples them underfoot and ascends. This is God. Let those who can raise their heads to observe Him face to face. My God and I are not two friends; He is not the father and I the son, nor is He the master and I the servant. Our love is rugged. We sit at the same table drinking the same wine in this low tavern of the world; we hear swords, hatreds, and love affairs as we clink glasses. We become drunk. Visions of slaughter ascend into our eyes; cities collapse inside our minds. We are wounded and screaming from pain, both of us, as we raid a huge palace. At other times, on horseback like two knights, we travel in bright sunshine or beneath a gentle rain and tenaciously converse—pale, hungry, cold, clenching our lips. “Leader!” “Comrade!” He turns his face toward me and I, confronting His anguish and pallor, shudder. This is how we—my God and I—move and advance, without recompense, without respite, without assurance. Whoever can join us, let him do so! Once again I am writing to you hastily about our struggle. Take care! When you wish to apprehend the features of our God, avoid whatever you have learned about the Christian God. Our God is not all-good, all-powerful, allwise, all-beautiful. If he were, what value would our collaboration with Him have? If He were, how could He feel pain, how could He struggle, how ascend? Avoid romantic theologies, human hopes—the certainties that cowards always possess, whether they be optimists or pessimists. Nothing in the universe is certain. We throw ourselves into uncertainty, wager our fate at every moment, influence the universe’s destruction or salvation. Our responsibility is immense, because neither doom nor salvation is sure. We ally ourselves with one of the currents, and one of them shall win! N Enough! Now I’m bothered once again by the desire to travel. Maybe I’ll go to India next winter. I’ve finished Buddha, and I would like to breathe India’s air and see its light before I give the play its definitive form. Maybe! At the moment I’m writing another book: Seven Speeches. I’m preparing speeches. I’m already speaking with Russians and Jews here, offering them our God as communion. They are the only races able to receive Him. In Greece, just two or three souls, that’s all. Next year I’m preparing a trip to Russia with many Russians, men and women. I’m being devoured by the need to speak at long last with numerous people, breast to breast. Why do you write asking about my life? What significance does my life have? What significance? To keep our Word hidden like this, out of fear? And do you think the Word can remain hidden even if we wish it to? Galatea mailed you Nikiforos Fokas many months ago. Alas, I’m afraid it’s lost. You cannot realize how distressed I am. Let’s hope that she did not send the only copy I possessed but had another made. Otherwise a work I loved is lost in the ocean.

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Write to me. You must write regularly. I’ve learned from the metropolitan of Thyateira that he is well, that you ate together, etc. I had lost hope, but I received your letter the same day, in the evening. God be with you! N

Buddha   1. The four winds blow noisily at my mind’s crossroads!   2. Light: before me and behind me, like an army with sparkling bronze shields.   3. Peering ahead as does a general, I take aim at the battle with regal thoughts.   4. Here, at earth’s omphalos, I will stand fast and fight!   5. O heart, embed yourself in the body like a firebrand in a hayloft.   6. Detach yourself, O my head, abandon the neck, rise up like a lighted kingly torch, rise up in the nocturnal air. Rise up! Scrutinize! Everything is yours!   7. My forehead’s north door opens; tree seeds enter to find warmth and sprout.   8. The south door collapses at the back of my skull; caravans of slowly treading elephants—loaded with perfume, rice, and women—disappear beneath my mind’s vaulted ceiling.   9. My right temple stands ajar, roseate, touched by the East; large birds of imagination—the gods—enter and seat themselves. 10. Human beings—descending like pilgrims from my left temple, the Western one—laugh and weep, dressed in bearskins with date palm leaves and ostrich feathers, all as naked as water! 11. My head floats like Noah’s ark on the dark billows of the abyss. Every seed within my brain’s strident coolness has embraced in brotherhood. 12. Death’s divine surge vaults whinnying up to my neck. Primordial powers—deaf, blind, mindless—clash and bellow all around the silent effulgent spot. 13. But the head rises serenely toward the heights and shines brightly, its brow higher than death. 14. Birds, trees, gods, and innumerable generations of human beings cling erotically together inside the head, having found refuge. 15. With awe I touch this precious divine head-container made of ivory. If it breaks, the whole world will go to rack and ruin. 16. “Break, O head, and fill the dark waters with seed!” 17. Who called out? A cry for war or sex leaps up, conscripting my mind. 18. My heart pounds inside me; the whole of chaos billows like a ­woman’s breast.

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19. “I want to lie down in chaos’s middle and give birth! 20. “To my right and left, before me and behind, with my blood and flesh, I want to stabilize the abyss! 21. “Like a woman, I want to fructify nonexistence!” 22. The seeds cry out, like hands lifting germ cells high into the mind’s light.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 76; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 220–25.

[Berlin, late autumn (?) 1923] Chérie, your letter distressed me greatly and also gave me great joy. I was distressed because I saw how sad you are, how disgusted by human beings. Human beings are wretched, callous, puny, insignificant. Yet I distinguish within them an essence that is higher than they are and that drives them in spite of everything, urges them onward, gives them life, kills them, and passes beyond them. What miracles have sprung from this mud! I am overcome by awe and respect when I confront this noisome mass that engendered divine poetry and sculpture, thoughts, ardent sexuality, sacrifice, an impetuous assault superior to that of soldiers and generals, mysterious, without beginning or end, without purpose. This muddy bulk is what human beings are, what each one of us is. What is our duty? To fight to have a small flower blossom upon this manure of our flesh and mind, to heave a sigh, to spring up for a moment and to desire, if only for a moment, to escape our wretchedness. Do not limit your view of the people around you to a small area of place and time. Raise them up, place them in a wider circle that they themselves do not see, and observe how they, without knowing this (and, even more, without desiring it) work on some project that is above them. Are you unable to see this project? Fight, smash details, conquer individual tensions and meanness, broaden as much as you can around your eyesight the illuminated circle in which human beings struggle, cursing, behaving improperly, but always ascending. Details are always horrible; the totality is always painful, holy. I, too, detest human beings and do not want them. I speak to them with difficulty. I cannot bear their sluggish, unmanly pace. Nevertheless, I respect and love humanity, respect its dark, sanguine effort, battle to lend it my mind and life so that it may advance a little faster and its soul may rise up a little more nobly. You say that you worry whether you’ll find me a good person, whether you’ll be able to live with me a little. I don’t know if I am a good person or a bad person. All I know is that I suffer more than you realize, that I am not interested in anything pertaining to my individuality, that—seeking—I give

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my entire life exclusively to something above my individuality. I believe steadfastly in the nobility and power of a Spirit that suffuses plants, animals, people, and that is now battling consciously inside me, desiring to surpass me, to liberate itself from my unworthy nature, to escape me. I am battling to serve this spirit because I know that it—and not this sack I carry of bone, meat, brain, and passion—is my soul’s essence. When I tell you that I love you, that I await you with unspeakable impatience, I feel this Spirit, this God of mine whom I believe in, convulsing and overcoming you—that is why I love you and am forever yours. We are one, one flame inside this furnace that burns the earth and transubstantiates it. You swear, scream, and deny because you cannot bear to see this God debased. You raise me up, I raise you up, and the two of us together raise up this God who is not omnipotent, lest He fall. I no longer possess the romantic, theological, abstract meaning of God. My God is not omniscient, not allgood, not omnipotent. He struggles to escape His nastiness, His insignificant passions, His convenient pleasures, His unmanly hopes. I feel this struggle of His inside me. I am one of His small encampments, experiencing His anguish in its entirety. To the degree that I struggle, He struggles; to the degree that I ascend, He ascends. This ascent is rugged, terrifying, unending. I will die halfway there, but my spirit, uniting with His Spirit, will jump into every other body and continue the journey. His outcry shouts inside me: I am your Lord God. I am not a refuge, not a home, not hope. I do not cure, do not pity. I am not good. I am neither father nor son. I am your General! You are not my servant, nor a game in my hands. You are not my friend, not my child. You are my ally in battle. Maintain bravely the narrow pass I have entrusted to you. Do not betray it. It is your duty. In your very own trench you can become a hero. Be always uneasy, never adaptable. Whenever a habit degenerates into convenience, smash it. Satisfaction is the greatest sin. Where are we going? Will we ever be victorious? What is the reason for all this battle? Do not ask! Fight! Chérie, oh if I could only conquer your distress by showing you the entire huge circle of boundless struggle! Life is a heroic journey. It’s not an idyll—it’s an idyll only for tiny, insignificant souls. As for us, for the cruel privileges of refusing to tolerate wretchedness and refusing to capitulate, we must pay dearly at every moment, yet without complaint. Chérie, everything here awaits you. There are great preparations. Since perhaps you won’t like my residence, I have rented an excellent room in the Kastanakises’ home, starting now. It’s a splendid home and is five minutes away. Thus, you’ll be with Mrs. Kastanaki as much as you wish. You will like her very much. We’ll all four of us eat together. We’ll go to Russian cabarets so

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you can see dancing and Russian women. A month after you arrive, the Kastanakises will go to Paris for a month and will then return. We can go with them to see Paris if you wish. I’ll do my utmost to annoy you as little as possible. We’ll have beautiful conversations. I’ll read you a little something from Buddha; you’ll bring your own manuscripts to read to me. Just come quickly. Bring along whatever warm clothing you have, because you’ll be cold. I’ve ordered a lot of coal for the stove. Bring whatever yellow shirts I have (not white ones) as well as the manuscript of Nikiforos Fokas. Also the Baedeker for India. The coupons, so we can send them to London—that is, two or three coupons from each bond. Don’t come by yourself because you’ll have difficulty. Consult Skokos or Saridakis or Daniilidis, who probably will come. Write me quickly, without fail. Get your passport ready. My joy that you’ll be coming is inexpressible. N

1  [late autumn]:  This is the last letter sent to Galatea before she traveled to Berlin. She came in late November and left in early December, staying only a few days.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 77; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 225–32.

[Berlin, 17], 18, 19, 24 December [1923] Chérie, I read your letter with great pleasure. But I’m going to pose some questions to you. When you write me, keep my letter in front of you and answer. So: 1. How was your trip? Any problems? Stavrou’s company good? 2. Did you see any snow-covered landscapes? I’m so sorry that everywhere was covered with snow the day after you left. 3. What final memories from Europe? What are you telling acquaintances? That’s all. My own plans are still in the air. I’m thinking of not sending this letter to you before I know something for sure. Where should I go? Life here is every day more unbearable. Zorbas did not answer. As you say, it seems that he’s been bumming around; thus, the dream of the Soviet mountain is dissolving. There’s still hope for the trip to India. I need to wait another five or six days. If that, too, does not work out, I’ll seek refuge in southern Italy. I need to come in contact with Italian intellectual life, to see what efforts people are making there.

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I’m favored by the organization here to take on the editorship of a journal, with complete freedom. Kastanakis and Daniilidis have left for Paris to hold a conference and find money. I refused unless they allow me to publish a purely communist journal, something they dare not do. I’ve written to Leipzig, to Dieterich, asking if he wants me to come there for a few days to translate my Askitiki into German. Simos, who had begun the translation, doesn’t have time. I’m anxious to receive Dieterich’s answer. This problem is important for me because the text will be used to organize people who share my beliefs and similarly face their obligation to contemporary needs. Tonight, after working all day long in your small room, I leaned against the stove, fatigued, and—who knows?—was overcome by profound bitterness. I say to myself: What’s the purpose of all this anguish of mine, of my life without laughter, the shape it’s taking with increasing intensity, the ascetic shape of my soul? As though I’m the instrument of someone above me, I do things that I do not wish to do, follow commands that are above me, am a plaything in the hands of an Unknown who is inside me and who I myself am: my essence, the cosmic essence beyond my own ephemeral existence. I call this Unknown my God. I see Him struggling in animals, humans, those masses you saw going on the rampage on Stadium Street without knowing for sure what they wanted or why they hated something or loved it. I, too, a trifling worm on this earth, am suffering for this Obscure Struggler, struggling, waging war as long as I breathe, as long as my body is still warm, in order to illuminate Him a little, to urge Him forward, to rescue Him from my fleshly and mental mud. Why? For what purpose? I don’t know, nor can I find intellectual arguments, nor do I attach any importance to intellectual arguments. What is pushing me there is the heart, an inner voice outside of logic and beyond it. That is what commands. I obey with enthusiasm, cursing. Up! Up! Up! is what this cry shouts. Do not hesitate, do not fall into despair, do not halt. Arrange priorities for your desires. Say: The most difficult road: that is my road. Sometimes I cannot hold back my tears. But I sense that they, too, are the Invisible One’s instrument, because the moment I shed gentle tears, quietly, without sobbing, I feel immediately relieved and regain my momentum for the ascent. Right now my only profound human consolation is that you came to see me. This continues to sink its roots into me, to establish itself with steadiness, giving me warmth and joy. A human being loves me, came, gave me these warm pajamas that I’m now wearing, covered me with a woolen vest so that I would not feel cold, spoke to me, took interest in my existence. Oh my god, how very much all this care comforts me! I know that I do not deserve it; yet human love turns a blind eye and fills the most undeserving person with happiness fit for a king. The good you brought me was, I think, the greatest happiness I’ve ever had in my whole life. May God keep you well, preserve your health, without nervous spells, without faltering—bravely participating in this world’s struggle.

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I’ve read both of your short books. Both are excellent. The Oedipus fairy tale is marvelous. Thus it would be lovely if you undertook the entire story: a tale for children. This is how ancient history will acquire a simple, everlasting, moving significance. After the philosophies about destiny, etc. that throw cold water on the Oedipus myth, only now, reading your tale, did I feel moved and did I sense, without any philosophy, the essential meaning of fate. Do the same with Socrates, Helen, Heracles, Alexander the Great. It will be original, profound, and simple—the true essence of the stories. Helen, Electra, Iphigenia— what splendid figures, our fairy tale’s queens and princesses! Make such a “story” for the children of Greece. Thanks for O Noumas and the newspapers. We didn’t say five thousand drachmas for Nikiforos Fokas but fifteen pounds (fifteen pounds equaled five thousand when we spoke, today three thousand). If he accepts, fine. Agree to fifteen pounds for the sale only of the first printing, because—as I wrote to you—I plan to bring out my own edition afterwards. When you find a chance, it would be good to settle our accounts with Dimitrakos so that he’ll give us money with which we’ll purchase a few more bonds. If I had ten more, that would be fine. But hold on to the fifteen pounds, and I’ll write you when to send them to me. Probably in Italy. Zervos! Zervos! A tiny house in Iraklio where the atmosphere is fine and there’s no humidity to bother you. Beautiful! For me to come five months a year. God, how well I would work, and you’d be with me! Try! Get some advice from Tazedaki. 18 December. Still no decision. I’m tired, worried. At the end of December I’m going to leave, no matter what. Zorbas doesn’t reply; the Dutchman wrote to Holland, and I’m waiting. If I don’t have a response by 30 December, I’ll leave for southern Italy. Naples. Sunshine, sea. I’m fed up. Everything here is unbearable. The government nationalistic, life extraordinarily expensive, cold, everything gray. I no longer have that first keen contact with Berlin. 19 December. It’s Saint Nikolaos’s name day today. The air is thick, all white from the snow that’s falling. I plan to be courageous and not to worry. I’m lying in bed all day long, reading. Yesterday I received a letter from Dieterich; he tells me to come to Leipzig so that we can translate Askitiki together (because Simos, who started it, doesn’t have time to finish). I plan to go the day after tomorrow and to stay with him two or three days until it’s finished and thus to feel more peaceful when I leave Germany. I’m going to send it to a circle of friends I have in Russia to be translated also in Poland. After that, it will be printed in a German periodical. Let’s act, let’s preach an idea, let’s be beneficial, since I believe that this idea is beneficial. I’m eager to see sunshine in Italy; that’s why I’ll go to the south. Zorbas does not answer—an indication that he’s bumming around. 24 December. Today I came back from Leipzig, where I spent two days collaborating with Dieterich on the Askitiki translation. I worked hard, and I’m tired. I’ll go again so that we can finish it. Thus I’m hoping to leave for Italy in

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early January. Dieterich struck me as exceedingly good and useful. I beg of you most eagerly to find Άρωστη ζωή and send it to him. He wants to translate it. He’s enthusiastic about you. In addition: buy Erotokritos with my money and send it to him. (Prof. Karl Dieterich, Ferd. Rhoderstr. 33, Leipzig). I promised him. Don’t neglect this, because he did so much work for me and did not accept any payment even though he is terribly poor. I beg of you, most eagerly. So: Erotokritos and Άρωστη ζωή. Don’t forget to send a word as well to the people who looked after us while you were here. I noted their names for you in the letter that I sent you via Rotas. May God be with you in the new year, chérie. May God enable us to make a small house so that I can come. Always yours, N

1  Simos: Employee of the Greek embassy in Berlin.  1  Tazedaki:  Wife of Nikolaos Tazedakis, the Kazantzakises’ lawyer, also during their divorce.  1  ΄Αρωστη ζωή:  “Sick Life,” Kazantzakis’s mistaken title of Galatea’s ΄Αρρωστη Πολιτεία (Sick City), spelled without the double “rho” in άρρωστος owing to Kazantzakis’s system of reformed orthography.  1  Erotokritos:  Best-known poetic work of the Cretan Renaissance, a romantic epic of ten thousand verses by Vitzentzos Kornaros (1553–1613/14), written between 1595 and 1605, first published in 1713 in Venice.  1  Rotas:  Vasilis Rotas (1889– 1977), poet, translator of Shakespeare; founder of the Popular Theater in 1930; active in the Mountain Theater during the German occupation; author of plays for children.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 78; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 232–38.

[Naples, after 21 January 1924] Chérie, if you were here you’d go out of your mind. I had completely forgotten the southern cities when suddenly from white, cold, quiet Germany I hopped over to the most motley, loud-mouthed, preposterous city of Europe. What human sight sees here is indescribable: all the laundry on every balcony; merchandise, fruit, coal, beans, fish on the sidewalks, someone sitting next to each basket, shouting, eyes popping out from the strenuous effort. Yesterday I saw a woman collapsed into a chair on the sidewalk with her head thrown back; another woman, leaning over her, was stroking her up and down with her hands, massaging her forcefully and screeching. I approached to see what was going on. Simplicity itself: she was combing the woman’s hair, curling it, moving the comb up and down. They sell Christs or crucifixes in all

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the groceries and coal yards: little painted statues made of wood, candle wax, or plaster. They’re on a chair and someone is sitting next to them, shouting. Marvelously small, clean donkeys bray. Goats pull small children’s prams. Street urchins play at quoits in the gutter with their caps, shouting themselves hoarse. Crowds of dwarfs, the cross-eyed, the lame. Paralytics groan and ask for alms as they lie on their beds at church entrances. And everywhere a magnificent filth resplendent in the sunlight. Everyone spits or pisses wherever they are, shoves not fingers but hands into immense totally elastic nostrils. The walls are painted pink, indigo, yellow. Beggars draw madonnas on the sidewalks with chalk and then hold out a collection plate. All this wretchedness is surrounded by a cool, clean, exquisite sea full of fragrance (like watermelons). We’ve seen such a sea only in the Mani. In the distance, looming over the city, Vesuvius smokes day and night. A column of smoke rises continually from the crater as though saying that it hasn’t forgotten us, that it is keeping watch and will suddenly sweep away this entire population of Naples. Yet these unfortunate people have scrambled right up to the giant’s breast. They’ve built homes, planted grapevines, dug into the earth. They make love, get married, make plans. The house where I’m staying has a miraculous location: above the sea, in a garden. From my window I see the entire bay, Vesuvius, the islands opposite. At night I sleep to the sound of the waves’ lapping. Luckily, I found it by accident. I pay twenty liras a day for room and board, electricity and laundry. I eat Greek food exclusively—last night excellent village greens with olive oil; tonight I’ll have lentils; and marvelous fish every day. Yet it’s expensive for me (it comes to six English pounds a month and of course I have other expenses: books, museums, whatever I buy, etc.). That’s why I don’t think I’ll be able to stay very long. Maybe in another Italian city. My landlady is lame, about thirty-five years old, and looks a lot like Karathanasi’s niece, Nitsa. Her husband is a chauffeur. They have a child about eight years old who has a deadly hatred for Greeks (influence of his school). Each night, as soon as the husband arrives, there’s an argument. Shouting, weeping, the household upside down (they also have a dog that keeps barking all this time). Then, suddenly, absolute silence. They’ve gone to sleep. This happens every evening. At first I was upset. I said to myself, “Now he’s murdering her” (or, as Cretans say, “Now he’s beating her to a pulp”). But I’ve gotten used to it. I await the scene now with Neapolitan imperturbability. Oh, where is poor Mandel—Mrs. Amygdalou? When I left her, she was very ill, and I wrote her to send me a few words about how she’s getting along. My heart breaks when I consider that she may have died. What am I doing? I still cannot begin to work (it’s only five days since I arrived). I’m still wandering through the streets, looking, sitting by the sea, enjoying the sunshine. I am entirely alone. I don’t know anyone, no one knows me, and for me that is a great pleasure. I’m eager to see where Italy stands right now: what intellectual currents, what uneasiness, what efforts in the arts and in thought. One thing is evident: the dominance of fascism, a great social (not just

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political) current that is sweeping up the youth of the entire country. Just as Bolshevism is a political, social, economic, intellectual, etc. slogan, so is fascism. Youths as young as fifteen years of age go through the streets in their black shirts and caps, in continuous mobilization. A great number of artistic journals dedicated to fascist ideals are published. Perhaps that is what I’ll study; they’re the key to the intellectual Italy of today. Bolshevism and fascism are the two contemporary poles around which Europe is rotating. Mussolini is perhaps much greater than we have been accustomed to suppose up to now. In any case, I’ll be able to judge later on; right now I’m writing you just my first impressions. I’m eager to receive a letter from you. I earnestly beg of you, do not forget the Baedekers for Italy (there are two or three of them). I cannot move without them. And don’t forget to tell Dimitrakos to send me five pounds. I’ve begun to be squeezed by the economic problem. My income is five pounds a month. That has enabled me to live so far in Germany; now I need ten pounds a month. Thus, I’ve got to find work and earn the difference or be appointed consul, as I wrote you, in a country that will be useful to me in my work, or hide away in some village here or in Crete, near the sea—until we manage to build that house that we want. Or, yet again, if you are able and wish to be appointed to the embassy in Paris, as we said, just like Peroti. Those are the prospects, one of which must necessarily be realized. Let me know your opinion. The ideal would be the house. Is it possible? In that case everything would be fine. In the meantime, what would be most useful for me is to be sent as consul to Jerusalem or Abyssinia. I’m interested in those places for my work. Write me your opinion about all this, chérie. How are you doing? What’s happening in Greece? I’m expecting a long letter from you. Do not forget me! Always yours, N I’m waiting for newspapers, O Noumas, and if any good book has appeared. What has Sikelianos published? The Baedekers first and foremost. Always always yours. N

1  poor Mandel:  Kazantzakis’s landlady in Berlin; her last name was the same as the word for “almond” in Greek—amygdalo. Thus, Kazantzakis calls her Mandel, which means “almond” in German.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 80; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 238–43.

Naples, 5 February 1924

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Chérie, I received your postcard after much stress and await your letter every minute. I wrote you a long letter from here about many things for which I’m expecting your answers. Now that diplomatic relations are probably going to begin between Greece and Russia, perhaps we could take action to have the consul’s position in Moscow given me. That would be a dream for us because surely you would come with me. But I don’t know anything about all that because I’m far away and am unable to sense whether, and to what degree, it could happen. As always, I’m awaiting your letter. My life here is as I described it to you. Added now is that I’ve met many Neapolitan artists, intellectuals, and philosophers and am beginning to enter Italian intellectual life. I frequently see the founder of futurism, Marinetti; the other day we went together to a futuristic show. He delivered a lecture in a theater, or rather tried to, because as soon as he opened his mouth he was hit by a shower of tomatoes, rotten potatoes, and tiny pebbles from the beach. In the midst of these showers, plus laughter and whistling, two brief “dramas” of his were performed. In the first: a cardboard madonna on the wall, a rickety table, and a bucket of garbage. Out comes a woman holding a manuscript. She reads a prayer to the madonna (I couldn’t hear what it said owing to the crowd’s whistling and laughter). Immediately afterwards out comes a one-armed soldier. With his remaining arm he searches in the bucket and finds a silver hand that he hangs on the madonna’s mug without uttering a word. Then he leaves. A fat actor shows up at once, bows, says “Amen,” and the curtain falls. In the second: two railroad locomotives are in love with the station master. He stands center stage and gives a signal, upon which two women arrive dressed crazily (legs and arms like gray pipes; torso like a cauldron, etc.) and dance around the station master for a time, after which the curtain falls. Marinetti is surrounded by a crowd of dedicated fanatics—capable apostles. I’ve met all of them: painters, poets, musicians. They are very interesting, very superior to the leader, who, in his brain, organizing genius, and even in his body, is exceedingly similar to Matsoukas. He’s a millionaire, has a likable, refined wife, is a hero and at the same time ridiculous. A sort of Kazazis, Matsoukas, and Markopoulos. I find him totally repulsive. We’ve had boisterous conversations in which he foamed at the mouth owing to his inability to give answers. He is superficial, etc.; however, I admire him because he resists ridicule so heroically. But I’ve tired you out with futurism. My life here is, once again, as it was in Berlin. Struggling to become au courant with the past ten years, I borrow books from the library. Compared to the terrific swirl in Germany and Russia, I haven’t found anything exceptional. I’ll be leaving Naples around 22 February and will take refuge in a quiet place that you know of by hearsay: Saint Francis’s home town, Assisi. An elderly countess from Assisi has been boarding in this house that I found here by divine good fortune. She has a seventyyear-old aunt, also a countess, who lives all alone in a large mansion in Assisi.

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She wrote to her, and the aunt replied that she would be glad to assign a large room to the Greek. So—God willing—I’ll be in Assisi by the end of February, in the upper city, a place famous for Saint Francis. Complete solitude. I hope to be able to work. I have begun a new book but can’t find any quiet here. The sunlight, sea, springtime air, the indolence of the climate (as in Corfu) do not give me any appetite or strength for work. My landlady here does very well for a Neapolitan. She’s clean, but a compulsive talker, and lame. She attends to my needs with gentle awe because she always finds me silently bent over books. I’ve met some fine young men; sometimes they come in the evening, and we go for a walk together by the seaside. Frau Mandel wrote to me, and both she and her sister send greetings to you. She’s a little better. She still has not rented the room and keeps asking me when I’m going to return to Berlin. I’ll take a look these days to see what is happening here for children, and will send you whatever I find about children’s books. But I’m very disturbed because you’ve told me that you are experiencing economic difficulties. What’s going to happen? Doesn’t the idea of Paris tempt you any longer? We’ve got to find something. Kastanakis sent me five pounds the other day and promised me that he will exchange coupons for me soon. So I’ll be able to exist for a few months. (I sent you details in my other letter; I don’t want to tire you out any more.) I’ve written you about all the prospects and await your advice. I’m writing you on a separate piece of paper what I remember concerning the schoolteachers. Unfortunately, I don’t have a single book with me. (I left all my books in the Berlin embassy. Is it true that you wrote to Simos, Xylas, Loulakakis, etc.?) I’m writing you the outline of a very few things, the ones I remember. But you’ll fill in the rest. You haven’t written me anything about our friends—just a few insignificant words about Manolis in your postcard. Is it true that Voutyras died? Dieterich wrote me about it yesterday. Thanks for agreeing to see to Dieterich’s books. I’ve also written to Dimitrakos. As I wrote you, it’s necessary. I’m eagerly awaiting the Baedekers. Each one costs an English pound here, and, naturally, it’s impossible for me to buy them. I live an ascetic life, wanting to purchase lots of things (books, a necktie, apples, a little chocolate), and it’s impossible. Sometimes I worry; sometimes I smile because I’m worrying. If Nikiforos Fokas is not purchased, don’t be disturbed. Hold on to it. I’d like to print all of these plays that are ready (Herakles, Nikiforos Fokas, Christos) in a uniform series the same as Odysseas. I’d give them free of charge if I found a publisher able to issue them well, because I truly want to unburden myself— to free myself from my past. Buddha belongs to another series. I’ll hold on to it because I want it to become one of my major works. Don’t forget to send me newspapers and periodicals (O Noumas, etc.) and whatever other literary things there are. Starting on 22 February, my address will be: Dott. N. Kazantzakis, presso Contessa Enrichetta Pucci, Assisi, Italia.

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Write to me; I have no other joy. Answer everything I’ve asked you. God grant that I may see you soon! N

1  Marinetti:  Filippo Tommaso Marinetti (1876–1944), poet, editor, author of the “Futurist Manifesto” (1909), advocate of violence in literature and life, supporter of Mussolini and Italian fascism.  1  Matsoukas:  Spyros Matsoukas (1870–1928), super-patriotic Greek poet who recited in schools to inspire the students.  1  Kazazis:  Neoklis Kazazis (1849–1936), university professor who dabbled in politics, giving lectures and writing articles in support of Greeks still under Turkish rule.  1  Markopoulos:  Nikolaos Markopoulos, Iraklio lawyer who ran repeatedly for mayor without success.  1  Xylas: Wholesale businessman from the island of Chios.  1  Loulakakis:  Manolis Loulakakis, lawyer and member of parliament from Iraklio.  1  Manolis: Manolis Georgiadis, childhood friend of Kazantzakis, president of the Iraklio Chamber of Commerce, executed by the Germans in June 1942 along with his brother, Minas Georgiadis, then mayor of Iraklio.  1  Voutyras died:  Kazantzakis perhaps meant Theotokis, who died of cancer in 1923. The writer Demosthenes Voutyras, author of novels and short stories about low life in Athens, was born in 1872 and lived until 1958.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 81; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 243–49.

[Naples,] 20 February [1924] Chérie, I’m waiting every day for a letter from you. Write to me regularly. I have a premonition that I’m going to see you soon. Write me how you’re getting along, if the business with Dimitrakos got settled in the way I wrote to him. I sent him the history the other day and once again admired myself. I had nothing to help, not a single book, and I wrote it all out from memory in a very few days. I felt extremely happy because I kept thinking that perhaps this might help you economically. It’s easy for me to solve the economic question because I live on nothing. But you, following your habits, need to stop worrying. I beg of you earnestly to write me again, with details. To “celebrate” my birthday, I went the other day to Pompeii, which is one hour distant from Naples. It’s a city that you can imagine to be like Iraklio, with streets and roofless houses. I wandered all day in the narrow lanes, entered the homes—courtyards, rooms, wall paintings, small gardens. Only the housewives were missing. On a.d. 24 August 79, at a time when most of the inhabitants were gathered together in the theaters, a terrible eruption took

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place and Vesuvius opened up. In a few hours large burning stones had piled six feet high over the city and there was another six feet of ash above the stones. The frantic inhabitants ran to save themselves. Their bodies were found still intact (many are still in the museum, converted to plaster), fallen in the middle of the road, with excruciating spasms of pain—women with fists full of diamonds they were trying to save, an old man found face-down on the threshold of his villa holding the keys to his safe, a merchant who had grabbed hold of his contracts and was fleeing, a child holding its mother by her skirt, both fallen in the courtyard, choked, a guard dog on a leash still preserved open-jawed in indescribable spasms, a woman kneading, elsewhere dinner guests seated at a table, and seventeen men and women with food in a basement. Seventy loaves of bread were found in a bakery; hoards of olives, lentils, beans, wheat (all of this preserved in the museum). Pompeii had fifty thousand inhabitants; villas; it was like Kifissia, for the rich. The frescos that were found are marvelous: dancing girls, cupids, household scenes, a crucified donkey meant to ridicule the Christian religion. All the people were sophisticated, tired, stylish, ironic. They accepted all the gods as curiosities, condescendingly, indifferently. They spent their lives in the baths, at banquets, and at smart lectures. And suddenly (it was during the days when elections were about to take place, and jokes or praise concerning the candidates are still preserved engraved on the walls), suddenly Vesuvius swallowed them up. Once more I felt very deeply, as I walked all alone through the deserted streets of Pompeii, that we today are living in an identical age, at the foot of an immense Vesuvius. I said over and over again, out loud: “God grant that I may walk in this way through the deserted streets of Paris and London, speaking Russian to the comrades!” As time goes on, I become fiercer. I “fear” the approach of the moment when I shall be able to conquer the final hindrance inside me. I’m leaving Naples tomorrow for Assisi. It’s ten hours away by train. I hope to find quiet there in order to work. I have a hoard of things in mind and must shut myself up in order to work. Assisi is a small, quiet town of only fifteen thousand inhabitants, famous because Saint Francis was born there and lived there, and because of his monastery with the celebrated frescoes by Giotto. I’m told that the elderly countess’s home is extremely peaceful, next to the monastery, spacious, and I’ll have complete serenity. My life will not be costly, and thus I’ll be able to live on next to nothing. I’d like to come and see you this summer and then for both of us to go to Crete. I’ll write to Eleni to see about finding me some small house by the water, on the Libyan Sea along a marvelous shoreline that I know, in Lendas, on the Messara Plain. We’ll see. In any case, the idea of seeing you in the summer gives me so much pleasure, more than ever. I often say, “Good god, the way we lead our lives is miserable, yet it possesses the deepest, continually renewed pleasure.”

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I have become inseparable from the vest you knitted for me, and the pajamas with the astrakhan. The only rip is in the left elbow; I’ve sewn it as best I can and always wear it in the house. I’ve written to Jenny, poste restante in Florence. No answer. Has she perhaps returned to Athens? No news from Sikelianos. Just as well. We are so distant now. His gods—Apollo, Sikelianos, his Christ—do not interest me at all. Do not forget to send me O Noumas and newspapers. I lack the slightest idea of what’s happening in Greece. Here there’s a humiliating rush to see who will be the first to recognize Russia. What are we doing, we who have such vital interests in Greece? Is Venizelos dead or alive? Who is prime minister now? Send a newspaper to me in Assisi. Above all, do not forget the other Baedeker for Italy, an old one that includes Rome. There are three Baedekers for Italy: one for the north (that’s the one you did send me; it’s extremely useful), one for the center (the one that includes Rome), and one for the south. I want you to send me the one that has Rome. Please don’t neglect this. It’s been raining these days, and I cannot study in the library. Flagstone floor, cold, people continually spitting onto the floor; they shout, and the asphyxiating smell of urine enters from the toilet through the door opposite. What a difference from Germany! People here are worse than Greeks. I’ve met quite a few here: youths, painters, poets, counts, marquises, philosophers. All lazy, uninspired triflers. They go for walks at the water’s edge, speak sparingly with abundant gestures; their life moves forward without zest, purpose, or worry. An immense gulf separates them from me. They speak as though the war never took place, as though the world is not quivering, as though they’re not sitting on top of Vesuvius. I’m leaving very early tomorrow morning, this rain making my departure very sad. I still do not know if I’ll stay in Rome for a bit while passing through (it’s five hours from Naples to Rome and six from Rome to Assisi). Maybe directly to Assisi because I’m in a hurry to find some peace and get to work. I’ve put a new work into my head and it won’t leave me at peace. I had letters from Russia yesterday. A group there has read my Askitiki, which I sent them in German translation; they write that they are most profoundly moved, and they invite me to come without fail to speak to them in a series of lessons and to start a periodical with them, go on tours, etc. I have a premonition that my entire religious effort will end up in Russia. The mode of action is taking shape little by little and becoming visible. We’ll see. At last I know precisely what I desire, and I’m beginning to see and experience the means of its realization. May God keep my mind enlightened and certain. Then everything else will be easy. When will I see you, chérie? I say this summer without fail! Always yours, always. N

1  Eleni:  His sister.

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To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 83; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 249–56.

Assisi, 26 February 1924 Chérie, God only knows where my life’s odyssey will bring me! I left Naples, stayed four days in Rome racing around like a madman to see everything again—ruins, museums, churches, the Vatican, exhibitions, bookstores—and, dying from fatigue, returned in the evening to a tiny room I had managed to find. I ate a little bread, olives, and tea, then slept all night long like a log. How different everything seemed to me now! How indifferent the paintings left me, the Virgin Marys, Apollos, ruins, and the Roman memories! Only Michelangelo’s Moses still moved me—how he holds the tablets and is lunging forward to stand up, his lips seething with indignation and obduracy. There are two ways to see Rome: like Goethe or like Luther—that is, with enthusiasm for the high point that human effort reached in that city, or with indignation because human beings fell from that high point and all the ancient traces became obstacles to humanity’s new ascent, requiring that all these things disappear in order for the soul’s new attempt to be released. Thus, when Luther and Goethe came here to Rome (good god, not together—one at the start of the seventeenth century, the other, Goethe, at the end of the eighteenth: November 1787), they saw the eternal city in these ways and, returning to their homeland, Goethe declined into pursuing classical balance, whereas the other burned the pope’s encyclicals in the main square of Wittenberg and anathematized Rome. I felt most profoundly—and this is what I was seeking to confirm as I wandered for four days in Rome—how united my feelings are today with Luther and how distant I feel today from Goethe. Leaving yesterday for Assisi, I was lucky to enjoy marvelous weather: sunshine, blue sky. I arrived around six o’clock. Assisi is on a knoll surrounded by a plain filled with olive trees, and snow-capped mountains in the distance. It’s a half hour from the railroad station. I got into a small carriage, and we started to climb. I shall never forget the landscape’s serenity, the mountains’ gentleness, the quiet, my heart’s emotion. The houses were gleaming all-white, with a castle at the summit, as in Mystras. Then I saw the monastery, Saint Damian’s Convent, the Basilica of Santa Chiara, the Cathedral of San Rufino, all of which I’d known all about from pictures and the story of Saint Francis. I reached the countess’s home, opposite Santa Chiara’s, a few steps away, high up. Oh, chérie, this is a woman you’d be crazy about! She’s seventy-seven years old, but never have I seen a more lively, high-spirited, graceful old lady. Fat, white, jolly, extremely clean, a straightforward talker. She assigned me two immense rooms with expensive old-fashioned oaken furniture with excellent

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carvings. The bed is as wide as can be, with two eagles at its legs and a marvelous copy of Raphael’s Madonna up above. Passé grandeur, ancient mirrors, candelabra, embroideries. Her entire fortune was taken by her son, who lives on the upper floor of this enormous house and gives her only twelve lire a day. She related the entire story to me, laughing, speaking with disdain about her son because he is stupid and money-mad. She offered me two scaldina (small clay containers with a handle) in which lighted coals are placed, one for the hands, the other for the feet (she has three). Thus, we conversed freely in the evening. My soul has softened somewhat, owing to my seeing the eternal human passions and nobility of soul in this woman who, at age seventy-seven, possesses an excellent mind, totally clear judgment, and indomitable good cheer. I slept well. When I awoke, the entire small city (it has only five thousand souls) and all the surrounding mountains were entirely snow covered. It’s been snowing all day long today; I didn’t go outside at all. After so long, I worked peacefully. Total serenity everywhere: the house, the streets. I pay six lire a day for the two rooms. I made an agreement with a hotel keeper here (a sort of Kostas) to send me food each midday, for which I pay five lire (today there was fish soup and fish with mayonnaise); in the evening I have two eggs and tea. Thus I hope to get by on fifteen lire a day—about five English pounds a month, more or less. Greater economy is impossible. In Rome they ask thirty lire just for a room. I hope to work well here. The countess wrote to Jørgensen, who lives here (he wrote the famous book on Saint Francis; we have it in the house; read it if you have time), asking him to come so that we can meet, and he answered that he’ll come tomorrow at four o’clock. She also wrote to several Franciscan monks who are scholars to come to her house where there is “a famous Greek.” Thus, in the evenings I’m going to have the peculiar companionship of Catholic priests! I’m writing you these trifles in detail so that you may follow my life. Whenever you write me similar details, I am deeply moved, more than when we speak about ideas. I’m eagerly awaiting a letter from you. God grant that we may see each other this summer and then go together to Crete! Send me newspapers without fail. And the Baedeker. And do read Jørgensen’s Saint François. 27 February. The sun shone around midday, and I went out to walk in Assisi for the first time. An olive grove begins the moment you leave the house. Imagine a landscape like Mystras as we see it from the Pantanassa. Here, however, there is an excellent road and you walk for hours and hours on the mountain, viewing olive trees, rivers, small towns, and monasteries below you. I returned around four o’clock and found the author of Saint Francis, Jørgensen, who is Danish, and two Franciscan monks waiting for me at the house. We talked about Francis, Crete, the sea. Jørgensen is around sixty years old, intelligent, embittered, mediocre. When the weather improves, we’ll meet for a walk, but I don’t hope for anything from his companionship.

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I work here peacefully in absolute silence. Sometimes the old countess gets worried and calls out: “Signor Greco! Sta bene?” I reply, “Bene! Bene!” and she is relieved. That’s the general outline of my life here. 1 March. Chérie, I just received your letter. Oh my! You disappoint me greatly because you didn’t give the letter to Dimitrakos. I’m writing him today. Please do not refuse to take this money. You can afford me no greater pleasure. Without fail! Get five hundred drachmas a month, six hundred, as many as meet your needs. Thus you’ll give me pleasure and will reduce your own cares a little. I wrote you that I want to come this summer so that we can both go to Crete, as we planned to do when we were in Berlin. I’ve written to Eleni about a small house on the Libyan sea. Now I’ve received a letter from Lefteris, who suggests that we rent a house in Kaki Skala to spend the summer there. I’m writing him, because I wouldn’t want to stay either in Athens or in Iraklio. I have something to write, and I want to live by the sea. Angelakis has also written me. He suggests that we form a partnership with him to buy a farm with olive trees, pines, etc. by the sea in Elikonas. I wrote him (you give him the letter) that when I come we’ll decide to look at the farm. Richard wrote to me suggesting International House, etc., and at the same time yesterday I was informed that my Askitiki is being translated into Russian and that I must go to Russia. Everything will happen and will “come to pass” in time. My first duty now is to come and see you and for us to go to Crete. The rest will ripen later. The Baedeker is most assuredly in the house. It’s old; includes Rome, etc. Look again, for the last time. If you receive an appointment, will you be able to come to Crete? You see that I’m answering you immediately. Without fail, write me this: If I come to Athens, will I be able to exchange the coupons, and how many drachmas will the pound be calculated to bring at the current rate? Kastanakis still has not sent me any money. He says that there are difficulties. But he’s going to send me five pounds. Chérie, au revoir. Send me O Noumas, etc. Always yours. N

1  at the start of the seventeenth century:  Luther died in 1546; thus Kazantzakis should have said “at the start of the sixteenth century.” Luther spent about five months in Rome in 1511 or perhaps 1510.  1  November 1787: Goethe’s journey to Italy went from November 1786 to April 1788. He arrived in Rome on 1 November 1786, not 1787.  1  scaldina:  The scaldino or scaldaletto (brazier in English, μαγκάλι in Greek) was then in common use in Greek homes as well as in Italian ones.  1  a sort of Kostas:  “Uncle Kostas” ran a small eating place frequented by Athenian intellectuals.  1  Jørgensen’s Saint François:  Kazantzakis is referring to the French translation Saint François d’Assise, sa vie et son oeuvre published in Paris in 1910. The original text,

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in Danish, was published in Copenhagen in 1907. An English translation entitled Saint Francis of Assisi, Biography, was published in New York in 1912 and reprinted many times. Johannes Jørgensen lived from 1866 to 1956.  1  the Pantanassa:  Architecturally impressive church built in Mystras in the fifteenth century.  1  Kaki Skala: On southeast coast of Crete, near Ierapetra.  1  Elikonas:  Picturesque settlement on Mount Helicon in the Boeotia prefecture, Central Greece.  1  Richard:  Apparently some strange figure dressed like a Native American who came and introduced himself to the Kazantzakises in Athens.

To Galatea Kazantzaki —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 84; printed in Kazantzakis 1984, pp. 256–62.

[Assisi, March 1924] Chérie, once again your letter was a great pleasure. I received the Baedeker, the journals, and the newspaper. Your letter to the Φωνή του Εφέδρου is very strong, full of spirit and feeling. Tomorrow I’ll sit down to send them a letter myself to give them courage. They must be simple people made to look ridiculous by the eggheads of Iraklio; therefore, for the two of us to stand by their side is a brave, good deed. If I can, I’ll write them in addition when I get to Crete. I like voicing our opinion boldly in our tiny homeland and enlightening people as much as we can. “To hate, to be uncompromising”—those two motifs in your letter correspond perfectly to my own soul. I’ll write them about the need for all this struggle to be transubstantiated into the unshakable faith that we shall win. We shall win not because it is “just” and “ethical” for the common people to be relieved of suffering but, above all, because— whether we like it or not, realize it or not—this is the invincible course of human history. I will try to write them a letter that is brief and simple. Good god, how poor our periodical is! What kind of Golfis is this, what kind of Psiharis! Only one thing is marvelous: the story by Blasco Ibáñez. I see that Raftopoulos has died. Please write me. Is Voutyras alive and well? Dieterich frightened me, saying that he had passed away. Velmos wrote me repeatedly; he also wrote repeatedly the year before last when I was in Vienna. Thus, he has several letters from me. Finally, however, after one example of his insolence, I sent him a letter telling him never to write me again. Now it seems that he is going to publish one of my personal letters! Disgusting! I’ll write him; I’m fed up. My life here has once again become inevitably the same: writing and work all day long, a walk in the olive grove when the sun is shining, and visits to the

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various monasteries. I’ve come to know several Capuchins. We talk theology, about Saint Francis, about miracles. Sometimes we go to the parsonage of a Capuchin friend, climb down to the cellar and—the three Capuchins and I—drink a glass of wine. They consider me very wise. I make use of Lekatsas’s celebrated anecdote and say that I am the least of the Greek intellectuals. Have you read Jørgensen’s Saint Francis that we have at home? This saint is not so effeminate and tender as the biographers and exploitative scholars wish to depict him. He was full of persistence, obstinacy, and conviction. He grew furiously angry when his purposes were opposed. He was a great idealistic communist, seeing that the source of every evil is private property. He forbade his disciples to own any form of property whatsoever, large or small; that was the basis of his monastic order. They lived from their work, and when they had no work, they begged. In his century—approximately 1200—there were great social struggles here between the fat (rich) and the weak, the great and small (majores and minores). Saint Francis, heroically standing by the poor, named his order “minores” and made Assisi’s wealthy citizens submit. When he first began to preach in the marketplace here (it has been preserved exactly as it used to be, including Francis’s home), he was hooted and pelted with stones. Three years later he acquired his first disciple, Bernardo, and two or three others little by little. They possessed nothing. They slept in a ruin with a leaking roof (now a splendid church). Cold; no blankets; snow. This idyllic saint (as he is depicted) was a marvel of persistence, stamina, and intransigence. Gradually his influence was felt. He sent his disciples to preach everywhere throughout Italy, then France, Spain, Morocco, Egypt, Palestine. Monasteries were built; a huge order solidified under the following three rules: absolute poverty, obedience, and chastity. Blind, ready to die, lying on a plank in the corner of a garden, unable to sleep owing to pain and the abundant mice who paraded over him, one night Saint Francis composed the famous paean to joy, his most splendid poem: “Laudato sii mi Signore per il fratello il Sole” (Be thee blessed, my Lord, for brother Sun). Ideals have changed today, as have contemporary means, etc. But one thing remains forever unchanged because it applies not just to all human beings in every time and place but is life’s great secret even well before mankind existed: nothing can happen if faith is missing—faith in the broadest sense: unshakable faith in the struggle. To discuss communism, to seek intellectual and verbal arguments, is unworthy of the struggle. Let us believe; let us create a soul different from the bourgeois soul, one that is simpler and deeper, and let us not argue with the bourgeoisie, using as our ally the so-called dialectic method. Let us be fiery; let us not discuss; let us see, live, and act entirely differently from the bourgeoisie. Such are the indisputable symptoms of victory. This conviction has been attaining gigantic proportions within me as time unfolds. To the degree that my mind becomes increasingly solid and enriched,

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to that same degree I feel more intensely that the only power capable of reviving earth’s features is faith. Once again I have drifted off into things that you know better than I do. Yet this is a symptom of my mental development. Blood sometimes rises to my head, so overcome am I by the conviction that one and only one great duty remains for me now: to follow, as did Saint Francis, this road that revives life. In my sleep the other night, for the first time in my life, I had a short-lived but extremely intense loss of consciousness. I was entirely fine in the morning. The only thing remaining was the terrible feeling of how one’s senses are extinguished. If I weren’t so healthy, perhaps I would have followed that difficult path more readily. We shall see. Meanwhile, I’m finishing Buddha here. I believe that it is a work incomparably superior to whatever I have written until now. I’m ashamed to say— good god!—how worthless and ephemeral is everything that I have heaped up so far! The whole lot, plays, etc., were written to keep me from having a fit. A kind of bloodletting. They have no value whatsoever. They simply helped me live, depleting my blood somewhat. I have failed to do what it is my duty to do. I intend to come to Greece in the summer, to stay a bit in Athens and then in a small, secluded house in Crete next to the sea. That, I think, will do me good. Afterwards, may God grant whatever is best! I wrote you—begged you, described for you—how much you would please me if you accepted that money from the histories. Your refusal to accept saddens me because it shows a lack of unity between us. What is the meaning of “yours” or “mine”? Should we behave like this—we communists? When I have, I give to you; when you have, you give to me. Or, still better: neither “to me” nor “to you” exists. Only “to us” exists. So do me the pleasure of taking as much as you need. Everything is yours. Write me about Zorbas. What’s going on? Why doesn’t he write? I’ll finish here tonight. Tomorrow I’ll write you another word or two. I am very tired. N I don’t know how much longer I’ll remain in Assisi. Another month in any case. Afterwards I’ll go to one or two other nearby cities, and then I’ll board ship for Greece from either Genoa or Venice. In your next letter please enclose a hundred-drachma note for me (get it from Dimitrakos, charged to my account). I’ll need it for when I return. Write me what you’d like me to bring you, and what for Anestasia. I’m waiting for a letter from you. Write me about Zorbas. (As for Raftopoulos, I read in yesterday’s Neoi Vomoi that he had died.)

1  Φωνή του Εφέδρου:  “Voice of the Reservist,” a small newspaper published by veterans of the fateful expedition to Asia Minor that ended with the

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Asia Minor Catastrophe of 1922. For background, see Bien 1989, p. 83.  1  Golfis: Rigas Golfis (Γκόλφης) (1886–1958), poet, one of the major contributors to O Noumas; pseudonym of Dimitris Dimitriadis.  1  Blasco Ibáñez:  Vicente Blasco Ibáñez (1867–1928), Spanish realist novelist and screenwriter, best known for his novel about the first world war, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.  1  Raftopoulos:  Joseph Raftopoulos (1890–1923), lyrical poet, contributor to O Noumas; died in 1923 of tuberculosis at age thirty-three.  1  Lekatsas:  Nikolaos Lekatsas (1847–1913), celebrated Shakespearian actor born in Greece but professionally active in England. When he returned to Greece in 1881, he had to relearn his childhood Greek, after which he became equally celebrated playing Shakespeare in Greece. But vicissitudes there prompted him to return to England. He died in New York.  1  approximately 1200:  Francis lived from 1181 or 1182 until 1226.  1  Laudato sii mi Signore per il fratello il Sole:  More accurately, Laudato sie, mi’ Signore, cum tucte le tue creature, / spetialmente messer lo frate sole (Praise be yours, my Lord, through all that you have made, / And first my lord Brother Sun).  1  Anestasia:  Zorbas’s daughter, who lived in the Kazantzakis household.

V  •  Meets Eleni Samiou; Begins Odyssey;

Divorces Galatea; Travels to Soviet Union

To Eleni Samiou —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 27–31, where it is dated 17 July; English translation in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 24–26; French translation in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 22–24.

Iraklio, 7 July 1924 The second Odysseas has returned to his fatherland, has seen the enormous mountainous head above the city where he was born, has traversed the age-old road along the shore, and once again knocked on the door of his paternal home. The courtyard was filled with basil, marjoram, geranium. Old “Laertes” had aged. The mother—fine, peaceful, reticent—observed her much-traveled son: how thin he had become, how his temples had sunk, how his eyes had sunk, how his forehead had broadened and blackened from so much snow and broiling sunshine! And the second Odysseas (your companion, Genossin, in your evening walks, the person who—so talkative, so silent—was so happy to be with you) went up and down the stairs of his paternal home. Everything was the same: clean, simple, tidy. The street seemed narrow to him, everything smaller, simpler. Father spoke about the vineyards and olives, mother about living abroad—how I had managed in foreign countries among foreign people and foreign women, why I had lost so much weight, what worries I had, when I would stop. The relatives began to arrive, the female cousins hugely fat—provincial fat—, the male cousins, fat, millionaires, a great gulf between us. They looked at me as though I were a bizarre, inexplicable fruit on our family tree. My nieces and nephews—young, avid, taciturn—listened and looked, hoarding impressions in order to have some sense decades later (or perhaps never) of their well-traveled, black, ascetic uncle. I come and go in the paternal home, quietly enjoying the sadness caused by things that I used to love and that now are so distant from me. I think of Berlin, the feverish human anguish there, those fearsome female Jewish Analaya-Tubaris, my cruel duty to renounce father and mother, to go far away, opposed to them, opposed to their morality, religion, social superstitions, economic efforts. Last night I told my father a little about Bolshevism.

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His whole being flew into a temper; then he rose without a word and went upstairs to his room—his greatest expression of indignation. Liebe Genossin, liebe Genossin, God grant that, always with sadness and difficulty, I may distance myself from the people and things I love and that cannot come with me. I wander through Iraklio, observe our familiar dark blue sea, the mountains in morning sunlight, the white soil, the stones, greenery, familiar vintage doorways, unknown young girls, girlfriends who have grown old, as though I am living in a former dream, as though I were observing through deep diaphanous water a sunken city I used to know. My aged uncles kept asking me about England, France, politics, if there will be a war, who will win. A neighbor, an old lady, says that Agathangelos prophesies that the calf will swim in blood outside of Iraklio in 1932; a young cousin asks which branch of science he should study; a girl asks my advice about going to America to find a husband there. “Are you in a hurry?” “Yes, I’m in a hurry.” “Why?” “I want to have a child. I envy women who hold a baby on their breast.” And I—peaceful, sometimes laughing, sometimes suddenly pale from restrained emotion—answer all these human concerns, strive to love all these disparate souls, to become one with them, to show some interest in England, to choose a branch of science, to go to America and find the father of my child. Thus, I’m worn out; I’m dissolving in this small courtyard of ours, Lenotschka. I’m interested in everything. I experience and love all those here who come to the paternal home to view, with curiosity and awe, this intellectual Sinbad the Sailor. The table on which I am writing you in my room, the room in which I was raised, is full of fruit, sweets, bananas—everything I like. I’m in a hurry to leave for the Libyan Sea, to begin my anguish in solitude. Then God will decide. Russia? May He so grant! However, I’ll be happy even here, because I’ll be working. As soon as I go, I’ll write you about the cottage and will expect you. Stay well, Genossin. Be serene. Take care of your body. Love human beings, be merciful toward them, tolerate them. Do not forget our words, walks, the warm boulders on which we sat, the pine trees, mountains, and stars that, despairing and blissful, we saw together.

1  Eleni Samiou:  Later Eleni Kazantzaki (1903–2004). Kazantzakis first met his future partner and wife, Eleni Samiou, on 18 May 1924, when they both went on the same excursion. They were married on 11 November 1945. This is the first letter to Eleni Samiou that we possess; therefore I print it even though the manuscript is missing. Subsequent letters to Eleni Samiou and, later, to Eleni Kazantzaki will be printed here only in cases where I do possess the manuscript or, rarely, where a letter that is available only in incomplete form is too important to omit. All of these letters are available (almost always in incomplete form) in Greek, English, and French.  1  enormous mountainous

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head:  This is Youkhtas, a mountain just beyond Iraklio that resembles the head of a reclining giant—perhaps Zeus himself!  1  old “Laertes”: In Homer’s Odyssey, Odysseus’s father, Laertes, has of course much aged during his son’s twenty-year absence.  1  Genossin:  Means “comrade” in German.  1  Analaya-Tubari:  Heroine of “Black Ten-Day-Period,” an African story retold by the German ethnologist and archaeologist Leo Frobenius (1873– 1938), here identified with one or more of the Jewish communists Kazantzakis had met in Berlin. Frobenius’s work was much admired and studied by Kazantzakis, who wrote to Angelakis in July 1931, “I’ve read all of Frobenius— forty volumes!” In one of Kazantzakis’s notebooks, in a section labeled “Afrika,” there are seven pages of carefully recorded reading notes in German and French.  1  Agathangelos:  Fictional author of a book, supposedly written by him in 1279, prophesying the Greeks’ liberation from the Turks. It was actually written by a priest in 1751 and was a great favorite among Greeks who believed in visionary phenomena.  1  Lenotschka: Russified form of Lenio, a form of Eleni, Samiou’s first name.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 29–31; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 26–27; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 25–26.

[Iraklio,] 15 July 1924 Liebe Genossin! Oh God, be healthy, good, serene! See the entire Cycle indissolubly in front of you! Arrange your greatest grief and greatest pleasure like a bloody detail— I desire nothing else any longer, liebe, liebe Mitkämpferin! I wander through the narrow age-old streets of this city; I see the stunted trees, the sunburned men, the cordial women whom I do not know; I go to the seashore, enjoy the waves, undress, sense the entire sea as my bloodstream’s circulation; inhale the air, stretch out on the warm sand; realize that I am the clear expression of the whole of this inarticulate outcry of the elements, and my heart pounds, Genossin, leaps up like a small, ephemeral, living creature that is patient and all-powerful. I remember you in all these bitter, resolute moments. I remember your eyes, your silence, your words, our shadows on the stones, all our treks along shorelines, in meadows, and between our souls. The human heart—oh! what a terrible mystery it is! Looking behind me, how I enjoy that “red line” incised by warm drops from my human heart! In the evening, when I finally return from the sea, my lips, hair, and mind still salty, I meet the leaders of the communist movement here, secretly, in a

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house, and we draw up plans for the future struggle. There are about ten people, simple and uneducated, with ardor, strong intellects, fiery spirits— a splendid mass in love, one that anticipates the spirit coming down upon them like a man and making them fruitful. The whole sea, the whole vision of solitariness and everlastingness, the entire “Cycle,” still in my sight, suddenly from amid these simple, poverty-stricken “fishers of men,” from amid these humble, wronged, famished contemporary apostles, there leaps up inside me an ephemeral, fiery love for humankind and also for this despairing, frantic epoch in which I happen to have been born. Then the entire Cycle is focused onto a single flaming point: immediate action. I say: These comrades constitute the first degree of initiation into my religion, the lowest degree. They—they themselves—are hurrying to be saved from injustice and poverty. As we said, Lenotschka, they are like insects that think the sweetness in flowers was created for them to eat their fill. The second degree (I have three such “brothers” here so far) is: We do not fight for ourselves but for humanity. We must save humanity, not our ephemeral, insignificant selves. The third and highest degree is: We fight neither for ourselves nor for humanity. Everything—plants, animals, humans, ideas—fights willy-nilly for God’s salvation, whether it knows this or not. This is the complete, firm Askitiki. It sprouts not from a single human head but from the ground, like an oak tree. I am glad that, without intending to, I chanced to put down the roots of my God here in the paternal soil, the sacred, age-old illuminated land of Crete. I must plow this mass well, accommodate it to contemporary needs, take the contemporary worldwide malaise and use it, from here, from this tiny scintillating fatherland in the dark blue sea, to discover today’s simplest, most enthralling expression of my mystical theory of God’s origin. Whether we like it or not, the first degree of initiation today is communist revolution. “This world must be destroyed. It must be destroyed by violence. Let us be prepared!” Those are the three articles of faith that I have given to my Cretan comrades. Oh Lenotschka, if only my body could become fully worthy of my head! Sometimes African lightning bolts pass through my eyes, and I shout “Yes! I am ready!” Then they disappear—disappear, or is it that they organize themselves into a continuous, firm, inexorable cloudburst? We shall see. The gene consigned to me by my father Bernardone is harsh; the one consigned to me by my mother Pica is tender and passive. God grant that I may achieve the supreme synthesis shortly before I die. Dear companion, I kiss your hands. I remember the warm boulders, the two seas that opened and closed the first cycle of our contact, and I remember Saint John the Hunter—they are all shining peacefully in my mind, within an azure atmosphere of everlastingness. N

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1  Yorgos Anemoyannis:  Born and raised in Iraklio, Anemoyannis (1916– 2005) was a graduate of the Max Reinhart theatrical school in Vienna; designer of stage sets for Marika Kotopouli, Karolos Koun, Alexis Solomos, Dimitris Myrat, Manos Katrakis, Anna Synodinou, Melina Merkouri, Elli Lambeti; founder of the Kazantzakis Museum, housed in the ancestral mansion in Varvari occupied by his family since 1831; collector and donator of a large proportion of the artifacts in the museum.  1  Mitkämpferin!:  German for “comrade-in-arms.”  1  Bernardone . . . Pica:  Saint Francis’s father and mother.  1  Saint John the Hunter:  An abandoned twelfth-century monastery on Mount Hymettos above Agia Paraskevi; Kazantzakis hoped to acquire it in order to found there an idealistic cooperative community.

To Angelos Sikelianos —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 132–33, and in Prevelakis 1984, pp. 182–83.

[Iraklio,] 29 July 1924 . . . I understand your struggle. I know that in Greece this struggle is an extremely valiant one as is the defense, and also your standing firm at the same place, since humanity’s normal, recognized, sensible, “fertile” development, in Greece, is degradation. When I was there, I used to say, “Let us unite, the three, the five, who wish to be unyielding. Let us undertake to resist the steady current, and not only to resist it but to work aggressively to convert into spirit as much as we can of materiality, plus all of that adverse current.” I have sensed that this is premature for Greece; we three, we five, are still in the forerunner’s stage. Like it or not, we will struggle, work, and die isolated, no longer just from the riffraff but also from our actual supporters. Like you, I am isolated; I fight singly, and if I have chosen foreign lands as my place of battle, I do so not from cowardice but rather from a profound, insistent study of my powers. God has given me a tangled skein of instincts and drives: light, darkness, matter, spirit. I select the most expedient conditions allowing me to convert into spirit as many of my dark elements as I can manage to accomplish in time. Only thus will my life and personality acquire a certain worth for the totality—an insignificant worth, but the best I can manage. To recognize the epoch in which we happen to have been born and in which we chance to work, and to regulate our opinions and actions in accordance with the nature of that epoch, that is the indispensable prerequisite for fertile harmony. . . . I am living like an ascetic, peacefully, with minimal possessions. I work during the day, sleep at night, have no ambition, hate nobody, would like to be able to do good to whomever exists. I am like a silkworm that has eaten its entire share of mulberry leaves, has converted them into silk and now,

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nodding its head to the right and left, unwinds from its innards the precious substance and congeals it in the air. My best friends have left me; no one in the world is interested in me any longer. That is why I am interested in everyone. I sense that I am free and can arrange my life as I wish, without causing sorrow to anyone. That is supreme independence, a solitude that is strongly productive, a divine silence for anyone who works. God grant that this solitude and silence may last my entire life. Let us take whatever we can from every locale. Let us exploit as much as we can this crust of our beloved, embittered, eternal earth. . . .

1  I understand your struggle:  Sikelianos’s twelve-page letter that prompted this reply expanded on his feelings of abandonment as he was dreaming of the Delphic program: “Few people are already ready with me. The threshing ground I am preparing is poor, small. . . . Do not receive with scorn everything I am writing you today. I do not dare to think that some day you will take the uphill road to find me with my arms outstretched toward you; nevertheless, I am convinced that the Program will bring us both together” (Bournazakis 2000, pp. 329, 331).

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession; photograph of incomplete manuscript in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 660; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Ka­ zantzaki 1977, pp. 37–38; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 32; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 31–32.

[Iraklio, posted 7 October 1924] Liebe, liebe Genossin! I hope that you have received my letter by now. Write to me often, speak to me, and I will assume as much additional sadness as I can, so that you may be relieved. Words can never give relief. Yet you well know that I am with you day and night, that with you I bend over to gaze at the opened earth, and that in my case, too, the questions rise up eternally, futilely, in my heart. This—the act of seeing the abyss together with a person whom one is holding tightly to himself—is this earth’s only consolation. My life here is more solitary than ever because my soul has never been relieved of so many futile, beloved weights. Lefteris will probably be departing shortly for Germany on a three-year government scholarship. May God be with him! Let’s hope that life abroad and the beauty that he’ll encounter will enlarge his heart. I am no longer bound to him; I can comfortably live far away from him.

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Elizabeth is once again having a decisive physical and mental crisis. Her letters are cries of despair; she wants to die. Oh! behold there a splendid soul that suffers far away from us, that cries out from the north and finds no salvation. Genossin, our God’s face is grausam. We need to look Him in the eye, bravely raising our heads as equals toward an equal. Death comes quickly. Before it does, let us enjoy our ephemeral life as intensely as possible, and let us transubstantiate as much matter as we possibly can into spirit, so that when death arrives it will not find anything to carry away. Genossin Lenotschka, write to me. I am with you at the most difficult times. I wonder if I will ever have the strength to make you aware of this invisible presence. In a few days I am going to move to the house near the sea. I will work during the winter, but—lo and behold!—the giddiness of travel is beginning to unsettle my mind. Oh, if only I could go to the interior of Egypt to fill my eyes with date palms, bananas, and fellaheen! Odysseas in his second journey ascends the Nile and reaches the heart of black Africa. I want to go with him. All day long today I have been composing my defense. I was summoned to the police station because of a revolutionary article I had written and was given a twenty-four-hour deadline to defend myself. Oh, life in our country is so wretchedly limited! If it were elsewhere, I would face the danger—the hope!—of being killed. Here I won’t even be subjected to a trial, won’t be given the opportunity to see if I am brave. Oh, if only I were a Russian! Oh, if only I were under a heavy, dangerous sword at every moment! Everything here is puny, painless. Liebe Genossin, do not ever forget me. Give me your hand. Last night, rereading some parts of Christ, a play I have, I saw these verses, and I remembered them now that I wrote you these last words. all of earth’s creatures are good and true. Stones, bread, wine, sea are alive because I am holding the beloved hand! N

1  grausam: Dreadful (compare the English cognate: gruesome).  1  the house near the sea:  The house belonged to his boyhood friend Manolis Georgiadis.  1  composing my defense:  Apparently Kazantzakis never had to defend himself this time; however, he was able to use what he had written when he was summoned by the public prosecutor on 14 February 1925 after having been detained twenty-four hours at the police station. He published this defense on 16 February as Ομολογία πίστεως. The Greek text is reprinted in Elli Alexiou 1966, pp. 297–300, and (slightly abridged) in Bien 2001, pp. 113–15; an English translation (slightly abridged) appears in Bien 1989, pp. 90–92, and a

1924 Letters  •  213

French translation in Janiaud-Lust 1970, pp. 567–68.  1  these verses:  They occur in the play’s first act, Kazantzakis 1956a, p. 62: “όλα / τα πλάσματα της γης καλά κι αληθινά ’ναι· / κι οι πέτρες, το ψωμί και το κρασί κι η θάλασσα / ζούνε, γιατί κρατώ το αγαπημένο χέρι!”

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 140–42; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 115–16; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 114–15, always misdated as September 1924.

[Poros, Iraklio, around 10 or 11 October 1924] Liebe liebe Genossin, I’m now living all alone in Georgiadis’s house by the sea. Sometimes in this utter solitude, gazing at the waves, the boulders, the crows passing overhead, I suddenly feel that I am happy. I write all day long. Sometimes I’m glad because it seems to me that what I’ve written is full of warmth, pain, and love— an outcry so true that, like it or not, God will hear it. Oh, if only I have a little tranquillity and time to reach the end! I’m at the height of my powers and do not want to lose even a single hour. I’m bent over the paper from daybreak onward, fighting to save my soul as much as I can manage, not so that people may learn that there exists a warm, throbbing vision inside this black head of mine, but truly so that I may rescue my soul after the ephemeral body disappears. Genossin, I feel that my mind is advancing day by day, that my heart is growing clear, that with you I would be better, calmer, warmer if we chanced to live together. If I happened suddenly to die now, the sea at Lendas would come to my eyes, as would our boulder, the warm pebbles, the lemon trees that had been burned, your slim, lithe body, your clasped, laconic lips. Oh, this world is full of miracles! Our hearts are an insatiable, frightening mystery that transforms life’s entire hell into sacred intoxication. Remember: how we struggled to transubstantiate Lendas into paradise! My heart melting, I am writing the Odyssey. What a struggle to grant salvation to Odysseas, Helen, Nefertiti, my divinity, by giving them refuge in a perfect line of verse! This is the book that I will take with me to the grave, just as the ancient Egyptians took a small wooden boat to transport them to Hades. Oh, if we could be together in the same boat in those dark subterranean waters! Genossin, I’ve had you in mind all these days and nights so strongly that the human senses must be very defective for you not to be aware of this. I tell myself that the sea ceaselessly thundering these days and nights

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in front of me is why all my dreams these nights are filled with your presence in a manner inavoué et inavouable. Thus, in my heart you are united with an eternal element, the sea. Blessings on the Libyan Sea, Genossin, Genossin! I always expect some photographs of you, old ones, very old, when you were a child, and new ones, most recent. Do me that favor: send them to me. On my part, in order to remind you, I’m sending you one with Mitropoulos, etc. at Knossos. I might come to Athens soon, before leaving for the unknown. You’ll tell me the “secret” then. Or even not then? Where to go? I’m allowing my “God” to judge and say. In the meantime, I keep working—that is, I ripen His judgment. Liebe Genossin, do not delay writing me. You are together with me to such an extent here by the sea where I now find myself that sometimes je frissonne. N

1  inavoué et inavouable: Unconfessed and unconfessable.  1  Mitropoulos: Dimitri Mitropoulos (1896–1960), Greek conductor, pianist, and composer.  1  je frissonne: I shudder.

To Eleni Samiou —Unable to locate the manuscript; first two paragraphs of manuscript photographed in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 661; first four paragraphs of manuscript photographed in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, inside front cover and inside back cover; printed in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 145–46; English translation in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 117–18; French translation in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 119–20.

[Poros, Iraklio, probably October 1924] Liebe, liebe Genossin! I am overcome again by that bloodthirsty bird of prey, the Spirit. Bent over the paper all day long, I writhe and suffer so much—more than I will ever be able to describe. “Like a cranium that cracks and breaks apart on the funeral pyre, I hear the entire earth splitting inside my calm mind’s tranquillity.” These words, which I once wrote for Buddha, I feel most profoundly, and with pain. I am the earth, the funeral pyre, the calm mind. I have no hope, no joy, no illusion. I know that all of this marvelous game produced by light and shadow upon the soil, all of these ardent phantoms—flowers, women, the sea, insects, ideas— are transitory wisps of smoke rising out of the crossroads of our five senses.

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Yet I am happy. Passionately in love with all these shadows, I donate my blood to bring them alive, to make them acquire eternal life inside me for an instant, to save them from villainy, degradation, death. However, I know that this hard, totally intoxicated cranium of mine will be smashed and that seven waves of worms will pass over it in order to empty it. I am struggling to experience the futility of every effort and, at the same time, the everlastingness of every moment. Ah, Genossin, those hours at Lendas, how few they were! Oh, when will I be able to live with you again, so that you will no longer ever be concerned about my silences or my words, so that you will be able to experience my anguishes and my joys, and so that you will hold my mind in your hands, calmly, luminously, like a bronze globe, a bronze mirror? I am writing the Odyssey now. My heart is a ship with a yellow sail, a ship filled prow to stern with Odysseas. He has set out on his second journey, the final one, passing through Crete, the Mediterranean, Africa, encountering ideas, women, and exploits he has longed for, going beyond human boundaries and still further, creating God with the prow of his ship. You believe, Genossin, that I am forgetting you in this frightening last journey of mine. You fail to see that you are seated inside the ship—serene, silent, disciplined, mistress of your heart, your lips clasped, insatiable, proud. Where are we headed? We have set the helm for the abyss, but our eyes cannot satisfy their hunger for enjoying this upper world. I look at you and my heart trembles, but my hands hold the tiller calmly, and I smile at you to give you courage. Last night I was with you all night in my dreams. I awoke with the taste of your all-night presence on my lips and eyelids. Is that the reason I am writing you today? I don’t know. It’s evening, I worked all day, I am despairing and tranquil; the whole day’s terrible struggle is concentrated in ardent, insistent greetings to you. That is my reward for this workday of mine, my day’s wages. Genossin, I thank God for your existence, I thank the 18th of May when I saw you, and those sacred days and nights of ours at Lendas. N

To Rev. Emmanuel Papastefanou —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; partial manuscript in Mitsotakis 1972, p. 31; printed in Mitsotakis 1972, pp. 112–14.

Cretan shoreline, 29 March 1925 Brother Papastefanou, I’m writing you from a deserted shoreline near Iraklio where I have been living for months now and writing. My soul has never been so certain and so

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fertile. I am writing a large work that will take years. It will be my life’s work, my greatest attempt to save my soul. Whatever there is to be saved will be saved now. As Plato says, “We must, so far as we are able, make ourselves immortal.” I have wanted very much to see you and speak with you. From letters I am unable to understand lots of things very well. Your God strikes me as too Christian, too virtuous and amiable. Suddenly you hear a roar like a [here a line is missing from the manuscript]. Send me some American newspapers (i.e., native ones, not Greek ones printed in America) that describe the hurricane of a few days ago (18 March) in great detail. Also, if you wish, some magazines that have good pictures of the hurricane and the destruction. I have an absolute need of them because they’ll be of use to me in the work I’m writing. Only send them quickly, please—always to Iraklio, Crete, addressed to my name—so that they’ll arrive while I’m still here. I want to know your opinion because I believe in your great prophetic power. For the work I am writing I need to go to Egypt and Palestine in the summer. Lefteris promises to come with me in June, as far as Sinai. But I’ll go even if alone because I must. If I stay many months in Palestine and Syria (as I hope to), I’ll always keep remembering you at sunset because once, many years ago, you said to me in Iraklio, “The sunset there resembles a swooning woman who is being revived with milk.” I’ve asked you to do me a favor now (your recent hurricane), but you pretend not to hear or you cite various delays and soothing explanations. Before I leave for Africa I’m going to send you my Askitiki, in which I struggle to portray the features of my God. I do acknowledge Christ to be one of the persons making up the fearsome Impersonal Power that is visible and invisible, yet I myself do not fit within that person. The mystery that engenders and kills us, O my brother who shares my living and dying, is much darker, much more frightening. I’ll have a typewritten copy of Askitiki made for you and will send it so that our talk and discussion in the future may rest on a definite basis. I’m sending you a photo of me at Knossos. Lefteris, Anastasiou, etc., send greetings. They come to my hermitage once a week. We read, and we remember you a lot, warmly. Myros is a businessman. I’m expecting a letter from you very soon. Do not forget that I love you very much. May God one day make it necessary for us to abandon the whole of this outward life, which is so very agreeable, so that we may lose ourselves in some great Work. Always, N

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1  I am writing a large work:  Odyssey, begun in the winter of 1925. The published epic is the end result of seven drafts that occupied Kazantzakis on and off until 1 December 1938.  1  As Plato says, “We must, so far as we are able, make ourselves immortal”:  Actually, the quote is from Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics 10.7.8.1177b33: “ὅσον ἐνδέχεται ἀθανατίζειν.”  1  the hur­ ricane of a few days ago (18 March):  The main headline of the New York Times for 19 March reads: “950 killed 2700 injured by tornado in Illinois, Indiana and Missouri; several towns wiped out, fires raging, confusion reigns in zone . . . hundreds are buried in debris.” Kazantzakis may have used some of this for the destruction of Odysseas’s ideal city in Odyssey, canto 16, although the chief cause there is an earthquake, not a tornado.  1  Anastasiou: Mihalis Anastasiou (1891–1955), Galatea’s cousin; poet and dramatist; teacher in Iraklio’s gymnasium; the addressee of Kazantzakis long circular letter about the Soviet Union, dated 28 August 1929. See Kazantzakis’s assessment in the letter to Prevelakis dated 17 September 1955, upon hearing of Anastasiou’s death (see below).  1  Myros:  Myros Gounalakis, an old friend; businessman; Kazantzakis’s companion in Switzerland in 1917; one of the characters in Symposium.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession; printed (incomplete) in Eleni ­Kazantzaki 1977, p. 150; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 120–21; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 123.

[Poros, Iraklio,] 2 May 1925 Liebe Genossin! I’ve just received your letter—after a month, I believe. However, I allow the unconscious to direct me, placing the logical mind in a lower, external circle. Thus it is that in my writing I have confidence in the worth of the unconscious within us, and I do not tear anything up. You ask about my life. It is always the same, always unchanged, entirely simple: Awakening at dawn (windows open all night long, so I keep hearing the sea), I begin at once to write—until nightfall. Then, until midnight, I read whatever I happen to have: philosophy, communist material, poetry. I no longer attach any importance to the choice. Odysseas is always growing, always devouring my heart. Nefertiti sent me a beautiful German edition of R. Rolland’s Gandhi, inscribing it as follows: “This is a human being, not you who are still in love with words and keep writing!” She’s correct, this young Jewess. What she does not know (she’s a Jewess and very young) is that it’s not right to hurry our soul’s unfolding. I have always matured with great difficulty and

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slowness. My soul’s spirale is very tightly wound, and it unwinds slowly, ceaselessly. Regarding communist ideology, I have advanced lately to unexpected conclusions, abandoning my former theories. The same everywhere else. Previously, in the identical way, I escaped science, which had taken possession of me; later I escaped philosophy, also in the identical way; now I shall even escape art—I shall be able to be delivered from it only by loving it exceedingly, mortally, by working at it passionately, by giving my entire self to it. I believe that this is God’s method. He delivered himself from plants and animals in this manner, and today He is struggling similarly to deliver Himself from humans as well. In my life I have always tried to unite the two great mutually complementary enemies: Raserei und Klarheit (I use the worlds that Nefertiti herself adores): vehement passion, mania, and, at the same time, clarity— neither for the mind to chill the heart’s lava nor for the heart to blur the mind’s limpidity. Liebe Genossin, I am hoping to come at last to Athens for a few days (perhaps at the end of May). Then we shall talk beautifully, walking and tasting everything with “the most vehement tranquillity.” I still do not know where I’ll be going. Right now I’m working on Odysseas and allowing all other things to come in their own turn. Elisabeth is enthusiastic about the mountains, sun, and stars of Palestine but desperately disgusted by the people. It’s difficult for a woman, even the most exceptional one, to be happy observing solely sun, sea, or animals; what’s needed are living human beings. Abstract thought is hateful to her in the long run. Moreover, doesn’t God himself feel the same? These days I’ve suddenly been thinking a lot of Bebeka. The other day when I went out onto the balcony at twilight to breathe a little, I abruptly remembered her and was shaken by this memory until nightfall. I could not do any more work that day. Who knows! Zurich for me is a city in which I loved exceedingly and suffered exceedingly. My heart lies crushed along all of its sidewalks and surrounding mountains. Maybe Bebeka went on some excursion in that area. Once again, you write me nothing about your body. That’s not right. You well know how much I identify soul and body. Liebe Genossin, God be with you! N

1  Nefertiti:  = Rahel Lipstein.  1  spirale:  The hairspring of a watch.  1  Elisabeth: Elsa Lange (1893–1973). For Kazantzakis’s various meetings and travels with Elsa, especially in 1924, see in particular pp. 103–5 and the index entry for Elsa in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 575. Although called Elsa or Else, her legal name was Elisabeth Alexander Lange.  1  Bebeka: Eleni’s sister Polly Samiou. The term is a common endearment for women in Greece.

1925 Letters  •  219

To Kostis Palamas —Unable to locate the manuscript; copy in the hand of George Katsimbalis in ‘Ιδρυμα Κωστή Παλαμά archive: correspondence, letters to Kostis Palamas, N. Kazantzakis file; printed in Kasinis 1986, p. 1310.

Iraklio, Crete, 5 May 1925 My revered Teacher— I’ve been going round the villages in Crete and only now have I read the fine words, so filled with indulgence, that you wrote about Odysseas. I can never believe that what I have written has any value; therefore, I am always surprised when I hear a fine word and indeed one from the “Leader of the current Nation,” as you are in Greece. I swear to God that what I say to you is true. I am ashamed that I am unable to save my soul by formulating it in full. I work day and night, a pile of manuscript pages weighing down my consciousness. My entire life, without joy or respite, has been given over to this terrible effort, and the only fruit of this anguish of mine is that my life has gained cohesion, my effort to produce beauty yielding moral fruit—because of course the two have the same root. Before I leave Greece for the East, a month and a half from now, I will stop in Athens for a while and will seek your permission to see you. Always with admiration, Nikos Kazantzakis

1  the fine words . . . that you wrote about Odysseas: In the newspaper Eleftheros Logos (23 February 1925), Palamas had lavished praise on Kazantzakis’s play, published in the Alexandrian periodical Nea Zoï in November 1922. Most of Palamas’s text is republished in Kasinis 1986, pp. 1313–18.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift of Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 151; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 121–22; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 124.

[Poros, Iraklio, Spring 1925] Liebe Genossin, I’m so buried in the work I started that it’s the first time in my life that I have felt so much power and maîtrise. I write all day long, sleep all night, live

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all by myself, look at the sea, the Cretan mountains, the soil that fashioned my body, the air that made my soul—and I am most profoundly united with the whole of this island, like a flower with its roots. Sometimes I have the sense that Youkhtas, the huge stone head stretched out over the island’s muchafflicted soil, having acquired consciousness, sees, hears, and enjoys the whole of Crete. These days I’ve been writing, struggling to resurrect the age-old souls of our forefathers at Knossos. I’m experiencing the entire vision; I see the faces; I weep, laugh, die, and love together with all the painted bare-breasted women and with all the proud, narrow-waisted men. Odysseas appears and destroys their decadent civilization. This creative intoxication has overcome me two or three times in my life: once most tempestuously on Sifnos, another time at Mount Athos, then in a Swiss village near Lugano, then in Germany near Jena. So, not just two or three times, praise God, but many. I think that I’ve just been born, that I’ve barely saved myself, and that from now on I’ll try to maintain this intoxication on a quotidian level of utmost simplicity. I have already written cantos 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 of the Odyssey—that is, five thousand verses. Until canto 24 I’ll have an infinite number of joys and sorrows. Today Odysseas went to sleep next to Spartan Helen in the courtyard of the Knosos palace, and he sees the stars. Tomorrow I’ll place him inside the palace: This palace burned at the pyre of its chief as did its kings with their wheat, clay jars, and children. The night-walker advanced, slowly climbed the stairs, descended, tested the pillars to see if they held, knocked against the walls, and laughed at the heavy door bolts, gripping them: “These will bar the fire; they will not open while flaming tongues hit them and the fortress is destroyed!” That, Lenotschka, is how Odysseas circulates inside the palace of Knossos. Oh! my life ought to have been like his. I should not be writing all the time; I should be living like Odysseas. I always say that I’ll end up that way, with action and not words as my life’s final element. We shall see. Yet I find myself in the constellation of the Word and my duty, for as long as I remain in that constellation, is to formulate my soul fully by means of words. Suddenly, now, I find myself talking continuously about myself and am ashamed. I am so very much alone, the sea is so close to me, my day is so dedicated simply and only to One Thing, that writing to you, talking with you, I sense that I am still alone, and I continue in a loud voice with the concerns of my cranium. Should I come to Athens? I still don’t know anything, but I’m thinking to come there on the day before my major emigration. Yet I still don’t know. I cannot say anything now because I am possédé by my work. Maybe I’ll go on

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a long excursion, maybe I won’t budge from here, won’t even go home to ­celebrate Easter with my mother. Anastasia told me that Marika Papaïoannou might come here. Is it possible? Have your sisters gone? Write me a lot about your life now. Imitate me: write solely about yourself. That will give me the greatest pleasure. Gute Nacht! Ich bin furchtbar müde und trotzdem kann ich nicht schlafen. N

1  maîtrise:  Mastery, control.  1  possédé:  Possessed.  1  Gute Nacht! Ich bin furchtbar müde und trotzdem kann ich nicht schlafen:  Good night! I am frightfully tired and nevertheless cannot sleep.

To Edwige Levi —Manuscript (in French) in Historical Museum of Crete, Levi 7.

Naxos, 14 August [1925] Ah, dear friend, why didn’t you come to the Aegean isles? Yes, yes, you were always by my side but, you see, your truly corporeal presence is very indispensable for our dear, poor human nature. Greece, the true Greece— calm, harmonious, filled with light and spirit—smiles around these islands. You would have seen Tinos’s profound gardens, Mykonos’s dazzlingly white houses, Naxos’s serene and fecund beauty. Toward evening, your “absent presence” was so palpable for me that I kept glancing behind me with a shudder. The red and bluish rocks of our islands would perfectly suit your austere, disciplined soul. The play of light that we love so much would have imposed on us this silence full of shouts and weeping. There are small island cafés where people eat, drink, and sing; from a tiny nook we could have been very happy seeing and hearing these bronzed fishermen with their large black eyes. On Naxos I’ve been reliving my childhood, seeing again with deep emotion the narrow lanes in which I took my childish steps, the mountains, churches, the protruding balconies, the dark arcades of the small medieval town. I am so moved, and I’ve been thinking of you with an inexplicable despair. You are no longer there, smiling, taciturn, and—like a small Madonna of the Annunciation I used to know—ashamed at having understood. Naxos is a delicate soul, but her bodily strength leaves much to be desired. I wander about in the sun, all alone, abandoned by everyone, without a companion, without a dog, without hope. Perhaps it’s the atmosphere that best suits my African soul. Dear, dear friend, I dreamed of you last night. You were very depressed and sad. Where are you at this moment when I am writing to you from the flat

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roof terrace of a Naxiot house while looking at the blue sea? Perhaps, O timid, intransigent spy of God, you were still traveling, cowering and silent. A rivederla, O anima gemella! When? Where? How? Let’s leave the answer for our frightening African God. N From Naxos I’m sending you this small flower that we love.

1  Edwige Levi:  Sister of the distinguished Italian archaeologist Doro Levi (1899–1991), who specialized in the Minoan civilization of Phaistos. Kazantzakis met them in Crete in 1925. Edwige later married Kazantzakis’s friend Mikelis Gounalakis. There is a photo of Kazantzakis with Doro and Edwige Levi in Florence (1926) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, hors texte between pages 142 and 145.  1  I’ve been reliving my childhood:  His family took refuge in Naxos in 1897 to escape one of the Cretan insurrections. Kazantzakis, from age fourteen to fifteen, remained until January 1899. He was enrolled in a French school where he learned French and Italian and was introduced to western European literature. Chapter 11 of Report to Greco recounts some of his experiences.  1  A rivederla, O anima gemella: Until I see you again, O soul mate (twin soul).

To Edwige Levi [in French] —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Levi 11.

[After 20 August 1925] Ah, dear friend, sometimes I am tempted to renounce all these divine things that I see, since I can no longer see them with you. You added a new thrill to Sounion, to Dafni, to my monastery, to the Parthenon, Kaisariani, the Kerameikos. You would have given a deeper beauty to these enchanting islands, to these naïve and silent islanders, to my insatiate, ravenous heart. But why these useless, fierce regrets? Let us learn how to extract honey from all of life’s poisonous plants; let us transform separation into an austere, fecund power. I am living on Amorgos at the edge of the sea in a little house, chez “Madame Marjoritsa.” She is sixty-five years old, and it’s as though during her entire lifetime she has been waiting for me on the doorstep of her small home, while looking out at the sea. The reason is that when I approached land toward evening in a small boat and asked the inhabitants gathered on the quay for a bed to spend the night, Mme Marjoritsa emerged from the shadows and offered me hospitality in a very sweet voice. The bed was beautifully made up,

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and the sheets had an aroma of thyme and mint. My heart was moved to see this elderly sister serve the dark unknown man with the fervor of a young girl. To this stranger, who had come that evening, she opened her home as though she were opening the double doors of her heart. She no longer could—no longer dared—give her heart; thus, she was giving her home—her fragrant sheets, her towels, her bread, her grapes—with an amorous and exceedingly bitter enthusiasm. Ah, dear friend, this poor human soul thirsty for love is something very simple, a great miracle—this soul that continues until death, resisting, weeping, and clinging imploringly to the precipice’s every transient plant. The life around me is of a primitive simplicity. I adjusted to it immediately. As you know, I was born a “barbarian,” and this life is quite consistent with my soul. Toward evening, at Mme Marjoritsa’s side on the doorstep, I speak very quietly, expatiating on the stars and on ancient civilizations because Mme Marjoritsa is passionately interested in these two matters: antiquity (anima archaeologica) and the stars. The women here—gentle, coquettish, taciturn—are very beautiful, with large black eyes. After the sun goes down, they promenade along the seafront and laugh very discreetly when they suddenly view my elongated silhouette next to their stylish shadows. Ah, if only I were still very young, very ignorant, knowing nothing about antiquity and the stars! Dear friend, forgive me: I’ve become aware, finally, that I always talk about myself. Perhaps—who knows?—it’s to avoid this question: Come è la sua vita adesso? I think of you every day, and I despise the human soul, which still has not conquered the black void of distance. We have occasionally conquered time (do you remember?), but distance is still a stupid, formless mass between the burning sparks of human souls. Ah, to see, touch, hear, feel the body at our side and its so dear shadow—that’s what our soul needs to keep from dying from hunger and thirst. I always hope to see you again, to see your shadow beside mine once more either on the dusty roads of Italy or on those of beloved Crete. Au revoir, dear friend, Mano ed Anima gemella! If you don’t have a mind to write me, at least write me that you receive my letters and want me to keep writing you from time to time. N

1  [After 20 August 1925]:  Kazantzakis traveled to Amorgos on 19 August.  1  I was born a “barbarian”:  He alludes to the fact that his father’s native village was called “Barbarians.” In Greek letters, the village is Βαρβάροι. The name encouraged Kazantzakis to believe that he had non-Greek blood, specifically Arab blood. Supposedly the name indicated that Nikiforos Fokas had settled Arabs there when in 961 he liberated Crete from the Iberian Muslims whose emirate in Crete had been established soon after 826. It seems,

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however, that all this is “mythological” and that the village was named for a Venetian family named Barbaro! (See Dimakis 1979, p. 7.) In any case the village, now the site of the Kazantzakis Museum, has been given a new, “refined” name: Myrtia (myrtle)!  1  Come è la sua vita adesso?:  How is your life now?  1  Mano ed Anima gemella!: Twin hand and soul mate.

To Lefteris Alexiou —Manuscript presumably destroyed by Lefteris Alexiou; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 157–58.

[Amorgos, August 1925] All of these divine visions on the islands—light, color, design, calm, balance, measure, harmony—are a luxury for this era in which we are living: ornaments, gaudy feathers, pedantic wisdom. If civilization means a fertile answer to the eternal problems (i.e., one that is made suitable to the era, ­location, and race), then the answer given by the ancient Greeks is of no interest to us except only in this: of the three elements—era, location, race— location has remained the same and, consequently, the understanding of Greek mountains, trees, water, and islands can be used for the contemporary Answer as well. Once again, Greece will give a balanced, harmonious form to mutually lacerating moral and natural forces; yet the elements destined today to constitute the material of this balance will be entirely different. Herein lie the benefit and danger of loving Greek civilization. It is difficult to distinguish which of that civilization’s elements are still useful today and which will remain forever a divine but useless vision. And this as well: The understanding of Greek harmony, which is engendered by location, is dangerous for our immediate, contemporary era and for our immediate duty because this may impede our momentum toward disaster and chaos. I believe that our immediate contemporary duty is to split harmony apart. Our duty is to reach disaster. Only in this way will the ground be cleared, the earth be scorched, in order to receive the new Seed. Consequently, when we are excessively attracted to Greek harmony, we are in danger of neglecting creation’s first step, Chaos, and of tending to move prematurely toward the second duty, balance, which surely is not the mission of our generation.

1  era, location, and race:  Kazantzakis may be thinking of the similar triad—“race, milieu, et moment”—popularized by Hippolyte Taine (1828–93) as a way of studying a work of literature in a scientific manner. The categories mean, roughly, “nation, environment, time.”

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To Edwige Levi —No manuscript; printed in the original French in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 131; Greek translation in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 161; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 128, misdated 16 October.

Athens, 10 October 1925 Dear friend, Great news! I leave for Moscow in three days. Everything was ready for my trip to Africa; however, at the last minute the opportunity came for me to go to Moscow, and I seized it joyfully. There is someone, dear friend, who directs our destiny—it’s ourselves. I have obtained everything that I have desired in this harsh, fierce life because I have desired it harshly and fiercely. Reality, which I put to the test every day, is something extremely fluid, without features or volition; it’s a blind, stupid, supplicating liquidity that implores our own volition to give it features and character. I will write you from Moscow. I beg of you: let us resist forgetfulness, laziness, and death. Let us turn this tiny, warm, ephemeral heart into a tiny, exceedingly slender flame that neither flickers nor compromises. A rivederla! May my God—that barbarous, bloodthirsty combatant—direct your steps and mine. N

1  A rivederla!: Until I see you again!

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 161–62; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 128–29, misdated 25 October; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 131–32.

[At sea, Istanbul,] 16 October 1925 Liebe, liebe Genossin, I left on Tuesday and wasn’t able to say goodbye to you, nor did I want to. I will never forget the Sunday evening that we spent so well together, so peacefully and intimately, like two almonds in a shell, as we said. I did not want us to alter that final moment.

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Liebe Genossin, right now I am opposite Constantinople. The journey has been splendid so far. Seven passengers in all: two Russian men, two Russian women, one enormously fat Jewess, and one skinny Russian morphine addict with green eyes, pale, with a yellow shawl with thick white stripes. At night she screams and weeps until she gets a morphine injection. I am sleeping well, eating sparingly, reading a lot. As we approach Russia, I feel a mysterious frisson more and more intensely. Too bad we can’t disembark at Constantinople; we have to remain on board. It’s raining very gently, and the brilliantly white minarets are bursting into the fog, slender and impudent. A large storm has broken out in the Black Sea; the captain doesn’t dare poke his nose out of doors. We might stay opposite Constantinople for a long time; thus I’m thinking of you in the dim rain with sadness, joy, indestructible hope. When will we be able to live abroad for a while—together? Everything will happen. The human heart is a mystery full of patience, persistence, and love. It’s nighttime now, raining, Constantinople’s lights shine everywhere, to the right and left, in Europe and in Asia. My heart does not thump at all seeing this city “of Greek aspiration.” I feel that I have escaped the nationalistic ideal. I experience the whole of humanity’s struggle beneath the houses that are shining in the rain, irrespective of national labels. I suffer, love, and rejoice with these people, sense the men’s concerns, the women’s sweetness and sadness, the hopes and momentum of younger Turks. I am with them, a similar human being full of anguish, love, and hope. I am enjoying the sadness of this rainy evening. Around me in the tiny salon I hear the two Russian women talking, the Russian men drinking tea, while I, bent over a piece of paper, am writing you and struggling to bring you near me, to conquer distance, to clasp you at this moment no matter where you are, Lenotschka, and to bring you with me. Still Odessa, 23 October 1925 I’m sending this letter to you hastily, by the same boat. Write me how you’re getting on. I suddenly started to worry today. Write me c/o Greek Embassy Moscow, 24 Kronshtadskii bul’var, because I don’t know when I’ll be able to send you my definitive address. Write me. Do not forget me. Do not forget that Moscow has the most fashionable hats! How is the body, the soul? Let me have a letter from you in Moscow. God be with us! I’m leaving for Moscow tomorrow, en frissonnant un peu. Always, N

1  frisson:  Shudder, thrill.  1  en frissonnant un peu:  Shuddering a little.

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To Elli Lambridi —Photocopy of manuscript and typescript in my possession, gift from Yolanda Hatzi.

Smyrna, Friday afternoon [16 October 1925] Dorogaya moya! The trip is marvelous. I’m almost entirely alone on the ship—not a single woman. I’m not talking to anyone. I look at the islands, the sea, read Chinese literature, and enjoy serenely, without thought, this fearsome life that I am leading. I’m eating a lot—caviar, butter, various meats. If you saw me, you would bless this Russian asceticism of mine. We’re arriving at Smyrna now, burned, insignificant Smyrna, its women like Europeans, without cachet. At midnight we leave for Constantinople. Saturday [17 October 1925] Divine sea. I wake up; I have a private cabin. The sea is mauve, the Asia Minor coast to our right the sweetest rose. I’m reading Japanese literature. My head fills peacefully with serene, graceful drawings; my soul is a light, voluptuous lethargy. I think of you so very naturally and comfortably, it’s like breathing. Sunday [18 October 1925] Daybreak. We’re arriving in Constantinople. Minarets, cypresses, the colors of dawn—all those age-old tricks of beauty. We’ll stay all day. I sent you a card via a Turkish ferryman. The sky is overcast, the weather slightly cold. I look at the defensive walls, Hagia Sophia, the Galata tower, Scutari opposite, and all the legends reach a boil in my heart, all the Byzantine clamor, the whole of the familiar bloodstained setting. Slightly fatigued, I allow myself to be seduced. Whatever in all of this is humane, I experience with indescribable intensity; whatever is historical, patriotic, and fanciful I detest and is very far from me. Formerly, this latter element held sway over me. Formerly—that is, in 1919—when I saw Constantinople for the first time. Tuesday, Odessa [20 October 1925] A short time in Odessa, then quickly the train for Moscow. I saw again, speedily, all the beloved Jewish faces—black eyes, hooked noses, thick lips. Treading Russian soil, I feel strangely moved. When I saw the rose-illumined Russian shoreline, my heart skipped a beat, as though I were returning to my homeland. Self-suggestion, etc., but who cares? My heart skipped a beat!

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Right now I’m writing you in the railroad wagon taking me to Moscow. It’s nighttime. The day was most beautiful—sunshine, slightly cool. I’m impatient for daylight to come tomorrow so that I may see once again the all-black soil of the Ukraine. Oh, if only we were together! O god, will we never make this sacred pilgrimage to Moscow together? Because I have a premonition that I’m going to see it for the third and last time. I’ll be in Moscow on Thursday and will immediately send you this letter that has been so long delayed. I am once again very impressed by the Russian race: wild, primitive, brutal, the men all darkness, the women all loins. How they walk! Like cows—heavily, drearily. A multitude of them go together, like a flock. How different from those skinny nitwits with neither light nor darkness—the Greeks! Oh, if only I had been born a Russian! Oh, if only I belonged to one of the races that is advancing and not to those overly encumbered, decadent, overaged tarts, the Greeks and Romans! But at this point it’s too late; there is no other life. Raté. Oh, if I were a Russian I would do great things, become leader of innumerable throngs. Now I have enormous roots—in the air! Etc., etc. I’m writing you in the railroad wagon, my hand shaking from the train’s motion. Good night, dorogaya moya! I’ll see you again tomorrow. N 26 October. Kiev. Marvelous day, sunny and cold. We stayed three hours in Kiev, and I walked thought the streets, happy, eating huge apples. The Russian woman are fat, heavy, and exceedingly gullible, the men simple-minded, the tea hot, the apples bittersweet, the feet steady, the head filled and assured. This earth is fine—I never get my fill of saying so. I have suffered much, rejoiced much, but nichego! “Glory to God for all things!”—good and bad. Let everything be welcome. This shattered heart with its thousand sutures endures— like a skull. God be with you, dorogaya! I’ll write you again from Moscow. Moscow, Thursday [29 October 1925] I’m writing you from the hotel in which I’ve settled. It’s raining; the beloved city is submerged in fog. Faces shine in the dark air. I saw the golden domes again; I went around the whole morning and observed what I like. I’m writing you hastily so that my letter can be sent immediately and keep you from worrying. I’m fine, rested. I think of you at every moment and yearn to see you. I’ll write you again tomorrow and tell you every day what I am doing. Right now I’m hurrying so that you may receive the letter. May “God” be with you, dear! I kiss you on the eyes and shoulders, always. N

1  Dorogaya moya!:  “My dear” in Russian. Kazantzakis’s “Daragoya maya” reproduces the pronunciation, but the correct transliteration is “Dorogaya

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moya” (unstressed o in Russian is pronounced a).  1  cachet:  Style.  1  Raté: Botched.  1  nichego:  Never mind; it doesn’t matter (in Russian); Kazantzakis has “nitsevo.”

To His Father —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 30.

Odessa, 20 October 1925 My dear Father, I am writing you a word to tell you that I arrived in Russia and am very fine, so don’t worry. It’s cold, but I bought a wonderful fur coat, and the cold doesn’t bother me. Tomorrow I’ll be going by train to Moscow, where I’ll stay three months and will write you regularly. But the letters will take a month to come, and you shouldn’t become anxious. The Russians are very good people, and I’ll live easily among them. I like Russia. I have always wanted to come here, to stay a little. Give a big greeting from me to mother and all the relatives. Give the enclosed letter to Anestasia. With much love and respect, I kiss your hand, Nikos

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 167–68; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 132–33; French translation in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 135–36.

[Moscow, 20 December 1925] Liebe, liebe Genossin! I’m thinking of you in this terrible snow. I’m thinking of Amorgos, the blue sea. I’m ill at ease; my heart is insatiable. In a few days I leave for Petrograd. From there I’ll leave for Asia. I’ll go down to Samarkand, to Bukhara, almost to the Chinese border, and I’ll return via the Caspian and the Caucasus to Greece. I always say: If I could only die on the road! How good it would be if my skull were located among the stones of Turkestan! Here in Moscow I’m speaking with various “leaders.” Only their action, the impetus of their holy smoke-filled fire, is worthwhile; their thought strikes

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me as very simplistic. I cannot get my fill of looking at the snow, the crows, the oriental churches, the dull-witted peasants, the painted women. The fact that I will leave Moscow breaks my heart. Rahel wrote me that she’s coming. I wrote her. A month went by; they won’t let her cross the border. I hear her heartbeat outside of Russia. That girl really breaks my own heart. If only I could help her! If I could make her happy for a moment, make her laugh! A tragic fate is above her—I fear that her heart will quickly break. I wish she had come to Athens so you could have met her. But I wonder if she will ever see our sunshine. Will all three of us ever be able to be together on a Greek island? This brief life of ours is difficult and dark, filled with uncertainly. How can anyone manage to stand up and shout? Liebe Genossin, lieber Korper, I’m thinking of you in bed, ill again, pale. How shall we be able to exorcise all of this fate? Can love, patience, and pride be fighting on fate’s side? The new year is coming; the sun rises and sets; our life is passing by. Today in the home of an elderly, wise, superior human being, my eyes filled with beauty. This rare individual, a former nobleman, lives all alone and has the world’s most beautiful collection of icons. The beauty possessed by his Virgins, angels, and saints is indescribable. He discovered his own method and now, as director of Moscow’s iconic museum, he has applied it and has accomplished miracles. He removes from the old icons the various subsequent layers that new icon-painters had placed over the divine originals, discovering the initial icon often after eight or ten layers. He showed me a large Virgin of the nineteenth century. By removing eleven layers of paint and paintings, he discovered the original icon of the eleventh century! How can I describe its beauty to you? On the right is an angel, the most beautiful I have ever seen in my life. I walked through the sage’s rooms for hours, listening to him speak to me in a voice trembling from his love for the icons. He never shows his collection to anyone; however, he saw me in the museum, we spoke a little, and he invited me. Oh, the love—the passion!—for something that is not yourself: I believe, Genossin, that no other salvation exists. Fate is defeated only in this way. Only in this way do we forget death, conquer it. This elderly man promised me that he would come to Greece in the spring. He wants us to go together to Mistras and Mount Athos. You’ll meet him. My God, how many marvelous souls there are in the world! Truly, what power this earthly soil possesses to give birth to and nourish so many beautiful women, so many excellent men! 24 December I went to my elderly friend’s house again. Today he showed me a marvelous icon that he had hidden the first evening. A Russian tradition from the fifteenth century relates that a young peasant lad was struck and killed by a lightning bolt while walking in the countryside. He was declared a saint. The icon (sixteenth century) consists of exceptionally green grass in the middle of which stands a young boy wearing a charming tunic colored light rose and

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violet. His bare feet are plunged into the grass as though he were dancing. Behind him is a black darkness full of slender golden starlike flowers. The heavens above are filled with bits of cloud, all threat and electricity. It’s the soul of man dancing as it treads earth’s holy grass, while above it the heavens suspend their deadly lightning. I shall never forget what good this icon did for me, what power it gave me, what scorn for the lightning bolt. I do not know if I ever recited to you the story about Bana Baïda, a girl in an African tale who danced for seven nights on a bull-skin and then uttered a great cry to the heavens and fell down dead. This young man and Bana Baïda are the holiest of couples. Genossin, liebe, liebe Genossin, how I wish we were together! All these divine, exceedingly sad forms are filling my heart while infinite riches ascend inside my hard skull. But I hope you are well, at least. I hope that you are happy. May the New Year that is arriving be good, bountiful, and discreet, with its ten days! N

1  lieber Korper: Dear body.

To Edwige Levi —Manuscript (in French) in Historical Museum of Crete, Levi 15.

Jerusalem, 9 May 1926 Often I suddenly feel you wandering with me beneath this hot sun around the splendid walls of Jerusalem. Everything here is tragic, gloomy, filled with an inconsolable magnificence. With Ehrfurcht I am studying the Jews’ effort to rebuild the Holy Land. I am very moved and very “happy”—in other words, I am seeing new things and my eyes are never satiated. Auf wiedersehen! N

1  Ehrfurcht:  Awe, respect.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; photograph of manuscript in Prevelakis 1965, p. 791; printed in Prevelakis 1965, p. 23.

Athens, Ermou 59, 31 July 1926

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Returning from a mountain where I’ve lived for a month, I read your letter with much pleasure and emotion. If I’d known that there still existed in Greece several people with your love and flame, perhaps I would have decided to publish a pile of manuscripts that increases every year and annoys me. But I intend first to begin by skirmishing in the newspapers. Perhaps we brethren and comrades will “recognize each other” in this way. Let the battle begin afterwards. I’m leaving for Spain in a few days; I’ll come back in November and will then publish another series in Eleftheros Typos. After that, I’ll leave for Africa and India. And the circle will close. Thank you for your Cretan flame. I clasp your hand with love. N. Kazantzakis

1  Pandelis Prevelakis: Cretan novelist, poet, dramatist, educator (1909–86); author of scholarly volumes on the fine arts; member of the Academy of Athens. He wrote to Kazantzakis on 20 July 1926 in order to express his admiration (he was then only seventeen years old). Kazantzakis’s reply on 31 July is the first of 442 letters sent to Prevelakis over the following thirty-one years, the last being dated 1 August 1957, not quite three months before Kazantzakis’s death. Prevelakis served as confidante, collaborator, literary agent, and—most importantly—friend. In 1958 he published an exhaustive account of Kazantzakis’s Odyssey, and in 1965 he printed all the letters with copious annotations but with excision of Kazantzakis’s negative remarks concerning living individuals (which remarks have all been restored in my translations, thanks to the manuscripts in the special collections of the University of Crete’s library at Rethymno). Prevelakis served as director of fine arts in the Ministry of Education from 1937 to 1941 and as a professor of art history from 1939 to 1974. Founder and first secretary general of the Cultural Foundation of the National Bank, he received the Herder Prize in 1975. His novel The Sun of Death circulated in nineteen nations. His statue stands in front of the Town Hall of Rethymno, Crete, his birthplace.  1  Ermou 59:  Kazantzakis and Galatea were no longer living together. Ermou 59 was the residence of his now-married sister, Eleni Theodosiadi.  1  a mountain:  Kazantzakis had been vacationing in the village of Tsagarada on Mount Pelion, together with Eleni Samiou and her sisters Anna and Polly.  1  skirmishing in the newspapers:  As he predicts in the next paragraph, his impressions of Spain under the dictatorship of Miguel Primo de Rivera were serialized in Eleftheros Typos from 12 December 1926 to 7 January 1927.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 177–79; English translation

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(incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 142–43; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 144–45.

Steamboat Attiki, 29 August 1926 Dear Lenotschka, This trip is marvelous, like those when we were together: sea, coolness, the joy of leaving Greece. The male passengers are insignificant, and so are the women, except for a blond, elegant Jewess with the most beautiful hands. Their conversation is horrible. I’m reading El Greco and thinking of you so much, so intensely, with so much love! Might you be able to come to Italy? I’ll shorten my time in Spain as much as possible to enable us to stay together a long while in Italy. Oh, when will I arrange my life so that I won’t need Athens any more? If I could have a letter from you in Toledo! Tell me about your health, your sisters, everything. I’m sitting in the salon. They’re playing wretched music, and a woman dressed in green is dancing. In Piraeus I saw her saying a heart-rending goodbye to a man, and it broke my heart; later, when we had departed, she was surrounded by various men, she was laughing; in the evening, jovial and happy, she went up to the bridge with a man—and again it broke my heart, as I recalled Léda. This life is frightful, mysterious, superior to our strength. Ceaseless, arduous effort is required for us to maintain unity and keep our souls elevated. There is an inhuman, superhuman law that governs the earth. If we want to fit it inside us and endure it, our heart must break. I shall never be able to tell you, Lenotschka, how much I have suffered in my life from this attempt to fit this horrid law inside my transient body. If we had been able to live together, you would have seen how strongly I endeavor to preserve this equilibrium in my life. I feel greatly relieved because you exist, because I shall see you again, because we shall live together again in order to be silent and to talk. How long will this pleasure last? Asking this, I am overcome by a shudder of both pleasure and death. May God be with us, may He keep our souls always vigilant and pure, without unworthy compromises! How brief this life is and how we squander it in abominable trivialities! There is no greater good than conquering triviality. Tonight I watched Venus setting and afterwards Jupiter rising in the sky, and a short while ago Mars rose up from the sea fully purple. All these planets are ours now; they consolidate divine moments that we spent together. A night will never come when I see these eternally bright spots without my soul trembling. Marseilles, 31 August All day in Marseilles. I’m writing you in the evening from the train that is leaving for Spain. I lost the pattern of your foot and got size 37 espadrilles by chance. I remember you with the warmest love. I’m wearing your cross around my neck, and I have the illusion that you are with me.

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Lenotschka, write me how you are doing. I am with you always. Greetings to Anna and Polly. Always, N

1  Léda:  Perhaps, in connection with this Léda, Kazantzakis was thinking of the Leda of Greek mythology, who was raped by Zeus in the form of a swan. Too bad that Kazantzakis could not have known W. B. Yeats’s marvelous poem “Leda and the Swan,” not published until 1928: “A sudden blow: the great wings beating still / Above the staggering girl . . .”  1  espadrilles: Canvas shoes with cork soles.

To Eleni Samiou —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 180–81; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 144; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 146–47.

Madrid, 6 September 1926 It’s a great pleasure for me, returning to my dwelling, to sit down and write to you. Today I had a very moving experience. I met the founder of the El Greco Museum, el Marqués de la Vega-Inclán. He had invited me to his home. We were eating and were speaking about El Greco as though he were a very familiar, beloved friend of ours—about his wife and son, his work, anecdotes about him, his personality and life. I was the first Cretan to come and visit El Greco after three centuries. Suddenly, while we were still on the fruit and were drinking divine Málaga wine, the marquis signaled to his butler, and in a little while the butler came carrying a large portrait with a cover over it. As the marquis impatiently removed the velvet cover, my heart leaped: in front of me was the masterpiece, assuredly by El Greco, of Saint Louis with Jerusalem and Toledo in the background. The marquis had discovered this picture a few months ago and had purchased it from a Spanish monastery. I have never seen more ghostly facial features, more ivory skin, more cavernous eyes. And the sky was gray and green, like a stormy sea. The old marquis, standing next to me, was quietly lowing like an animal, so great was his pleasure. He has donated some twenty El Grecos to the state, but this one he is not donating until he dies. When he travels, he sends it to the safe deposit vault of the Bank of Spain, lest it be stolen. I believe that I am happy. This heart of mine has experienced so much pain and joy and has felt so much that it, too, has become spectral from the great strain—and it does not care about whenever it will die. I think sometimes that it has surpassed life and death. That is why I see the earth’s ephemeral

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people and things all so vehemently that I think they disappear and are swallowed up in front of my eyes. Lenotschka, beloved soul, beloved body, I will always do whatever I can to stabilize the existence of both of us in the lofty, fiery atmosphere that we breathe today. Good God, how brief this life is! Let us do whatever we can to preserve our present divine contact. If you were with me in Spain, there would be another Spain.

1  the masterpiece: In a later letter (18 August 1931, to Prevelakis), Kazantzakis notes the copy of this painting in the Louvre by El Greco’s son.  1  spectral: Ghostly.

To His Father —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 31; printed in Goudelis 1978, p. 25.

Madrid, Spain, 12 September [1926] Dear Father, I’m well and hope the same for you and mother. I’m writing you from Spain, where I’ll stay for the whole month. I’m working a lot, seeing various important people here, taking notes, and I’m writing articles about Spain. In two months they will be published, and you’ll read them. I’m well. You shouldn’t worry at all. I’ll be in Athens again at the end of October. I remember you here with much love, and I kiss your right hand. With respect, your son, Nikos Please give the enclosed letter to Anestasia.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 182–83; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 145–47; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 148–50.

Madrid, 10 September 1926 Dearest, I can’t get my fill of writing you. I come back exhausted each evening and am glad, as though I were about to find you in my room because I am going to write to you.

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The days are full. I don’t sleep at night. My nerves are in turmoil; no one is with me any longer to restrain me, and neither day nor night do I allow my mind to rest. I went to a bullfight the other day. The secousse I experienced is indescribable. Nor do I want to write you anything about it because I’ll remember again and will relive all the horror. I’ve just returned from El Escorial. I wonder if you know what it is: an amazing place, monastery-mausoleum, which Philip II built an hour away from Madrid. But in order to understand El Escorial you need to know who this Philip was—what a horrible, logical, ascetic figure. Passons. I went mainly to see the five El Grecos that are there. Oh my god, you must see El Greco’s work, touch it; otherwise, the books are unfit for a person’s soul. Sight and touch! Remember how much I love the human senses, humanity’s sacred Body. So I touch this Cretan today in El Escorial, every day in Madrid, and in a few days in Toledo as well. I’m exhausted and happy. El Greco is becoming a great lesson for me, a model, a meaning that I must follow. I am the first Cretan in three centuries to come and greet this formidable fellow countryman of mine. God grant that our meeting may be fruitful! I’m leaving Madrid for Toledo the day after tomorrow, where I’ll have ­letters—yours, Elizabeth’s, Rahel’s, and Koladinou’s. God, if I could know how your health is now and if you’ll be able to come! I’m writing you my itinerary again, because I’m trembling lest we lose each other. I’ll leave for Genoa, Italy, on 3 October, probably. Telegraph Anna Koladinou, Pension Savonarola, Viale Principe Amedeo, Florence, that you are leaving. The moment I set foot in Italy I’ll write her to keep me up to date. I count on being in Rome on 15 October (Via Terenzio 21, c/o Ghikas). If anything unforeseen happens, I’ll write you immediately. I’m going to send this letter from Toledo. [12 September 1926] Today, 12 September, Sunday. You’ve been on my mind all day—looking sad. Is something the matter with you, perhaps? I’m leaving for Toledo tomorrow, and I’m eager to find letters from you. Oh, if you’d come to Italy! Today, walking the streets and bidding Madrid farewell, I was considering our joy when the two of us tour Italy in the same way. May our God lend a hand! Here I have come to know Spain’s greatest poet, Don Juan Ramón Jiménez. Today we talked for hours at our parting. I’ll tell you about it when we meet. Leaving the El Grecos in the Madrid museum (thirty paintings) is painful. I’m struggling to retain in my mind all the faces, wings, angels, people, colors. I shall never see them again. Toledo, Monday, 13 September

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I’ve arrived at El Greco’s high, ascetic base of operations. My heart was thumping during the entire trip from Madrid—how much I had craved this visit to the amazing Genosse ever since I was a small child. “To realize at a mature age what you craved as a child: that is the destiny of the true human being.” By dint of struggle, difficulty, and solely the soul’s impetus, I have realized almost everything I have desired. When I faced Toledo, entered it, began slowly, exhaustively, persistently to wander through the streets and bring the old buildings to life, then crossed the threshold and entered El Greco’s garden and went up to his house in the Jewish quarter (El Greco loved the Jews so much that he lived the whole time in the Jews’ separate neighborhood)— when all that had filled my hard skull, I once again blessed the moment I was born. Good god, how many times have I done that until now! Yet my judgment remained clear. Toledo is not what I had expected. The three places that have astonished me are Jerusalem, Myconos, and Moscow. Toledo is a landscape not as tragic as I would have wished (remember the mountains of Jericho!). It reminds me a lot of Crete, near Knossos. Olives, clay-earth. The small city is on a slight rise, the Tagus running beneath. Only there, on the boulders of the Tagus, did I sense El Greco’s soul most deeply. The river stones are gray, élancés, completely dry. They rise desolately out of the green water—just like El Greco’s bodies. This was the greatest emotion that Toledo gave me today. In the evening there was one more pleasure. I entered the celebrated Gothic cathedral. All the daylight had concentrated in the famous medieval vitraux. The entire church was resplendent, the saints on the windows floating in the purple, green, and blue light. This was my second emotion. The third: when I went to the post office and collected my mail. I had a letter from you, one from Elizabeth, one from Leah, and three from Rahel. Oh god! Still ill! You should go to Athens—you must be there by now—and should see Axelos. You’ve got to get well. Do me a favor: stop by at Kol.’s (directly behind the Omonoia station, Socratous 45) and ask whether Anna is in Athens (I did get a letter from her, and since her brother had typhus when I left, perhaps she hasn’t been able to leave). If she is, see her and go to Axelos’s together. I have a presentiment that he’ll do you some good. Where can I expect a letter from you from now on? I’m going to begin to move about from city to city now; it would be best for you to address me in Rome (Ioannis Ghikas, Terenzio 21, for N. Kaz.). I’m trembling lest your body prevent you from coming to Italy. If Kol. hasn’t gone, then inform her, as I wrote you, when you are leaving. She will inform me at once in Italy wherever I am at that time. Tomorrow I’ll see the El Greco Museum and the Burial of Count Orgaz. Today, laying siege to El Greco, I just went around the city, entering various churches. Tomorrow I’ll see him. I am todmüde. I feel that my body is going to disappear suddenly on account of the great strain. Elizabeth orders me: “Ihren Körper sorgen und ihn nicht ganz vergessen, damit noch etwas bleibt

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zum Fassen!” I, too, love and pity the human body, but I consider it always a means; that’s why I often allow it to waste away. I want only one thing: for it to endure, supporting the spirit without faltering. 14 September One of the most splendid days of my life! The moment I entered the El Greco Museum and clasped the pictures with a passionate glance—the colors, the brightness, the divine hands—my heart beat so strongly that I started to banter with the elderly custodian. Thus, owing to laughter and talk, my heart obtained sufficient time to grow calm. Then I gave myself over body and soul to each work. No photograph is able to convey any idea whatsoever of what El Greco is. The colors—blue, green, lie de vin—gleam like metal; the whole body is athletic, firm, in full panoply when suddenly the face melts away, moves upward, flickers like flame. Today I sensed my soul as never before. This meeting of the two Cretans was so tempestuous—Lenotschka! N

1  secousse:  Shock.  1  Passons.:  Let’s change the subject.  1  Genosse: Comrade.  1  élancés:  Long and narrow.  1  vitraux:  Stained glass windows.  1  todmüde: Dead tired.  1  Ihren Körper sorgen und ihn nicht ganz vergessen, damit noch etwas bleibt zum Fassen!: Take care of your body and do not completely forget it, so that something still remains to grasp!  1  lie de vin:  The color of trodden grapes.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 190–92; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 151–52, misdated 25 October; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 155–57.

Brindisi, [SS] Mikali, 20 October 1926 Dearest, We’re departing now, Wednesday, 7:30 in the evening. I had an excellent time on the train, slept, only an old woman and I in the car. The sea is splendid today. They gave me a single cabin. I’m stretched out in bed, reading, but my mind is with you, dear. May you be courageous and certain, convinced that both love and heroism derive from the same source. If will power, determination, and faith in the omnipotence of the human soul are able to cross mountains and seas, then you will feel at every moment that I am leaning over you and blowing my soul upon you. Everything will take place as we

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wish, provided you do not lose heart. I have so much perseverance, I consider the external life so subjected to the internal, that I have not the slightest doubt that you will become well, will settle down, that I will come to Paris, will work all day long, will see you, that we will eat together and enjoy ourselves every evening. And afterwards we’ll set a new goal that we’ll reach and once again surpass—so long as our souls are alive and we have love. I’m glad that yours is a heroic, abstemious, taciturn nature full of perception and energy. I sense you walking with me continually more amiably, more nimbly. In order to be transformed into a miracle, this entire ephemeral life will need nothing more. For each of us to believe, to love, and to feel each other’s breath, narines contre narines—that is how “God” is created and saved. Lenotschka, you are in the train at this moment, and I am sending you this warm, solid voice that sits next to you like a body. I remember you as though I were touching you, and I love you. N 21 October 1926, Corfu, Thursday morning Greece did not give me any pleasure. The people strike me as stunted, ugly, drowning in petty politics. They discuss Venizelos eternally in the streets; on the walls are election platforms and the wretched mugs of the candidates. Corfu is marvelous, but for a short time—the mountains, sea, colors all excellent yet passive, amollissants, soporific, deadly for a soul that is struggling. It reminds me of Naples and Andalucía. As you know, even Saint Teresa herself, the great guerrière, when she went to Andalusia, felt her soul diminished and pacified in such a gentle, damp, warm region. And she left. I bought red and white grapes, and marvelous apples. I sat down at the edge of the sea on an iron chain used to secure the caïques, and ate quietly, peacefully, like an ascetic who ingests and simultaneously praises God for sending grapes, apples—and hunger. I was thinking of Odysseas. A heap of pictures rose up into my mind, once again the triangular sail of his black boat tautening in my breast. I could hear the weary boatmen cursing, the painted whores on the quay prowling around the newly arrived vessel. I sensed the rotting fruit decaying in the salt water, and I gazed out on the divine blue sea beyond, all of it glittering. These things are all holy; they have an immortal soul, and I need to save them. Would that I could create a fine line of verse, a courageous act, an abrupt élan amid all this futile, foul flow of daily need! My mind seated itself like a levantine gull on Notre Dame, like a new chimera, and saw the springtime that is accompanying you, Lenotschka, and all the delight of resolute labor and love of the night. Cell, Friday evening [22 October 1926] I was very moved entering the cell. Everything in its place: Madonnas, books, divan, the Cypriot Aphrodite.

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I arrived at midday. Terrible, boring work began at once. I put my notes in order, outlined the articles. Now evening has fallen, I am tired, and am writing to you in order to feel a little pleasure. I wrote at once to Anna about when she’ll be able to come, the same also to Pap. I also wrote to Kastanaki. I’m hoping now that you will have become settled and have written me by the time you receive this letter. Because I have lots of work and lack any appetite to see anyone, it will take me days to go outside. I just want to learn when I’m going to leave, and where to. The fact that I love this cell very much is beginning to bother me. I wouldn’t want a spot of ground to hold me. But perhaps in Paris in the spring you’ll find me what I desire: another cell. I’m in a hurry for the cycle of travels to end and the Work to begin. Write me regularly all the details of your life. Only thus will we conquer la grande brute—distance. God be with you, dear. Believe in the omnipotence of the soul and of love. I kiss your shoulders, Lenotschka. N

1  narines contre narines:  Nostrils against nostrils.  1  amollissants: Enervating.  1  guerrière:  Warrior.  1  élan: Impetus, momentum, vigor.  1  la grande brute:  The great beast.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 193–94; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 153–154; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 157–58.

[Athens, 15 November 1926] Dearest, Your last letter saddened me. You must not exhaust yourself with worry. Bebeka is well now; it was malaria, and she’ll recover quickly. I haven’t seen Anna for days, and I wrote her. Bebeka may be in Kifissia now. I hope to have word from Anna tomorrow because I wrote to her. I also wrote to the Papaïoannous. I’m afraid they’ve completely forgotten me because they haven’t come to the cell, although they do go out. I wrote them asking when I can go to their house. Please write me long letters and not two lines like your last one. My life here does not have a single pleasure. I’m writing a lot and hardly sleep. I am in spiritual turmoil.

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In a new periodical that just came out, I have published two chapters from “Russia” that have incited a revolution here among the intellectuals. A philosophical battle is beginning: the communists call me a heretic and mystic, whereas several young men here have come to the cell to confess that their heart has been broadened for the first time. Various materialists are going to answer me in the periodical, and I’m pleased because I feel great strength, great clarity of mind, an unbelievable intellectual and spiritual certainty. I still don’t know if I’ll go on a trip. I still have not seen Kavafakis! He wrote me an extremely polite letter saying that he’d inform me when we’d see each other. I wrote the forty articles and did not submit them. Because the whole of Greece is in a morass now, no one can think of anything except the elections and the government. If I don’t go on a trip, I’ll try to come to Paris sooner. Many things have to happen. In Paris I need to find communists with the broad spiritual interpretation that I give to the meaning of communism. Also, a new formulation of the Idea must begin. I intend to go down to Crete in three years and to run for office as a communist M.P. This will give me the opportunity to address the poor and the hungry in simple words. It’s the modern way of preaching our religion. Meanwhile, you must become well and gain lots of bodily endurance. Sekretärin, you’ll become very tired with me. There’s lots of work to be done; an enormous power is rising within me. Together, we need to write many things, to move about a lot, to become tired, to enjoy, and to do battle. And health! Good health! Pay lots of attention to Eleni; concentrate all your strength on yourself. When you become completely well, pay attention to your mind—that it may be cultivated, may learn specific things, may limit its avidity to a specific circle over which you become overlord. To know a specific area well, that is the only salvation. Don’t waste strength, Lenotschka, don’t waste time, stop worrying. Oh, how can I impart to you all the verve and clarity that I see as your duty! What did the doctor tell you? Write me all the details. I’m sending you this letter before I see Anna because I’m in a hurry. I don’t want to leave you alone. The moment I see her, I’ll write you again. Lenotschka, may our “God” be with you, our God who is strict, somber, and great! N

1  15 November :  Yorgos Anemoyannis claims that the correct date is 14 November.  1  Anna:  Anna Tsangridi, Eleni Samiou’s sister.  1  I have published two chapters from “Russia”:  “Crucified Russia,” in Anayennisi, volume 1, January 1927, and “Survey of Soviet Russia,” in Anayennisi, volume 1, February 1927. “Crucified Russia” and also Askitiki led a priest to condemn

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Kazantzakis as antireligious in a memorandum to the Holy Synod.  1  Kavafakis: Christos Kavafakis (b. 1904), son of the late Andreas Kavafakis (1870–1922), a distinguished journalist who was the director of Eleftheros Typos, the liberal Athenian newspaper in which Kazantzakis placed his Spanish travel articles in 1926 and, later, his Italian ones in 1927. Andreas Kavafakis was assassinated in 1922. The son continued the family’s journalistic involvement with Eleftheros Typos from his father’s death until 1928.  1  the elections and the government:  Yeoryios Kondilis’s premiership lasted until December 1926, when he was replaced by Alexandros Zaïmis as head of an “ecumenical government” responding to the elections of November. This government finally produced a republican constitution in 1927 and then resigned in February 1928, whereupon Venizelos returned as prime minister in July 1928.  1  Sekretärin:  Secretary.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 194–95; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 154; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 158–59.

[Athens,] 22 November [1926] Liebe liebe Genossin! I just received your letter. I was alone in the cell, night had fallen, I was stretched out on the bed thinking of you—like that, in the dark. And the maid came in with your letter. A favor: don’t work a lot. There’s no need whatsoever for you to keep going in to Paris for the newspaper. Read the newspapers, write impressions just once a week: cancans about grandes dames whom you find in the news­ paper (Cécile Sorel, well-known actresses, etc.)—until it becomes certain that Kathimerini will pay. Because I’m not at all convinced. It would be better if you didn’t get tired during the initial months. Stay at home a little, in the dining room, which is warm; get settled a bit with yourself, grow strong, get used to the Parisian atmosphere, and afterwards begin to work so intensely. That’s the favor I ask of you. I feel a profound kinship with Africa. I’ve often spoken to you about masks. Rahel felt her mind unsettled for many months, so intensely did we view the African masks together, and then Sent M’Ahesa. There’s no need for you to get tired over this subject. Wait until we are able to speak about it together, after I come. Still nothing about my trip. In any case, Egypt in December, maybe Sinai. But India? Extremely difficult. I still haven’t seen Kavafakis. He’s ill. But he

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wrote me that he’ll come to the cell in a day or two. Logos does not have money. To Vima refuses because I’m a communist. I’m impatient, Lenotschka, to finish the travels finally and to calm down in Paris. But I must visit Rahel. I receive disturbing letters. I need to see her. How? By coming to Paris? Elizabeth is happy because she hopes that I’ll be in the Jewish colony in the spring. The Jews have written to me officially and have invited me. You see, dear, that my heart is breaking in all directions. Oh, if only I could be ten people—ten bodies and souls! Now I’m forced to remain motionless— motionless!—for at least two years. I’ll come to Paris this spring, as we said. I’m writing the Kastanakises as well (I wrote them twice, in vain; now you give him the letter): Kastanakis, please find me at some point a quiet dwelling where I can work. Then, at last, toward evening you and I will talk, and we’ll eat together, and our lives will be completely in our hands. Because we are good people, faithful soldiers of our God; because both of us fight bravely to save our souls from triviality, illness, falsehood, and torpidity. I’ll send the letter to Diamant. tonight, immediately, and I’ll write him as well. I wrote to Anna about your books, to tell me when I should get them to send them to you. A big publishing house here has undertaken to print the book on Russia as well as the plays. Thus, I’ll get rid of these manuscripts and will remain with only the Odyssey to keep us company in Paris. Rien que la terre by Morand. My dear Lenotschka, I kiss you on the shoulders. I am with you always. Do me the favor that I’m asking of you today: not to overwork, not to run around Paris too much. Take care of your health. Do not think about tomorrow— only today, because only that exists. The first duty is good health. As soon as that comes, everything else comes. Write me. Ich habe Sie sehr lieb! N

1  22 November [1926]:  The manuscript is dated 22 November 1923, but Kazantzakis must have been confused because he says that he’ll be going to Egypt in December, which he actually did (almost: he left on 23 January 1927).  1  cancans:  Scandal, tittle-tattle.  1  grandes dames:  Great ladies.  1  Cécile Sorel: Celebrated French actress (1873–1966), famous especially for roles in Molière’s plays.  1  in the Jewish colony: In Jerusalem.  1  Diamant.:  Presumably Diamantaras.  1  A big publishing house:  Kazantzakis’s two volumes on Russia were published in 1928 by Stohastis, as were the plays Nikiforos Fokas (1927), Christos (1928), and Odysseas (1928).  1  Rien que la terre by Morand:  Paul Morand (1888–1976) was a French diplomat and author. Rien que la terre, published in Paris in 1926, is a travel book about the United States and Canada.  1  Ich habe Sie sehr lieb: I love you very much.

244  •  1926 Letters

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 196–97; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 155–56; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 160.

[Athens,] 13 December 1926 My dear, I just received your new letter and felt somewhat relieved because it does not refer to you being in bed. You’ve gotten up and are better; that gives me boundless joy. As I wrote you, Anna told me that she sent you the thousand francs from Kathimerini, etc. Once again I beg you most fervently: do not tire yourself. Of first importance is not to stay in Paris; it’s to get well. The money you now have from home is not sufficient; you write me that you need one or two additional pounds per month. Please do me the favor of letting me send them to you each month so that in this way you may attain the sum of money that you need. It would be good for me to give them to someone here and then to give them to you in Paris, so that we might escape banks, etc. Write me if Kastanakis can find a way. Starting January, I’ll send you two pounds a month; when I’m away, I’ll give Kaiti the responsibility of sending them. (Je vous tutoyais involuntarily on this page—forgive me.) About my trip, still nothing. It seems to be around holiday time. The articles on Spain started yesterday, and I’m collecting them to send them to you all together. All afternoon today I was composing on the typewriter and thinking of you with the profoundest appreciation. How tired I made you in Tsagarada, Lenotschka! When will I come to Paris? You’ll make me love it. Just get well. Stay in bed many hours and days, read, take notes, and write for the newspaper—or for me—without getting tired. I have no greater joy. Elizabeth doesn’t write. I’m worried. I’ve finished the treatise on metacommunism that I wrote you about. That’s what I call it. It will be published later because it is a decisive step in my life, and I need to weigh it carefully. It presents a big rupture with ­communism—not regarding the past, to be sure, but terribly regarding the future. All my communist friends will be enraged; those who agree will, however, misunderstand. Lenotschka, write to me. Once more I say to you: do not be in a hurry, do not get tired, leave everything, and we’ll look at it together. Do not deny me the favor I ask on the first page. It is such a minor thing, and we are so One! God be with you, always! I kiss you on the knees, on the shoulders, and on the body. N

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1  Je vous tutoyais: I’ve been using the familiar “tu” [in Greek, of course] instead of the formal “vous.” Strangely, Kazantzakis always wrote to Eleni Samiou using the formal pronoun, and he continued to do the same to Eleni Kazantzaki after their marriage. (In this letter, he changed the singular, familiar forms on the first page to plural, formal forms before he posted the letter.) Contrariwise, he always wrote to his first wife, Galatea, using the informal pronoun. But he employed the formal pronoun when writing to his best friend, Prevelakis.  1  the treatise on metacommunism:  Askitiki. The prefatory note to the 1927 edition of Askitiki declares that the book should be considered “as the first lyrical attempt, the first outcry, of a metacommunist CREDO.”

To Andonis Anemoyannis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Dimakis 1979, pp. 70–71.

Athens, 16 December 1926 My dear Andonis, I just received the letters, and I thank you most warmly. I hope to be able to leave in January. If you find the monk, you will be in time to get the letter from him for Sinai. What you write me about Palamas is entirely correct. He is very interesting as a person, a heroic being, a personality that will live on for quite a few years in modern Greek history. But he has declined now, and very few of his poems will survive. Greece has not had a great poet since Solomos. With much love, yours, N. Kazantzakis Athens, 59 Ermou Street

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 196–99; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 156–157; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 161–62.

[Athens,] 18 January 1927 Dear Lenotschka, Anna is leaving the cell now, gleaming with joy over her engagement to be married. Lively, ruddy, she speaks enthusiastically of Yorgos and of her

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house. We spoke a lot about you, and she was glad that I’ll be coming to see you so soon. But I will delay a bit, Lenotschka. Another month. I’m going to Egypt first, as far as the Sudan. I’m leaving in a few days with Kalmouchos, and I’ll be there all of February. I’ll return to Athens and then immediately to Paris. Please tell this to Kastanakis, too, because I wrote them, and they’ll be expecting me. Eleftheros Logos has decided suddenly, in its way, that I’d go first to Africa. This is good because (1) it is absolutely needed for the Odyssey, (2) it cures my anxiety about going to Egypt. In addition, I escape this country, and I’ll be able to be at peace for a longer time in Paris. This joy of mine has its sadness: that I’ll delay seeing you for about a month, Lenotschka. But everything will turn out all right. We’ll be together in March. Tremble at the thought of the moment when I’ll see you at the station, as when I waited for you—my god! with what Sehnsucht—in Rome. The circle in which we place our goals is widening, the pulse of our blood intensifying. The moment when I see you in Paris will be among the profoundest of my life. God be with us, Lenotschka! We have lots to say, to do, to see. Russia and three of my plays have been given to a publisher and will be issued in the spring. You’ll receive the articles about Spain; give them to Kastanakis afterwards. The articles about Italy will start in a few days. When I return from Egypt, I’ll save a series for you. The Papaïoannous are coming to the cell tomorrow. As soon as I see them, I’ll continue this letter. I’m with you always; ich habe Sie sehr lieb. This life is divine, our entire acquaintanceship a miracle. I kiss your hands and shoulders, Lenotschka. 20 January 1927 The Papaïoannous came. Nothing new. Bararz still ill, but better, in Kifissia. Their brother is setting his store in order and placing it on a good street. They’ll give concerts. They’re preparing for Cyprus in the winter and Paris in the spring. We talked about Anna—they say she’s unrecognizable on account of joy, she’ll be a model wife, etc. I just received your warm letter in which you say that the “three of you” are awaiting for me with love. No matter how much I want my life to be strict and ascetic, the human heart inside me is nevertheless insatiable. The thought that you are in Paris makes my heart caper and race. In three days I’m leaving for Egypt, Sudan, as far as Khartoum. I’ll cast a hasty, predatory glance so that I may leave for Paris sometime in March. I tremble owing to the thought that I’ll be a few steps away from Jerusalem and cannot—should not—go there again. Elizabeth will be alarmed if she sees me; also, if I leave immediately again, perhaps forever, this will do her harm. Lenotschka, my heart is breaking. Life is very heavy, very deep; my body barely manages to contain it. When I come, I’ll tell you why there has been so

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much grief in me all these months. You must not worry. This is the way I am. I have suffered greatly in my life, praise God, but I discipline myself and bridle my heart as much as possible to keep it from howling. Sometimes I cannot, however, and my anguish becomes apparent. I sent you Anayennisi so that you can read a little Odyssey. Oh, when will this soul find peace so that I may finish this Herculean labor that I undertook? In Paris? Take a look at the pension in Neuilly that the Papaïoannous recommended to you. Perhaps it’s as good as they tell me. Quiet! Secondly, long walks! To walk together, talk, feel in our temples this awesome mystery of life. 22 January 1927 Tomorrow I leave for Egypt and Sudan with Kalmouchos. Kalmouchos’s joy is indescribable. He’s escaping Greece, gathering momentum, his mind will open up, his eyes be filled. God grant that his acquaintance with me will do him some good! I’m giving him as much strength as he can take—may God be with him! If he becomes something, most probably he’ll deny me, as Lefteris and Sfakianakis have done. If he adds up to nothing, once again everyone will pounce on me—that I was the one who ruined him. I accept both as the recompense that truly suits me. Ohne Belohnung! Ohne Belohnung! That is my heart’s cry. Lenotschka, it is with a heavy heart that I leave for Egypt, which I have desired so much. I cannot comprehend all of my grief clearly. One part is fassbar, another part elusive. When I come in March, we’ll talk. The verses of the Odyssey disturbed the two-bit teachers here. They find the meter awkward; they’d prefer the fifteen-syllable verse so as not to be startled. As for me, I feel my soul breathing comfortably within my meter. I’m making a big effort to tolerate human beings. They strike me as exceedingly wretched, petty, terror-stricken. So be it! Human history is very sad; we must forgive many things. Lenotschka, do me the favor of continuing to write to me regularly in Athens so that I may follow your life when I find the letters upon my return in March. I will cast an impetuous glance on Africa, grasping whatever I can for the Odyssey. Thus, overloaded with plunder from Russia, Palestine, Cyprus, Spain, Italy, Egypt, and Sudan, I’ll come to Paris to work. Oh, if only your presence could relieve this wild, insatiable heart a little! Mrs. Kastanaki’s mother came to my residence yesterday, and we agreed to travel to Paris together. We talked and laughed together, became friends. Please tell this to Mrs. Kastanaki—also that I expect a letter from them, to have here on my return. God be with you, dear Lenotschka, and may I find you healthy, well, and happy! N

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1  Sehnsucht:  Yearning, longing.  1  ich habe Sie sehr lieb: I love you very much.  1  read a little Odyssey:  Odyssey, canto 4, lines 633–735 (in first draft) were published in Anayennisi 1 (December 1926).  1  Ohne Belohnung! Ohne Belohnung!:  Without reward! without reward!  1  fassbar: Tangible, comprehensible.  1  They find the meter awkward:  Kazantzakis chose to use a rare meter in modern Greek: a seventeen-syllable line of eight beats, which he felt came closer to Homer’s hexameter than does the traditional meter of modern Greek folk song and poetry, the fifteen-syllable iambic line.

To Velisarios Freris —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

21 January 1927 Dear Mr. Freris, I beg of you to do me this favor: Go to Manolis Georgiadis’s home and have him give you Christos, one of the manuscripts I had left with him, and send it to me via registered mail. I have made an agreement with a publisher to have him print it this Easter and have begged Manolis a multitude of times to send all the manuscripts to me, without result. Now I am resorting to your intervention. You can send me the other manuscripts a little later. But I need Christos immediately; I barely have time to revise it. Forgive me, but this seems to be the best way for me to obtain the manuscript. Show this letter to Manolis, and he’ll give you Christos. I’m leaving for Sudan and perhaps Sinai in a few days, with Kalmouchos. Afterwards I’ll return quickly because I am going to settle in Paris in March. I thank you warmly. With much love, N. Kazantzakis

1  Velisarios Freris:  Author (1900–1968), who lived many years in Iraklio; published short stories and translations.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 199–200; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 158–59; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 163.

Cairo, 2 February [1927]

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The museum has indescribable treasures. Tutankhamun’s tomb all gold, all his royal jewelry, utensils, guards, solid gold, a mysterious brilliance, troublante. A feeling of horror because mankind’s entire endeavor is futile, swallowed by the earth, just as our hearts that love each other, as well as our insatiable eyes, will also be swallowed. You know how much I adore Egyptian art. I went around for hours en frissonnant—what joy, what sadness, what effort on the part of my heart to rescue the whole of this formidable life! Like Odysseas, I was going about and struggling to snatch every bit of the wealth into my boat. Lenotschka, you are always with me; I’ve been holding your hand in order to manage to endure. The whole of this life of mine has seemed a futile fairy tale, a desert mirage, and to keep myself under control, it’s been necessary for me to feel your warm body, like a bush clutched by someone falling off a cliff. I’ll tell you about the Sphinx when I come. The pyramids are imbecilic, but the Sphinx is an astonishing wide-open eye that looks out terror-stricken on the desert. Never have I seen a more profound image of humanity’s brave, lost soul. God be with you, liebe liebe Lenotschka. Know that I love you with an eternal rhythm, indestructibly, and that our meeting on this ephemeral soil was the highest, saddest, sweetest joy. Write to me in Alexandria. With you always, always, N

1  troublante: Disturbing, disquieting, unsettling.  1  en frissonnant:  Shuddering.  1  liebe liebe: Dear, dear.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 200–201; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 159–60; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 164–65.

Luxor, 7 February 1927 Lenotschka, the moment I opened the hotel window I saw an exquisite bougainvillea covering the entire wall. My heart leaped because in my mind the bougainvillea, qui enguirlanda Votre enfance, symbolizes you, Lenotschka, and I felt that you had arrived first in Luxor and were waiting for me. Oh my god, when will we be able to do this whole divine cycle of Egypt together? This is the Orient the way we love it, full of light, color, fragrance, and the ashes of countless generations that came, suffered, loved, and vanished. The Nile runs

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quietly, watering and fructifying as much earth as it touches; what it does not touch remains barren, forever accursed. The mind runs in the same way, watering and fructifying the Abyss. I have loved you very much here, Lenotschka, in this warm, age-old earth full of effort and futility. If we had been together, we would have experienced intensely, before we die, this moment in which we love each other. Contact with death here—a contact vehement and voluptuous—is evident at every moment, making one shudder. In other words, what are we and why do we waste our lives in trivialities and insignificant passions? This cemetery of the great pharaohs is a miracle. So is the horrible, hot, barren sand beyond the Nile’s water. The Nile itself is a miracle with its greenery, animals, and fellaheen. I who love so violently both the yes and the no am enjoying both faces of Egypt—the green and the sandy gray. The acme of what I’ve seen is the Sphinx and the desert lying in wait in the distance behind the trees. Possessed by Odysseas, I look out and declare: Odysseas, too, is looking. Thus, my eyes become surer, more rapacious, and my heart beats as though in God’s service. I look at the wide, slow, goodly Nile, sharks swimming in it, their repulsive mouths open, and bright yellow canaries or blue birds with red breasts flying above it. I tremble with joy watching in this way the colorful birds setting the air on fire. What a miracle this earth is! How everything is arranged to delight our eyes and mind! Lenotschka, the sadness that you are so far away is transubstantiated into a profound frisson as, alone, I look out upon this world. May God be with you, may God bolster your body and grant that we may once again wander—together!—on this earth! How much longer will we live? Instead of burning the candle of our lives frugally and stingily, let us set them aflame at both ends. The ancient Egyptians were in the habit of placing a coffin in the middle of the banquet hall, above their feast, in order to see death and be encouraged in their pleasure. The whole of Egypt lies before me as just such a huge coffin, and I shudder from turmoil and impatience. Lenotschka, when will I see you? Kalmouchos fell ill and remained in Cairo. I’m proceeding by myself to Upper Egypt. I have a slight temperature. I’ve lost weight, the Orient is trying to kill me, and I am fighting it—as in Palestine. I’ll proceed still more deeply into Egypt and will then return, passing opposite Arabia, and I’ll climb Mount Sinai. Thus, in one year I will have experienced the world’s four blazing points: Moscow, Jerusalem, Toledo, and Mount Sinai. It’s enough for now. I’m ready to begin relieving myself again of these riches by writing the Odyssey. When I grow poor, I will ask the earth for help once again, like Antaeus. Until we meet again! Ich habe Sie furchtbar lieb. Write me a lot; I haven’t known for so long what you are doing. Greetings to the Kastanakises. I’m going now to the tombs of the kings, the famous necropolis of Thebes. I return in the evening. Ich küsse Ihre Hände. N

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1  qui enguirlanda Votre enfance:  That engarlanded your childhood.  1  frisson:  Shudder.  1  Antaeus: In Greek mythology, a giant wrestler who was invincible so long as he remained in contact with his mother, Earth. Heracles, discovering this, lifted him into the air and defeated him.  1  Ich habe Sie furchtbar lieb: I love you frightfully much.  1  Ich küsse Ihre Hände: I kiss your hands.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 201–3; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 160–61; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 165–66.

Arabia, campsite in the desert, 13 February 1927 Dear Lenotschka, I’m writing you at night, beneath a tent in the desert. We’ve been traveling three days now by camel; tomorrow, God willing, we’ll be at the Sinai monastery. Outside the tent, our three Bedouin guides, together with seven other Bedouins whom we met on the way, have lighted a fire, arranged their baggage in a circle, tied the camels around them in a circle and have started to cook. We gave them our own foods: spaghetti, herring, bread, coffee—also cigarettes. The Arab who serves us is making pilaf for us, and I, stretched out meanwhile on the army cot given us by the monks at Raitho (the port for Sinai in Arabia), am writing to you and missing you very much. Terrible cold. It’s drizzling large drops. Today we entered the wild barren mountains, all granite. Sometimes a half-dead palm tree, sometimes a grayish bird. We travel high up on camelback, I looking at everything rapaciously, Kalmouchos growing a bit sleepy. We don’t talk at all. In the evening we sit in front of the fire with the Bedouins, I recite to them the few Arabic words I know, and we laugh. Last night I suddenly said to them the well-known sentence from the Koran: “There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet.” Their eyes immediately gleamed with happiness, and they lifted their arms high. For three days now I’ve been thinking and adjusting the pace of my mind and memory to the camel’s slow, monotonous gait. My whole life passes by: what I’ve done—I’m discouraged because I’ve accomplished nothing noble— and what remains for me to do: passionate decisions to change at last, to avoid dying like this, without fulfilling my duty. I think of the people I’ve loved, what joy and sadness I have given them. Elizabeth comes to mind, ­exceedingly sad and pale, as usual pouring large hot tears into my hands. Oh, I’ll never see her again. I had a foreboding in Jerusalem, and my heart is

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breaking. Whenever I remember her, I am overcome by a violent, indomitable desire to die. Lenotschka, look, I’m being overcome again by the saddest thoughts inside this oriental tent where I stopped to rest here in the desert. I’m thinking of you so intently, and I so much want you to have been here, that without fail I must make you remember me tonight. I’ll leave you. The Bedouin entered the tent with a lantern and is preparing dinner. I’ll wait to write you again from Sinai. God be with you, Lenotschka. N 18 February I’m writing you from the “Holy Summit,” 2,500 meters high, where God gave Moses the ten commandments. I can see the whole Arabian Peninsula— on one side the Red Sea, on the other the Persian Gulf, extremely wild, huge mountains in the middle, and the desert steaming in the distance, all white. Today, my birthday, I am happy, and my eyes are enjoying what I have desired for so many years: Arabia. Oh, Lenotschka, what a shame for me to enjoy the world without you! How many years since I received a letter from you! How are you now, how are you doing, will I have a letter from you in Alexandria? Kalmouchos will stay here for months. I leave at the end of February, and I hope to be in Athens around 10 March and to leave for Paris at the end of March. Dear Lenotschka, God grant that you may be well, that you may be happy! I am with you day and night. On your part, do not forget me. Opposite my cell, a palm tree rising up slender, lithe, and straight amid the wild boulders reminds me of the stature of your body and soul. God be with you always. I kiss your shoulders, Lenotschka. N

1  2,500 meters high:  Actually, 2,285 meters high (= 7,497 feet).

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 203–4; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 161–62; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 166–68.

Red Sea, 6 March 1927 The marvelous dream—that I would go round the shore of Arabia, swim in the sea, roll in the desert sand, see palm trees and camels in the distance, collect the famous gigantic seashells of the Red Sea—is over. Dear Lenotschka,

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how can I tell you how much I missed you during this entire trip? The other day, night had fallen in the desert, and we—I and Taemas, the Bedouin—had pitched camp near a small well, beneath the palms. We lit a fire, made tea, and the two of us ate together. Afterwards I lay down and, looking up at the starfilled desert sky—large stars hanging there, the profoundest calm. Taemas, next to me, kneeling, saying his prayers, his face turned toward Mecca, and I was thinking of you intensely, voraciously, missing you. I remembered our nights at Lendas and also the night we were lying on the grass in Tsagarada and you were weeping because you couldn’t make out the stars clearly. For hours I couldn’t—didn’t want to—close my eyes in order not to lose you from my thoughts. I was listening to all the small, mysterious sounds of the desert, to the camel eating next to me—eating some hay it had discovered in the date-palm’s shade. I was watching the heavens rotating and was summoning up in my mind my entire life, all the intensity, persistence, fierceness, and volition of my soul, which makes its mark on earth. Oh, how can the dust ever engulf my eyes! Tonight, in this way, with fury, I felt mankind’s humiliating destiny, Lenotschka, and I did not wish to bear it. I do not want your sun ever to set, all this flame that burns us ever to cease. Audacious decisions are leaping up inside me. Stirred in this way by this wild desert, I would like to change my life. The next day, in the evening, we entered a horrible rosy fog. The simoon had risen, the camel was twirling around, the sand beating against my face and hands, injuring them. I was glad because Odysseas needed to experience this feeing. The torture was great and our pleasure enormous when we reached a Greek monastery at the edge of the sea—the pleasure of a fire, some sweet jam, coffee, laughter, food, a long sleep. I spent five divine days in this monastery in Arabia Petraia, waiting for a boat. A balcony overlooking the sea, purple and yellow caïques, swarthy women with silver bracelets around their ankles, endless sand in back, endless blue-green sea in front. I’m returning to Suez now, from there to Alexandria, and from there Athens. When will I see you? How is the beloved body getting along? I can’t wait to find a letter from you in Alexandria. It’s years—years!—since I’ve known how you’re doing, dear. I’ll send you this letter, finally, from Alexandria as soon as I read and see about your body and your soul! N Alexandria, 9 March 1927 Dearest, I received your letter and learned about your life. Sorry about your health, glad about the newspaper, impatient for us to see each other. I leave Egypt on 12 March, and I’ll do whatever I can to depart extremely quickly for Paris. A horde of ardent friends here, literary activity, etc. I like them a lot but I’d prefer to be alone. The feeling of Egypt is extremely acute inside me, and I’d rather not talk with people.

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I’ll write you again from Athens. Write to me without fail. Don’t worry if I’m overcome again by sadness in Athens. You’ve seen that I escaped that sadness a little by traveling. Now it’s lying in wait for me in Athens—but I’ll leave again. I’ll tell you, when I come. God be with you, Lenotschka. May God keep us always vigilant, good, fiery. I am with you always, and I kiss the beloved shoulders. N

To His Father —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 32; printed in Goudelis 1978, p. 25.

Aegina, 31 May 1927 Dear Father, Instead of going to Paris I’ve come here to Aegina, a beautiful island two hours away from Athens. I’m staying alone in the clean air in a small house I rented, surrounded by a large garden. I read and write all day long; in the evening I take a walk. I’m getting along fine. On Sundays my friends come and keep me company. These days I’m expecting Eleni to come with Aristidis. I’ve learned that you are well, as is mother. I too am well, praise God. Greet mother for me and Anestasia’s household. With respect and love, your son, Nikos

1  Eleni to come with Aristidis:  His sister Eleni and her husband Aristidis Theodosiadis.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, p. 27.

[Aegina,] 6 June 1927 Dear Comrade! The books you sent were a great pleasure, as were the savage masks and Cretan folk songs.

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Reading your letter, I was frowning from the sense of the extremely profound responsibility you have given me. My desire is most extreme, my perseverance most extreme. I stretch the bowstring of my mind until it chirps like a swallow, and let fly—but I cannot know if I have pierced the twelve ax heads. Am I at the twelfth exploit or at the first? (I know that a thirteenth does not exist.) Perhaps the thirteenth is death. We shall see. For now, let’s do what we can. Afterwards, we’ll see. I’m expecting you on Sunday. Don’t forget the notebooks. You know, Terzopoulos’s, fifty pages each. I finished canto 10 today. I figured ten days and it was done in six. So I still have one more notebook here for canto 11. Next Monday I’ll start canto 12. I’m hurrying, but this may be beneficial. One more small favor. There’s a Tsitas store across from the National Library. Get me some candies for the children of the house here, the kind that go for thirty-six drachmas the oka. One hundred drams are enough. Sometimes the children come up to the terrace, and I’m ashamed not to have something to give them. May our God be with you! It’s good that we met. N

1  the savage masks . . .: Requested by Kazantzakis to help him with the primitive aspects of the Odyssey, which he was then continuing to compose.  1  pierced the twelve ax heads:  Kazantzakis is thinking of the Homeric ­Odysseus’s amazing feat just before he slays the suitors after his return to Ithaca.  1  Terzopoulos’s:  A stationery store.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 205–6.

Aegina, 14 June 1927 My dear, I’ve just received your letter from the spa. God grant that you may be cured! My mind has no greater happiness. Write me regularly how things develop, so that I may gradually see you being cured. May God be with you! I’m sending you the African articles in order to dispel your monotony a bit. Also several pages of a periodical in which I published two or three lines of poetry. I’m working in a way that I fear I won’t be able to bear for very long: a great many hours each day, feverishly, as though I were about to die tomorrow.

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I will finish the twenty-four cantos of the Odyssey in a few months, not in two years, as I had calculated. Then I’ll be a free man. Here in Greece they’re certain that I won’t be able to go through with it. The other day a periodical wrote: “Goethe couldn’t finish off a comparable epic, so will lily-livered Kazantzakis be able to?” Yes, lily-livered Kazantzakis will be able to, just so long as I have a little peace. Sometimes on Sunday an acquaintance comes here to see me and leaves the same evening. I don’t know if what I’m writing is worth anything. I’m writing it because otherwise it would strangle me. An organic need. Aegina is a little like Amorgos. But I never go for a walk. The sea is ten minutes away, and I don’t go because I don’t have time. I write from five in the morning, and when I stop at eight at night, I am very tired, and I go out on my terrace and, looking at the mountain opposite, the surrounding garden, the first stars, I remember Tsangarada when we were lying on the grass and in a hurry concerning who would be the first to see more stars. You are with me all day long. My longing to see you is so great that a slight dizziness agitates my temples. May God keep us always on this high level of flame. This tiny earth has no greater pleasure. Not a word from the Papaïoannous. It’s my fault for not writing them yet. I should, but I’m drowning in the waves of the Odyssey. I must walk along a little shoreline in order to be able to write them and see them. That’s my life. When we meet, I’ll tell you about the great distress I’ve had, because I’m unable to write about it. Write me what you’ve been reading, if you’ve seen or read anything good over so many months, what joys or sorrows, the people you’ve seen—everything. Thus we’ll conquer distance. Write me regularly and much. 16 June 1927 I’m writing you once more now to tell you again of my love and my hope to see you again soon. God be with you! Write me much. Today I received a very sad letter from Elizabeth. She asks me about you. If you wrote her, you would do her very much good. Write Düsseldorf Am Wehrhahn 41a. May our “god” be with you, Lenotschka! Get well! N

1  several pages of a periodical:  Kazantzakis published excerpts from the Odyssey (first draft) in the 22 May and 5 June issues of the periodical Ilysia, specifically canto 8.1–104 and canto 9.1–47.  1  The other day a periodical wrote:  Presumably the ironical note about the Odyssey by an anonymous author in Ελληνικά Γράμματα 1 (June 1927): 90.

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To Elli Lambridi —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yolanda Hatzi.

[Aegina, early July 1927] What joy to climb the sacred mountain’s solitude in clear air, alone, a bay leaf in your teeth! To hear the regal vein along your tibia throb broadly, serenely, then rise to the neck and like a deep river spread richly over the mind as though irrigating it. And not to say, “I’ll go to the right,” “I’ll go to the left,” but to let the four winds overblow the sacred crossroads of your mind. To hear, while you ascend, God breathing everywhere as he walks beside you, laughing, kicking stones. What joy to turn and view not a single soul, like a hunter at dawn seeking partridge with not a bird’s wing spotted although the whole mountain is heard to cackle! I was finishing these verses just as I received your letter. I’m sending them to you in order to show you the pleasure your letter gave me. Endlich! How much I love you is impossible to say. A fine letter, firm, happy, that conquers the tiny miseries “du Moi haissable” and breathes in the gentle mountain air. Good! You have great strengths, Mudita. Do not allow them to dissipate in dark, eccentric underground sewers. Kifissia, mountains, change. Far away from home and school, in a happy, free, amoral cell, your life will acquire a sublime air. I’m yearning to come to Athens to spend an entire day in that cell of yours. Skouriotis must have told you that Papandreou telephoned me to come and see him. We spoke briefly because he was obliged to receive lots of committees. He’ll consult with Eleftheroudakis. His official duties still haven’t ended, and you need to see Skouriotis so that he’ll telephone the chief forester’s office to see if he finished. Eleftheroudakis spoke to me very excitedly, taking upon himself the whole of Papandreou’s concern. What you write me about the monastery is correct; I’ll include it with the remaining material. Write me what thoughts come to you for me to do—the manifesto—when I relieve myself a little from nightmarish Odysseas. I, too, feel sorry for Buddha but am afraid that he will be swallowed by Odysseas. Serves him right—à diable diable et demi.

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About your novel, I tell you again: First finish everything else that you began: articles in Ermis, etc. Clear up your manuscripts, liberate yourself, then do whatever you want. But don’t get involved beforehand. I’m working. Tomorrow I finish canto 14 and start 15, the Utopia. I’m hurrying—I myself observing the development with curiosity because I don’t know what is destined to happen. The Odyssey is maturing not as an idea but like a piece of fruit—like a watermelon, so to say. At night I hear it creaking in my skull as it increases in size. Bastias writes in his periodical that the Odyssey of N.K. is devoid of brain! Exactly right! My warm greetings to Loukia. I want to see all of you, but I’m the one who needs to come. That is correct. You cannot know how sorry I was yesterday that you did not come to the cell. But we said: “Il tacere è bello.” Dear Mudita, write to me regularly. Do not forget me, either in Kifissia or with Loukia, or anyone. I do the same. Donnant, donnant. I tell you again: your letter gave me great pleasure. Always, N The last and the least. A and B were leftovers from the typewriter. Did you find them?

1  Endlich!:  At long last!  1  du Moi haissable: Of the detestable self.  1  Mudita:  A Buddhist word meaning rejoicing in others’ joy: the pleasure that derives from delighting in other people’s well-being even when one is facing tragedy himself; the opposite of jealousy and envy; more broadly, an inner spring of infinite joy available to everyone. In Kazantzakis’s play Buddha, Mudita is the woman who stands next to Buddha and cools him with a fan (Kazantzakis 1956b, p. 538); in his plans for a scenario on Buddha, he included a love scene between Mudita and Buddha.  1  Eleftheroudakis:  Kostas Eleftheroudakis (1877–1962), who opened a bookstore with collaborators in 1901; began as a publisher in 1924; and, from 1927 to 1930, issued his twelvevolume encyclopedic dictionary with many contributions by Kazantzakis, a close friend.  1  the monastery:  Saint George the Hunter’s, which Kazantzakis hoped to become the site of a utopian community that he would found there.  1  à diable diable et demi: If one’s a mess, the other can be just as bad.  1  Bastias:  Kostis Bastias (1901–72), playwright and journalist, who published Anayennisi for one year in 1917; edited the periodical Ελληνικά Γράμματα from 1927 to 1930 (see note on “The other day a periodical wrote” for the previous letter); and, in 1930, was appointed secretary general of the National Theater; from 1937 to 1941 served as its director.  1  Loukia:  Loukia Fotopoulou, a childhood friend of Elli Lambridi’s who studied piano and musicology in Paris; belonged to George Seferis’s close circle of friends; and, after

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leaving her husband Loukidis, formed a relationship with the surrealist poet and painter Nikos Engonopoulos (1910–85). She died prematurely in 1939.  1  il tacere è bello:  To be silent is beautiful.  1  Donnant, donnant:  Fair is fair.  1  The last and the least:  In English on the original manuscript.

To Elli Lambridi —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yolanda Hatzi.

Friday [Aegina, mid-July 1927] Dear, I was terribly sad all day today that I didn’t see you. I’ll make a special trip to see you in a few days, on Monday, at four o’clock. I won’t be returning to Aegina until Tuesday, in order to have lots of leisurely time with you. Today I finished the utopia. According to my custom, all of my sadness became intellectual fruit, indeed rare intellectual fruit thanks to terrific Sublimierung, as friend Freud says (I’ve read your lecture and like it). Today’s Odyssey is one of the best. I know that you’ll be angry that I have this Notausgang, but to that I owe everything good in me as well as all my apparent (and/ or real) inhuman qualities and harshness. If I lost what is most valuable for me—my eyesight, let’s say—I would find a way to transubstantiate that misfortune into the harshest possible, ferocious (i.e., divine) happiness. As you know, two biographies of me have been written in Crete—one black, the other white. Neither is correct. They consider me a good or bad person, a good or bad writer, a being just like themselves. They’re right insofar as I possess a head, two arms, etc., and that’s why they’re deceived. My inner “soul face” is exactly like that of the Egyptian gods—good grief, not like that of the Greek gods!—: half wild beast, half god. The two natures are profoundly and inseparably united, constituting most profoundly and inseparably what is more united than humanity’s “unified” nature. Only when you view me in this way will you forgive many things in me and either hate me implacably or love me implacably. There are only two people who could write my biography satisfactorily, provided they collaborated: the great theologian Harnack and the great zoologist Brehm. And perhaps, perhaps—you. I have talked a great deal about myself, telling you things that you know better than I do because you view them from a certain perspective. I’m glad that I’ll see you in Kifissia. If I knew you’d be there all day long on Monday, I’d come much earlier. Let’s see. I sent you the divine monastery in Colmar. We will have monasteries like this, but five centuries from now. However, let there be two or three cells as yeast, until this badly kneaded earth-bread “rises.” Looking forward to our meeting! I am always yours—malgré moi et malgré toi. N

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“Ich weiß einen Menschen der Gott so klar geschaut hat, daß er allen Glauben verlor,” Saint Giles of Assisi said. And Mechthild von Magdeburg said: “O Herr, o du hoher Stein, du bist so wohl verborgen, in dir kann niemand nisten als Tauben und Nachtigallen”!

1  Sublimierung:  Sublimation.  1  Notausgang:  Emergency exit.  1  two biographies of me:  The “black” one presumably by Lefteris Alexiou in Νεοελληνικά Γράμματα (Iraklio) 1 (November 1926): 77–82, and the “white” one by Kazantzakis’s friend Mihalis Anastasiou, in reply to Alexiou, in the December 1926 issue, pp. 158–62.  1  Harnack:  Adolf von Harnack (1851–1930), German theologian and church historian who traced the influence of Hellenistic philosophy on early Christian writing and pioneered in the higher criticism of the Bible.  1  Brehm:  Alfred Brehm (1829–84), German zoologist, specializing in ornithology.  1  the divine monastery in Colmar:  Saint Anthony’s Monastery of Colmar, Alsace, which now houses the Musée Unterlinden.  1  malgré moi et malgré toi:  In spite of myself and in spite of yourself.  1  Ich weiß einen Menschen der Gott so klar geschaut hat, daß er allen Glauben verlor :  I know a man who had seen God so clearly that he lost all faith.  1  O Herr, o du hoher Stein, du bist so wohl verborgen, in dir kann niemand nisten als Tauben und Nachtigallen:  O Lord, o thou mighty stone, thou art so well hidden, nobody can nest in thee save doves and nightingales.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 206–7; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 164–65; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 169–70.

Aegina, 30 July 1927 Dear, I just got your long letter, and I thank you warmly. In front of me I’m holding your tiny photograph. I enjoy looking at you with your slightly sad, slightly ironic smile that I like so much. I see your small dwelling, I experience your life; in this way I come closer to the feeling that I’ll arrive soon and be together with you. If the agitation I feel when I consider you is the essence of this short earthly existence of ours, may it be blessed. This morning, writing the beginning of canto 18, I marked two lines The mind’s ardent, transient games, the head’s blue smoke: phosphorescences above the humid plain—mankind!

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and I felt so sad that my eyes brimmed with tears. What are we? How we stagger a short time on the soil! How our bodily warmth lasts a short time! We shout, suffer, love; then in a flash everything vanishes! Amid this deadly calamity, I’ve been thinking of you with such sadness, happiness, and ardor that all of life, as well as mortality and immortality, become concentrated in the brief moment when you will be at the station, in the dark air, and I will clasp your hand. Lenotschka, I just hope that our god will grant that you be well! Then we’ll need nothing else. I am working a lot; the creative fever still has not abated. Sometimes I suddenly lose weight, and the one or two people who still love me are startled. That’s why the other day Eleftheroudakis, the publisher, forced me to go with him to Arcadia for three days by car. We went up to Vitina and reached Dimitsana—fir trees, mountains, high altitude atmosphere—then came back down again in a flash. This abrupt change was both good and bad for me, good because I took a breath, saw mountains and fir trees, which I love, bad because I viewed the wretched, dishonest, micro-smart, micro-rapacious Greeks. The provinces are even more horrible than Athens. Their dismal pusses, their miserable crafty brains, their souls sometimes like the hyena’s, sometimes the hare’s. I was horrified that I belong to such a race. But I’m consoled because I feel that my heritage is Arab. Please send me the issues of Nouvelles Littéraires immediately. I’d like to read them piecemeal because I’ll have trouble with all of them together. I don’t have time. I’ve been thinking a lot about having my articles translated—the ones on Russia, Jerusalem, Sinai, etc. But by whom? Look around Paris; various wellknown French-educated Greeks live there. Inquire, so that I may be briefed when I arrive. Askitiki was translated also into English here. Anayennisi is going to publish it next month, and I’ll send it to you. Some of its pages I wrote with my blood. The small Scorpio is the one you say—it’s in our minds. The other is the large one, our Constellation. Write me regularly and much. Greetings to the Kastanakises. I kiss your knees and shoulders, my Lenotschka. N

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 32–34.

[Aegina,] 1 August 1927

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Dear Comrade! Mrs. Lambridi has written me disquieting news about the monastery. Apparently she was told at the Ministry of Agriculture that, since it is a monastery, we must address ourselves to the Ministry of Education, where our cause is definitely hopeless. But I’m afraid that there’s some employee in the Ministry of Agriculture who is opposing us, because I know that the dissolved monasteries belong to the Ministry of Agriculture. Therefore, please ask Mr. Eleftheroudakis to go and find Papanastasiou and to have him examine on his own this fundamental question: Does Saint John’s Monastery belong to the Ministry of Agriculture or not? Also, whether it belongs to his department or not, he should ask Papanastasiou to urge them to finish the matter of granting us the forest we’re asking for. Only Eleftheroudakis can intervene with Papanastasiou; thus this matter can be solved. All the other actions that Mrs. Lambridi told me about will take place only when this major matter is settled. So much for the monastery. Now about Askitiki. Lahanas came to the house and muttered, “Yes, but—.” Since it will be published in Anayennisi, he’s afraid that it won’t sell if he prints it separately, etc. I confess that I did not insist at all. I am unable to be interested in seeing what I write published. But I find various justifications and then always make an effort pénible. Specifically for Askitiki, which I especially love, I say this: Let it come out now in Anayennisi so that I can see it first in a bad edition. Then I’ll make the various revisions that are needed—certain things are repeated too often; there are some deficiencies in the order, etc. After that, we’ll publish it as we wish it to be—that is, as you say. So much for Askitiki. I’m working extraordinarily well. Canto 17 will be finished in three or four days. I’m beginning to worry about this passionate descent of the Holy Spirit from on high that has lasted so long and that so far not only does not tire me but makes me feel continually stronger. I believe that these months have been the best of my life, perhaps because I saw a great deal in the meantime and delivered myself from almost all things human, managing completely to concentrate the essence of my spirit. This spirit of mine does not have human form at all; it is a beast and a god. I have been delivering myself continually from human nature, have been struggling like an Egyptian god to discover an organic synthesis of animal and god—of a rapacious animal (hawk, tiger, etc.) and a restless, transient god who does not love that transient, transitional figure, the human being. Thank you for the photographs. Several are splendid. I greatly enjoyed all of them. Sometime I’ll ask you to give me two or three copies of some of them. I’m waiting for the Lytton and whatever else you find—books, newspapers, etc. Send them; everything is useful now. Reading something insignificant, I suddenly find an excellent prey and pounce.

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At this critical moment in my life, the fact that you appear on my horizon, stand next to me, and help me is not something I consider a coincidence. For both of us, this fact ought to acquire great value. We shall see. I squeeze your shoulder, always. N

1  Papanastasiou:  Then minister of agriculture.  1  Lahanas:  Vasilis Lahanas, notary public, founder of the Stohastis publishing house, which published Kazantzakis’s plays Nikforos Fokas, Christos, and Odysseas, as well as his two-volume travel book, What I Saw in Russia.  1  Anayennisi:  The ­periodical edited by Dimitris Glinos. Askitiki was printed in Anayennisi 1 (July–August 1927): 599–631, under the title “Salvatores Dei. Ασκητική” and was ­distributed in book form as an offprint.  1  effort pénible:  Laborious effort.  1  after that, we’ll publish it . . .:  The second (importantly revised) edition of Askitiki was published in 1945 at Prevelakis’s expense (and dedicated to him) under the title Ασκητική. Salvatores Dei.  1  the Lytton:  Presumably The Last Days of Pompeii (1834) by Edward BulwerLytton (1803–73).

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, p. 34, misdated 5 August.

[Aegina,] Thursday [4 August 1927] I just finished canto 17. Tomorrow 18 begins. I, too, would very much like to see you; I don’t know if anyone is coming on Sunday. Mrs. Lambridi didn’t come last Sunday, thinking that Galatea would come. So find out if she’s not coming this Sunday, so you can come. Because if the two of you chance to be here, woe be to us both! So ask. Whoever else comes doesn’t matter. With much love, as always. N

1  Because if the two of you chance to be here, woe be to us both!:  When preparing publication of the four hundred letters, Prevelakis excised material that he felt would be offensive to living individuals. This is one example. I have restored all of these excisions, thanks to the manuscripts available in the Prevelakis Archive of the University of Crete Library, Rethymno.

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To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 37–39, probably misdated 25 August.

[Aegina,] Wednesday, I think [24 August 1927] 1. I just received a telegram from Skouriotis: “You need to come.” Could it pertain to the monastery? I know Skouriotis’s superficiality and am waiting for notification from you and Mrs. Lambridi in order for me to believe that there really is a need. Then I’ll come. 2.  Thank you for everything, again. The words for the half-inflated sail are marvelous. I wonder if this marvelous treasure can find us words better than μπότζι, σκαμπανεβάζω, τσούρμα, νταϊφάς, κουμάνια. The words you sent pleased me greatly. 3. I wrote accepting Alexandria’s terms for my travel book. But this does not solve the problem. In October I’ve got to find something to translate, or whatever else, to pay off debts incurred during the months I been working on the Odyssey. 4.  When you get Askitiki, do me the favor of sending three copies to the following address: Hélène Samios, rue Lecourbe 286, Paris. Also, instead of sending Nikiforos Fokas to Kavafakis, let’s send it to Venizelos in Hania. He interests me. 5. Ever since the day when I spoke to you in the National Gardens about the two positions at the Institut de Coopération Intellectuelle Internationale, I’ve been haunted by that idea. Of course, if Eleftheroudakis went to Hania and had his heart in it, he’d manage it. When I come to Athens, I’ll examine newer details and perhaps decide then to speak to him. If it does happen, it will play a very important role in our lives as well as in our collaboration. That’s why the idea has been haunting me. 6. Regarding Glinos, you’re right. But you forget this: What for us are his faults are precisely what gives him points of contact with the mass of intellectuals that he manipulates. If he were superior, it would be much more difficult to find comrades or adherents in our country today. It is precisely his deficiency that “saves” him—that is, renders him fruitful and really totally useful to the totality. He becomes comprehensible, stimulating, and systematizing self-interest; he engages in politics, desires to arrive. All of these lower spiritual features actually constitute his worth. That’s why his worth is sufficient for him. The problem presents itself to us in a much more difficult way. Have you found the path that leads to a solution? Our anguish is not enough; it is simply the ardent atmosphere within which the solution is born—nothing else. Naturally, I am more impatient; naturally, on the other hand, I have more patience. As soon as I finish the Odyssey, that small service of mine, I shall

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devote myself heart and soul to this problem. If I live elsewhere, if I find nonGreek comrades, I will be victorious. In other words, I will do what my nature is susceptible of doing. 7. I’m working. Canto 20 will soon be finished. I’m completely tired and frightfully distressed. Without cause. The terrible metaphysical wind that has shriveled my body is passing over me. I accept it. Always, N I liked the oxen a lot.

1  24 August:  Wednesday was 24 August. Prevelakis prints 25 August, perhaps because that was the date of posting on the envelope.  1  μπότζι, σκαμπανεβάζω, τσούρμα, νταϊφάς, κουμάνια:  μπότζι = rolling of a boat in heavy seas; σκαμπανεβάζω = (of a boat) to pitch in high seas, to bob up and down; τσούρμα = (plural) the crew of a boat; νταϊφάς = group of irregular soldiers; κουμάνια = a kind of cupboard in a boat’s prow, where seamen store things.  1  Venizelos in Hania:  Venizelos was spending his summer vacation near Hania.  1  Institut de Coopération Intellectuelle Internationale: The International Institute of Intellectual Cooperation existed from 1925 until 1946. Established with the aid of the French government and located in Paris, it provided a permanent secretariat for the Committee on Intellectual Cooperation that had been formed by the League of Nations in 1922 and whose members included Henri Bergson, Albert Einstein, Marie Curie, Béla Bartók, Thomas Mann, and Paul Valéry. In 1946 the committee’s and the institute’s roles were taken over by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), which employed Kazantzakis as head of its Department of Translation of the Classics from May 1947 until he resigned in March 1948. Kazantzakis’s appeal for an “Internationale de l’Esprit” during his 1946 sojourn in London, derided as hopelessly naïve, was essentially an attempt to continue the institute’s work.  1  Glinos:  Dimitris Glinos (1882– 1943), educator, member of the Educational Association; author, director of the periodical Anayennisi (1926–28); demoticist who, as general secretary of the Ministry of Education from 1917 to 1920, introduced demotic into the primary schools; a founding member of the Communist Party of Greece, which he represented in parliament from 1936 to 1940.  1  oxen:  photograph sent him by Prevelakis, presumably to help with the Odyssey.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 207; English translation

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(­ incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 165; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 170.

Aegina, 20 September 1927 Dorogaya moya, I was in Athens yesterday to get books from the library and suddenly in Ermou Street I found myself in front of the Papaïoannous. Dressed in black, tormented; Marika disconsolate, Katy in despair. We stopped a minute and talked about you and they promised me they’d come to Aegina on Sunday, to talk. My impression is painful. These girls, these splendid souls, will be ruined. Like an unballasted boat, like slaves, suddenly they leap up full of light and then fall back down again. They’re plucky in secondary things; what they lack is a strong man to love them, to awaken them from this spiritual tsetse illness so that they will not ruin themselves in fervid details. I’m writing you a lot about the Papaïoannous because my impression yesterday was intense and sad. I’m very distressed over the uncertainly the newspapers have caused you. But take heart a little while longer. I’m coming quickly without fail, and then many things will be remedied. Papandreou is coming in a few days, and I hope that the question of my mission will be settled within the month of October. Meanwhile, I’ve agreed to be a collaborator for the Eleftheroudakis dictionary; that will be a good basis. I undertook this job on the condition that I do it in Paris. The Odyssey is finished. I’m relieved. I’ll leave it a while and then begin its second draft in Paris. But the first draft is finished and that gives me great relief and freedom. I hope you received the copies of Askitiki. Here it’s doubtful whether three souls can be found who agree with it. Mrs. Lambridi translated it into English and sent it to a publisher. Would that it were translated into French as well, to be published in some journal. When I come, then we’ll try. Lenotschka, my joy that I’ll be seeing you quickly is most profound, très tendre und heftig dabei. The whole of Paris—our walks, the museums, the churches—will take on a new meaning. But be well. All the rest is secondary. Now that the Odyssey is finished, I’ll continue to reside in Aegina. I find Athens unbearable. These days I’m going to write articles for the Eleftheroudakis Encyclopedia on Buddha, Lenin, Gandhi, Dostoevsky, El Greco, etc. So, infinite work before me once again. When I come, you need to be well, in order to help me. Don’t forget that you will be my secretary. I’m eagerly awaiting a letter from you. I’m doing everything to be able to come as soon as possible. I’ve been promised money from Crete, and I’ll send it to you immediately. I’m in despair and ashamed to say that I haven’t been able to send you any for such a long time.

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Lenotschka, I hug all of you most ardently to my breast. I’m coming quickly. N 22 September 1927 I just received your letter. Mrs. Kastanakis is right; I’m coming without fail. I’m expecting Papandreou. I finished the Odyssey; now I’m revising the articles (Sinai, Spain, Jerusalem, etc.) in order to send them to be published in Alexandria. I’ve undertaken to collaborate on the Eleftheroudakis dictionary. I don’t want to wait any longer. I’m longing to see you, so your soul can recover a little, and we can forget, can remember, can create a new life. If only I could live a long time in Paris! Greece suffocates me. No one here is my comrade, no one can sense my soul’s anguish. Everyone here considers Askitiki a work of art. No one views it as an outcry of exploration and fear, because no one has that outcry inside him. They’re all triflers, sentimentalists, secondrate moronic sardine-souls. How can they understand a swordfish? Auf wiedersehen! Ich komme bald. You didn’t write me your new address. Did they send you the copies of Askitiki? Didn’t you receive them? Greetings to the Kastanakises. I kiss your hands and shoulders, always. N

1  tsetse:  The bite of the tsetse, an African bloodsucking fly, transmits sleeping sickness.  1  Eleftheroudakis dictionary:  More correctly, Eleftheroudakis Encyclopedic Dictionary. Prevelakis, who served on the editorial committee from December 1926 until June 1930, secured 174 articles for Kazantzakis to write. Published between 1927 (volume 2) and 1931 (volume 12), they are listed in Katsimbalis 1958, pp. 31–37, nos. 542–715. Most are anonymous.  1  très tendre und heftig dabei:  Very tender and nevertheless vehement.  1  Auf wiedersehen! Ich komme bald:  See you! I’m coming soon.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 208; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 165–66; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 170–71.

Aegina, 30 September 1927 My dear Lenotschka! I’ll come to Paris in December. I was able to arrange the matter without depending on any newspaper. I’ve undertaken to write a long series of articles

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for the Eleftheroudakis Encyclopedic Dictionary over a two-year period. The list of articles—mainly philosophical—that will be given me, their length, etc., is being prepared now. Then I’ll leave. Meanwhile, Papandreou came. I saw him yesterday for a moment in Kifissia, up to his neck in army officers, conspiracies, dangers, etc. I postponed speaking to him about “Logos” until he calms down. Yesterday, too, an unexpected thing happened; it will not delay my arrival, since in December I’ll be able to leave thanks to Eleftheroudakis, but it will give me the opportunity to take a sudden trip for three weeks—namely, for the anniversary of the Russian Revolution, which is on 8 November, as you know. Extraordinary celebrations will take place in Moscow now, in the tenth year, and the Russian government has invited one or two individuals from each nation. They invited only one from Greece, and that one happens to be me. I’ll go to Moscow with all expenses paid by the Soviet government, I’ll stay three weeks, they’ll take us everywhere in Russia, etc., and I’ll return to Greece. Maybe I’ll publish a series of articles; in any case, when I come to Paris I’ll write a book now about Russia, in French. I must. I leave Athens on 19 October. I’ll be in Moscow on the 28th and will depart from Moscow on 18 November. I feel deeply moved that I’ll be seeing Russia again and very sad because I’d like us to be together. When will we be able to travel a little, side by side, to enjoy all the sadness of the station, the dark railway car, the unknown country? We must spend Christmas in Germany without fail. I’ll arrive in Athens on 13 October to get ready—passport, fur coat, galoshes. My sister is away in Crete. How will I manage on my own? You must have received the copies of Askitiki. I’ll take several copies of the English translation along with me to give to people I find in Moscow. It’s a little dangerous for me to make propaganda for metacommunism, which the communists will hate so very much. But I must. I’ve received the Nouvelles Littéraires now, and I thank you most warmly. I’ll still have letters from you until the 17th (write to Ermou 59). In Moscow write me at Rue Malaïa Nikitskaïa 6, Mme Olga Kaméneva pour M. N.K., etc. She’s Kaméney’s wife. She’ll surely give me your letters, and I’ll have great pleasure arriving in Moscow. I’m not sending you this letter. Perhaps I’ll have a letter from you tomorrow with your new address. I waited, but did not receive a letter from you. 2 October 1927 I haven’t received a letter from you, and I’m sending this to the old address. The Papaïoannous have written me that they’ll come here so we can talk. I’m up to my neck in manuscripts, very tired and énervé. Good god, when will I calm down? I remember you every moment, love you most deeply, am eager

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to see you. Perhaps my soul will settle down in Paris. I’m extremely uneasy, I don’t know why. Write to me. Do not forget me. Until December! Always, N

1  énervé: Enervated, debilitated.

To His Father —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 33; printed in Goudelis 1978, p. 26.

Aegina, 4 October 1927 Dear Father, I’m well. I wish the same for yourself and dear mother. In about ten days I shall take a trip that I did not have in mind. The Russian government invited one person from each nation to go to Moscow and be present at the great national celebrations that will take place there in early November. I was chosen from Greece; thus I shall go again to Russia, where, as a guest of the Russian government, I shall stay only two weeks. It is a great honor for me to represent Greece. Greet mother for me, and Eleni, and Anestasia’s household. I kiss your hand with respect. Your son, Nikos

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 208–9; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 166; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 171–72.

[Aegina] 5 October 1927 Dorogaya moya! I received your letter tonight; yesterday I wrote you that I’m coming in December and that I leave for Moscow on 19 October. I’m glad that once again I’ll see the Kremlin with its golden domes, and people who believe. Together with you in Paris, I’ll write a book called “Metacommunism.” Everything is ripening peacefully, painfully. I feel that I’ll see you without fail in December. This year I worked very much and suffered very much. I’d like to

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get settled in Paris in such a way that I’ll delay setting foot in Greece again for years. I feel that all these months my spirit has acquired specific features and that my life has gained a certain unity. The entire past, which seemed zigzag until now, the entire quest for different routes, is finally beginning to be harmonized and to end up in a single fiery, immovable point. “God” grant that, until I die, I may ripen and grow rich in the same way and that, without my denying anything, my entire life will become a “unified richness,” as the Byzantine mystics say. No illusion, no faintness of heart. To look chaos squarely in the eye without trembling—I desire nothing else. 8 October 1927 It’s raining terribly hard. I’m looking through the windows at the plain as it grows dim with mist and at the furrows glistening with water. I’m happy, a bit cold. With my mind filled with the aroma of the soil and loaded with the most delicate antennae and encephala, I am huddled like an ephemeral insect behind my piles of books and manuscripts and am thinking of you calmly, passively, just as I think of sea, earth, death, eternity. I sense my head shining all black, like a flooded crag enjoying rain and sunshine. I am with you always, sometimes passionately, sometimes (like tonight) peacefully and assuredly. “God” grant that I may always think of you in this manner and inhale your presence. I’m expecting the Papaïoannous here the day after tomorrow. I doubt they’ll come in such a storm. But I have a bad foreboding about these beloved figures: that trivialities and insignificant hesitations will devour them. They’re courageous but lack cohesiveness and continuity; they shine for a moment and go dark for years. They are inégales—that is, weak. I can help them only minimally; they can be saved only by a man who loves a woman sexually. Everything else is a temporary flash that does not penetrate the flesh—that is, our soul. The copies of Askitiki were sent to you at Rue Lecourbe and must have gone astray. I have only one copy with me, and I’m sending it to you; when I go to Athens, I’ll order more to be sent. I’d be happy if they were translated into French; however, it must be done well, in an analogous style, as I wrote you— the style of Claudel—because the rational, analytical French language is totally incapable of expressing a rhythm like Askitiki’s. In any case, help if you can to have an attempt made, and we’ll see. Would that the first thing I publish in some revue, when I come to Paris, is Askitiki. I’m eager to leave for Moscow, to return, leave again, and finally to arrive in Paris. Take heart, dear Lenotschka. I’m sending you three musk trees that my sister sent me from our family home. Many greetings to the Kastanakises. Write me c/o Olga Kaméneva, Malaïa Nikitskaïa 6, Moscow, for Nikos. I kiss your shoulders, Lenotschka, N

1  encephala:  Brains.  1  inégales: Uneven.

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To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 53–54.

[Aegina, 12 October 1927] Brother Prevelakis, I’ve seen with emotion, once again, that you have arranged for a newspaper to take what I write from Russia. When I come to Athens (13 October), I’ll go to Ethnos. However, given the new measures opposing communism, I’m beginning to fear that I won’t be allowed to depart. We’ll see. I’ve received the items in Russian literature and the articles. Yet of the twenty-seven that you’ve noted, only about fifteen can be written; for the others, only their names will be mentioned in the book. And of those fifteen, Bielinski is the only one of any interest. In other words, everything will be ready tomorrow. I hope you’ll be in time to send me various interesting names in French and Italian literature to write up, so I won’t remain idle. In addition, I’ll take along some articles for the boat; perhaps I’ll prepare the whole of Russian literature while traveling. I’m still suffering from the fact that I always dedicate myself totally to everything and cannot share. If I stayed here now, I would complete fabulous work on the Dictionary. But that’s for Paris. Thanks for the 170 philosophers. I’ll take them all even though they’re much more difficult than literary figures or painters. But I need to work intrepidly. If Kondoglou doesn’t want them, then I’m more attracted by the painters than all the rest. I’ve written several articles. Most of them cannot exceed ten lines; Bielinski reached forty. When I finish tomorrow, I’ll do Gogol, Pushkin, etc. It’s OK if I receive new bulletins in the meantime; otherwise, when I finally come to Athens. Oh, now with the rainfall, how marvelous it is to work! I’m insane with joy, sensing my head and my hand strong. I’m working with the sober intoxication given me by this cool autumn god. Here’s to meeting you soon! And thanks for everything. The Work (la Obra, as Jiménez calls it) must be found quickly, so that we may collaborate! N

1  Bielinski:  Vissarion Bielinski (1811–48), Russian progressive publicist who influenced youth and advocated the abolition of serfdom. Also transliterated Belinsky, Byelinski.

VI  •  Resident Almost Eighteen Months

in the Soviet Union

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 209–11; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 167–69; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 172–74.

Athens, 20 October 1927 Dear Lenotschka, I’m leaving this afternoon via Odessa. The weather is calm, I’ll have a splendid journey. You are with me every moment, and the Papaïoannous came yesterday and told me that René told them that you’d put on weight but that recently you had another small attack. Marika is going to leave for Berlin, and I told her to come with me as far as Marseilles and from there to stop at Lausanne and then go on to Berlin. Let’s see. I’ll be here at the end of November, and I’ll depart in December, to see you. I sent you copies of Askitiki and hope you got them. A commotion over this “Outcry” is beginning to take place here. Politis is writing a series of laudatory articles; Glinos’s Anayennisi is beginning a series of articles; others are replying, some pro, some con. The modern Greek waters have been stirred up a bit, but I’m leaving, I don’t reply. I’ll let them remain undisturbed. Galatea is going to write an exhaustive article about Nikiforos Fokas, etc. I’m glad to have escaped those old manuscripts; from now on, I’ll devote myself in peace to the Odyssey. In Moscow I’ll await a letter from you. I’m writing you hastily today to tell you how much you are with me at this last moment. Before I leave, I’ll write you filling in the rest. Right now I need to go to the Russian embassy for my passport, etc. No newspaper agreed to have me write articles from Russia. A violent wind against communism. I finally managed to convince Proïa to agree to ten articles. I’ll give them when I return from Moscow. God be with you, Lenotschka. Until we meet again in December! I’m leaving suddenly, because the boat is arriving. God be with you and with me! [At sea,] 22 October 1927

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We’ve entered the Hellespont. At dawn tomorrow we’ll be at Constantinople and at Odessa on the 25th. The trip is marvelous, the sea calm, mauve. I’m all alone. Stretched out in my cabin, I read and think of you and am in a hurry for this pèlerinage, too, to end and for us to see each other, Lenotschka. For two days now on the boat, I’ve been reading. I’ve been reading ancient Japanese and Chinese literature, and my heart has swelled and stormed, hearing these age-old outcries of sex and pain. My god, if only I could formulate completely all this emotion felt by my heart and preserve it in the Odyssey! I know Moissi and love him excessively. I saw him often in Vienna in 1923— how is it that I never told you? He’s especially miraculous in Oedipus. This skinny, sickly man with his meager, drawn-out voice makes your hair stand on end when he plays the role of the terrible king of Thebes. I’m glad you saw him—what a great pleasure! Would that we had seen Sent M’Ahesa together! 23 October, Sunday We awakened in front of Constantinople. The minarets, Hagia Sophia, the gardens, Europe and Asia united, the morning fog—all these things calmly, seductively turn my heart topsy-turvy. Formerly, in 1919, passing through Constantinople, I was shouting “Once again after years, in time, once again she’ll be ours!” Now this patriotic tirade is far away from me. I’m enjoying Constantinople in and for itself, without patriotic, ephemeral regrets. I’m enjoying it like an animal sunning itself, and I don’t care to whom it belongs. One day, together, we must see this miracle, too, as we saw Jerusalem. How many things “must”! Life, health, simplicity, love—then everything will happen. Sometimes I feel myself to be the center of multiple forces, a vortex, a tourbillon of invisible elements, and all are whirling round my steadfast will. That’s why I hope that whatever we desire will take place. Odessa, Tuesday 25 October Just a few hours in Odessa but I managed to see my beloved Jewish faces— black eyes, hooked noses, thick lips—and now I’m writing you from the railway car that’s taking me to Moscow. The day is marvelous—sunshine, slight chill—the trip excellent, the sea just as it was when we were together in Palestine. I’m delighted that I’ll be seeing Moscow again: all that coarse, variegated life grouillante et fourmillante, the colors, golden domes, two or three icons that I love, a divine Virgin, the Matisse, the Van Gogh. Oh god! when will we take such a large trip together, a trip full of people and colors and adventures? I yearn to come and see you so that we can talk. I think that we have squandered time very needlessly; it’s as though I had never seen you, as though we had not spoken enough. But we still have time. Our God is exceedingly old and does not die easily. N

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Kiev. We arrived in the morning. I became acquainted with a Jewess in the railway car, not young but very interesting, and we went out into the city together and talked, laughed, and now I have returned and am continuing the journey. Oh, if we were only together! That’s what I keep saying at every moment. We must take a long trip together, to enjoy ourselves. Only thus, combining companionship with motion, do I enjoy all aspects of pleasure. I am greatly moved, setting foot on Russia’s black, fertile soil, breathing the cold, still air, viewing the silent, forbearing masses. My soul is broadening; my mind wishes to transcend its borders in order to join all these thronging souls, to blow upon this fertile, human soil. All that I have written or done seems unworthy and provincial. My outcry has been heard in a tiny, narrow corner of the world by very few, most of whom are faithless and evil. Looking at these women and the muzhiks, I know that my voice will never touch them because the means I use are small. What’s the meaning of art, a beautiful phrase, a fine simile, a splendid line of verse? All these things are small; they do not touch mankind’s great waves. Only religion, action—only a Christ or a Lenin—­ deserves to live today. Others exist in order to wait for him or, at most, to prepare his coming with their inarticulate, provincial outcries. Lenotschka, I am so grief stricken, so smothered by the mediocrity in which I act and exist. Oh, if only I could smash the borders not only of Greece but also of art! If only I could find deliverance from beauty in order to channel all my ardent love for women, and to give myself over to a single wild, deadly form of action! Will I be able to, ever? Will I manage in time? I don’t know. I am cultivating beauty as much as I can, I shall make the Odyssey the most beautiful thing that I can—there’s no other way to be delivered from beauty. Lenotschka, I’ll see you again tomorrow in Moscow. I repeatedly kiss your hands, shoulders, knees. N

1  Politis is writing:  Fotos Politis’s favorable review appeared in the newspaper Politeia on 16 and 18 October, 1927. In addition, a long appreciation by G. N. Politis appeared in Ellinika Grammata on pp. 440–43 of the 15 October 1927 issue (not November, as specified in Katsimbalis 1958, p. 44, number 852).  1  pèlerinage:  Pilgrimage.  1  Once again after years, in time, once again she’ll be ours!:  From a famous folk song lamenting the fall of Constantinople to the Turks in 1453.  1  tourbillon:  Swirl, whirlwind.  1  grouillante et fourmillante: Teeming and swarming.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 56–57.

Moscow, 28 October 1927

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Dear Brother, I’m walking on the snow-covered streets, breathing in the air of Moscow! My joy and emotion are inexpressible. Yesterday evening, as soon as I arrived, I went to Lenin’s tomb and saw him once again lying there fully alive, short, all white, with the bald skull, the little blond beard, his right fist clenched, the left one open. I’m wandering through the streets, seeing again what I loved so much: the golden domes, the somber men, the wild, dangerous women, the Asiatic cheekbones, the oriental colors. How far one finds himself here from superficial, narrow, micro-minded, micro-souled Greece! How shameful to belong to a decadent, washed-out race of fellaheen! We need to conquer all that, to escape it, make war on whatever inside us joins us to Greek blood. There’s one great, marvelous temptation: the language. Let’s see! Everything here is progressing, being consolidated. They’re constructing homes. The system of public order is terrible, oppressive, the discipline great. But there is economic difficulty and great resistance against the leaders. When I come, we’ll talk about it. Foreigners are arriving every day. Barbusse is here, and Couturier, Istrati, etc. I’ll see all of them. In the meantime, I’m an idler going the rounds of streets, churches, museums, trying to accept even what the Bolsheviks reject and to harness it by force to the purpose. I still am not an homme d’action, and I have this right. I think of you every minute; you are the only person whom I wish were here with me. Starting now, we must think how you can come here next year. I’ll leave Russia most probably on 24 November, because there’s no boat earlier, except on the 10th, which is too early. If there happens to be a need, you have time to write me here at the hotel where I’m staying: Grand Hôtel (Komnata—i.e., room—538), Moscow. I’m sending you a note for Sotiriou in case he still didn’t supply the manuscript. Greet Mr. Eleftheroudakis for me. I’ll write him in a few days. God be with you, always! N

1  fellaheen:  Kazantzakis routinely borrowed this term of Oswald Spengler’s for the dregs of a politically decadent nation. The Decline of the West (1922–23) by the German historian and philosopher Oswald Spengler (1880– 1936), was eagerly read by Kazantzakis while he was in Berlin in 1922. The term is the plural of fellah, a peasant, laborer, fieldworker in Egypt.  1  Barbusse:  Henri Barbusse (1873–1935), French communist author whose memoir of the horrors of the First World War, Le Feu (1916), gained him fame. He emigrated to the Soviet Union and died while working on a book about Stalin.  1  Couturier:  Paul Vaillant-Couturier (1892–1937) founded Clarté in 1919, advocated pacifism after the war, and served as editor in chief of the

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Parisian communist newspaper l’Humanité.  1  Istrati:  Panaït Istrati (1884– 1935), half-Greek, half-Romanian author who wrote in French and was called “the Gorki of the Balkans.” Kazantzakis met him in Moscow and traveled with him in Russia, but their relationship cooled, as did Istrati’s appreciation of the Soviets.  1  homme d’action:  Man of action.  1  Sotiriou:  Kostas Sotiriou, a well-known educator, possessed the manuscript of Kazantzakis’s What I Saw in Russia, about his 1925–26 trip. Sotiriou gave it to Vasilis Lahanas for publication by Stohastis in two volumes in 1928, dedicated to Rahel Lipstein.

To Edwige Levi —Manuscript (in French) in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. Levi /29.

Moscow, 28 October 1927 Dear, very dear friend, I am a very happy man—let us begin with that sentence! Here I am once again in the holy city that I love, able to ramble in the snow and to experience profoundly the savage life of these brutish and strong souls of the North. All of a sudden Aegina and Greece’s beautiful shorelines—too beautiful for tormented souls—have disappeared. Only Odysseus still survives from this entire Greek shipwreck; he is promenading his black eyes over other countenances on earth and devoting his pirate heart to them. The church domes, blond men, and green-eyed women, newly penetrating my blood, are striving to save me from my Greek origins, which I detest. Oh! if only I had been Russian and Jewish, I would have accomplished (pardon me just a little) great things. All of my strength, devoted as it is to modern Greek souls that are petty and mercantile, is being squandered in that tiny outlying region. But let’s talk about Russia. Here is a shadowy people assailed by ardent, invisible forces that cannot be understood by Latin rationality. The poor devils who come here from civilized Europe to analyze, inspect, and measure this barbaric, fecund mass knit their brows and declare themselves unsatisfied. Arme Menschen! Feeling dizzy, they take refuge in their own countries, where creative intoxication and the power of darkness no longer exist. As for me, here I feel that I am Cretan—that is, African—and my mask, burned by the sun, gleams with happiness. I’ll stay here one month—Gast of the Soviet government for the 7 November anniversary. Then I’ll return to Athens, where I’ll stay a few days and betake myself to Paris at last! You’ve stopped writing. I saw Anna after a sixmonth absence, and she spoke to me a lot about you. Please write to me; let’s not lose each other! Send me a word at Athens; thus, I’ll find that city less repulsive. As soon as I’m in Paris, you’ll have my news. Who knows, one day you might come to Paris again.

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I think of you always, most dear friend. Doro is in Iraklio, the city you love. Mano gemella, auf Wiedersehen! I beg you not to forget me; write to me in Athens. May “God” be with you, dear friend! N

1  Arme Menschen!:  Poor people!  1  Gast:  Guest.  1  7 November anniversary:  7 November (n.s.) was the date when the Bolshevik Revolution of 25 October 1917 (o.s.) was celebrated.  1  Mano gemella, auf Wiedersehen!:  Twin hand, until I see you again!

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 212–14; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 169–71; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 174–76.

Moscow, 29 October 1927 Dear, No sooner had I sent my letter to you and returned to the hotel when a secretary of Kaméneva’s came and brought me your letter. She gave it to me with a laugh and said: “This morning I saw you change color when you were told that you didn’t have a letter, and I thought that I’d please you by hurrying to bring it to you. Perhaps this is the one you were expecting.” I saw the envelope and said, happily, “Yes, this one!” You’ll get well now that I’m coming. I’ll help you to avoid growing tired; life will change. I’m glad that you received the copies of Askitiki. Kastanakis wants another intellectual method. Askitiki is written for very few people; it requires terrific training, supreme spiritual anguish, and intellectual leisure. 1 November I’ve begun to work with horrifying intensity once again. I see people, discuss, struggle to differentiate, meet various foreign authors. I’ve just come from an extraordinary Japanese theater at night. Then I meet an extraordinary Italian human being, a writer who is suffering from insomnia, and we sit down, talk, and drink tea. Divine women in the streets; they’re dangerous—I struggle not to be overcome by dizziness. I cry out every moment inside myself, “Oh, if only we were together!” Or: to decide suddenly to renounce the world! 3 November

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The days and nights are passing by. I hardly eat or sleep. I get carried away by the vehement impulse to see—not things or institutions any longer, but people (Chinese, Japanese, Swedes, Americans—a multitude of souls). With indiscreet, barbaric voraciousness, I dash forward to touch them and observe what they offer. So far I’ve felt the following: I’ve not found anyone whose intellectual intensity and spiritual anguish are superior; yet all of these people have done something and do exert some influence, which I do not. I am murdered by Greece and the shallow, stupid, self-interested, cowardly Greeks. I lament my soul, which is being destroyed in a wretched, provincial corner. 4 November The tempo of Russian life has changed—it’s different from 1925. The official rhythm is quieter now; there is a certain embourgeoisement. The arrivistes have arrived and do not budge; the women have begun to descend again to their lowest cravings; the men are tired. Fortunately, the great internal struggle between Trotsky and Stalin lends new life and fire to the Russian soul. This is a critical moment for Russia; everyone expects the Europeans to start a war against them, and every day a horde of women and men queue up at the stores to get an extra supply of flour. 5 November I just learned some horrible news: Lilian Georgievna Harasova, a most beautiful poetess whom I’d met here, died two weeks ago. I was keeping a small gift for her. I wrote her asking when I could see her, and her aunt came and told me that she had died. Do me the favor of getting the Clarté of 19 November, which will have something on the tenth anniversary. Send it to me in Athens. I need it very much, so please! I don’t know whether I should send you this letter immediately or wait for the celebration and write to you then. Now I’m sitting in my room in the morning, looking through the window at the snow-covered rooftops and at the people whose breath is misty in the cold. Moscow is dressed all in red; the great act of adoration is approaching. I’m happy that I could experience these Moscow days. Which power can it be that brings me a reality conforming to my spirit’s extremist desires? I shudder because I know that this same power will cast me down all at once and fill these fiery, voracious eyes with dust. Sometimes, these days, my heart wants to break, and I am unable to hold back my tears. Lilian Harasova’s death is working inside me, ever so slowly. It’s a shadow falling over me, you see, dulling my sight. I certainly did not fall in love with this woman, but I saw her great yearning when she recited her poems to me, how she wanted so much to come to Greece, to see the sun, to see light, not to die! Oh, Lenotschka, how can the human heart not be

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crushed, how can it endure? This entire Soviet celebration, you see, has fallen under the shadow of a woman who died young. P.S. Dear Lenotschka, I wouldn’t want to send you this letter with a sorrowful ending. You have so many sorrows that it’s not right to increase them. Let us take heart; let us manage to withstand all of life’s weight like this: standing upright, with firm knees. Oh god, when will I see you, when will we sit down at peace, just the two of us again, and listen with our hearts throbbing, leaping, and remaining silent? Everything will be all right. The whole of life’s glass of wine is ours; we shall cross the entire distance between life and death with firm gait. Only do get well, so that a way may be found for us to be released from external trivialities and concerns, and so that we shall be able to live far away from Greece, working together. Oh, for one to be destroyed in a task that is dangerous, to be enraptured by an action that may kill him! Here my head is filling up again. Everything that I see, hear, and touch—snow, steppes, people, ideas—must become (1) verses in the Odyssey, (2) material for my metacommunist work. In order to manage in time, before I die, I must seize and plunder. Askitiki is a fearsome, gory outcry that will be heard after my death. Now, people comprehend only the poetical form. But lying within these figures of speech and lyrical phrases is God’s future countenance—fiery, fully armed, beyond hopelessness and hope. Lenotschka dear, I kiss your hands, knees, and shoulders. If the door opened suddenly and you entered, I would die of happiness. N

1  embourgeoisement: Increased bourgeois atmosphere; bourgeoisification.  1  arrivistes:  Social climbers.

To Elli Lambridi —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yolanda Hatzi.

Moscow, 6 November [1927] Dorogaya moya!! The whole of Moscow is decorated in red, the atmosphere is filled with spirit, every race has come to worship at the red Bethlehem. The snow has melted; a slow rain has started and is blurring the light. Hardly sleeping, hardly eating, I’m in a state of intellectual ebullience! I lament my life that has gone to unproductive waste. I see people much inferior to us who have produced great works, are living intensely, are fruitful because they exist in a great current. 7 November, morning

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Every person in the hotel is on his feet at dawn in order to go to Red Square, where the celebration will take place. The telephone in my room is ringing continually, Russian and foreign friends arranging rendezvous so we won’t get lost in the crowd. The red lights have been turned on in the fog. Looking out through my window, I see the streets full of commotion, red flags, revolutionary graffiti. I am the only representative here from Greece, which gives me pleasure; I like bearing my race’s responsibility in this red world-celebration that is so crucial. 7 November, night This day was marvelous. One of the best in my life. I can never describe what happened. In front of the Kremlin, in the immense Red Square, from nine in the morning until six at night, the Red Army on parade, the awesome cavalry of the Cossacks with drawn swords, horses with canons, armed male and female workers, the common people—more than 600,000 souls: Chinese, blacks, Asians in motley colors, camels, all the variegated opulence of the Orient, blond Germans, English, the whole world. All day long, Moscow was a fearsome military encampment, horses whinnying, men lighting fires. Singing began, Caucasians started to dance, orientals came with their drums and shrill flutes. Once again, life presented itself to me as something that one must joyfully discard in order to escape the body, which hinders one from becoming part of the awesome Spirit. I cannot bear our life in Greece any longer. It is unworthy, a nothing. This day has got to force me to save myself at last. 8 November I remember you at every moment. Would that you were here! This atmosphere—an air of fiery danger, a center of dark forces, a terrific crossroads of souls and instincts—definitely suits you most profoundly. I’m making an effort to tolerate the camaraderie vulgaire et crasse of the comrades, the smell their bodies give off, the similarity with which they speak to you, the dogmatic narrow-mindedness and wretchedness of their brains. I’m writing you now from the club where workers’ representatives have gathered and are about to reach a decision about worldwide political policy. They are gathered, the meeting hasn’t started yet, they’re saying what must be done, what Chamberlain thinks, what will be the outcome of the new war. I detest them and admire them. They are the masses that will take steps and decide. I should have been born either with more virtues or with less finesse. When I decide never to intervene in action, I shall become a whole person on a level that I do not like. I keep waiting in vain for your letter. I don’t know what you are doing, whether your life continues its pace, expecting to escape the school. Have you

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had a letter from America? I always keep hoping to receive a letter from you before I leave. I’ll be departing on 24 November from Odessa, and if you wish, you can write me there (Théocharis Théocharidis, Elisavetinskaya 13), and I’ll be sure to get it. I met an interesting Indian woman who spoke to me about Gandhi, also a marvelous Indian dancer, slim, chocolate-colored, with an orange shawl. 9 November Finally I’m sending you this letter. I have an infinite amount to tell you and no time to do so. The Congress has started; I need to take an active part. I see Barbusse often; we’re going to do various things together that I’ll tell you about. Yesterday there was a meeting of all the women who came. Lenin’s wife spoke, as did Klara Zetkin and Käthe Kollwitz—three marvelous old ladies. Various Theodoropoulines filled the hall. Shouts for liberation; ideas, ideals, etc., and in a dark corner in the rear, the Indian woman’s eyes were gleaming, silently, motionlessly, with deep black rings, as she swallowed down all this futile extrasexual frenzy of the colorless females. I’m impatient to see you and touch you. May God keep you well! I kiss you a lot on the shoulders and eyes. Always, N

1  vulgaire et crasse:  Vulgar and coarse.  1  Theodoropoulines: Refers sarcastically to women like the feminist and musicologist Avra DrakopoulouTheodoropoulou (1880–1963), who was the founder in 1920 and then the president of the League of Women’s Rights, which established orphanages, after-hours schools for girls, and centers for teaching women to earn money through activities like home crafts.

To His Father —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 34; printed in Goudelis 1978, p. 26.

Moscow, 8 November 1927 My dear Father, On your name day, I wish you many years, and good ones. I hope that this letter will arrive in Crete during the days of your celebration. The celebrations here for the liberation of Russia are immense. Thousands of people have arrived from the ends of the earth. All the streets are decorated,

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all the nations of the world are here by invitation. I am the only one from Greece, because no one else was allowed. The whole city is covered with snow. It’s extremely cold, but I have a thick fur coat and am not cold. I’m very fine, and I’ll return to Athens at the end of November. Greet mother warmly for me and give the enclosed to Anestasia. I kiss your hand with respect, your son, Nikos

1  your name day:  The name day for Mihalis is 8 November.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 57–62.

Moscow, 9 November 1927 Dear Comrade! These days are so full that I can’t write you anything. The celebration two days ago was an astonishing miracle. More than a million people and military men paraded through Red Square. The whole of Moscow—with cannons, whinnying horses, its armed workers, Asiatic drums, Chinese dragons, Caucasian dancers, Cossack cavalry charges—had taken on the appearance of a frightening military encampment. Now the Congress has begun: how the workers of the world can eliminate the danger of the war that threatens Russia—because everyone here is convinced that a terrible world war against Russia is being prepared. Only three or four here are from the Balkans; thus, I need to take an active part. I’m working together with Barbusse on something that I’ll tell you about when I return. The other day, at a workers’ center where they had us for tea, I saw a dirty, myopic, repulsive old man at the table opposite me. I asked. It was Rappoport. I spoke to him at once about you, said that you like him, etc. He asked me what you are, “if you have a future.” All of his conversation was stupid, selfcentered, miserable. When you come to Paris and meet all of these people, Barbusse, Rappoport, etc., you’ll get them out of your system. Only Couturier is solid, clair and vaillant. I’m seeing hordes of people, orientals and otherwise. I met a marvelous Indian woman, friend of Gandhi’s. I’m no longer interested at all in museums, etc. I have glanced at several paintings I love, but my entire soul (the tigress!) is lying in wait now for human beings. Nothing special so far, no personnalité,

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only smart, efficacious ideologues and the like. Not a single soul on fire for supreme, suprarational aspiration! I hope to leave on the 24th. I could stay here permanently if I wanted to, but it’s not time yet. 16 November The Congress is over. I spoke, and now the Greek embassy here is having trouble giving me a visa. The efforts here to have me stay are intensifying. Istrati doesn’t want at all to let me depart. I’ll come to a decision in a day or two; however, I feel that I’m not ready for Moscow yet. I’ve had great joys and sorrows here, personal ones. I received your letter and was very glad. We must leave Greece. Kharkov, 17 November Several of us invitees departed suddenly for a tour of the Caucasus. I’m writing you from the railway compartment where Istrati and I are, alone. We’ve become great friends. He’s a person full of life, feeling, primitivité, and depth. We talk, make plans, look out through the window at soundless snowcovered Russia, the Nova Mater. I’ve got to find some way, by any means, to live far away from Greece. Various Russian periodicals here have proposed that I write articles for them, fifty rubles (five pounds) the article. A person can live on two hundred rubles a month. The large state publishing house wants to bring out a book of mine; so there might be a way. The other day I chanced to see a Greek newspaper, and I shuddered. My God, how deep we are in the abyss of abomination and triviality! Finish your obligation this way: without losing heart. Then leave immediately. Whether I’m in Moscow or Paris, we must work together. I think of you at every moment with ardent love and deep confidence. We’ll go to Baku, then to Tiflis, Batumi, etc. So I’ll probably leave on 8 December from Odessa. I’ll be in Athens on 15 December at the latest. I’ll stay there until Christmas, and I still don’t know whether I’ll turn toward Paris or will go back to Moscow to settle there. Caucasus, 20 November 1927 I’m touring the Caucasus. My eyes are filling again; the Odyssey is enlarging; my decision about acting is growing firmer. The probability that I’ll remain here is continually increasing. I’ll go back to Moscow around 2 December and stay a few days during which I’ll try to find quarters for my return. I’ll live with Istrati and collaborate with him because Barbusse is an unbearable arriviste. The decision is ripening. It’s still fluid, and will take definite shape in

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a few days. I still don’t know which shape. In any case, I’ll see you on 15 December, and we’ll talk a lot. Baku The trip is continuing and a horde of possibilities are flowing along with it. My desire still has not assumed a definitive form. I cannot write you the details, but today it’s more probable that I’ll stay a month longer in Russia, so that you may expect me at the beginning of January. I’ll stay one or two months in Greece in order to write as intensively as I can for the Encyclopedia and to take all the articles with me to finish up in Moscow, where I have many resources in the library. I’ll probably come to Greece with Istrati and return to Moscow with him. He’s an excellent brother—strong, warm, a resolute communist like us, broad and free. I found a similar brother from North America, a university professor, unique. Our dream is beginning to flesh itself out in a way far superior to what we had figured. We are laying the foundations for an intense international effort. I’m impatient to see you so that we can talk. I’ll send you this letter when the decision has become still more firm. I think of you at every moment, with warmth, love, conviction. Because you exist, I am happy. 22 November 1927 I have decided to return to Moscow and from there to go to Kiev, where I’ll live with Istrati. We’ll leave together for Greece on 23 December. I’ll see about finding a place to live and will try to put down roots here, giving my life an abrupt turn. I shall refuse many pleasures that still keep me tied to personal need and shall give my life an intense expression, farouche, jusqu’au bout. The times that are passing here are heavy, full of precious substance and responsibility. People here, without knowing it, are living the supreme problems that interest us; they are working out those problems willy-nilly, opening the way for our own future reality. In Baku, two things gave me great pleasure, two that in appearance seem antithetical but are unified more deeply, like root and blossom: (1) the horrible petroleum district: black soil, a forest of smokestacks, stinking workers covered all in black, incessant hellish rain; (2) a young female dancer dressed all in gold and orange, head to toe, who danced before us last night, slowly, passively, with discipline. I shall never forget this blossom against the horrible background of the smokestacks. The synthesis and unification took place inside me immediately, abruptly. As is always the case with me, this completion of the crassest reality by means of imagination’s highest flower gave me the profoundest joy. This is the traveler’s great hope: to find images at the ends of the earth that express his soul and help him to save and be saved.

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I’ll send this letter from Tiflis. It is with the bitterest emotion that I return to the soil that devoured Stavridakis. Never shall I forgive the dark powers for that act. Never shall I allow my heart to simmer down, covering over its outcries of rage and pain. Stavridakis’s soul was one that ought to have been given time to purify itself, raise itself up, and speak. It was not allowed to. Even to his closest friends (except me!), he left a tepid memory of mistrust and uncertainty. I alone live to raise him from the dead. I struggle to unwind his soul from inside me by prodding it roughly. Tiflis, 25 November 1927 It is with deep emotion that I set foot again in this charming city and once more see the streets I crossed and the gardens I entered together with Stavridakis. However, governing the sadness well, I am struggling to replace the dead comrade with Panaït Istrati, who is full of life, strength, and supreme verve. As I’ve written you, we will stay together until 23 December, and thus we’ll be in Athens at the end of December. My life needs to acquire a resolute intensity in Russia. We must liberate ourselves from Greece as much as we can. 27 [November 1927] We’re leaving Tiflis tonight for Batumi, from there other cities, then back to Moscow. I drank a lot at the banquet given us this evening and spoke about Stavridakis. It was precisely at this same hotel in which we were eating that he and I stayed, laughed together, and made future plans. I am always with you, brother Prevelakis! N

1  Rappoport: Charles Rappoport (1865–1951), French sociologist, author of a book on Karl Marx and another on the nature of socialism, etc.  1  clair: Clear-sighted. Kazantzakis is punning on Couturier’s periodical, Clarté (clearness).  1  vaillant: Courageous. Kazantzakis is punning on Couturier’s full name, Vaillant-Couturier.  1  Nova Mater:  New mother.  1  farouche, jusqu’au bout:  Wild, to the limit.  1  the soil that devoured Stavridakis:  Yannis Stavridakis, Kazantzakis’s good friend who accompanied him in 1919 on the expedition to the Caucasus to repatriate persecuted Greeks, died there at the age of twenty-eight from pneumonia.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 217–18; English translation

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(incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 173–74; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 178–80.

Moscow, 16 November [1927] My dear, I received both your letters and am writing you immediately because my heart is full of distress. Efforts are being made for me to stay a long time in Russia, settling here. I spoke at the Congress that took place here. I spoke with vehemence about the socialist war, and now the trouble is beginning: our embassy here is finding difficulty giving me a visa, and I may encounter problems in Greece. I’m making a thousand plans to stay here, to give my life a new direction, and for you to come to Moscow. However, I don’t feel that I am entirely ripe yet for Moscow. In any case, I’ll decide this week because the boat leaves Odessa on the 24th and there’s no other except two weeks later. Meanwhile I’m living life intensely here—theater, museums, people. The best theater I’ve ever seen is the Jewish theater. Stanislavski is a great personality but his theater, where they act excellently, is now “former beauty.” Those who live in Russia feel that Stanislavski, insisting as he does on his wonderful acting method and the type of plays that he produces, is behind the times. It’s natural that the Kastanakises should be on his side. I consider it extremely difficult for anyone to sense what is highest in his own era, because this highest still has technical deficiencies that the old form overcame. But we’ll discuss all these things, about which the two of us are marvelously in agreement, when we are together in Paris or Moscow. Kharkov, 17 November Several of us invitees departed all of a sudden; we are traveling now toward the Caucasus. Istrati and I have a railway compartment, and all day long, stretched out, we talk, read, write, and look out the window at boundless snow-covered Russia. In a few days we’ll be in Baku, the Caspian Sea, then in Tiflis, where the grave of my dear friend who died there awaits me. The whole trip will last sixteen days. I’ll return to Moscow and from there go back to Odessa and depart finally on 8 December. I still don’t know what will happen. I am extremely moved by the idea of being able to bring you to Moscow. Istrati doesn’t want to let me go; he’s planning for us to live together in Russia, and I feel that my whole life is going to be revitalized if I manage to live in Moscow. I cannot say anything yet, and I still do not dare to hope that we shall walk together on Russian soil. Caucasus, 20 November 1927 We’re crossing the Caucasus. Rising up, all covered with snow, are the mountains that first saw the human species. It was through this gorge that

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tribes passed from Asia to Europe in primitive epochs. I think of you at every moment and am struggling to flesh out my vehement desire for you to come here so that we may live together in Russia. The greatest difficulty is to find a place to reside in Moscow. A friend has agreed to see about that. Baku It’s raining, the Caspian Sea is gray, afflicted; my heart is full of Sehnsucht nach Ihnen. My only joy is Panaït Istrati, who is with me. I have a presentiment that he will be a faithful, warm, and fruitful comrade for the rest of my life. We are going to go to Greece together. I’ll give lectures; then he’ll go for two weeks to Egypt, whence he’ll head back to Moscow. That’s the plan so far: for us to try to live in Russia. But it’s still not firm. I’ll be in Moscow in ten days, and I’ll see about getting a place to live—a most difficult thing. We’re thinking to buy a four-room house to be ready in February. He’ll occupy two of the rooms, I the other two. We count on having a thousand pleasures because you’ll come then and relax with me and you’ll help me a lot in my work. You’ll have your own room, and everything else will go well. I tremble at the idea that our meeting has been postponed once again. Could it be that all this postponement into which we have been pushed by necessity is for our own good? I have faith in our invisible guide; nevertheless, I’m terribly sorry that I’m taking so long to see you, Lenotschka. But nothing is definite yet, and this whole Russian prospect may not be realized. In that case, I’ll come to Paris without any postponement. I’ll write you the moment that the réalité currently so fluid around me solidifies. Lenotschka, I cannot say how much I have missed you. Write to me again c/o Olga Kaméneva, Malaya Nikitskaya 6, Moscow (it’s better for the address to be in Russian). I kiss you with most ardent longing, always yours. N

1  Sehnsucht nach Ihnen:  Longing for you.

To Elli Lambridi —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yolanda Hatzi.

Batumi, 28 November 1927 Dorogaya moya! It’s years since I wrote you, because I haven’t been at ease. Travels, people, emotions of many kinds have been devouring my time and spirit. I feel you with me at every moment, continually love you most deeply, am struggling to find a way for us to work together until death comes to scatter our bodies that

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love each other so much. I have gone through many extremely intense moments. I have seen people whom I love very much, and yesterday evening at the Tiflis station two people who were embracing did not wish to separate, because life suddenly seemed insipid to each if he lived without the other. Those two people were the poet Leonidze and myself. He knew only Georgian; I struggled to express all my warmth to him with the two words I knew. From church Leonidze knew the entire Christos anesti ek nekron, and when the two of us, both fatigued from the effort to communicate, looked at each other in despair, we suddenly began to chant the Christos anesti. Two extremely beautiful Georgian women were at the banquet given us by the writers. I, according to my horrible custom, pounced on their souls like a leopard and remained intensely excited by them for a few hours, until our extremely sad separation at the train station. So much for personal details. One more thing that will interest you: Istrati and I, who have been traveling together in a separate compartment, have become friends. Our contact has been unexpectedly warm. We assume that we shall spend our lives in extremely close collaboration. He’ll come to Greece with me and then go to Egypt, whence he’ll return to Greece and then, perhaps, we’ll depart together for Moscow. I find myself once again in great spiritual ferment, my life being ready to take unexpected turns. How is it possible for you to come to Russia when you return from America? The idea that you’ll be far away gives me a deadly shudder. But if you stay in America for a year, I’ll have time here to prepare for your arrival. 29 November It’s raining slowly, monotonously. From the hotel balcony I discern bananas and date palms getting soaked. The Black Sea is spuming all white. I am very sad, and I’d like life to come finally to an end. God knows when this letter will arrive in Faliro. It has to go via Moscow and thus you’ll receive it around 10 December. I think of you, see you all alone in your school among people you despise, and my heart rushes out to touch you. I’m experiencing terrible stories here. All the men and women have seen tragic events—dark bouleversements—that they want to relate to you, and even the most insignificant of these people gleams from the purple reflection of a great conflagration. I think of Greece’s narrow soil and the Greeks’ narrow souls, the horror of being born into a race that is decadent and dismal. 1 December We’re traveling on the Black Sea, passing the entire “Côte d’Azur” from Batumi to Novorossiysk. We get off at the harbors. Snow-covered mountains; hot sunshine on the beaches; date palms, bananas, century plants. Everlasting! Istrati and I separate ourselves from our twenty comrades and walk among the trees. My soul is agitated, uneasy; it’s months since I received a letter from

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you. I wrote Odessa saying that if there’s a letter there they should send it to me in Moscow, where I’ll be in a few days. I’ll leave Russia on 23 December, and I’ll see you on New Year’s Day. I am very sad. I think the moment has come for me to make the most painful effort of my life. I still don’t dare express it even to myself. Dorogaya moya, if only I were to die—it’s time! Oh, if only I had a letter from you! I feel that I’m at the edge of the world, on a boundless steppe, sometimes in snow, sometimes in sunshine, and that I’m walking endlessly, without hope. Dear Mudita, I kiss your eyes and shoulders. Write me in Odessa, where I’ll be on 23 December. Do not forget me. I love you very much, and I am inconsolably sad. I feel that this Russia is going to devour my body. Let it delay a bit, giving me time to save what I can. Always, N

1  It’s years since I wrote you:  Actually, he had written her just three weeks earlier, on 6 November.  1  Leonidze:  Giorgi Leonidze (1897–1966), Georgian modernist poet whose long epic Stalin: The Childhood and Adolescence (1936) saved him from being attacked by the Soviet regime. In 1959 he was declared the National Poet of Georgia.  1  Christos anesti ek nekron:  “Christ is risen from the dead,” the beginning of the great Easter hymn sung in Greek Orthodox churches when the darkness of crucifixion is transformed to light.  1  Faliro:  A pleasant suburb of Athens, on the sea.  1  bouleversements: Distressful upheavals.

To Elli Lambridi —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yolanda Hatzi.

Rostov, 2 December [1927] Dorogaya moya! We’re returning to Moscow at last, after a huge tour. The day after tomorrow, in the morning, we’ll be back. I’ll stay a few days in Moscow. After that I need to remain two weeks in Kiev; from there, Odessa. Thus, I hope to see you on the 1st of January. Moscow, 4 December I’m back in Moscow—full of snow, terribly cold. I’m sitting in the hotel now, alone, and my heart is pouring out toward Faliro. The full vision of Russia and the Caucasus is lying in wait inside me, filled with snow, rain, sunshine, mountains, women. I haven’t been able to write anything yet; the days

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and nights go by with a slight giddiness. Seeing and experiencing Russia, I am wearing myself out completely. 7 December I am bidding Moscow farewell. I wonder if I shall see Saint Basil’s Cathedral, the Kremlin, the golden domes, these unknown women ever again. On the other hand, the railway station is filling with my heart-blood. Kiev, 9 December In Kiev, at night, I found Istrati waiting for me at the hotel. Ill. A great pleasure to see each other again. We drew our beds closer and kept talking all night long. It is many years—ever since 1914 when I met Sikelianos (my God, how far that person is from my life now, although not from my heart!)—many years since I have enjoyed what we call friendship: man with man. On the shifting ground of Russia, at a mature age, with the same desires, Istrati and I happened upon each other. Our lives will acquire unexpected intensity if we crave and effect our desired action with the terrific, prodigious perseverance that characterizes both of us. Without placing Scheuklappen over my eyes, I would like now to crave one thing and one thing only, fanatically and without infidelity. This is the last letter I’ll be sending you from Russia. We leave from Odessa on 23 December, and I’ll telegraph you straightway. Will you be in Athens? Those are the days you’d like to go to Epidauros. My yearning to see you is inexpressible. It’s been two months since I heard your voice, and I feel the deepest anguish, as though I were dying and were unable any longer to hear you. I’ll have a letter from you in Odessa—I’m eager to go and find it. How are you doing? What new things have happened in your life? Oh, if I could only suddenly see you approach as you crossed this snow that stretches out beyond my window! In Aegina (I always see you opening the door, blushing deeply and panting), your arrival released the island from death. Everything that we experienced, enjoyed, and suffered in that little house has taken such possession of my heart that I am unable to restrain the anguished outcry: Where do we come from and toward what end is this immensely great sweetness that a woman gives to a man? Dorogaya moya, my dear, I wish I could find a simple expression to tell you how indescribably I am with you. When will I see you, and for how long, and when will I see you again? This life is an unbearable dream. The human heart leaps up, throbs, and struggles to awaken as it dies. Twenty days still separate us. May “God” grant that I find you well and happy—you and your child! I kiss you on the shoulders, I kiss your hands, I kiss your two eyes. N

1  Scheuklappen:  Blinders.

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To His Father —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 35; printed in Goudelis 1978, p. 26.

Kiev, 18 December 1927 My dear Father, I’m still in Russia. I’m fine. The climate here benefits me a lot, and I’m putting on weight. It’s terribly cold. The snow in the streets is a man’s height, but inside the houses it’s warm, and I have a heavy fur coat, and thus the cold doesn’t bother me at all. I shall be in Athens toward the end of December. I wish you many years and happy ones now for the holidays. Greet mother warmly for me and please give the enclosed to Anestasia. I kiss your hand with respect. Your son, Nikos

To Eleni Samiou —Photograph of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 224–25; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 178–79; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 185.

Athens, 3 January 1928 Dear Lenotschka, The Papaïoannous just came and brought me your letter. We talked together for a long time; they seem dazed, tired, without zest. Apparently Marika is certain to leave for Berlin at the end of January. Katy is full of fatigue and sorrow. About Russia and us: 1.  You’re right. I see that it’s necessary for you to do your treatment beforehand. The body must be prepared. I’m writing you my schedule so that you’ll know it, to see how we’ll arrange things. I return to Russia with Istrati at the end of February. We stay near Odessa for three months so that Istrati’s body, which is weak, can gain strength. Afterwards: June, July, and August we need to go on a long pèlerinage, the whole Volga, from Novgorod to Astrakhan. We’ll collect extensive documentation and then return to Moscow, where we’ll work out how to write a large book in French that will be immediately

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translated into Russian. Thus, I’ll be in Moscow by the end of August or beginning of September; this official journey will take place during the summer. Consequently, finish your treatment and then go to the mountains to rest until the end of August. I hope to be able to send you a specific sum every month so that you won’t need to work. 2.  How will we live? No dependence whatsoever on Russians. The economic situation is like this: On the one hand, Istrati with his books and articles (he gets paid a lot to be translated into Russian) will have what he needs, and to spare. I, in addition, will have: a. funds from writing the articles I undertook for the Eleftheroudakis Encyclopedia; b. funds from writing articles for Russian periodicals; they’re asking me for them, and they pay very well; c. books of mine translated into Russian; they’re asking for them; d. screenplays for the celebrated Russian cinema, which Istrati and I have undertaken to do. Thus, Istrati and I, being free, will have the necessary money. 3.  You know my ideas about communism. I have formulated them in a difficult but clear way in Askitiki. I am neither superficial nor narrow-minded nor a Marxist. When you come to Russia, you will find it impossible not to agree with me. Our work in Russia does not impose any compulsion on us, nor are we anyone’s instruments. We’ll probably experience difficulty because we’re not orthodox, but our philosophical reservations are secondary. The primary duty is different; and that we can do. 4. It’s difficult for me to go through Paris and enjoy the terrific moment of seeing you. My economic situation is weak; also, for other reasons, I need to be in Odessa as quickly as possible. The great center of Soviet cinema is there, and I have to proceed to study it with Istrati and to hand over the screenplay before we leave for the Volga—that’s how I’ll get the money to send you for your expenses coming here. Be patient, Lenotschka. God is with us, and we’ll recoup in Russia all the days and nights that we are losing now. 5.  As a writer, Istrati is very interesting. You should read Oncle Anghel (above all “Cosma”) and Codine. Those are the ones I like. Your judgment is strict and correct. Yet, as a human being, he is also marvelous: good, pure, full of simplicity, vitality, spiritual verve. He has many qualities that I love. I’m sending you an article I wrote about him. Lenotschka, God grant that this year be a good one and that it bring us together in Russia. I desire that most deeply. You must prepare your body; all the rest is easy. Oh, for you to be well! I seek no other grace; all the rest will fall into place. We’ll work, you’ll help me write, you’ll learn Russian before I do, you’ll ease my life. Only devote all those months that still separate us to your bodily re-creation. Take treatment, keep very rested. From March onward, when I’ll be in Russia, I will do all I can to continue sending you a

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thousand francs a month, so that you won’t need to overwork. The body, first! I ask no other favor from you. In a few days I’ll send you Traveling, a book of mine: the articles on Spain, Italy, Egypt, and Sinai. Unfortunately the ones on Palestine will go in another book. In addition, the articles on Russia are being published in two volumes. Write to me, dear. I await a letter from you with longing and am very much with you. I kiss your shoulders and knees. N

1  pèlerinage:  Pilgrimage.  1  Cosma: Included in Oncle Anghel.

To His Father —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 36; printed in Goudelis 1978, p. 27.

Athens, 16 January 1928 My dear father, I’m fine. I wish the same for you and for my dear mother. Here, since I gave a speech with a friend of mine and told the truth, there has been a big brouhaha in the newspapers. But all this has no importance and will not affect us. In a few days I shall go to Aegina and stay there in order to study in peace. Many greetings to mother and to Anestasia and the children. I kiss your hand with much respect. Your son, Nikos

1  I gave a speech with a friend of mine:  This occurred in the Alhambra movie theater off Omonoia Square on 11 January; the friend was of course Istrati. For the contents of these speeches and the brouhaha that followed, see Bien 1989, pp. 124–29, and also the note on “the commotion in Athens” to the letter of 3 February 1928 to Prevelakis, directly below. A French translation of the speech exists in Janiaud-Lust 1970, pp. 569–73.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 64–65.

Aegina again, 3 February 1928

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My dear brother, Thank you awfully much for your letter and for your care in asking about the poetic meter. Poriotis’s verses struck me as hopelessly “faultless” and monotonous, with the caesura in most instances in the tenth syllable and not in the eighth. I’ll keep your letter so that it can help me when I begin reworking the Odyssey. Here, once again, I have found tranquillity. Flat roof, sea, mountain—and myself. How superficial, how alien to my nature, was the commotion in ­Athens, the “Sotiria,” the examining magistrates, the communist pseudo derring-do. I’m writing many articles. I’ll come back in a very few days to get new articles and aids. Before I leave for Russia, I’d like to have finished all of this article writing so that I can submit it in installments as various parts of the Encyclopedia are printed. I think of you always with warmth, love, and conviction. The fact that you are with me gives me courage, augmenting my soul. N

1  Poriotis’s verses:  Nikolaos Poriotis (1870–1945), translator of ancient Greek drama into modern Greek, was well known as an expert in the metrics of Greek poetry, and especially the seventeen-syllable verse, which Kazantzakis was using in his Odyssey. Prevelakis had questioned Poriotis on Kazantzakis’s behalf.  1  the commotion in Athens, the “Sotiria,” the examining magistrates:  The commotion arose because of Kazantzakis’s and Istrati’s speeches in the Alhambra Theater on 11 January 1928, praising the Soviet Union and also because of Istrati’s visit to the Sotiria Tuberculosis Sanatorium, which he exposed as a national disgrace, especially when compared to the luxurious life of Athenian high society. Both he and Kazantzakis were then subpoenaed for “insulting the state and disturbing civic tranquillity.” The trial was eventually forgotten, but Istrati was deported. See Bien 1989, pp. 124–29.

To Eleni Samiou —Photograph of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 225–27; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 180; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 186–87.

[Athens, 14 March 1928] Dear Lenotschka, A great pleasure, once again, to receive a letter from you. How long will this happiness of ours last? I’ll do what I can to make it last forever. I know the nar-

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rowness of humanity’s reach as well as the pace of its sowing, blossoming, fruit bearing, and dying. But I also know the power of the soul, which has one and only one supreme goal: to conquer “nature” rather than simply to continue. Lenotschka, both of us must participate in this effort, so that the intoxication may be maintained at its highest pitch in our souls, hearts, and bodies. I’m remaining here like a hostage. The trial will take place and be ferocious, because the judges apparently want to strike at Glinos and me pitilessly in order to terrorize the others. I’m hoping that the trial will be set for some time in March and then be over with quickly. We are preparing a lucid, intense defense that is neither fearful nor swaggering. It seems that this whole medieval trial will be very interesting. The longest they can put us in jail is six months. If it’s only three, then I’ll be able to leave immediately, getting a suspended sentence. So much for the trial. Where you are going this summer depends solely on this: where is better for your health. Health, health—let that regulate your decision. That’s why I am unable to give any advice. They asked me at the embassy yesterday when you plan to leave for Russia so that they can notify those in Paris to prepare the preliminary documents. I said that you would tell them later in order that I might first see what is going to happen at the trial, lest you chance to go and not find me there. In any case, we still have time. Kalmouchos is leaving Paris. That’s good. I asked him to make a good sketch of you and to bring it here for me. In addition, give him the oil stove that is at the Kastanakises so that I can have it in Russia. He’s a good man and will accept this job. Not a word from Istrati. I’m afraid that they’re impounding his letters here. I’m beginning to suffocate from this feeling that I can’t leave yet. But the judges, now that the atmosphere is so opposed to communists, are equally eager for the trial to take place. I don’t see anyone. I’m working hard. In three days I’ll finish all the articles and begin the defense. When the weather gets better—it’s raining today—I’ll to Aegina, if I have time, to reread the Odyssey. The second volume of Russia will be printed in ten days; in twenty days Christ will be finished; afterwards they’ll start Odysseas. Oh, when will our service in Russia end and when will we take refuge in a tranquil hermitage full of tall trees and straight roads, near a huge city? Oh, I am so ready now for the second draft of the Odyssey! The other day I saw Polly at Marika’s very lovely concert. We talked and laughed. She was in fine shape, having put on quite a bit of weight: beautiful, exquisite eyes, coquettish voice, which I always liked. Lenotschka, I kiss your hands and shoulders. N This page is your own. I thank you warmly because you took care of the translations so quickly. Now that I see them in front of me, I’m glad. Traveling

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needs to be done well because perhaps in this way we’ll be able to find some foreign newspaper to entrust a journey to me—to India, let’s say, or Africa. Not a word from Istrati. Most probably the government is interfering and holding the letters. But I have a way of sending him a letter securely. The trial still has not been set. The prosecuting attorney has purchased everything I’ve published so that he can demonstrate that I wish to destroy religion, morality, the fatherland, etc. It’s shameful to live under the same sky with such beings. I shall make an “apology” like Socrates’. Thanks a lot for your photographs. Send them to me always when you take them, because they give me great pleasure. I’m glad to see all the details of your body, which I love. Think carefully about where you should take treatment, because it is essential that you get better. In my opinion: If Plombières did you positive good, isn’t it a bit risky to run around again, looking for new doctors, new inquiries, a new treatment? But you know better than I do, and must decide. Regarding Galatea, you tell her the good news about the translation of her works. Her address is 1 Deinokratous Street. Kalmouchos is good, steady, modest, with a fine well-balanced fire. I have great hopes for him, but he must not remain aloof and fall again into his insignificant circles of friends in Greece. I’ll do what I can to have him come to Russia. If you find anything good on cinema, give it to him. Today I saw with pleasure in Patris that one of your articles was published. Patris has become very good and is competing with Vima. Only don’t get tired. Lenotschka, I love you a lot I kiss you a lot. I too am in a hurry for us to be together again. N An idea: It would be worth seeing (and writing an article on) the Armenian woman “Armen Ohanian,” Boulevard Rochechouart. I saw her once in Moscow, the evening she was getting ready to leave for Paris. Tell her that I asked you to go see her, and give her my greetings—maybe she’ll still remember me; she called me “The African.” You’ll meet the smartest woman of your life. She must have been beautiful once. She’s extremely cynical and sensual. It’s worth seeing her. Tell her that you’ll write about her in Greece.

1  an “apology”:  The word in ancient Greek actually meant a defense at a trial; indeed, Socrates’ famous “Apology” is his defense.  1  Armen Ohanian: Armenian dancer, actress, writer, translator (1887–1976), who became an ardent communist.

To Edwige Levi —Manuscript (in French) in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. Levi/32.

[Athens, 14 March 1928]

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My precious silence, hail! Finally, here is the dear voice again in my home! You have given me great pleasure. Stuck here while awaiting my trial as traitor, communist, revolutionary, etc., alone, writing all day long in order not to allow my soul time to suffer, I received your brief word—sad, smiling, a bit sarcastic, but sweet and firm. Perhaps you know the external activities of my life these past few months: return from Russia with Istrati exactly two and a half months ago; lectures with some violence; expulsion of Istrati; trial for me in a few weeks and perhaps a few months in jail; then departure straight for years in Russia. I’ve published several volumes. I expect to stay two years in Russia. Then I’m going to isolate myself somewhere, perhaps near Vienna, in order to work on my principal text: the Odyssey. Those are my adventures and plans, the external ones. Inside me: intense joys and sorrows. I am still able—thank “God”— to continue to suffer and to feel that I am living profoundly. Russia was a very great experience for me, one that immensely helped my soul, but I am beginning to go beyond it—that is, Russia can no longer contain my uneasiness (i.e., my heart). And I feel what we feel in great carnal love affairs: a bitter joy at regaining my freedom, or rather at descending again into freedom. In order for the soul to be covered with flowers and fruit, it must obey a Lord. That is the profound cause of my sadness: I still have not found my Lord, a naïve faith, a fecund illusion to which the relinquishing of one’s freedom would be an act of pride and love. I wander over this earth a vagabond, rebellious, free, and useless, like a woman unable to find a man to whom she can give herself. I will send you “my black head” in a few days. I think of you always: always with the same Sehnsucht and bitterness. I beg of you, do not forget me; write to me often. When will I see you again? Oh my god, what a mystery this life is, how woven of death, laughter, and bitterness! Nevertheless, how good it is to laugh and breathe! At the moment I am writing you, it is raining very slowly, the smell of spring is in the air, and I am very happy. Mano gemella, tante cose! N Ermou 59 14-3-28

1  My precious silence, hail!: In English in the manuscript.  1  Sehnsucht: Longing.  1  Mano gemella, tante cose: Twin hand, so many things.

To Takis Kalmouchos —Printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, p. 146.

[Aegina,] 15 April 1928, Easter

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Dear Kalmouchos, I’m writing you from Aegina, where I celebrated Easter with Prevelakis— that is, we went to the temple of Aphaia. Exquisite mountain, fragrance from flowering broom, warm day. We were thinking of you a lot. We talked about India, with all the details. I received your letters and the sketches and was sorry that you and the others are enjoying only that marvelous Cretan landscape— Harilaos’s pharmacy. I hope that you’re finally at a monastery now and at work. May God be with you! I’ve based many hopes on you and am glad to observe that you are advancing “όρτσα, διάλε την πίστη του κι όπου το βγάλει η βράση!” We have only one life. Let us do the best we can; let us intensify our desire; let us be vigilant and insatiable until our eyes fill with dust! In the meantime, both of us will keep looking at air, water, the human race, stones, and our hunger will be satisfied. This Tuesday I’m leaving for Russia. Please write to me c/o Th. Theocharidis, Elisavetinskaya 13, Odessa. I’ll surely receive you letters. You’ll do me a great favor if you write me in detail about your work—what you are accomplishing, what difficulties you are encountering, whether you think you’ll overcome them. May our “God” be with you! Warm greetings from Prevelakis. N

1  Takis Kalmouchos:  Painter (1895–1961), close friend of Kazantzakis’s.  1  όρτσα, διάλε την πίστη του κι όπου το βγάλει η βράση!:  The first line of a mandinadha cited in full in the epilogue to Report to Greco, the second line being “για πού θα σάσει μια δουλειά για πού θα σοχαλάσει!” Translation is difficult. Here is an attempt: Luff the helm, embrace your faith come what come may, / Who cares if a project thrive or if it decay!

To His Sister, Anestasia Saklambani —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. 2, A/A 37; printed in Goudelis 1978, p. 27.

Kiev, 25 April 1928 My dear sister, The journey was very nice. I arrived very well in Russia, and I’ll be in Moscow in a few days. The weather is splendid; spring is starting here now, the trees are beginning to open. I plan to take a long trip to Siberia to see the most curious villages, habits, and customs. I’ll have a troika—ask Michalakis and he’ll explain what kind of carriage this is. Therefore, I may be able to go on an excursion lasting several months to forests and villages. I’m going to write a

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book in French. I’m writing you an open postcard because I fear that my letters may get lost; that’s why I’ll write you on open cards from now, because they read them and will see that I don’t say anything. Warm greetings to Michalakis and the children. Many regards to mother—she shouldn’t worry, because I am perfectly well. With much love, N My address: Olga Kaméneva (for me) Malaya Nikitskaya 6, Moscow

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 229–30; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 183–84; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 189–90.

Kiev, 27 April 1928 My Lenotschka, Either I shouldn’t write you at all or from now on I should write you not every day but every hour and minute. Plans are changing, flowing from second to second. This is owing to the situation here and to Istrati’s character. I cannot write you the details, Lenotschka; we’ll meet soon and talk. Now, at 5:00 p.m., the plans are as follows: Istrati is not going to Paris; perhaps he’ll leave tomorrow, perhaps ten days from now. Perhaps I’ll stay in Kiev, or I’ll return to Odessa to finish the screenplays, or perhaps I’ll leave for Moscow. Finally, perhaps all of us will leave together for Germany! Good god! when will this vertigo end, and the two of us live together in peace, I to work and you at my side to help me? I’ll send you this letter tomorrow so that I can tell you if there has been any decision. How fast life goes here! The tempo is so rapid that before you are aware of something it has changed. Thus, it is very natural for each person to be speedily consumed, like objects burning in lots of oxygen. Living here, one can produce nothing but works involving motion—dynamic works. What’s required for the Odyssey, an atmosphere beyond the ephemeral, is lacking. 28 April 1928 Some provisional stabilization today. We’ll remain in Kiev four more days in order to be present at the great May Day celebrations and at Ukraine’s total adoration of its greatest poet, Shevchenko. On 3 May we leave for Moscow.

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There our lives will be arranged; we’ll talk to the necessary people to see what possibilities exist for us to work. The current plan is for a trip to Siberia lasting three to four months. Instead of writing a book on Russia (a horde of such books have already been written), we’ll write on Siberia. If this trip takes place (it will take place in June), I’ll let you know immediately. If it does not take place, then Volga or Turkestan. Istrati has handed in his screenplay. I’ll give mine six months from now in order to manage the summer trip. The moment I’m writing you I find myself as follows: in my hotel room, 7:00 p.m., abundant light, a table; the extremely tall samovar in the middle, like an altar, is boiling. To my left, Bilili is turning the robinet and preparing our tea; she is calm, radiant, absolutely as we predicted her psychology would be. To my right, Istrati is smoking, drinking coffee and tea. Opposite is our beloved Cheka member, whom you published in Kathemerini; he is telling us a story. At 8:30 p.m. we’re going to a well-known movie and tomorrow on an excursion to the countryside. The trees have not opened yet, but the chestnuts will be in full bloom in a few days. Midnight We’ve returned from the movies. I find this art extraordinarily interesting now and know how hard a screenplay is to do. When the need arises, I’ll collaborate with a Russian friend of mine who is a régisseur. I beg you ardently to ask a physician about Siberia’s cold climate, if it is good for you, so that you’ll know what to decide when you hear from me. Will you get your passport in time from the embassy in Paris? Did you receive the twenty pounds from the Papaïoannous? All that is important. Write me now at Kaméneva, Malaya Nikitskaya 6, Moscow. How is your dear body now? It’s been so long since I received a letter from you! I’m glad you exist, Lenotschka. What I like most deeply in you is your heroic nature and the honorable, assured, dignified way in which you face the world. You will experience strong feelings here in Russia, because life here has an elevated air, a harshness and heroism. Perhaps your body will grow stronger and be ruled by the soul. I love you very much. As long as you wish, we will advance together with the same stride and will enjoy and suffer intensely and sans réserve. May our God be always one step ahead, opening the difficult way! 29 April Morning. We’re going on an excursion today. I’m glad that I’m in Russia and that I’ll see her holy soil today and her still-unflowering trees. I think of you very much. Despite myself, totally unreasonably, I cannot forgive myself that Bilili is here and you are not. Of course, she is worthy of living in Russia, but there’s something pathologically peaceful about her and at the same time vehement, like cold fire. It’s not a disciplined impetuosity, but (how shall I put it?)

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a stagnant impetuosity. Bilili has something about her that completely distances me from her soul and body. Lenotschka, I’m sending this letter to you today even though it’s only half-finished. When I write you again in a few days, maybe I’ll have something firmer to say. In any case, you’ll follow all the fluctuations. Write me if you sent Barbusse’s Crucified Russia, what’s happening with Traveling, and if you received Christ and Nikiforos. I am with you. I shall soon kiss your shoulders, dear. N

1  Shevchenko: Taras Hryhorovych Shevchenko (1814–61), poet, dramatist, and painter; founder of modern Ukrainian literature.  1  Bilili:  Marie-Louise (Bilili) Baud-Bovy, Istrati’s partner. A Swiss, from Geneva, she came to Athens to meet him in January 1928 and then followed him to Russia.  1  robinet:  Faucet, tap.  1  régisseur:  Movie director.  1  sans réserve: Unreservedly.  1  Barbusse’s Crucified Russia:  Kazantzakis seems confused here because there is no work by Barbusse called Crucified Russia whereas Kazantzakis himself published an article with that name in 1927: “Η σταυρωμένη Ρουσία”, printed in Anayennisi.

To Eleni Samiou —Photograph of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 231–32; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 185; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 191.

[Kiev,] 5 May 1928 My dear Lenotschka, I am sitting in my room and writing to you. I am very tired. Russia does not give me any pleasure any longer. The only hope is that we will be able to travel on the Volga (not until August), afterwards will go to Siberia, and then will leave. It’s absolutely necessary that I work on the Odyssey. On the day that Istrati was to depart for Moscow, the schedule was: he would remain ten days in Moscow and arrange many matters, first of all what amenities we can have while we stay here and write about Russia. At the same time he would inform himself about Siberia. Then he would return to Kiev, by which time I will have completed the screenplay, and we would find a little house in a forest here in order to stay two months and work. Then, in August: journey on the Volga. I haven’t the slightest idea how much of that will happen. Istrati is devoid of willpower; he changes what he wants minute by minute. I long to receive your news in order to learn if you went to the embassy, if the visa is ready,

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how your body is, if you’re going to Plombières in May, where you’ll go for a rest afterwards—because, as I see things, the best of all would be for our original plan to happen and for you to come here at the end of July, to do the Volga together. I asked Istrati to succeed in getting devises étrangères and in sending you a hundred roubles this month. I’ll send you that much every month, so that you won’t overtire yourself working. In the state to which life here has been reduced by Istrati’s extravagances, things are unbearable. They’ve got to be controlled; otherwise we’re done for. Bilili sees what’s right but is pathologically incapable of intervening; elle se laisse faire, as though hypnotized. Lenotschka, I think of you at every moment and would like you to be with me. I’m eager for you to come; however, it’s better that you escape these first tiring months. When you do come, I hope that we shall have firmed up a schedule. 6 May 1928 I’m working peacefully in my room. I don’t talk, don’t see anyone; at last I’ve found my rhythm. The screenplay is coming along, evolving at every minute. It’s much more difficult than what one reckons, requiring as it does terrific intensité visuelle and logic regarding the sequence of effects. But I hope it will turn out well. Then I’ll start the new screenplay, Buddha, on which I base my hopes. A way needs to be found whereby we can live together for years, undisturbed. When you come, bring along whatever woolens you can—in the hope that we’ll go to Siberia—as well as blankets, sheets, whatever you can. Also an electric machine for boiling water, etc. All those things are indispensable here. If things were to happen the way I wanted them, they would be as follows: August on the Volga, winter in Siberia (the end of winter, so we can go to Japan for a month in the spring), return to Moscow, departure from Russia at the end of 1929. Then we shall see. Only get well, dear. Treatment. Rest. And come. I’m eager to have letters from you. Always write to Theocharidis (Elisabetinskaïa 13, Odessa), and he will send them to me. They took some pictures of us the other day, but none of me because I left. I didn’t escape another one, however. I’ll send it to you. How are the translations going? Did you send the Barbusse? Dear Lenotschka, I kiss your shoulders and I love you. N

1  devises étrangères:  Foreign currency.  1  elle se laisse faire:  She allows whatever happens to her.  1  intensité visuelle:  Visual intensity

1928 Letters  •  303

To Eleni Samiou —Photograph of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 232–33; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 185–186; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 191–92.

Kiev, 8 May 1928 Dear Lenotschka, I’ve just received two letters from you, one from Athens, the other from Paris. Worry, pleasure, and a thousand questions that received no answers: How is your health? Has the embassy given you a visa? Where will you go this summer? How is your soul? I sent you a letter yesterday, before I received yours. My god, I see that we still have not managed to speak; thus, as soon as I read your letter, I became thirstier than before. My life here has acquired great tranquillity. As soon as Istrati departed, it was as though I had escaped an astonishing noise. My room had been reduced to a thoroughfare; people kept going in and out, eating, yelling, bothering me. Today I haven’t spoken all day long; I’m working; I haven’t seen anyone. I am not happy, but this whole cadre substitutes a little for happiness. The screenplay is not at all historical, as you fear. It is taking on a human, dramatic character and the Friendly Society plays a minimal role. The elements that constitute it are the militant male, the loving female, sea, and sunshine. After The Red Kerchief I’ll write another and, third and last, Buddha—not for the Russian cinema, but for UFA. It’s on that one that I am basing my hopes that we may live wherever we wish for a few years, undisturbed. You are right about Traveling, but how can I send money from here? Great difficulties, especially this year; exporting gold is extremely difficult. I don’t want to tell Istrati to allocate from the Paris income, because I don’t know if he can. This difficulty bothers me because I could indeed send thirty rubles, as much as is needed. I’ll try. (I just thought: I wrote the publisher in Alexandria to send three pounds for Anasta in Mary’s name—because you may have left.) I wrote you that Russia no longer gives me any pleasure. My only hope is for us to travel together to Siberia or Turkestan, or to live in Moscow. It’s only there that life has the color and fever that I like. Here it’s provincial; only my great love for everything Russian makes me tolerate this place. I go out extremely seldom. They bring me meals and make tea for me in my room— large, full of light, quiet. I shall never learn Russian; my brain resists accepting even the simplest Russian word. It is entirely devoted to another direction and despises every mnemonic technique. I regret this, because Russian verse contains miracles of harmony.

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How very much, Lenotschka, I would like to arrange our lives in accord with our desires—travel, then immobility and calm, then travel again. How huge, splendid, and ripe this world is in hearts that beat! I am thinking that we must collaborate on a work, that you must acquire great skill and power in a given genre. 9 May 1928 “God is not a poem that flies up to expire in air / but a warm, hard larynx full of nerves and blood.” These two lines have taken hold of me all day long today; they formulate my warm contact with the earth and my release from anemic, abstract ideologies. Oh, if I could only find peace somewhere and sail along within the Odyssey! Today a warm south wind is blowing from Turkestan. I haven’t gone outside all day. I lean out through the window and feel the entire Orient upon me. I don’t see anyone, don’t talk at all. With awe, I sense what people term “wilderness” and I have always named “bliss.” It’s in these moments that I realize most deeply that I am free. I confess that I would like to see only you (two or three others but only for a short while). My love for you makes me “human”—that is, an organism that distinguishes, saying: “I want this person, I don’t want that one.” When I cease loving a person, I will acquire an inhuman autonomy. God grant that until I die I may feel toward you as I do now, and that you may unite me with human warmth, to keep me from perishing. I love you. It astonishes me that vis-à-vis myself I am acquiring tenderness, pity, unbearable sorrow, and joy. I am experiencing my human nature, which I fought so hard to conquer. I hold your face between my palms like something ardent, ephemeral, precious, dearly loved, and I shudder to think of my death, because my fingers will no longer be able to feel your mouth, nose, the flutter of your eyes, and your divine uplifted breasts. Please keep sending me Nouvelles Littéraires for as long as you remain in France.

1  cadre:  Setting.  1  Friendly Society: Organized in 1814 in Odessa by four expatriate Greeks with the purpose of preparing and organizing a war of independence for Greece.  1  UFA:  A German film company, prominent in the 1920s, which had some connection with Soviet filmmakers.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 68–70.

Kiev, 10 May 1928

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Dear Brother Prevelakis, I often write you postcards (a) to be sure that you receive them, (b) because I’m waiting for something interesting to crystallize in order to write you about it in detail. I cannot write you the impressions I’ve had this year. Since Istrati left for a few days in Moscow, my life has assumed its own tempo—­ silence and work. I see no one. The visits, journalists, photographers, and filmmakers have ceased, all those useless fripperies and rat-a-tat-toos that our dear friend relishes. Kiev is an extremely beautiful city, full of trees that still have not leafed out, and old churches with marvelous icons, some of which I like. The streets are all full of Jews. I enjoy watching this mysterious race that I love so much; eyes, noses, hair, gait, greed, sensuality. How my heart throbs every moment in Kiev! I’m working on the screenplay. It’s turning out well—an exceedingly difficult job that demands the concentration of a good chess player. It will be ready at the end of May. What we’ll do in the summer, what in the winter, no one knows. I’d like to see everything as far as Siberia, lots of land, lots of water, people, animals, and afterwards to shut myself up again for months and years in creative immobility. My body is much better here, I feel more bodily strength—that is, I have at my disposal more raw material for processing. I yearn for you every evening; it seems to me that you are the only person I would like to be seeing. As for the others, I feel a cruel pleasure that I am far away from them. I feel no nostalgia for anything or anyone, neither for any place nor any person. My autonomy is so inhuman, sometimes I am overcome by a slight frisson. But I’d like to see you in the evenings because you are of the same mettle and do not need me. Kiev, 17 May 1928 I just received your letter, the first to come from Greece. Write to me regularly and often; you give me great pleasure. I’m alone here. It’s still winter and raining. I seldom talk. Istrati is away in Moscow; he said he’d come in ten days, and now he writes that he’ll stay there three months. I sent him a letter in which with inhuman lucidity and great, ardent sympathy I posited for him the two roads before us and told him which one I had selected. If he can, let him come; if he cannot, he must not harbor any illusion that we are traveling together. I no longer possess time to squander in vagueness. I am eager to begin, quietly, to continue the Odyssey again. I’m sorry that I wasn’t in Greece to go and see Corinth. Regarding the material forces that kill and the people who are killed, I don’t feel sorrow, just anger and disdain. When I think of such spectacles, the absurdity of life becomes unbearable to me. Smiling at the simplicity of every creator, I would attempt to formulate the spectacle in faultless poetic verse. I’d very much like to have a book by Strada. If you wish, go to the embassy and ask Makriyannis on my behalf how I can receive books. I would write

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him, but I’m afraid that the letter would be read at the post office, and they’d think I was a conspirator. I’m eager to read your Crete. Send me some pages. Kalmouchos will be ruined by the mediocre air he’s breathing now. The likes of Freris and Stefanidis are good for half an hour. We don’t have time! When the value of the articles is determined, deposit the money in a bank, as we said. I’ll write you regarding other articles later, as soon as I get settled. I’ve been writing you postcards on a regular basis. Have you received them? Write to me much and often. I am always with you. Now that Lambridi has deserted us, the two of us remain. For how long? Who will desert the other? We’ll see! I squeeze your hand, tightly. N Thanks for the photos. Several are excellent. I enjoyed them a lot.

1  the screenplay:  Το κόκκινο μαντίλι, on the subject of the Greek War of Independence.  1  frisson:  Shudder.  1  Corinth:  Kazantzakis is referring to earthquakes that had taken place in Corinth.  1  Strada:  J. de Strada, pseudonym of Gabriel-Jules Delarue (1821–1902), French philosopher and poet much admired by Sikelianos.  1  Makriyannis: Obviously not the famous general, just a Greek employee in the Soviet embassy in Athens.  1  your Crete:  A book on Crete that Prevelakis actually never wrote.  1  Kalmouchos will be ruined:  Kalmouchos was then living in Iraklio, teaching in the gymnasio there.  1  the value of the articles:  The articles that Kazantzakis wrote for the Eleftheroudakis encyclopedia.

To Panaït Istrati —Unable to locate the manuscript; original French text printed in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 194–195; Greek translation in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 235; English translation in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 187–88.

Kiev, 17 May 1928 Dear Panaït! On a small postcard you wrote me, you repeated the word “success” three times; thus, you gave me the impression that you are running a great risk. For me, “success” means “to do a great work.” It means the same for you. But you consume yourself with activities that are ephemeral and detrimental. Neither you nor I have time any longer to squander his strength in the pursuit of goals inferior to his soul. We have reached a decisive turning point in our development. We can accomplish this great work, but we can also be led astray. To see

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famous personages, to learn Russian, to talk, to wait, and without realizing it to bow little by little before methods opposed to that understanding and conduct of life—that is what your small postcard suggests to me. Panaït, I love you too much to not do my utmost to bring you back to the “forest”—that is, to your soul. Up to this point we have done nothing except a few exercises meant to initiate us into the magic of expressing by means of words the terrible, somber, and marvelous force that is devouring us. We are ready now. Having loved, suffered, and enjoyed, we are at the summit of the human curve. Let us escape the fall! The sole aim of our friendship is this effort to “escape.” Personally, I have decided to concentrate all my forces in order to transform the curve into an arrow. If you leave me by myself, I will try to “succeed” by myself; if we exert ourselves together, the task will be not easier but deeper and richer. It is with inhuman clarity that I see the two roads that fork before us at this moment of our lives and our friendship. In writing you now, I feel that I am taking you by the arm and pushing you—and that moves me very much. N

1  Istrati’s reply is published (in Spanish translation) in Eleni Samios 1938, p. 121: “Dear traveling companion, for the first time I have received from you words that I expected a long time ago, words that reflect your soul. Your two letters of today: they are perfectly you. Writing, expressing yourself with such force, with such precision, is to defeat death and to triumph in life. I want to be able to embrace you this instant. Come quickly. Your companion, Panaït.”

To Eleni Samiou —Photograph of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 234, 236; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 187–189; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 193–95.

Kiev, 18 May 1928 Dear Lenotschka, I am very sad today, and I’m talking to you in order to find a little relief. It’s dusk; I haven’t gone out all day. I’ve been reading a splendid book on the cinema by Moussinac. Several parts open up large prospects, and I plan, as long as I’m in Russia, to probe deeply into this most modern expression of the soul. I’m beginning to be moved by this human power to fashion people, ideas, and passions out of light and shadow, then to obliterate them. I’ve been overcome today by Buddha’s idea that he fashioned the world in the cool vaults of his brain in this same way, out of light and shadow. This exercise of

308  •  1928 Letters

mine in film writing will be doubly beneficial to me: (1) it might be useful in a material way; (2) it will assuredly do me good regarding the visionary quality of my mind. My great desire is to succeed in converting abstract thought into simple, clear images. The Odyssey has got to be full of images, Odysseas’s eyes an appareil creating the universe in its dark chamber. The screenplay is finished. Now I need to translate it into French and write out a clean copy. The two phrases I sent you are the libretto—that is, the penultimate stage of the publishing process. The screenplay is mathematical, dry, totally pared down. Yesterday I wrote Istrati a crucial letter. Our further living together will depend on his reply. I don’t have time to miss out owing to equivocal friendships and nonexistent plans. I set the problem before him with harshness and warm love. I’m waiting for him to answer. I don’t plan to send you this letter before I receive an answer. 20 May 1928 I just received a letter from Istrati. He still hadn’t received mine. He writes that Itka found us a marvelous little house in a boundless forest of fir trees on the outskirts of Moscow. As soon as I finish here, I’ll go. If various promises are kept, we’ll be able to travel through Russia and Siberia in comfort, in order to write one or two books. The Volga trip will take place at the end of July. I’m impatient to receive a letter from you that answers what I asked you: whether the visa will be ready in time. If not, write directly to Roslavets (and I to Ousting). When are you going to Plombières, where you’ll be able to rest afterwards? I succeeded in sending you one thousand francs via Istrati, who wrote you. Now, in Moscow, I’ll try to send more. I’d like you to come here completely rested because the trip to Siberia will last for months; ask a doctor without fail to tell you if you ought to attempt such a colossal undertaking. We’ll spend the entire winter in Siberia; we’ll reach as far as Vladivostok. Please ask a doctor if you should. All that if the promises are fulfilled. It’s likely that nothing will happen (because there’s a severe crisis here); then we’ll stay as long as we can in Moscow or thereabouts. Your name day, 21 May 1928 Spring arrived here in Kiev today—sunshine, warm breeze. The women put on embroidered white blouses. In a few days the trees will in bloom. This very moment that I’m writing to you a heavy, warm rain broke out, full of fragrance. This, the summer rain, is the greatest tenderness I am aware of. My soul is being watered most gently by the idea of death. Two verses by a Cretan friend of mine who died in his village always fill my mind in these moments: “The rain, which brings in summer, soaks the roses in your yard.”

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Love, death, the great futility, the terrible sweetness of the ephemeral moment! Oh! my whole heart is trembling. I remember two summer rains over flowering trees: once in the Mani and another time in Assisi. Oh, if only I had died at that moment! Never had my oneness with the soil, my identity with it, seemed to me so simple and alluring. The return: to rise up suddenly out of the soil, to cast a glance on light, sea, women, men, and to sink once more back down into the soil! Tonight, when I am all alone and it is raining and opposite me there’s a tree prematurely in blossom, death is beckoning to me quietly, enticingly, and I cannot understand why I do not get up to follow it. My mother, you, Lenotschka, and two or three other people do not let me. N P.S. I’ve just received a most sorrowful and ardent letter from Elizabeth. She longs for you to go see her sometime. Perhaps instead of taking your rest in France, you’ll go to Germany and thus shorten the trip to Russia. She’s ill again, dejected; you’ll do her a world of good. If the plans here are realized, I won’t be going to Germany for a long time, and thus god knows when I’ll see her. Every one of her letters is an outcry so ardent, bloody, and human that my heart breaks. Oh, if only I could become ten bodies and give rise to the occasion of a little joy in the people I love! But I’m overcome by a terrible ravenous, ever-wakeful demon enclosed in just one body, a demon barely able to endure the horrible inspiration from on high. Elizabeth’s outcry has been tearing my entrails apart for years now. I once gave this unique woman pleasure, then every sorrow. 22 May 1928 I’ve just received your letter of 14 May. I have not received any of your letters from Moscow. I wrote you a long while ago (1) that Istrati is not going to Paris, (2) that Anasta will have three pounds now from Alexandria (Mrs. Pantou will receive them and give them to her), (3) that I sent you a thousand francs via Istrati, and I’ll try to send you another thousand in June. The trouble is in getting an export permit. Regarding the visa, write to me at once and write immediately to Roslavets. I’m afraid my letters are getting lost, and I’m very worried. I write you extremely often. I answered all of your questions a long time ago. I’m glad that you’ll be going to Elsa’s. Would that I could be with you. Write me at once. I kiss your hands and shoulders, Lenotschka. N

1  Moussinac:  Léon Moussinac (1880–1964), Naissance du cinéma (1925).  1  appareil: Camera.  1  before I receive an answer:  For Istrati’s answer, see the footnote to the previous letter, above.  1  Itka: Itka Horowitz, one of the coterie of Jewish communists that Kazantzakis frequented during his stay

310  •  1928 Letters

in Berlin. She and Kazantzakis had an affair in Berlin. In Russia, although a member of the Communist Party, she was alas executed during Stalin’s purges.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 72–75.

Kiev, 25 May 1928 Dear brother Prevelakis, I’m writing you regularly. I always feel you with me. I’m leaving for Moscow in five days. Istrati found a marvelous little village house in the outskirts, in a boundless forest of fir trees. We’ll spend the summer there. The hope has increased that we’ll spend the entire winter in Siberia, as far as Kamchatka. Istrati might kick the bucket from the cold (-60 degrees) but let’s hope he lasts. I’m glad that my eyes will see such a large area. I spent this entire month under the zodiac sign of the cinema. I studied many books, saw many films, and wrote Το κόκκινο μαντίλι (that’s its name; it will stay that way—in Greek—even in Russian), and I’m beginning to be moved (1) because, as I wrote you, it’s a wonderful training for the Odyssey; writing for film you are obliged to convert everything—even the most abstract meaning—into an image; (2) because a horde of psychological problems and especially dreams, visions, the unconscious can be consummately expressed only in the cinema; and (3) because one is overcome by a most sorrowful pleasure and pride in creating passions, love affairs, and impetuosity by means of shadows, in joining, separating, and creating human beings who are silently, mysteriously obliterated. As you know, and were the first to discover, what I have written up to now is characterized by this cruel pleasure in colossal impetuosity and abrupt obliteration. I’ll begin the next screenplay in Moscow. It will be called Lenin. At Lenin’s tomb at five in the afternoon (that’s when it always happens), a crowd of people gathers and forms a line—white, black, yellow pilgrims—until the guard opens the gate and they go through, see, and leave through the other gate. Well, the film will be as follows: One of the pilgrims, while he is facing Lenin’s shining pate in the catacombs, senses a huge, momentary vision in his mind: he sees the full evolution of (1) Lenin, (2) Russia, (3) the earth. This vision will last through the film’s seven parts. Then the person next to him nudges him a little to move on, and my protagonist goes out through the other gate, his vision having lasted only a second. What for me is most interesting is this: the pilgrim who sees the vision will be an African Negro. Just imagine: What visions of violence and war while at the same time what cactuses and what African masks and landscapes!

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I mentioned the idea to a régisseur, and he found it “brilliant.” Unfortunately, I don’t know if I’ll have the freedom here to do what I desire. I wouldn’t even think of it in any other country. We’ll see. I’m glad that this manner of training was unexpectedly presented to me for a year. I’m sharpening my sight, honing my senses, forcing my imagination to find simple, visual means to express ideas. Oh, when will I begin Buddha, who is all eyes, who plays with shadows, who knows that all things are ephemeral creations of the complex, ephemeral human appareil. The idea that a movie cannot last more than two or three years and then fades away on the pellicule would have filled Buddha with happiness. N 2 June I’ve now received your second letter, at last. Write me regularly; you give me great pleasure. In two days I’m leaving for Moscow, where, as I wrote you, Istrati has found a marvelous isba where we shall spend the summer in an immense forest of fir trees. I’ll correct Askitiki a little while I’m there. Let’s hope that poor, prédestiné Lahanas will publish it. You will permit me to dedicate it to you, because this Outcry suits you perfectly and is the same as your own. I’ll look it over in the forest, and we’ll see. I don’t have any idea of what’s happening in Greece. Greek newspapers are forbidden; Russians newspapers are not interested. I beg of you ardently to write me whatever you think will interest me. Write on both sides of the page. I feel isolated here, and this does not please me. In Moscow I have a person who will translate newspapers for me every day. Now I don’t see anyone, I don’t read anything except about the cinema, and I’m going to begin new screenplays again before coming to grips with Lenin and Buddha. I’ve got to learn to handle well this new weapon that so far—as practice—I like very much and has sharpened my sight unbelievably. I’m unable to write you what I am thinking—only my external life without explanation and details. As I’ve written you, Istrati and I plan to go to Siberia this winter. If this doesn’t happen, we’ll stay in Moscow. But I need to travel through the whole of Russia in order to amass images, excitement, and color for the Odyssey. Otherwise my staying here does not make much sense. Until 1933, I want most deeply just one thing: to finish the Odyssey. That’s why I need to move about as soon as possible and then to remain motionless for a long time. I’m glad that Odysseas has begun to be printed; thus, you’ll be in Athens to keep an eye on it. I love that play dearly because it issued from my loins after a prolonged silence and, as Scripture says, “opened the womb.” I of course agree about El Greco, and don’t forget me at all. The same about the periodical. It’s pointless being in the hands of such literary hacks, but let’s go in. We enter such places as we do a suspicious locality, in order to see, but with the assurance that their touch can do us no harm. Out-of-date affairs! Let’s see.

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Will the money for the articles be deposited in the bank? That would be good. I still don’t know about additional articles; I’ll write you from Moscow. I’ve got to find a way to earn here the amount I need to live. Greek drachmas cannot cope with anything here. On the other hand, it would be good to have money for our journeys—India, Spain—if I have time. I’ll write to Mrs. Lambridi from Moscow. A bit of film: Lenin in his tomb. Thanks for Patakou. May God be with you! Write me what you are doing (I’d already asked you) and how your “Crete” is doing. Whatever concerns you interests me very deeply—you should know this. Write me regularly. N Please don’t forget to send Askitiki to Dhafermos, also the two volumes of Russia. Obtain them at my expense from Lahanas. Also send to whomever else you wish. Also take five hundred drachmas from the money for the articles and give them for El Greco. Greetings from me to Patakou. Any word from Commerce?

1  -60 degrees: Equals -76 degrees Fahrenheit.  1  Το κόκκινο μαντίλι:  The Red Kerchief.  1  pellicule:  Film.  1  isba: Country house built of logs.  1  prédestiné:  Predestined, fated (i.e., to manage the burden of publication).  1  unable to write you: Owing to Soviet censorship.  1  has begun to be printed:  Odysseas was issued in book form by the publisher Stohastis in 1928. The dedication was not to Prevelakis but to “Lenotschka Dybouk”—that is, Eleni Samiou. (Prevelakis was the dedicatee of the revised second edition.) Importantly, a note on page 6 of this printing of Odysseas reads: “This work was not written at all for the theater.”  1  as Scripture says:  Genesis 29:31.  1  El Greco, and don’t forget me:  The periodical Πρωτοπορία was planning a collection to enable a bust of El Greco to be placed in Athens. Kazantzakis wished to contribute. He also hoped to collaborate with Prevelakis concerning the periodical.  1  a bit of film:  An enclosed photo.  1  Patakou: Eva Patakou, a Cretan teacher of French who had sent greetings to Kazantzakis via Prevelakis.  1  Dhafermos:  Yeoryios Dhafermos, schoolteacher and folklorist from Rethymno, publisher of the periodical Προμηθεύς Πυρφόρος.  1  Commerce:  French periodical to which Prevelakis had submitted the English translation of Askitiki for publication.

To Eleni Samiou —Photograph of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 236–37; English translation

1928 Letters  •  313

(incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 189–90; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 196.

Kiev, 26 May 1928 Dear I just received your letter and wrote to Ousting immediately asking him to telegraph Paris. Kaméneva is away from Moscow, and, according to what Istrati writes me, her office has gone dead. When I’m in Moscow in a few days, I’ll see to whom I can apply. Please, you, too, write to Roslavets. We have time; however, we must start intensely right now in order not to be late for the Volga. I plan to leave here on 5 June. I don’t know Istrati’s plans, but it seems to me that he’s continually leaning toward joining the Party and becoming an homme d’action. If his writing vein has gone dry, that would be the best solution; indeed, becoming a man of action heart and soul means that the vein has already gone dry. As for me, I have firmly decided to keep myself far from all ephemeral action, no matter how valuable it may be, in order not to betray my supreme commander: “Odysseas-Buddha.” It’s natural that Russia no longer gives me the initial feverish emotion of the virgin contact. The reasons are (1) because she herself has ceased to be in her heroic moment, which is continuously moving toward a normal balance that is extremely important, of course, but that does not intensely excite my soul; and (2) because I am not an homme d’action and cannot feel an infinite interest in the amelioration of a social system. What I like is the first descent of the spirit, the vehement, fire-bringing one; all the rest—how the terrible moment is channeled into prudent everyday necessity—does not unduly interest me. My deepest joy is to see how the dark power snatches up a human being and shakes him like a loved one, an epileptic, a creator. The reason, as you know, is: what interests me is not the human being but that which I so imperfectly call “God.” I want to remain here at least another year, but to travel—to see, touch all of Russia’s boundless body because I assuredly love, more than Greece, this soil, the people, and the mission undertaken by Russia in our age. If this insatiable soul could have a homeland, Russia is my homeland. But the terrible demon that consumes my innards does not fit anywhere; nothing except death will be able to contain it. I have thought a lot about the cinema and am glad that I’ve had a chance to try this experiment. As I wrote you, I find it useful for the Odyssey, my purpose in life until 1933, because (1) the cinema forces me to convert every abstract concept into an image; because (2) only the cinema is capable of expressing dreams, visions, the unconscious; and because (3) I feel an extremely sorrowful Buddhistic pleasure in creating—out of shadows—passions, love affairs, and clashes that are obliterated a moment later, mutely, like ghosts. Is not the universe’s colossal écran just the same? I’m starting now to work on

314  •  1928 Letters

another screenplay: Lenin. It’s a vision (in the head of a Negro who went on a pilgrimage to Lenin’s tomb in Moscow) that lasts only one second—from the moment when, in the catacomb where Lenin lies, he finds him and lifts his foot to step on the next stair, until the moment when he does step on it. What happens in his mind as quick as a flash—the full life of Lenin, of Russia, of the earth; cactuses, masks, African landscapes, terrific hopes—is a deep, inexorable African vision. Oh, if only you knew how much delight I have felt at the idea that I can formulate his entire flash of images and that a million eyes can see it. But I need to find a great régisseur. Perhaps in Moscow. I know perfectly what the film should be but I lack technique. I can write a screenplay only with the help of a specialist. As for the flash, that I have.

1  homme d’action:  Man of action.  1  écran:  Screen.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 76–78.

Bekovo, near Moscow, 11 June 1928 Dear brother, I’m living in a marvelous forest of fir trees, one hour’s distance from Moscow. Huge trees, extremely dense. The sun rises at midnight; I often go round the forest with Istrati during these extremely gentle, mystical dawns. I’m very peaceful, very well. I’ve entered the forest’s tempo and it seems to me that two or three months here will do me immense good in both mind and body. In a few days we may go to Petrograd for a bit in order to see the celebrated White Nights. They last all of June. Today I’ve been revising Askitiki. I added a brief chapter, “Silence,” a bomb that explodes the entire Askitiki. But the hearts of only a few people will be exploded. We live in an isba, the rafters, walls, ceiling, floor all made of logs. There’s a cool odor of fir trees. We’re in the heart of the forest. Istrati stopped writing because what he’s been writing recently, trying to start his new work, was incompetent and mean-spirited. I convinced him to cease writing for some months and to break his contracts with his publisher. I’m hoping that this will do him good, reviving his desiccated vein. Here, precisely in the isba opposite us, I discovered one of the Jewesses I knew from the fervent circle in Germany. We talk, she reads me Russian books, she’s full of impetuosity, strength, faith—an awesome member of the Party. This encounter is useful for me and has refreshed my heart. 15 June [1928]

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Life in the forest proceeds with a rhythm that I like. We are getting ready for the large trip that, if it takes place, will be as follows: We start in August. Volga, Astrakhan, Caspian Sea, Turkistan, Bukhara, back to Samara, Siberia, Vladivostok, Japan (in April, for the cherry blossoms), and return. It’s too beautiful to happen. We’ll see. The screenplay (I received a letter yesterday) was considered the best so far submitted! Great enthusiasm; it will be filmed immediately. I’ve begun two other screenplays here; afterwards I’ll write Lenin. For Buddha I’m teaming up with an American company; it will last three evenings. I’m pleased both because my economic problems will thus be solved and because I’m exercising my powers in a modern, interesting medium. Istrati is fine. It’s still cold here; the fir trees are splendid. I’m waiting for a long letter from you telling me about yourself and about Greece. I think of you at every moment. You’re the only person whom I miss. I’m writing several articles on Greece for Pravda. Each article pays ten pounds. Thus my life in Russia is easier despite the high prices. I have no desire for Greece, no nostalgia. After Russia, I’d like to go on our trip and then spend years staying put. What’s happening with Christos and Odysseas? Will Askitiki be printed? Write me to send you the corrected version. Ask at the embassy how I can receive books and periodicals. Here I don’t know what’s happening down there, and I’d like to. Send me periodicals if you can, so that I may follow what’s happening. Istrati sends his greetings, as do I with warm love. N

1  one of the Jewesses: Itka Horowitz.  1  The screenplay:  Το κόκκινο μαντίλι.  1  the corrected version:  The corrected version of Askitiki, which includes the added chapter, “Silence,” was not printed in Greek until the second edition was issued in 1945.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 79–80.

Bekovo, Moscow, 19 June 1928 Dear brother Prevelakis! It’s a long time since I received a letter from you. I would like to have had them regularly. Terrific cold has started here, torrential rain; all the fir trees smell, lashed as they are by the rain. I’m working well. Sometimes, here and there, I write some lines for the Odyssey. The long journey still is not certain,

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but we are hoping. I wrote three articles in Pravda about Greece; they were considered important and were sent to Germany by airmail. Now they’re asking me to contribute regularly, but I lack documentation. Therefore I beg of you most ardently, show these lines to Maximos (I don’t want to write him directly on account of censorship) and tell him that it’s necessary for him to give you whatever documentation is related to the urban and agricultural ­laborer question in Greece—newspapers, photographs of working-class life, Spartakos (I have only the first two issues), etc. You, too, try with Androulidakis to collect for me whatever is possible about Greece and give it to Makriyannis, who, as I wrote you, will send it to me (Bekovo, Kazan, Moscow, datscha Archipova, ulitsa Karl Marx 8). It’s most necessary that I have a lot of information with statistics, etc. They’re asking me now for articles about the tobacco workers’ question, and it would be useful if I had photos of the strike published in Greek newspapers. I’ll greatly appreciate it if you help me once again. Articles that are no better than the kind I usually publish in newspapers they are considered remarkable here and acquire an unexpected value. I wrote to Mrs. Lambridi, but I doubt that she’s still in Greece—maybe in Egypt. I forgot to ask her to send me whatever she has finished translating from Traveling. If you see her, please tell her that Traveling is being translated into French and will be sent to a French and German periodical—as letters from Spain, etc. When I see what books have been published, I feel disgust instead of pleasure and don’t want to join in. But Istrati is turning the world ­upside-down and urging me. He’ll never be able to learn how removed I am from the need to be known and “idolized.” I am sometimes so vehemently overcome here with anguish that I’m astonished afterwards how my body has been able to endure it. Every day I ascertain more deeply that something inhuman exists inside me. Someone inside me converts human desires and tendencies into something dark, cruel, insatiable and despairing. Istrati is human, a good human being, and is totally incapable of comprehending cette alchimie noire. Send me whatever periodical, etc. is interesting. I’ll write to Makriyannis to tell him again to send me whatever you give him. I am with you at every moment. I’m leaving you now because Istrati in the other room is calling for me to get up because Gorky is expecting us at noon in Moscow. I’ll write you my impressions. Write me often and much. My regards to various people, especially Patakou. Always, N Istrati asks you to send him whatever documentation there is for mine workers and a copy of Νεραντζούλας. Bilili and Istrati send warm greetings.

1  Maximos:  Serapheim Maximos (1895–1962), economist, politician, journalist.  1  Androulidakis:  Yeorgis Androulidakis (b. 1905), well-known

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journalist born in Rethymno; then working for Rizospastis, the Communist newspaper in Athens; foreign correspondent for United Press starting in 1944; editor of Eleftheria starting in 1951.  1  cette alchimie noire:  This black alchemy.  1  Gorky:  Maxim Gorky (1868–1936), Soviet author, founder of Soviet socialist realism, early friend of Lenin’s, writer of political plays, including The Lower Depths (1902), befriended by Stalin. The visit by Istrati and Kazantzakis to him is humorously described in Report to Greco (Kazantzakis 1965a, pp. 408–11).  1  Νεραντζούλας:  A novel by Istrati published in 1927; original French title Nerrantsoula [ou] Le refrain de la fosse; translated into English as The Bitter Orange Tree (London: Leonard Stein, 1931; New York: Vanguard Press, 1931). The title word means both a bitter orange tree and a petite young woman.

To Elli Lambridi —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yolanda Hatzi.

Murmansk, 20 July [1928] Dear Mudita! I’m writing you from Russia’s furthermost crag—on the Norwegian border, along the Northern Frozen Ocean. Last night was the final “White Night,” the sun being visible on the horizon all night long. Once again my heart—cette vieille hétaire—was stirred. I am going round the small harbor with its fishermen’s homes. The rocks are all black, the granite fjords plunge like arrows into the infuriated gray water. This entire sight, which formerly would have made me shout with joy, today gives me a bitter sensation full of chills. I feel pity for my eyes that are viewing this whole new face of the earth a few moments before they are discarded into the dust. You ask when the “Invisible” will finally become visible in me, when this quixotic misdirection will cease and I will settle down finally on earth like a normal human being. I’m in no hurry to become rational, nor do I feel any attraction to normality. Aren’t all the other people I see satisfied with only the visible? Would that I could keep on intensifying hallucination and could rid myself of equilibrium’s idiotic logic! I wish that I might be able, shortly before I die, to liberate the folly that is continually refoulé inside me in order to serve my cruel, sober brain. I am entirely alone; days go by without my speaking. No illusion and, at the same time, no faintheartedness. I feel only my eyes being enriched. I’d like to have been in time to see lots of land and water, and many spectacles—fish and the aurora borealis, boundless steppes and reindeer, white fox and exotic human faces. All these things are transformed inside me in great silence; to me they all seem not simple everyday things, as they do to normal people, but things full of mystery, turmoil, futility, and sweetness.

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The long journey that will last ten months will begin a month from now: Volga-Astrachan-Caspian Sea-Azerbaijan-Georgia-Armenia-TurkestanBukhara-Siberia as far as Vladivostok and maybe Peking and Japan. Like some animals that, when dying, search deeply and slowly through their entire den, it seems to me that I am bidding farewell. At every moment I feel sad because your eyes cannot sometimes be looking next to mine. I think of your soul and body. I think of your strength, what you are able to do, the way you are—young, liberated, free of things, men, women. Mudita dear, you should decide to begin the creative work that you need to do. When I read each of your letters, I enjoy the nuances and at the same time the vehement leaps of your soul. No one else can see, as you can, each feeling and thought with such versatility and lucidity. You could write a philosophical work with tigerish daring or a novel with all the nuances of your beloved Proust. You’re almost at ease economically, you have a good, healthy child who does not bother you, you can isolate yourself—you lack nothing! Refoule various human ­obstacles—creativity is nothing else but a cruel, merciless refoulement. Write me regularly when you have an appetite for speaking with me. Tell me if you know how Prevelakis’s health is. He doesn’t write me at all about his body. I’m worried because it seems to me that I love that man—as much as I can love anyone. Write me about your daily life or what you are working on. I plan to stay in Russia one more year; afterwards I don’t know where I’ll isolate myself and remain put for a year or two, writing. Now I’m moving, saying goodbye, seeing, hearing, touching. I cannot get my fill of searching the earth’s face; yet if I were to die at this moment, how ready I would be! You’ll never be able to sense how bitter existence is for me. I endure only because I happen to have a strong constitution. Mudita dear, I kiss your hands and shoulders. N

1  Northern Frozen Ocean:  The Russian name for the Arctic Ocean.  1  cette vieille hétaire:  This venerable courtesan.  1  refoulé:  Forced back, driven back.  1  Refoule:  Force back, drive back (imperative).  1  refoulement:  Act of driving or forcing back.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 84–86.

Murmansk, 20 July [1928] Dear brother Prevelakis, I’m writing you from the northernmost tip of Russia (70°), on the Norwegian border. A harbor on the Northern Frozen Ocean, a few wooden fishermen’s houses, sandy beaches, wildness, small trees devoured by the cold—and

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the great miracle: sun above the horizon at midnight. We arrived yesterday at nine at “night” and the rays of the sun did not stop striking us all night long. It was the final “white night”; tomorrow the dark will start to come little by little. It is a sight so simple and astonishing that we set out from Moscow (2,000 kilometers) to see it again. They’ll have the aurora borealis starting in October. Returning from Turkestan on our way to Siberia, we plan a short trip up here again to Murmansk to view the aurora. You see, the great journey has begun from Russia’s furthermost crag. It will be (mid-August): Volga-Astrakhan, the Caspian, Azerbaijan, Georgia, Armenia, Turkestan (Samarkand, Bukhara), Siberia and, if we can, Peking and Japan. We’ll be sending articles to about twenty newspapers (German, French, English, Spanish, Swedish, etc.); indeed, we’ve even written to Eleftheron Vima to ask if they want them. Thus, we hope to be able to satisfy the huge expense. As I wrote you, all the articles will be written by me; Istrati will merely give me notes to insert, if he has any. The complete reportage will be named Following the Red Star. When we return around May or June 1929, we’ll write three or four books and the Nouvelle Revue Française has already undertaken to publish them. Thus, Odysseas’s mind and eyes are being enriched. All this—harbors, Laplanders, white nights, frozen oceans, reindeer—will enter the Odyssey and be yoked to verse. I am overcome by “awe” seeing to what degree human volition masters all things. My life is a cruel lesson, the miracle renewed daily of a soul that has acquired everything without possessing anything besides willpower. Sometimes I think that I desire very small things and should change the level of my effort. Everything strikes me as accessible, and miracle as a slender, allwhite lévrier looking at me and awaiting my command. Not a moment goes by without my thinking of you. At this moment, we are at the two extremes of Europe—how far away Crete is, and her fragrant mountains and heavy sun! It’s been exactly a month since you wrote me your last letter. I received the Nea Estia in which Paraschos writes about Christos in an offhanded way and en passant. I received the Neoellinika Grammata in which I see that Grammata reviles the Odyssey—my God, how provincial and distant all that seems to me! Write to Lahanas (I wrote him but perhaps he didn’t receive my letter) that I’m waiting for an Odysseas (not the fine edition, because it might get lost) and a Russia, volume 2. Xydis died on 4 June. I’ll send you Askitiki before I leave for the journey. Write me regularly and much, especially about yourself—about your everyday life, about your body and soul. Send me photographs if you take any. Remember me in everyday things and do not forget that you are the only man whom I sense wholly at my side on a track equal to my own. All the others strike me as extremely naïve, a little like servants and passifs. Istrati and Bilili send you warm greetings. They read that most innocent article by Nazos and were moved. Istrati is always the same—a good human being.

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I have much to write you about more general matters, but cannot. When will we see each other to talk? My heart is full of silence and power. No illusions. I go for days without speaking. What can I say, and to whom can I say it? Dear brother, your name day is in seven days and this letter will arrive later. May our “God” grant—it is His only salvation—that we may prop up our souls as we wish, before they disperse. He is very weak, staggers exceedingly, and needs us. I clasp your hand and am with you always. N 21 July We’re returning via steamboat from the great excursion to the Northern Frozen Ocean. At midnight, the sun still had not set. It made a small arc and headed east. The glow is miraculous. One of the best nights of my life. I very much desired your presence tonight.

1  70°:  The latitude of Murmansk, actually 68°58’N.  1  2,000 kilometers: 1,243 miles.  1  lévrier:  Greyhound.  1  Paraschos:  Kleon Paraschos (1894– 1964), poet, critic, journalist who wrote on Ion Dragoumis and appreciated Gide and Proust. His review of Christos is in Nea Estia 3 (1 June 1928): 523–24.  1  en passant: In passing.  1  Neoellinika Grammata:  Periodical issued in Iraklio, which noted the adverse views in the Athenian periodical Ellinika Grammata.  1  Xydis: One of Kazantzakis’s friends.  1  passifs:  Sluggards.  1  article by Nazos:  By Yiorgos Nazos, well-known journalist, friend of Kazantzakis’s; on Istrati’s and Bilili’s sojourn in Kifissia before Istrati returned to the Soviet Union with her.

To Edwige Levi —Manuscript (in French) in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. Levi/36.

Moscow, 22 August [1928] Very dear friend! On the eve of a great journey across Caucasus, Turkestan, Bukhara, Siberia, and Japan that will last ten months, I am thinking of you and am frequently astonished by the intensity of my desire to see you again. My term of service to vagabondage is going to expire (I hope) in a year. I am already looking for a quiet place near a large city in order to settle there for two years and finally work without moving. Might it be Paris? Or Vienna? My life here is very interesting. I would like to write you the details but, you understand, that is impossible. My black head is being enriched more and more; I marvel more and more at the very intense dramatic interest that this

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poor earth offers. I greatly love the spectacle of joy and sorrow and am beginning to understand its general lines a little. A month ago I was in Murmansk by the frozen ocean; an Eskimo sang me a very plaintive, monotonous song in which death speaks to itself: “Do you recall when you were on earth you were out fishing all day long and in the evening you used to return dying of hunger without anything in your net?” “Yes, yes, I remember, but life was very fine.” “Do you recall when you were on earth you used to beat your wife, you were ill and you wept?” “Yes, yes, I remember, but life was very fine!” That Eskimo song brought tears to my eyes. I was shocked by the cowardice of the human spirit and, at the same time, I was full of pity for our body and soul that are so hopelessly attached to earth’s hard crust. Dear friend, your letter caused me to shudder with pain. There is always something in you that makes me shudder: an excruciating sensitivity, a slightly derisive and consequently very grievous lucidity. I understand you well. I have passed through the same Inferno but have very laboriously freed myself, and now I see “le stelle.” They are cold and very far away, but I love them because they are lucidly ruthless. Please do not forget me. Write to me. My answers will be delayed a little because I will be continually traveling. But I will always be thinking of you, everywhere, and will write you a word to tell you that. My permanent address is: N.K. . . ., etc., Gosizdat, Moscow. Arrivederla! E tante cose! N

1  that is impossible: Owing to censorship of mail.  1  le stelle:  “The stars,” from the marvelous last line of Dante’s Inferno (34.139), as Dante leaves the Inferno and is about to enter Purgatory: “E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle” (And from there we emerged, once again to see the stars).  1  Arrivederla! E tante cose!:  Goodbye. And so many things!

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 97–98.

Astrakhan, 21 September 1928 Dear brother! Your ardent letter suddenly caught up with me at the mouth of the Volga, the gateway to the Caspian. The words you write about the Odyssey make me

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shudder. Oh, if I could only know if this work truly has value or if you love it because you find in it the echo of your soul, which is similar to mine! Last night, returning from a long excursion on the steppes of the Kalmyks, where I went to see the desert (my great, severe friend), I was sitting by myself in the prow of the chaloupe, thinking of Odysseas and composing verses, which I jotted down hurriedly on a piece of paper. Everything I see and experience— people, colors, deserts, rivers—has one and only one purpose for me: to be turned into Odyssey. Terrible questions of doubt and sorrow are tearing my innards apart. My life is in ruins, since I haven’t produced anything of what I should have and could have. I am ruining my selfhood amid rows of letters of the alphabet. I feed paper to my heart, as though it were a goat! How can I express all the joy and sorrow given me by this ephemeral vision of the world? I decided—no, did not decide—: it was out of cowardice and laziness that I followed literature, the path most ready-to-hand. I wasn’t fashioned to be a poet or a thinker. I am suffocated by thought, words, beauty. Last night, as soon as I had joined together two resonant verses, I felt glad for a moment; however, all at once disgust and disdain overcame not my mind or soul but something crueler, more ghastly, more contemptuous: something situated inside me in my heart of hearts, consuming me. On the other hand, on occasion something you have said makes me raise my head and listen. Sensing your hand in mine, I say: “I have heard a voice in my wilderness; someone is coming; I see footprints on the sand.” And my heart thrills again for a moment, a brief moment, and, filled with blood, is happy. This is the way I am tormenting myself as I stride across the earth. I love the soil I see and love the water, yet pity them and want no more of them. P.S. I’m writing you regularly from each city that I visit. Tomorrow we leave for Azerbaijan. I’m unable to write you what I see because, on the one hand, I despise descriptions and, on the other, a lifeless record will not give you any idea. Just this: the black skull is being filled; the precious essence is increasing inside me. We plan to stay put somewhere in the Caucasus so that I can write a pile of articles. Many will be published in Nouvelles Littéraires. They won’t say anything about what I have felt most deeply inside me. The whole of your last letter was about the Odyssey. I was longing for you to tell me about yourself—how you’re doing, what you’re seeing, how Crete is. And then, what’s happening in Greece. I can’t know anything, don’t read anything, no one writes me. I was pleased by the wonderful demotic folk song you sent me. Send me whatever you know I’ll find interesting—books, newspapers, photos. Above all, remember to write me which lines of the Odyssey were published in Nea Estia. I never gave them. Where did they find them? Send me the issue of Nea Estia if you can.

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Lahanas sent me Odysseas and the second volume of Russia. So you should not send them. I especially liked the typography of Odysseas. If you’ve written something, send it to me. How’s your book about Crete faring? As for me, now that I’ve gotten rid of the three forerunners, I’m eager to remain alone, immobile, and to start the Odyssey again. Lots of difficult, tiring work. But my heart is full, my eyes are full, I’m eager to begin. It must be published in 1933. I had a great pleasure the other day. There still are lotuses in a remote bay in one of the three hundred rivers that constitute the Volga delta. I went six hours by canoe to see them. They had all turned yellow; only the seeds remained. But one was still in blossom—huge, rose-colored— bending over the water like a swan. I thought of Buddha, India, our projected trip, and once again my heart was glad. God be with us, dear brother Prevelakis! I’m glad that you exist. I see your footprints on the boundless desert. I shall reach a certain point; you will go further. I don’t care. It’s proper. Always, N I’m sending you the only flower I found yesterday in the Kalmyks’ desert.

1  chaloupe:  Launch.  1  which lines of the Odyssey were published:  Nea Estia 4 (1 August 1928): 675–76, unwittingly published fake lines 50–­90 purportedly from Canto 9.  1  the three forerunners:  The three plays: Odysseas, Christos, Nikiforos Fokas.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 105–8.

Leningrad, 20 January 1929 Dear brother, I’ve delayed in writing you because I’ve been going through days of crisis. I am continuing the journey all alone now because my companion grew fainthearted and tired, demeaned himself, and is in a hurry to return to Paris. So I’m journeying north by myself and carrying on; tomorrow I’ll be at Kem, the day after at Murmansk, at the Northern Frozen Ocean, to view the dark daytime and perhaps the aurora borealis. I’ll write you from there. I’m breathing freely, having escaped a companion who was good but uneven and a bit cowardly. In eight days I’ll be in Moscow and will leave at once for Siberia, as far as Vladivostok. Then Turkestan. I’m not giving up anything.

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Afterwards, I’ll return to Berlin. I plan to settle a bit in Paris and then on a high mountain for the Odyssey. My body is healthy, my eyes filled. For months I’ll give myself over to the silence that so suits my soul’s heroic despair. Your poetry pleased me greatly. I find in it a strong heroic atmosphere and at the same time a marvelous simplicity. The fifteen-syllable verse is fine— perhaps more suitable here than the seventeen-syllable. I could make some small observations regarding figures of speech and diction but will do so when we meet. I’ll keep the text with me and will reread it in my frozen Siberian solitude. We have very much to say. The Russian problem is growing continually clearer in my mind. My articles cannot be published in Nouvelles Littéraires, because they are too red. Nor here, because they are too white. A few came out only in Amsterdam! I’ll write books, but my companion now refuses to affix his name; thus, it will be difficult to find a publisher. How does Odysseas say it? “I thank you, gods, that it’s raining again,” etc. I don’t remember the verses well. I’m very happy that everything strikes me as difficult once more and refuses to give way. My fists are itching, and I’m delighted to be breasting the struggle. Everything is fine. Today I wandered through Leningrad all day long waiting ten hours for the train to Kem. Wandering, I had a wild joy that I’d been left alone, totally abandoned. Good god! what a joy that all the elements are conspiring and blowing yet unable to bend the infinitesimal flame in the middle of our human breast. I’m thinking of you, knowing that you must be doing the same. I’m glad that the unruly generation will not disappear when I die. Petrozavodsk, 22 January 1929 I spent a night in this tiny village, all snow-covered, tranquil, amazing dogs, people all muffled up and taciturn, a tiny wooden hotel, the samovar huge in the corner. I sat down and looked out through the window at the bluish snow, smoked the pipe that Stavridakis had given me, and felt inexpressible happiness, calm, beatitude. Now I understand what alone suits my soul: solitude— solitude on a high mountain. At noon today I’ll leave and begin the journey north, 1,043 kilometers, as far as Murmansk. I’ll send this letter to you from there. Murmansk, 24 January 1929 Wilderness, snow, the day bluish, tenderness, as though one were looking at people from inside a mass of dark blue water. Hoping to see the aurora borealis, I’m going to remain here three days. I absolutely need it for the Odyssey. This morning I was taken up the mountain by reindeer. Terrible cold; you can hardly breathe. The planet frozen. You sense the thrill of the earth’s future annihilation. I’m calm. I think of you with much love, not knowing any longer when we shall meet again. I’ll be in Paris in April and will decide

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there. I didn’t receive the newspapers. Don’t forget me whenever you come across a good word. Now that I’m approaching the Odyssey again, the demotic language has taken possession of me. Tell Eleftheroudakis to deposit the money in the bank because I’ll need it in Paris. Write me regularly. You see—I took several weeks to write you, and you neglected me.

1  my companion . . . is in a hurry to return to Paris:  Prevelakis 1958, pp. 226–27, describes this crisis between Kazantzakis and Istrati. Also Prevelakis 1961, pp. 137–38, quoting Samios 1938, pp. 168, 171: “An old friend of his [Istrati’s], Victor Serge, . . . had been unjustly treated by the Soviet bureaucracy. . . . Istrati was roused into a frenzy. . . . Serge’s personal tragedy . . . affected Kazantzakis, too, as a man, but it did not provoke in him such violent reactions. . . . ‘Then Panaït went out of his mind, and shut himself up in his house in Moscow and wept and cursed as if he had rabies! . . . And as he thinks Kazantzakis is unmoved—the dirty egoist—he hates him, hates him with all the power of his soul.’ The two fellow travelers parted ‘without shaking hands.’” Istrati’s account may be found in his books Vers l’Autre Flamme and Soviets 1929, both of which apparently were written by Victor Serge.  1  Your poetry:  Prevelakis’s first poetic collection, Στρατιώτες (Athens, 1928).  1  The fifteen-syllable verse is OK, but . . .:  Kazantzakis himself had rejected fifteen-syllable verse for his Odyssey, in favor of seventeen-syllable verse.  1  alone, totally abandoned:  After Istrati and Bilili departed, Eleni Samiou also left Russia, to await Kazantzakis in Berlin.  1  1,043 kilometers:  653.4 miles.  1  and you neglected me:  The letter ends here, without salutation or signature, because there was no room left on the page.

To Harilaos Stefanidis —Manuscript in Demosthenes Stefanidis family archive, Iraklio; printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, pp. 146–49.

Murmansk (get a map and look at the Northern Frozen Ocean) 23 January 1929 Dear Harilaos, I received your letter, all the photos, and I thank you very much. I’m touring the coast of the Northern Frozen Ocean, where we have nighttime for eight months. The exotic beauty is indescribable. The people seem like shadows; the snow is bluish; Greece is far away and invisible. I’m all alone, with only a pipe for company, the one given me by Stavridakis. All my companions

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abandoned me because they grew tired, and I’m continuing the fearsome journey by myself. The day after tomorrow I leave for Siberia, as far as Vladivostok. Afterwards I’ll go down to Turkestan, Bukhara, etc. I’ll be finished in May and will return to Paris. I’m happy—that is, alone “without a friend, a dog, a woman,” as some poet says. My body is strong; my black Cretan head is filling up. I’m preparing for two years of isolation in which, staying put at last, I am going to rewrite the Odyssey. As I write to you I’m looking out, through the tiny window of my wooden hotel, at the low houses buried in snow, their small chimneys calmly smoking, and I hear the gurgling of the colossal samovar that is boiling in the corridor. Happiness, Harilaos, happiness, tranquillity, beatitude—it’s to be alone, bearing up in solitude, to have no need of anything or anyone, and for your friends to sway like blue shadows in the boundless snow-covered steppe of your mind! Suddenly I feel like opening the window and screeching like a hawk, so great is my happiness. Perhaps my happiness would be greater if you and all your pharmaceutical comrades were here together, with some raki. Because, if I feel some sadness in my travels, it’s that I’m enjoying alone what I should be sharing with a few others. On the other hand, I’m able to tolerate my joy as it is: cruel and solitary. Yet I’m nostalgic for still some other pleasures: sunshine, orange trees, tangerine trees, Vori, Despina and her braids and afterwards some dark wine-cellars, a narghile, and for us to sit on the ground, tasting the wine. It seems to me that at the moment when I’m about to die I will think of two or three pleasures I’ve felt in my life. One of them will be that New Year’s that I spent with you, narghile tube in hand. I received the photos of Kalmouchos and liked them. He’s apparently in Paris now, but I’m afraid I won’t see him. I found the photos of the young Kyriakou and especially of “Vertigo” pleasurable and moving. Please say hello to her father for me—he must be happy with his children—and tell him that I remember him well and thank him for what he wrote me. Many greetings as well to Freris. What is he writing? My ties with Greece, broken as they are, keep me from knowing any longer what nice things are being written there. I’m not aware of how Freris is evolving and maturing. He had two or three likely prospects. Which did he choose? Dear Harilaos, no matter how much I wish for your pharmacy to go to the devil, apparently it’s holding up. So my wish for you in 1929 is that you will supplement the pharmacy and its poisonous stock by getting married. Whatever my wishes cannot accomplish, a woman can. A good plump woman from Iraklio and an aristocratic family. N Thanks also for Kypriotakis’s cards. I was astonished when I read the sign. Could that be what’s called glory? I like the way he’s beginning with auto­

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mobile ads in his café. God be with the “Kypriotakis café,” and may it not fail because of the signs he uses! Say a warm hello from me to everyone. I’m impatient to see you all, but far away from Greece. In Vladivostok, for instance. Write to me, Harilaos, and know that I love you very much. N P.S. I once published some lines from the Odyssey, and you sent me a letter correcting some inaccuracies about βιτσίλα. I kept the letter in order to comply later, but I lost it while traveling. Please write me again what the inaccuracies were—and more. Write me Cretan words, as many as you know, for hunting, fishing, shipping, wine, sun, rain, sea, love, and war. They are absolutely necessary for me. Please ask around and make me a small dictionary. Later I’ll write you where to send it to me. Help me a little. Write to teachers you know in the villages. Devote a few hours to me. I’ll be most appreciative. In general, note down for me whatever good Cretan words you learn (like ψυχανεμίζουμαι, το συσηλίζει, etc.). Say the same to Mihalis and to Freris. Help! Ν

1  raki:  The marvelous highly alcoholic drink regularly served after (and often also before) every meal in Crete. It is distilled from leftover grape skins after they are crushed for wine, and is flavored with herbs.  1  Vori:  Stefanidis’s village, site of his ancestral mansion.  1  the young Kyriakou:  One of the two daughters—Rena, a well known pianist, and Nelly, a painter—of the Iraklio architect Dimitris Kyriakou.  1  βιτσίλα:  A type of eagle.  1  ψυχανεμίζουμαι: To sense, to forebode, to divine (Cretan dialect).  1  το συση­ λίζει:  [The sun] is broiling hot; the great heat makes the air tingle, sizzle; midday heat (Cretan dialect).  1  Mihalis:  Anastasiou.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 108–0.

Siberia, 5 February 1929 Dear brother, As of yesterday I crossed the Urals and entered Siberia—alone, peaceful, extremely happy. A small valise, a rucksack, a few books, some walnuts, figs,

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black caviar, the teapot. I get off at the stations and fill it with boiling water from the large taps and then drink the tea, alone, and look out through the window at the boundless snow, the small houses with smoking chimneys, the troikas that go by with their horses buried in snow up to their bellies. In seven days I’ll be in Irkutsk and will get off. Excursions to Lake Baikal and to Buddhist monasteries. Then I’ll continue on toward Manchuria, as far as Vladivostok. There is no greater happiness than enduring solitude, being selfsufficient. That’s the only way to be free. In my mind I’m targeting the book about Russia. Neither travel impressions nor a novel. A kind of combination—a person who crosses Russia, matures, struggles to elevate the boundless disparate details into a synthesis. If I could, I’d live in Germany and publish it first in German. My manner of writing and thinking is completely out of touch with the French spirit, nor is there a large enough public in France to confront the communist problem with depth, love, and independence. My articles cannot be printed in France; the French are astonished by the ardent and at the same time independent approach I take. They cannot classify me and their Latin clarté grows uneasy. They don’t understand that yes and no do not exhaust reality. What we two call “regard global” fills them with panic. Irkutsk, 9 February 1929 Horrible cold; everyone dressed from head to toe in sheepskins; milk is cut with a knife to sell, since it’s like cream cheese, frozen. The frozen Yenisei River, ripples and all, is swarming with troikas and people. The moment you leave your house your mustache ices up and your overcoat is entirely covered with thick icicles. Life on the street is hellish. Your soul needs to be entirely vigilant to observe this spectacle and not be overcome by panic. I went around all day long looking slowly at everything, carefully, once and for all. But what bliss when you return to your house! The warmth rises from your feet upward, embraces your body, comforts your nerves. Then comes tea, the divine beverage, with its godly samovar gleaming serenely in the corner. The other day at midnight in the train, a man got out at a station, looked at me happily, and exclaimed, “Home now, to drink tea!” as though someone from the south had exclaimed, “Home now, to see my wife and son!” In the street today I stopped a passer-by to ask the way to the museum. Without stopping, he shouted at me, “I know, I know, but it’s too cold,” and did not halt to tell me. The day after next I’m leaving for Chita, a small entirely Chinese city on the Manchurian border. I think of you always. You must take this trip on your own some day. All of these cities and steppes will give you the sen­ sation très âcre that I was there. Perhaps I won’t be alive then, and you will attempt toward evening to resurrect me somewhat via the keenness of your mind. This is because in the whole wide world only you will know how

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much this “inhuman” heart of mine loved, cried out, and never deigned to grow calm. I squeeze your shoulder, always, N

1  clarté:  Clarity.  1  regard global:  Global glance, global sight.  1  sensation très âcre:  Very pungent feeling.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 252–54; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 202–4; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 209–11.

Chita, Manchuria, 11 February 1929 Lenotschka, A word from this small half-Chinese city. Lake Baikal is lovely, but Lake Sevan is prettier. Exquisite mountains start beyond Baikal. It’s almost springtime; nearly all the snow has melted; the flocks are starting to graze. Chita is very attractive—Chinese, the hotel keeper a Greek. Tomorrow morning I’m leaving for Khabarovsk. Nothing extraordinary so far. You haven’t missed anything. I’m impatient to receive a letter from you at Vladivostok. I miss you greatly, Lenotschka, and I’ll be happy the day I see you in Berlin. I’d like us to go together to the blossoming cherry trees of Werder. I’ll continue this letter in the railroad wagon tomorrow. 12 February 1929 Dawn. I’m waiting at the station for the train to Khabarovsk. Last night I had a sudden pleasure. There are 150 Greeks here in Chita. They learned that I had come and gathered in a house, fetched me, and I spoke to them for many hours with the most ardent love and interest. They are simple people— bakers, shoemakers, shoeblacks. They had an infinite number of questions here in the wilderness and, as they told me, they’ve been gathering every evening, but they’ve been unable to answer any of these questions: “What is communism?” “Why was Greece defeated?” “For what purpose is a person born?” “What does honor mean?” “Will there be a war?” “Where are we headed?” If I were Christ, surely men such as these would be my disciples. Love, ardor, trust! It’s the intellectuals who are sterile, dishonorable, damned. Although I was tired and sad, I rediscovered my faith in mankind with these simple

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people. Chita! A tiny city in Manchuria! Something that didn’t exist until the day before yesterday. Ah, as Rilke says, “Reisen! Reisen! Reisen!” Manchuria, 14 February 1929 We’re crossing the Manchurian border, along the Amur River. Monotonous landscape; unpopulated plains with small birch trees. Now and then a village, where all the passengers get off, run to the kipiatók, fill their teapots with hot water, and run back to the train. Yesterday we had 36 degrees of frost but the wagons are well heated and the other torment begins: suffocation. Windows closed, frosted over. The only pleasure is that there are few travelers, and I have a compartment to myself. Yesterday I worked well on the book on Russia—or, better, the two books under the familiar titles, as follows: Homo Bolchevicus for the first volume, Homo Metabolchevicus for the second. I’ve got the outline complete now with a horde of details. But I need to stop somewhere definitively in order to write it. I’m anxious to receive a letter from you from Berlin. How did you get there? How did you settle in? How is Marika? Oh, if only we could settle down in Germany! After I write books about Russia, then we finally must look for a high mountain for the Odyssey. Maybe the one that Bilili told us about, Montana-Vermala, 1,800 meters. (Now that I’ve thought of it: Do me a favor. Write to Anasta to send you the book by Berdyaev: Un nouveau moyen-âge, published by Plon. I’ll need it urgently when I arrive. Also, see about buying me the splendid little book by Frobenius, Paideuma. That too will be indispensable for me.) A little while ago I wrote these lines that two of Odysseas’s highland companions sing. Here they are: Θέμου και να πατήσω το βουνο, να πάρει ο νούςμου αγέρα! Ν’ αρχίσει ο γάβρος σφέρδουκλας ν’ ανθει κι ο λάδανος   να δρώνει κ’ η πετροπέρδικα να περπατάει, να κακαρίζει ο λόγγος. Ν’ ακούσει η κόρη που αγαπω να βάλει μάνταλο στην πόρτα μέγα κλωνι βασιλικο, να βάλει βάρσαρμο δραγάτη. να βάλει και γαρούφαλο σγουρο βιγλάτορα στον κόρφο! I’d like my schedule after Russia to be this: five months (May–October) to write the two books, then two years for the Odyssey. The five months can be spent anywhere, but the time for the Odyssey must be on a high mountain because otherwise the body won’t be able to endure. For the sake of your body, too, I’d like you to be with me on the mountain. All of our efforts must have that purpose from now on: after the two books, absolute tranquillity on a high mountain. 15 February, Habarovsk

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I arrived bright and early. Pretty city; terribly cold still; not even one room at the hotels. I’ll sleep in a corridor and will leave tomorrow. I’m wandering through the city. Full of Chinese. Snow. My face is suffering terribly. A little while ago someone stopped me and announced to me that my nose had turned white. I took some snow and rubbed the nose for a long time. So far, Siberia hasn’t given me any strong sensation; thus you shouldn’t be very sad that you failed to see it. I’m writing you in a restaurant. It’s noontime, and I’m waiting for the obed at one o’clock. I got tired walking five hours in the terrible cold. Without a room, the way I am, the whole afternoon will also be hopeless. But I accept all this calmly, knowing that all lower metals can turn into gold when there the “philosophic stone” of the ancient alchemists exists in our heart. At this time of day you must still be sleeping at Marika’s, since dawn hasn’t arrived yet in your parts. Here, we put our watches eight hours ahead of Moscow time. I’m eager to receive a letter from you from Berlin. Write me many details and give my regards to Marika. N 16 February The train was twenty hours late; thus I’ve stayed besprizornyi yet another day here. Last night I went to the movies, to Genghis Khan. I saw parts that we hadn’t seen in Moscow, and I liked it better—anyhow, less than the ending of Petersburg. The evening here is wonderful: the snow dark bluish, the Amur River azure and extremely wide, with a bright green star sparkling above it. Struggling not to be depressed, I find whatever beauty I can and cling to it, to keep from falling. I slept very badly in the corridor. I know many greater misfortunes, thank God! Lenotschka, when you departed from the station in Moscow, my heart skipped a beat because I wanted to run to tell you how much I loved you and was unable to convince my body to execute that movement. I remained standing at the window gazing at the night. I’m writing this to you now and my heart feels a little relieved. I’m always impatiently waiting for a letter from you. With you always. N

1  Lake Sevan:  A very large lake in Armenia.  1  Werder: Town near Potsdam, not too far from Berlin, famous for hosting a festival each May to celebrate the “blossoming season.”  1  as Rilke says:  Actually, the quote is not from Rilke (1875–1926) at all, but from a famous poem by Theodore Fontane (1819–98). The relevant lines are “Mehr als Weisheit aller Weisen / Galt mir Reisen, Reisen, Reisen” (More than the wisdom of all the sages / Was to me: travel, travel, travel).  1  kipiatók:  Boiling water.  1  36 degrees of

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frost:  -33 degrees Fahrenheit.  1  Homo Bolchevicus . . . Homo Metabolchevicus:  Bolshevik man . . . post-Bolshevik man.  1  Marika:  Papaïoannou.  1  Monana-­Vermala: City in Switzerland, 1,800 meters (5,905 feet) high.  1  Berdyaev:  Nikolai Berdyaev (1874–1948), Russian religious philosopher, exiled from Soviet Russia first in Berlin, then in Paris. Un nouveau moyen-âge was published in 1927, translated from the Russian original (1924). An English translation, entitled The End Of Our Time, appeared in 1933.  1  the splendid little book by Frobenius:  Leo Frobenius, Paideuma: Umrisse Einer Kultur-und Seelenlehre (Munich: Beck, 1921; A lesson: Outline of a Theory of Culture, and Learning for Souls).  1  I wrote these lines:  They are printed here exactly as Kazantzakis wrote them in his letter, using his customary accentuation system and spelling. Translation: “Oh God, let me tread mountains to clear my mind! / Let the proud asphodel blossom and the ladanum take effect / and the rock partridge stroll, thickets cackle. / So that the daughter I love may bolt the door / with a large branch of basil, place balm as a field guard / and a wavy carnation as a sentry on her bosom!”  1  obed:  Main midday meal in Russia.  1  besprizornyi:  Homeless, neglected, uncared for; like a street-urchin, a homeless child.  1  Genghis Khan:  The Heir to Genghis Khan, movie directed by V. I. Pudovkin (1928).  1  Petersburg:  The End of St. Petersburg, movie directed by V. I. Pudovkin (1927).

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 111–13.

Iman [Dalnerechensk], 16 February 1929 Dear brother, I’m sitting in a little station at midnight on the Manchurian border, above the large Amur River, waiting for the train, and I’m glad that I feel the need to converse with you. When I want to analyze this love of mine for you, I attribute it to purely selfish, conceited reasons. It’s as though I were talking to myself at age twenty, as though I have suddenly jumped a distance twentythree light-years away and see myself as a struggling young man wanting to conquer the world. I wasted many years of my life searching without a guide in a multitude of “outlets” in order to find my own outlet. I loitered in intermediate or deceptive stations more than I should have. Sometimes scholarship took hold of me, sometimes philosophy, action, art (I still haven’t escaped that one), λιλαιόμεναι πόσιν ἔμμεναι. Now I clearly understand that what interests me is not humankind, not the earth, not heaven, but the flame that devours humankind, earth, and heaven. I must catch that flame and formulate it—only then will I go beyond all the previous stations. Here in Russia

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I have felt perfectly, too, that Russia does not interest me in the least, nor do justice or humanity’s comfort or virtue. What interests me is only the flame that burns up humanity together with justice, comfort, and virtue, those vulgar, humble, ephemeral lures. This is monstrueux, as Istrati screamed at me when he abandoned me. “You don’t love mankind, you are heartless, you don’t care about the fortunes of the masses!” And I kept quiet, because his naïve, sentimental soul was incapable of understanding this tigress, this bloodhound of “God” that I am holding and that—as with the Spartan boy who stole the fox—is lacerating my breast. When I think of you now, I am always reminded of the way André Gide completed the parable of the prodigal son. You know it. I would like to transmit all of my experience to you so that you will not waste time. May the same happen to you as happened to me—to find your youthful self when you reach maturity. I’m smoking my pipe. There’s a crowd of Mongolian faces around me in the station; two women next to me are telling fortunes with cards; an elderly muzhik with a cow-skin cloak and a red belt is pouring the tea he’s drinking into his saucer and sipping it with bestial glee. Chinese women wrapped in speckled parkas shout, laugh, eat—the children on their backs or hanging from their necks like kangaroos. I understand all these human activities, but I see so far behind these individuals’ shoulders that they themselves disappear. Sentimentalists call this harshness, insensitivity. I am delighted at this moment, at one end of the earth, that you exist at the other end and see human beings and sense and consider them the same way that I do. That’s what “brother” means. That’s why I love you. As long as you have that perception, there will be no separation. I will have it until I die—and also for a few seconds (you’ll see it) after I die. N Vladivostok, 18 February 1929 I’ve reached the final point, setting out for a difficult victory. Obstinacy, inhuman love, disdain for humanity, faith, silence. Today is my birthday. All alone, I’m calm, looking at the Pacific Ocean in front of me full of frozen green waves.

1  twenty-three:  Actually, the difference in years between Prevelakis and Kazantzakis was twenty-six.  1  Iman:  Now called Dalnerechensk.  1  λιλαιόμεναι πόσιν ἔμμεναι:  Homer, Odyssey 1.15, more accurately λιλαιομένη πόσιν εἶναι, describing Calypso’s “yearning [for Odysseus] to be [her] husband.”  1  monstrueux:  Monstrous.  1  Spartan boy who stole the fox:  Spartan boys were taught that it was OK to lie, cheat, or steal, so long as they did not get caught. Apropos, Plutarch, in his essay on Lycurgus 18.1, relates how a boy once stole a live fox that he planned to kill and eat. However, when

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he saw some soldiers approaching, he hid the fox beneath his cloak because he feared the consequences of being caught in theft more than the pain of the fox biting his chest, which he did not reveal. He let the fox tear out his guts and he died right there, rather than allowing the fox to be seen.  1  André Gide:  French novelist and essayist (1869–1951), winner of the Nobel Prize for literature in 1947. In his Le retour de l’enfant prodigue, his prodigal does not return home to become a model son but feels frustrated and yearns to revolt once again. In an earlier letter to Prevelakis (1 July 1928; Prevelakis 1965, p. 83), Kazantzakis, speaking then, too, of Gide’s interpretation, declares, “I will never return to the paternal home . . .”  1  muzhik: Term used for a peasant in czarist Russia.  1  Today is my birthday:  Pevelakis realized for the first time that both he and Kazantzakis were born on 18 February, Kazantzakis in 1883, Prevelakis in 1909.

To Harilaos Stefanidis —Manuscript in Demosthenes Stefanidis family archive, Iraklio; printed in Νέα Σύνορα (Athens), October–December 1977, p. 106.

Vladivostok, 19 February 1929 Dear Harilaos, I’m now at the furthest point in this year’s journey; the day after tomorrow I’ll be heading back toward Bukhara and then finishing. Two years of peace now for the Odyssey and then another trip (India, China, Japan) for my other work, Buddha. After that, I plan to die. I wrote you from a city on the Manchurian border asking you to take care to find me Cretan words. Since my whole mind is already directed toward the Odyssey, I’m writing to you again on this matter and am sending you a plan to help you collect the linguistic material. I urgently entreat you: send this plan to everyone (teachers, doctors, etc. in the villages) whom you know to be able to help me and entreat them on my behalf. I’ll be away from Greece for years, and I need Greek words and especially Cretan ones. The demotic language is my only tie with the “homeland.” If I hadn’t felt a supreme pleasure in writing our demotic tongue, I never would have written in Greek. So I’m asking for help from you and our friends. Tell Mihalis, tell Freris— Mihalis will have students in the villages who will help. Whatever you accumulate, write the words down for me and send them to me where I write you. Also, you as a hunter will know customary names for the habits of birds and game. Please record them for me: hare, partridge, jackdaw, woodcock, wild boar, etc. Make several typewritten copies of the plan I’m sending you and spread them wherever you have hopes. Please help me! I’ve already made my own word list, but I’m always hoping to find and use more words that are

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expressive and good. Linguistically, the Odyssey needs to be superlatively rich. That’s why I’m entreating you so much. And Crete is amazingly full of melodious words that are superbly picturesque. That’s that. I hope to quiet down at the end of April and to find a mountain in Germany or Switzerland on which to cast anchor. I would like to see Kalmouchos in order to prepare with him a trip to India, etc. to take place two years from now. Regarding Vladivostok, what should I write you? Full of Chinese, the harbor frozen, terrible cold. My eyes observe insatiably. I’m happy because by means of obstinacy I have conquered great difficulties and have gone as far as the point I had decided upon. The other companions abandoned me in the middle of the trip—thank God!

1  Mihalis:  Presumably Anastasiou.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 113–15.

Siberia, 20 February 1929 Dear brother, I’m going back through Siberia and will get off at various cities that I missed when I came. But my mind is already directed completely toward the Odyssey. Inside me, the Russian adventure has ended. Therefore, once again I need to entreat you for several things for the Odyssey: (1) Words. Write me whatever new words you’ve found. (2) It’s said that the first volume of the demotic dictionary will be printed; is that true? (3) Send me (always c/o Marika Papaïoannou, Keithstr. 6, Berlin W. 62) various linguistic aids if you know of them, especially Daskalakis’s Κυνηγός, Karthaios’s Don Quixote, Drosinis’s Ψάρεμα (Useful Books), and anything else about Greek animals and birds—perhaps Granitsas’s book. (4) If you know the address of Eirini Koundouri (the wellknown communist), write her a word saying that I ask her to send to me in Berlin the Whitman that I lent her two years ago. I need it a lot. I am overcome again by love for the demotic language. Please send me whatever you think might do me good. You’ve ended up knowing better than I do what I need, so it’s superfluous for me to write you details. I have two cantos of the Odyssey here with me. How defective the verse is! How provisional the formulation! What haste! I was in a hurry to erase the entire plan, as though I were about to die. Now that I’m still alive, I’ll strengthen each line until its form is perfect. Two years will be enough, I propose. I must write to Eleftheroudakis to send me the money in Germany.

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I need to live for two years without wasting time in the abomination of breadwinning. Will I be able to? We’ll see. Siberia, 22 February 1929 I’m still crossing Siberia, all alone in the railroad wagon, in divine silence, and I feel myself ripening. I often think of the work that once—an evening in the Zappio, I think—we spoke about you writing: Akritas. What a wealth in words and feelings you’ll be able to possess—the whole of Christian and medieval life, wealth that the Odyssey cannot use! If I didn’t have Buddha as the final fruit of my thirst, I would grasp hold of Akritas. The Odyssey is superior only in this: that it continues Homer, the colossal epic of the white race. It closes a circle left open for so many centuries. And it closes it precisely in an age astonishingly similar to the world situation in the twelfth century b.c., just after the descent of the Achaeans, just before the descent of the Dorians, and the creation—after a middle age—of a new civilization. If I were like you, I would write a lot of poetry about other subjects, would whet my powers, gain control of words, and when I finally felt that my training was sufficient, I would begin Akritas. Together with this, I would study the entire period and would collect all the huge amount of material—methodically, profusely—as though for a scholarly work. Then trips to the East and solitude in Crete. May I hold this Akritas in my hands, before I die, in a firstrate edition! We’ll see! Siberia, 27 February Still on the train. Alone in the car. I’ve settled in as though I’ve lived my life here. I awake in the morning, work, write verses. I don’t have a single book to read, and thus my thoughts don’t get diverted.

1  the demotic dictionary:  He is referring to the Academy of Athens’s Ιστορικόν Λεξικόν της Νέας Ελληνικής, modeled on the Oxford English Dictionary (whose first edition took forty-four years to complete). The first volume of the Academy’s dictionary did not appear until 1933 and covered only α to αμ in the alphabet. The project has now reached volume 5, part 2, published in 1989, which goes up to δαχτυλωτός in the alphabet.  1  Daskalakis’s Κυνηγός:  Vasos Daskalakis planned to publish a lexicon of hunting terms.  1  Karthaios:  K. Karthaios (1878–1955), soldier, poet, translator, director of the National Theater; Kazantzakis seeks Karthaios’s translation of Don Quixote (1920).  1  Drosinis’s Ψάρεμα: On fish and fishing, proper title Το ψάρευμα (1904). Yeoryios Drosinis (1859–1951) was a poet and prose-writer, an early demoticist who also wrote on various rural pursuits.  1  Granitsas’s book:  Stefanos Granitsas, Τα άγρια και τα ήμερα του βουνού και του λόγγου (Athens: Eleftheroudakis, 1921; The Wild and Tame of Mountain and Thicket). 

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1  I would grasp hold of Akritas: Of course, Kazantzakis eventually did plan another huge epic entitled Akritas. Prevelakis 1965, pp. 487–89, prints Kazantzakis’s detailed outline; Janiaud-Lust 1970, p. 581, prints a French translation. Neither Prevelakis nor Kazantzakis ever wrote this projected work.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 115–17.

Old Rostov, near Yaroslav, 10 March 1929 I’m in the oldest medieval city of Russia, near Moscow. Superb churches: green, gold, indigo blue domes, divine frescoes inside from top to bottom— all freshness, naïveté, colors. The minute I entered ancient Russia—Perm, Vologda, Yaroslav, Rostov—the churches began on the rivers’ edges, the whole of the deep, mystical Russian soul, angels full of passion, Virgin Marys, saints, paysages primitifs, cherubim like conflagrations—all the sexuality of heaven ejaculated onto this frozen, fertile earth. Siberia has something inhuman about it, something inhospitable and terrible that wishes to devour humanity. This old Russia is full of human sweetness, sadness, and understanding. Tomorrow I’ll be in Moscow hoping to secure the permit needed for a visit to Bukhara and Samarkand. I want to get those two words out of my system— those cities that have cast my mind into ferment ever since I was a child. If I fail to obtain the permit, I’ll leave at once for Berlin and will try to stay there because I loathe and hate Paris. I’ll send this letter to you from Moscow and tell you what I’m going to do. I’ve gained the following fruits from Siberia after terrible exhaustion: (1) the vision of the inhuman, snow-covered wilderness (similar to the wilderness of Sinai but Siberia’s is more inhuman and more in accord with my heart); (2) the squat villages with smoking chimneys thrust in the snow; (3) an old Chinaman’s song on the frozen steppe of the Amur. And above all: the great, fecund, divine silence inside me. During my life I have often kept silent for months. But this Siberian silence came at just the right time, after the futile, superficial proclivity of the “comrades”: their garrulous concern about mediocre problems. I’ve enjoyed keeping my mouth closed for weeks, unsullied by any word. I think that this has done me a world of good. Moscow, 15 March 1929 I’ve received an old letter of yours that worries me very much. All that you write me about I retain at every moment, but I also overcome it all at every

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moment. Many of my inner powers are in a hurry to dissolve away, indeed sometimes in a violent manner; however, many others resist. Thus, at every moment I continue to clench my soul between my teeth. I’m still waiting here for the permit for Turkestan. I find myself in front of a fork in the road: Bukhara or Berlin. According to my habit, I am waiting calmly, since I have worked for Bukhara with the utmost intensity and, whatever happens, I’ll make it fruitful to the extreme. Thus the frissonnement that affects me derives not from anxiety but, instead, from impatience. As soon as it’s decided, I’ll send you word. I’m fine, steady; it’s only that I’m in a hurry to write the two books about Russia and afterwards to isolate myself two years on a high mountain for the Odyssey. I am impatiently awaiting a letter from you. It would be surer if you sent it to me c/o Lidia Volenskaya, Staropimenofskii per. 1 Kb. 19 Moscow. She’ll give it to me immediately. If I leave for Berlin, you know the address. I’m always with you, at your side, with ardent love. N

1  paysages primitifs:  Primitive landscapes.  1  frissonnement:  Shuddering.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 258; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 208–9; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 215.

Moscow, 21 March 1929 My dear, I’ve just come back from Itka’s, and I have your three letters, 10 and 15 March. I read them rapidly and experienced your life, the worries, the racing around for the articles, and your pleasures with Nefertiti. I wrote the Viennese lady a long while ago, but she never answered me. Tomorrow I’ll write her that I’m about to leave, that we entreat her regarding the furs, and that I’ll let her know when I return from Turkestan. I had brought the letter myself and had delivered it to the German director, Kuznetskii most 22. So don’t worry about that. I saw Adrienne and she told me about the shoes. I told her to give them to me when I leave. If I have time, I’ll see her tomorrow. I’m leaving for Turkestan tomorrow even if they send me back. I hope ­everything goes well. Regarding the articles, I was sorry only for financial

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reasons; they might have helped us to stay somewhere for a bit without worrying and afterwards to find a German publisher for the two books. In any case, before I leave tomorrow I’ll bring them all to Vox; please keep a complete series for me since I find them indispensable for the books. Already, these days here, I haven’t been going out, and I’ve been writing quite a few pages. As I wrote you, I prefer that we leave for France together. What will you do thanks to Kathimerini? Without fail we’ve got to find money for both us. I’ve already written to Eleftheroudakis, who owes me some. I hope he’ll send it. In any case, when the moment comes, then and only then should we worry. I hope to have enough for both of us for six months provided we arrange to live cheaply near Paris, maybe at Mme Géneaus’s. Tomorrow I’ll go to Deutsch’s again and ask him to give me at least 150 + 40 on my return. Let’s hope. I’ll also telephone R. again about Bezboyuth. Write me if you inquired at all about a publisher for the two books. Is it possible to find one in Germany? Or will I be obliged to apply to a French publisher? Did you see Kisch? I saw Mousouris, and he told me that before I leave we’ll “talk.” Let’s hope. I’ll do what I can to get something, and maybe that will be of use for us. We’ll see. As for me, I’m in a hurry to see you. I’m happy when I think of you. Everything else passes by. So, the program is: (1) Turkestan; (2) return, the things you ordered, Mousouris; (3) Berlin—I wrote you that if there is no need at all for us to stay in Germany, write to me so that I can get a ticket direct to Paris; (4) write the two books and find a publisher; (5) October 1929: Odyssey until December 1930. Then a trip together to Italy. Edwige wrote me a bitter, sad, despairing letter today. The same with Prevelakis. He wants to see me because he has negative forebodings concerning his life. He’ll come to see me in Paris in the spring. No word from my sister. Aristidis, too, is suffering a lot because I didn’t send him any work at all, but a power of attorney to benefit as much as possible from the 150,000 drachmas they owe me and to make use of them. Anna Kaz. is in Iraklio! Itka is ill. She thinks of you and loves you. Zweig is a splendid critic. I don’t very much like those of his stories that I know. Try reading J. Roth: Die Flucht ohne Ende. Another book I’d like you to order for me is Guéhenno, Caliban parle. I must read it for the books on Russia. I think of the Odyssey day and night. Good god, what imperfections! What horrible lines! Shameful! A terrific revision, hard, épuisant. You’ve seen the history of the first line. What I suffered before reaching the final form! And you’ve seen how it is full, ripe, and immediately familiar now. I need to suffer the same way for the 33,333 lines that will constitute the Odyssey. That’s why I need a high mountain and tranquillity—to emerge alive. Dear Lenotschka, I keep hoping that you’ll help me and that we’ll often suffer together over these lines. May life acquire meaning, tempo, and sweetness in this way. Otherwise it’s écoeurante, humiliante, inférieure à la mort.

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Say hello to Marika for me. I must see her without fail. In any case, give her this postcard, which is the entire Russia. Your shoulders, very much, N

1  Nefertiti: Rahel Lipstein; the original Nefertiti was of course the f­ ourteenth-century b.c. Egyptian queen, wife of Pharaoh Akhenaten and half sister of Pharaoh Tutankhamen.  1  Kisch: Egon Erwin Kisch (1885–1948), Czechoslovakian writer and journalist who settled in Vienna in 1918 and became a founding member of the Austrian Communist Party; resided afterwards chiefly in Berlin, engaged in journalism during the Weimar Republic; then in Australia; then in Spain during the Spanish Civil War; then in Mexico, where he wrote his autobiography, Sensation Fair (1941).  1  Mousouris: Spyros Mousouris (1887–1981), editor of the journal Πρωτοπορία (Vanguard); poet, painter, and journalist employing the pseudonym Fotos Yiofyllis.  1  Mavridis:  Aristidis Mavridis founded his publishing house in 1927; issued the periodical O Logos, edited by Angelos Terzakis; also Philologiki Protochronia starting in 1943.  1  J. Roth: Die Flucht ohne Ende:  Joseph Roth (1894– 1939), Austrian novelist and journalist; “Flight without End,” originally published in 1927 by Kurt Wolff in Munich, English translation in 1930; the story of an Austrian soldier who fights with the Red Army during the Russian Revolution, then arrives back in bourgeois Vienna to find that it has no place for him.  1  Guéhenno, Caliban parle:  Jean Guéhenno (1890–1978), French left-wing literary critic and biographer who edited the reviews Europe and Vendredi; Caliban parle, suivi de Conversion à l’humain (Caliban Speaks, Followed by Conversion to the Human), published in 1928 by Grasset in Paris; transforms Shakespeare’s savage Caliban into a positive representation of the common people.  1  épuisant: Exhausting.  1  écoeurante, humiliante, inférieure à la mort: Disgusting, humiliating, worse than death.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 117–18.

Turkestan, 26 March 1929 Dear brother, I’ve entered Turkestan without a permit because I want to see Samarkand and Bukhara. Those two cities have excited me ever since my childhood, and I need to see them in order to free myself. The more I travel, the more I feel that traveling for me is simply the need for freedom. Whatever has enticed my mind and heart and keeps itching me: only when I see and enjoy it do I

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emerge victorious and move forward. Russia at this point is behind me. I feel no uneasiness or yearning any longer. Finished! It was a miracle, an infinite pleasure. Now the Volga flows like an artery between my eyebrows. I do not renounce it. I take it with me; it’s turning into my blood. From now on, whenever I desire something, we desire it together—I and Russia, Palestine, Japan, Sinai, the Greek islands, whatever I’ve seen, we desire it together because we have become a single body. The Siren is like bread and wine; she nourishes me. I’m pleased because I continually feel my heart more intensely en système d’avalanche. It’s nighttime. We’ve reached Tashkent but I’m not staying because I’m in a hurry to set foot in Samarkand. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. Alexander the Great, Tamerlane, the woman he loved, Bibi-Hanum. I’m impatient to see the famous mosques. Already on the way I felt that I had finally entered the Orient. The snow has melted, the Amu Darya River and the Aral Sea are emancipated from ice. Then: the boundless desert of Kazakhstan, camels, houses with flat roofs, men and women with a horde of colors, slender minarets in the villages, then abundant apples and sunlight and the ground covered with grass. It will be filled with flowers a week from now. Joy, freedom, solitude, silence—the sweetest of springtimes in the heart of Asia. Samarkand is waiting; beyond it Bukhara; still further the celebrated ruins of the age-old city Merv, buried by a simoon a century ago. As I write you in the railway wagon, a pile of the famous apples of Tashkent on the little table in front of me, you are the only person I’m thinking of and would like to have with me. N

1  en système d’avalanche:  Like a snowdrift—that is, increasing all the time.  1  You are the only person I’m thinking of . . .:  Actually on the same day, also from Tashkent, he also wrote a warm letter to Eleni (Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 260; Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 210; Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 217).

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; photocopy in my possession; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 119–20.

27 March 1929, Samarkand! Happiness, joy! I’m going through the famous Registan Square, which is surrounded by mosques—full of blue and green ceramic tiles—of the SherDor Madrasah, the Tilya-Kori Madrasah, and the Mirza Ulugh Beg Madrasah. Behind them Timur’s grave and the most beautiful mosque in Asia, the mosque of Timur’s beloved, the Bibi-Hanum.

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I’m wearing a golden Uzbek cap and eating grapes and melon, while wandering through the courtyards of the mosques beneath almond trees in full bloom. Springtime, heat, the streets filled with thousands of Muslims dressed in divinely motley rags; noise, pungent odors, small gardens in bloom. This day seems to me to be one of the most splendid of my life. I’ll stay some more days here in order to have my fill and be liberated. Then, Bukhara! Ah, what a miracle this world is! What people, what faces! What happiness to tread the ground, to cross the earth, and to have two eyes! I’ve lost two cantos of the Odyssey that I was correcting en route and forgot on the train. I didn’t care, having given myself over as I had to this happiness, thrust as I was into this heart of the Orient. Now they’ve telephoned me that the notebooks were found and will be in Samarkand tomorrow. Ah! Words can say nothing. Looking at this city, all my poetry strikes me as insipid, soulless, colorless. How shall I ever be able to express the Bibi-Hanum’s colossal turquoise minaret, and how shall I give life by means of words to a little seven-year-old girl I saw today walking through the bazaar with innumerable braids, a large clump of gold at the end of each, her eyes and nails dyed? She had a disconcerting gaze like a splendid doll’s and at the same time a whore’s— like the soul of this entire luxuriant, painted East. Always, N

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 261–63; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 211–13; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 218–21.

Samarkand, 28 March 1929 Dear Lenotschka, All day today I’ve been going around—mosques, marketplaces, streets— eating melon and grapes, with an embroidered cap I bought, and I’m enjoying this indescribably exotic spectacle. Among the mosques, that of Omar is superior because it’s intact; some of them here are enormous but in ruins: half a divinely green dome, broken columns, minarets already leaning in the Yerevan style. As a city, as Asiatic color, it is infinitely superior to Jerusalem. The heart of the Orient is here. It’s an exotic sight to see the multicolored quilts, the cloaks, the gray, white, and yellow turbans, and the red slippers upturned like gondolas, as in Persian miniatures. How I wish you were with me!

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Tomorrow I’m leaving for Bukhara. I’ll continue there, impatient to see differences from Samarkand and how this city that I’ve desired since childhood will strike me. Good night for tonight, Lenotschka. I’m very tired. From Samarkand to Bukhara I’m leaving at noon, Friday. An extremely gentle plain, a summer’s day, bedeckt. Almond trees in blossom, villages of mud huts, people wearing festive red. Warm; scattered clouds. My heart is beating because I’ll be in Bukhara in five hours. (I forgot to tell you that today at the station the stationmaster, Khloubatze, ran up to me happily and offered me, on a tray, the two Odyssey notebooks! They found them in the railway wagon, understood, and sent them to me in Samarkand! Pauvre Odyssée! I had completely forgotten it here in my oriental joy. Bukhara When I arrived—the station, you know, is thirteen kilometers away so that the women of Bukhara won’t be led astray—it was already Friday night. The heat had abated, and the gentlest of cool breezes was blowing. All at once I was at the center of Bukhara, thick with Muslims taking their evening walk. Imagine them—dressed like bishops and archbishops with tall, pointed miterhats! Zurnas; café owners shouting; sellers of roasted chickpeas; beggars; dulcimers; the cafés strewn with carpets and thousands sitting cross-legged on them; singers in the middle—a young, pretty boy and three old men with the shrillest voices; diverse smells, as you know them: herbs, jasmine, urine. The whole of the old city covered with a wooden roof as though you were walking inside a house. (Only one hotel, and horrendous.) I wandered until midnight, detecting the mosques in the scanty light: huge, glistening, empty. I slept very badly. I roamed around at dawn. Here, now, are my conclusions: Bukhara is more Eastern, more deeply part of the desert than Samarkand. The houses are all low and all made of mud, the walls with only one tiny window—high up, like a loophole. When it’s windy, like today (already horribly hot), all the houses s’effritent, and the dust is unbearable. The people here are not dressed in such varied colors as in Samarkand. Everything gray—like dust, like sand; everything low. Flat roofs. And suddenly from amid this gray, muddy surface the miracles leap up: the turquoises, the circular domes with a discrete pointed top (like beautiful female breasts): the exquisite mosques. You sense here how much every individual is sacrificed in the great moments of civilization in order to add luster to an Idea. All these individual homes built of mud and straw sacrificed in order to raise up the house of their God in their midst. What elegance these mosques of Bukhara display, whereas those of Yerevan

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and even of Omar are a little trapus. Here they are nimble, the dome supported on a slim band that lends it air and lightness. The bazaar does not deserve mention. Sovietized. I went around all day long looking in vain for your ring. Russians and Caucasians are the jewelers now; you can just imagine the miserable pacotilles. Not even the celebrated silks exist any longer. Everything is brought from Moscow. I purchased some handkerchiefs; only the color is nice. Conclusion: For me, Samarkand was the revelation of the ardent Orient, full of color, whereas Bukhara has something classically oriental about it: the discrete lines and color, so extraordinarily graceful for someone who loves the desert. It’s only that both of them have now reached their end. They’re beginning to become civilized—that is, to lose their spirit, to mimic Moscow, which mimics Europe, which mimics America. In the evening I’m leaving immediately for Merv—you know, the large city that was swallowed by the desert a century ago. The desert Pompeii. I don’t want to stay any longer in Bukhara because I know that I’ll lose the emotion it gave me. What remains, therefore, is a remarkable vision of its simple, unaffected architecture and of its divine domes. I’ll send you this letter from Merv. Don’t forget, my dear Lenotschka, that I love you very much. N 31 March I’ve passed through Merv. I stayed only one hour. No need for more. When an oriental city is destroyed, the ruins are insignificant. The houses are mud walls that spread into the desert and are barely distinguishable from the ground. Only mosques, if they exist, preserve a trace of beauty. Here in Merv there isn’t a single mosque. I’m headed for Akmenavad to find the train to take me back to Tashkent, where I’ll stay two days. Horrible desert, the Karakum; unbearable heat. I’m suffocating in the train; the dust comes in; I’m breathing dirt. I can imagine what it must be like in the summer. The heat goes up 80 degrees! All the natives here are like savages: heavily dressed, with thick rose-colored stockings and gigantic lambskin caps three times as large as the Caucasian ones. Gleaming on my left now, only a short distance away, are the Persian mountains. I could reach them on foot in no time. If I could only climb the mountain and view the plain beneath! Clouds; sultry heat; a few trees in bloom at the stations. I’ll be in Moscow on 10 April. Visa first thing. I’m impatient to see you. I’m well, only I sleep very poorly, and I’ve been unable to eat meat for days now, since I came to Turkestan. I drink milk and eat a lot of excellent melons. Thus, the body regulates its diet splendidly, and I follow it. Write to me. I’m impatient to see how you’ve spent these days. I love you very much. Train, 1 April

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The heat is unbearable. I’m still crossing the Karakum desert. The water is warm; I’m drinking tea. I’m waiting to reach a station to get some melons. I’m hungry, and I cannot eat; I feel nauseous. I’m impatient to reach the North to breathe. The Orient is really a quiet spectacle to pass through, see, and leave. Your brain turns soft; your bodily strength melts away like wax. The desert is marvelous: color, leopards, sometimes camels or a raven. Your heart skips a beat. The earth here is dead; a piece of the future winding-sheet has been spread out here in advance. Tomorrow I’ll be in Tashkent. Until then, au revoir! Tashkent, 2 [April] An insignificant city after Samarkand and Bukhara. I’m staying only one day. I got here in the morning and tonight I’ll be leaving for Moscow. Turkestan is finished. What remains? The multicolored human flood of Samarkand, the frugal, exquisite vision of Bukhara, and the terrible desert of Karakum. With these three riches, I’m returning to Moscow and am preparing for Berlin. Perhaps I’ll be in time for us to see, together, the blossoming cherry trees of Werder again. It seems to me once again—this is a marvelous sign—that I still have not seen you and spoken to you enough. May this feeling last forever! Do not forget me! Say hello to Marika for me. I kiss your shoulders and your knees. N

1  bedeckt: Cloudy, overcast.  1  Pauvre Odyssée!:  Poor Odyssey!  1  Zurnas:  The zurna (Greek: zournás) is a peasant woodwind instrument something like an oboe that emits a shrill, penetrating sound and is a favorite for outdoor celebrations.  1  s’effritent: Crumble into dust.  1  trapus:  Plural of trapu: squat, dumpy.  1  pacotilles:  Shoddy goods.  1  Akmenavad:  No town named Akmenavad exists; Kazantzakis presumably meant Akmalabad, which is 42 kilometers (26.1 miles) northeast of Bukhara. Its current name is Gijdvan.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 263–65; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 214–15; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 221–23.

Aral Sea, 4 April [1929] I’m finally returning to Moscow. The Russian campaign is ending. I’m overcome by a huge incomprehensible sadness. During all those long hours

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in the train, I was thinking of how much my life has gone to waste. I’ve not done anything compared to what I could have done. This earth will lose nothing if I die tomorrow. I spread my strength over a multitude of paths instead of concentrating it on one point with the obstinacy and passion of which I am capable. It’s time now for me to concentrate. My great thirst for travel has calmed down with this excess that has already lasted a year. I must use this satiation of mine and concentrate. By all means I must remain away from Greece. I must write the two books and see them published and then the Odyssey. Yet even that will not satisfy me. I feel an inexpressible sadness. What I want is something else. What I want I can reach if I push all my powers that way. Let me suppose that all these years have been a preparation, and let this preparation finish finally. I still have forty years to live! That’s enough provided I don’t scatter anything any longer in ephemeral pursuits outside my goal. “I am interested not in humankind but in the flame that devours humankind.” This simple sentence, which I discovered these recent months, illumines my soul perfectly and helps me greatly in the decision and in the decision’s purpose. Whatever monstrous and inhuman elements I have, as well as all the divine impetuosity that overcomes me—all the “Dämonisches” elements—are completely explained by that sentence. My contacts with people and ideas, and my distance from them, become explicable in this way. In the midst of my personal life’s multitudinous details and of its totality, I distinguish in this way the red line that I follow and that follows me. 5 April Yesterday at midnight we had a small derailment. The wagon in which I was traveling jumped off the tracks and separated from the others. Women screaming, etc., but no one was hurt. Only we lost many hours. So, it was by a hair’s breadth that my sadness did not end forever. N The return is continuing with some difficulty. Another “soft” wagon isn’t available, so I was obliged to take refuge in a “hard” one. I can stand everything except the stench, which is unbearable. I think I’ll stop at Samara in the hope of finding a human wagon. Since I elucidated my temperament yesterday by means of that simple sentence I wrote you, I now know why I am unable to have any external contact with what we call the common people, populism, equality. Thus, I’m not making any effort today to make the best of it for communistic reasons. If I am making the best of it, it’s because I can do whatever I wish with my body and not because I’m happy to find myself with the common people. Sometimes a dream (frequent in my youthful development) or a sentence (like now) permanently elucidates my soul in this way and carves out a path, a straight one at last without zigzags consisting of justifiable sophisms. It is upon this path that we walk—my thought, my action, my self.

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This feeling must not be equated with what we call “the aristocratic,” etc. What I feel most deeply is not simply contact with the masses but connection and continuity with them. But this union is internal, so internal that there is no relation between it and external contacts. Indeed, it is the opposite of those contacts—just as the diamond is the age-old crystallization and essence of coal, yet has no external relation to coal, indeed is coal’s opposite form, and just as the diamond is the essence—the sweat or weeping—of coal in its entirety. Lenotschka, this letter is assuming a confessional tone and becoming a monologue because I am writing you at the precise moment of crisis. I have hardly noticed that from Orenburg and above the snow has begun everywhere again, the rivers are frozen, it’s cold, and there’s this horrible slush in the stations. The roads to Moscow will be impassable. When can I leave? I’m in a hurry to see you, to touch you. I’m happy that you exist, that I found you upon this earth’s crust. N

1  Dämonisches:  Satanic.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 120–22.

[Moscow, 9 April 1929] Dear brother, Compared to everything else, Bukhara will remain most eternally in my mind. I liked it because all of its houses are low, made of mud, without any color or decoration, and then suddenly amid this mud the mosque leaps up, huge, full of color, gleaming in the sunlight. Every individual was sacrificed to erect this unexpected act of elevated folly. God, emerging from this mud, rages with love for the eternal, the colorful, the luxurious, scornfully imbibing the muddy roots around him—the houses and people. When the wind blows (it blew violently, scaldingly, the days I was there), the houses crumble, scatter in the wind, and enwrap incense-like the green, fiery dome. Oh, how I enjoyed this spectacle of decay and flame! Grasping a piece of bread and a large melon, I seated myself on a stone at the base of the mosque and ate. Once before in the same way, in Spain, I had enjoyed bread and fruit—grapes and bananas then. But here it suddenly seemed to me that I was entirely in my own home since I so unexpectedly and so obviously felt “happy,” seated as I was at the base of my soul with the whole of Bukhara spread out inside me like intestines. Moscow, 9 April 1929

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I’ve now received your letter of 21 March—as soon as I arrived. Your letters no longer come with any frequency, and this distresses me. In a few days I’ll be leaving Russia; whatever I wanted to see, hear, learn, enjoy, I have now done. I desire nothing more. It was a great experience unique in my life—so far, because I think I will still have even greater experiences, perhaps in Africa, in India, or staying put somewhere. For now, Russia has given me what I desired. It exists no longer. I’m leaving for Berlin. Send your next letter to me, and always, c/o Marika Papaïoannou, Keithstr. 6, Berlin W. 62. I don’t know how long I’ll stay there. In any case, I’ll give a lecture on Russia. My articles are now being translated there; maybe I’ll stay longer if I find a publisher for the two books I’m going to write. I prefer Germany to France. France smells a lot like Greece, and Greece—the Greeks—are hateful to me. France diminishes my soul—that is, restricts my faith in humanity. If you come to Paris in the spring and I’m not there, come to Germany so that we may see each other. You’ll stay with me. I want to see you very much. You have forms of sadness that I have understood, have experienced, have surpassed. One thing is needed: a strong body to enable us to withstand the flame that burns us. For it not to burn us, the body of a wild beast is required. We must make decisions together and carve out a common, shared journey. Our encounter upon this earthly crust must attain all the fecundity that we are capable of reaching. I have no other human being on earth to talk to. The only souls who have remained warm and faithful toward me, and who help me, belong to female bodies. And that is an obstacle. It is collaboration up to a point; then it becomes “human happiness”—that is, a falling off. I have leafed through the whole of the bulletin and have taken a lot. Send me whatever linguistic material you yourself have already prepared. Don’t worry. This draft of the Odyssey will be only the second; thus, I’ll have time. During the third or fourth drafts, maybe I’ll be in Greece and then I’ll resume my linguistic studies. Maybe we’ll go on a long trip together to the islands then—and to Epiros, Mani, Roumeli—in order to pillage. We have time. The second draft will be finished at the end of 1930, I hope. Then a long trip. The third draft in 1932. The fourth in 1933. I don’t dare set a deadline for the fifth and last. Each and every verse must be made perfect, simple, totally clear without abstract meaning, like water. This is my last letter from Russia. I always clasp your shoulder with love, N

1  the bulletin:  Το Λεξικογραφικόν Αρχείον της Μέσης και Νέας Ελληνικής, vols. 1 to 6.

VII  •  Trying to Make a Career Outside

of Greece, Especially in Spain

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 132–34.

Gottesgab, 28 May 1929 Dear brother, I received your letter of 23 May but not the other one, sent to Berlin. Thus, I don’t know your plans that you wrote me about in that one or how your letters got lost in Russia. I’m staying here willingly because I’m writing the book on Russia in French. I’ll have it translated into German, and I hope that it will be accepted by the publisher who is expecting the manuscript. It’s a sort of novel: Moscou a crié. Seven people, seven consciousnesses, set out to go to Russia. I’m writing how each one sees her. I hope it will be good. I’m obliged to write it in a way that will make it publishable. I lack the absolute freedom that creativity requires. My initial plan was to have a Negro descend to Lenin’s tomb and experience a terrifying vision—an African one. Such a thing is impossible for a publisher to accept, especially from an unknown person like me. The book will be ready in a month and will be sent immediately to Paris as well, to Rieder’s, which wrote me that it expects it. We’ll see. Regarding the articles, I’m not writing to anyone in Greece. As I understand it, I don’t have any chance of their being accepted there. So much the better! May my every possibility for work in Greece be quashed! May I never return there again! I don’t want her. Only Crete still has its hold on me, and always will. I’m fine. The tranquillity of this mountain is indescribable, as is the kindness of the minimum number of Germans who occupy it. The house is a good and pleasant one in the middle of the forest. I awake at 4:00 a.m.; everything around me has turned pink already. I work, drink a lot of milk, eat eggs, butter, and potatoes. I lie down in the sun for two hours for a siesta. I work again. There’s a stream that runs in front of the house; in the evening I walk and watch fish jump out of it and catch insects. I would be able to work on the Odyssey here, too. I can’t wait. Oh, when will I free myself from Russia and

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never turn back again! Odyssey: that’s all! Afterwards, if possible, Buddha— that is, India with you and Kalmouchos. 1 June 1929 I’m sending you the prologue to my book Moscou a crié. Translate it if you’d like and publish it in some periodical. It’s the prologue. Seven of the characters are the book’s heroes. Toda-Raba, the Negro, has the final word: he experiences his vision at the very end. I would have liked the entire book to have continued like the prologue. But publication would have been impossible. Thus, I confined myself, simply, to placing the book between two flames. It was typed just this minute. I’m sending it so that you can be the first. You are with me always. When shall I see you? If everything goes wrong, I’ll come to the villages near Rethymno. I’ll write you about finding me a little house for the Odyssey. Perhaps we can live together for a bit. All roads are opening positively again. I’m calm. N

1  Gottesgab:  Kazantzakis remained in Berlin only from 20 April 1929 until 9 May. On 10 May he and Eleni settled in Bohemia, Czechoslovakia, at an elevation of 1,100 meters (3,608 feet) in an opening of a large forest of spruce trees, surrounded by cows, shepherds, and Bohemian violinists (see Prevelakis 1965, p. 131).  1  Moscou a crié:  Provisional title (Moscow Cried Out) of the novel Toda-Raba.  1  to have a Negro descend to Lenin’s tomb . . .:  This indeed does happen in Kazantzakis’s novel about his experiences in Soviet Russia, Toda-Raba.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 135–36.

Gottesgab, 17 June 1929 Dear brother, I received your letter and am glad you liked the prologue. The whole book is finished. I wanted to make it two volumes, eight hundred to a thousand pages, which wouldn’t have been barely enough for what I wanted to say. But it’s impossible to find a publisher for something so bulky. I was forced to cut it, to limit it a lot. It will come to about four hundred pages. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I don’t. I’m in a hurry for it to be printed so that I can be released and not look at it any more. Odyssey! Odyssey! My whole heart and strength

1929 Letters  •  351

are turned in that direction. All the other things are transitory; they shine today, grow dull tomorrow, vanish. Poetic perfection is the soul’s only salvation. On the way to Vladivostok amid the terrible frost of Siberia, I revised several lines—a great pleasure. I think they became perfect. If all lines succeed, then my soul is saved for the short period that the Greek language continues to be spoken. My soul is indescribably bitter; it despairs with clenched teeth, yet is disdainfully calm and full of laughter whenever it sees someone, because it refuses to deign to share the weight of the earth with anyone. I’m sitting here on the mountain. Sometimes deer come outside the house, and I look at them and can barely hold back my tears. Joy, despair, calm—everything at once. I don’t know what to call this complicated yet unified heartbeat. I will try to send you the book. But keep the French text in case I need it sometime. I’m making three copies: one for the French publisher, one for the German, the third for me, because I need it. I’ll send you the book as soon as I can. The prologue must be published in its entirety, otherwise not at all. Add a brief note, saying that it’s from a book on Russia, etc. The heroes are seven people, seven consciousnesses. In other words, they are the seven people that I have inside me and that saw Russia all together. Sometimes Geranos and Ananda are more deeply inside me. But all are there—even Mussolini. In the epilogue, Toda-Raba, the Negro, swallows them all. I wrote to Kalmouchos about Nikiforos, that I’d rather it weren’t produced. I didn’t have any confidence in that theater, and Nikiforos would be exceedingly boring if care were not taken. I hope they’ll write me and ask my permission—or can they play it just like that, without permission? In that case I’ll impose conditions on them: (1) that it be adapted, (2) that the adaptation be submitted to you and that you sanction it—I’m far away and to submit to me would be superfluous, (3) that Kalmouchos design the scenery. As for the music, I’d like it to be by Sfakianakis. He’s the only one. But I can’t write to him. If he wants to do it, I’ll be most pleased. If you see him, tell him, or write to him. I hadn’t received Lambridi’s letter and feared that I was to blame. I wrote her from Russia and perhaps something I said annoyed her. Now I’m glad that she’s written me. I wrote to Eleftheroudakis; the money will be sent to Berlin. I wrote him again. We’re quits. I intend to go to Berlin in a month and to Paris if necessary, for the publishers. Afterwards—for the Odyssey—I might return here. I’m extremely satisfied with the house and mountains. We’ll see. Please write me more regularly. You give me great pleasure. You should know that no one else interests me as much as you do. Always, N Please find a way to send this postcard to Glinos. I don’t know his address.

352  •  1929 Letters

1  We’re quits:  We’re on even terms now regarding money. Kazantzakis uses Quittes, the French source of the English expression.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 141–43.

Gottesgab, 6 July 1929 Dear brother, Before I begin the Odyssey (I’ll do that when I see where I’ll be able to stay for an entire year), I’m thinking of writing a book about Crete. Like a novel. A vision. A simple story that lasts one day in a village. There are three heroes: the grandfather, who is rooted in the earth, an ogre who controls the entire village. God and Soil! Then his son, who has two great passions, lower but strong: fatherland and sex. Finally the grandson, an effete mollycoddle. Neither god, soil, fatherland, nor women. As we say, a mollycoddle. New ideas: second-rate communism, Roman-Rollandist, esperantist, pacifist, pseudo­ writer. Well, father and son start out in the morning for Iraklio and go to the village where the grandfather is dying. Along the way, the father, from taverna to taverna, gets drunk. In the evening, just after they arrive, the grandfather dies. I know a splendid death scene, that of my uncle Zakharakis in Mylopotamos. Entirely epical, simple, eternal. How he gave instructions about trees and livestock, how he said goodbye to his children. For this book, I once again beg your assistance. I wrote my sister to send me Vlastos’s Wedding in Crete and the volume of Cretan folk songs. Also Galatea’s book. Please send me some help for Crete if you have any: customs, incidents, tragic stories—whatever you think useful. I’ll try to make this book simple, epical, rustic. Three visions of life—the grandfather’s, father’s, grandson’s—to rise up in parallel, but differently: the first two intense, the third terne, intellectual. I’ll write this book, too, in French. I would like it to turn out well, and I hope to finish it a month after the day I begin. Right now I’m correcting the French translation of Traveling and am reading books useful for the Odyssey. The book on Crete seizes hold of me toward evening and then I hastily write various notes in a notebook. I hope it crystallizes quickly inside me while I’m playing in this manner. Then I’ll begin it at once so that it can be ready before the tempest of the Odyssey. I hope you received the epilogue, somewhat corrected. I’m eagerly awaiting the publishers’ replies. They will determine my place of residence for the entire year. Write to me about Cretan types. Remind me a bit about several things: monks, warriors, peasants, anecdotes (like “Do folks who live on the plain

1929 Letters  •  353

have souls?”), marriage customs, funeral customs, grape treading, lime kilns, grape harvest, etc. The story will take place in August, the path of travel will be from Iraklio to the Lassithi plateau, the era will be still under Turkish occupation, a little before 1900. Collect whatever material you can for me. Help! My life here is the same. Simple, industrious, peaceful. It’s still cold, windy, raining, with sudden storms. Hail. Sun, too. They say that summer will come in a month and will last the whole of August. Afterwards, snow until May. Always, N

1  Wedding on Crete:  Pavlos Vlastos, Ὁ Γάμος ἐν Κρήτῃ (Athens, 1893).  1  Also Galatea’s book:  Presumably 11 a.m.–1 p.m. (1929), but perhaps Άρρωστη πολιτεία, which has a Cretan setting.  1  terne: Dull, lusterless, spiritless.  1  Three visions of life: Compare Kazantzakis’s terzina “Grandfather—Father—Son.”  1  The story will take place in August:  Much of this material was used in Kazantzakis’s novel Kapetan Mihalis, written twenty years later.

To Harilaos Stefanidis —Manuscript in Demosthenes Stefanidis family archive, Iraklio; printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, pp. 149–50.

Gottesgab, Försterhauser Erzgebirge, Tschechoslowakei 12 July 1929 Dear Harilaos, For the past two months I’ve been on a high mountain in Bohemia where I relax by working. I’ve already finished a book on Russia, and now I’m preparing another on Crete. I’ve written already to Anastasiou asking for his help. Now I’m writing to you as well. Send me whatever you have concerning Cretan customs, traditions, stories. If the material is printed, I’ll return it to you in a few days. Anecdotes about revolutions, gallantries; tragic stories, superstitions—whatever you know. I want this to be a complete Cretan book so that the Cretan’s tragic soul of the prewar world (now it’s comical) can be known throughout Europe The book will be written in French and will be printed in Germany and France. Please write me at once and send whatever help you can (Kafetzakis: Miheliό, Xanthoudidis: Handakeas, Galatea, Kondylakis, etc.), and I’ll return it to you in a few days. My book will be a novel, and I’m interested in whatever relates to the Cretan soul. Similarly I’m asking Freris, too, to please help me if he’s still in Iraklio. Now (2): I’m waiting for the words you collected for me for the Odyssey. It’s most probable that I’ll remain on this mountain a full year in order to rewrite the

354  •  1929 Letters

Odyssey. So you can imagine how valuable your assistance will be for me. Also the observations you made for me on crows. And on the habits, etc. of birds and animals. Help! The elevation here is eleven hundred meters, in a forest of fir trees. A small river with fish (trout) runs outside the house where I’m staying; deer come and graze and drink; across from me there are rabbits, foxes. It’s still cold here; they say that summer will come in August and last one month. Afterwards, eight months of snow. It’s right on the German border, above Karlsbad. You’ll see me if you have a good map. I’m eagerly awaiting a letter from you: the words, the information, and books about Crete. I always remember you with warm love and nostalgia. I don’t know when I will see you again. For a moment it crossed my mind to write the Odyssey in Crete. I squeeze you hand and love you always, N P.S. One more favor: Can you send me a small bottle of Cretan laurel oil? I need it a lot, and I’ll appreciate it. 1. Interesting customs for marriages, births, and chiefly deaths. 2. If you know how the ceremony of blood-brotherhood takes place in Crete? 3. What were the prewar differences between Christians and Turks in dress, red cummerbund, white baggy trousers, the harbor tramps, etc. 4. If you know how horseshoeing takes place and when? 5. Tragic anecdotes during revolutions, massacres, etc. 6. If any song is sung during grape harvest and when the grapes are trod. And how it happens: habits, traditions, etc. 7. Traditions relating to brave stalwarts, both Christian and Turk. 8. Tortures inflicted on Christians. You will know about Kourmoulides, Korakas, Ksopateras, etc.

1  Μιχελιό:  G. Marantis:  Το Μιχελιό, Κρητική ηθογραφία (Athens, 1921).  1  Xanthoudidis:  Stefanos Xanthoudidis (1864–1928), archaeologist, director of the Archaeological Museum in Iraklio, historian, editor of Erot­ okritos. Kazantzakis is referring to his book Χάνδαξ-Ηράκλειον: ιστορικά σημειώματα (Iraklio 1927).  1  Kondylakis: Ioannis Kondylakis (1862–1920), author, journalist.  1  Kourmoulides:  At the time of the 1821 uprising in Crete against the Ottoman Empire, more than sixty Kourmoulides—they were ostensibly practicing Muslims but actually crypto-Christians—abandoned Islam en masse and played a leading role in the rebellion.  1  Korakas:  Mikhail Korakas (1797–1882), Cretan revolutionary leader much admired by Kazantzakis and used, in part, for his depiction of Kapetan Mihalis. See Bien 2007a, p. 385, and especially n. 11 on p. 568, for how Kazantzakis modeled his hero in

1929 Letters  •  355

part on Prevelakis’s descriptions of Korakas.  1  Ksopateras Real name Ioannis Markakis (1788–1829); became a monk in the Odiyitria Monastery in southern Crete and a famous defender of Christianity and freedom, so much so that the Turks complained and the bishop defrocked him to placate them (thus the nickname); afterwards the Turks attacked the Odiyitria Monastery, which Ksopateras and very few others defended until he alone remained alive, bravely fighting the Turks until he, too, was killed. He is remembered in a folk song beginning “Πουλιά μην κελαηδήσετε Σάββατο ως Δευτέρα, / γιατί τον εσκοτώσανε Τούρκοι τον Ξωπατέρα” (Birds, do not sing from Saturday to Monday, / because the Turks have killed Ksopateras).

To Victor Serge —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 228–29 in the original French; Greek translation in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 273; En­ glish translation in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 222–23.

Gottesgab, 10 August 1929 Dear Serge, A very keen sadness is mixing with the affection with which I have always remembered you. We almost never understood each other. The causes of this misunderstanding are doubtlessly multiple; for some of them il tacere è bello. One cause that may be stated is this: I am not a Marxist; consequently, for you, I am incapable of comprehending contemporary reality. If I am not a Marxist, it is first of all because my metaphysical sense is not sufficiently primary. I am not satisfied with affirmations and negations that are overly simplistic. It is also because I am not a man of action. If I were a man of action, then Marxism would be very handy—a rule of action for our days that is very rigorous and fruitful. It alone. You’ve seen in me only a mystic! Or, rather, a bookworm! On the subject of the USSR, I have just written a confession in the form of a novel whose central character is Toda-Raba, a Negro. I hope that you will read this book and that you will then discover in this Negro my true countenance, my profound self: alexandrinophagous. All the other masks—the seven people who act in this book—are only convenient disguises that I wear in order to move about in society and to be able to communicate with my fellow creatures with some civility, logic, and calm. You have seen only my most superficial masks. That is why I feel such bitterness in thinking of you, dear Serge, because you are not indifferent to me and because I would like to love you as a brother in arms and because that is not now possible. N

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1  Victor Serge: Russian revolutionary Bolshevik (1890–1947) who worked for the Comintern as a journalist, editor, and translator but then became critical of the Soviet regime and was persecuted. The important involvement by Istrati in attempting to help Serge, and Kazantzakis’s relationship to all this, is explained at some length in Bien 1989, pp. 144–52. Many of Serge’s books— fiction, poetry, and essays, all written in French—have been published in English translation, for example What Everyone Should Know about State Repression (London, 1979), translated from Les Coulisses d’une Sûreté générale: Ce que tut révolutionnaire devrait savour sur la répression (Paris, 1926).  1  il tacere è bello:  Being silent is beautiful (Dante, Inferno 4.104).  1  alexandrinophagous:  Pertaining to an “eater of Alexandrians” or to an “eater of alexandrian verses.” Kazantzakis presumably means Toda-Raba’s and his own disdain regarding the supposed pedantry of Alexandrian scholars during the Hellenistic period.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 144–46.

Gottesgsab, 14 August 1929 Dear brother, Such a long time and I have no letter from you. That worries me. At this moment Nazos is here. He came last night and is staying in my house. He’s leaving tonight. He’ll tell you how I live, where I’m living, and then perhaps sometime you will find it convenient to come join me for a while. I’ve also written to Kalmyk, who might come. I plan to remain here for a year. A long while ago I finished the novel on Crete, Kapétan Élia. Today I received a pile of books about Crete from Anastasiou and Stefanidis. Perhaps I’ll add new elements. As Nazos will tell you, my life is utterly simple, good, diligent. We took some photos, and I told him to give them to you. Toda-Raba is still in the publishers’ hands. I hope, given Zweig’s preface, that it will be printed quickly. I imagine that the tone must surprise them and that they don’t dare say either yes or no. They don’t know where to classify it. Whatever happens, I shall try to finish the Odyssey’s second draft. How transformed the verses become the moment I touch them now! For example, the first line was: Σα σκότωσε τους άνομους μνηστήρες στο παλάτι, κρέμασε . . . Now: Σα θέρισε τους γαύρους νιούς μες στις φαρδιές αυλές του, κρέμασε . . . Yesterday I happened to look in canto 20 at some lines you’ll remember: Μικρό παπαγαλάκι κάθουμαι με κίτρινη ακουφίτσα στη μαύρη χέρα σου και σε θωρώ και θέλω να μιλήσω (awful lines)

1929 Letters  •  357

Now: Μικρό παπαγαλάκι κάθουμαι στη χέρα σου και τρέμω· αχνός γαλάζος τα φτερούγια μου και ρόδο ’ναι η κοιλιά μου· και στο τρουλί του κεφαλιού, γερακοκούδουνο η κορόνα. Θέλω ένα λόγο να σου πω, μα τον γκρεμό σου αναντηρούμαι Now, most naturally and effortlessly, the verse takes on the elasticity and ingenuousness of the folk songs. That Is my aim. Oh! when will 1 October come, so that I may start? Write to me without fail. What you are writing, what you are reading, whether you’ll go to Crete. A long letter after so much silence. Don’t forget me, because I am always with you. Sometime I’ll send you a chapter of Kapétan Élia. The idea that it will be published in France diminishes the impetus that possesses me. The French are rationalists, sober, shallow, philistine, sarcastic, and degenerate. If only I could write in Arabic! But it’s too late. That desire will die fruitlessly as though it had never enflamed me. Will we be able to go to India next winter? A multitude of plans are being engendered in me. Maybe I’ll be able to go to the Congo for three months. But first I must finish my time of this year’s service for the Odyssey. Write to me. Always yours, N

1  Kalmyk:  (Jokingly equals) Kalmouchos.  1  Zweig’s preface:  Stefan Zweig (1881–1942), Austrian novelist, playwright, journalist, biographer.  1  the first line was: Translation: “When he had killed the lawless suitors in the palace, he hung up . . .” The published first line is: Σαν πια ποθέρισε τους γαύρους νιούς μες στις φαρδιές αυλές του (“When he had finally finished reaping the arrogant youths in his wide courtyards”). Kimon Friar’s translation is: “And when in his wide courtyards Odysseus had cut down / the insolent youths.”

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 146–49.

Gottesgab, 20 August 1929 Dear brother, Your letter and the excellent photo were a great pleasure. I liked it ex­ ceedingly. I had already written you via Nazos and hope you saw him. I’m living continuously in the great zenith of silence. I’ve finished my tiny offhand

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jobs: Toda-Raba and Kapétan Élia, and am now getting ready to embark on the Odyssey. As is my custom, I am provisioning Folly—Notre Dame—with geometric logic and abundant epistemological nourishment. I’ve brought a pile of books. I’m reading, taking notes, je réforme, déforme whatever falls in front of my mind’s wheels. I am getting ready. Regarding the publication that worried you, I shall summarize for you. Rieder was the first who requested the manuscript from me. I sent it to him, but Panaït told him that he would give him three books on Russia instead of one. Rieder is under contractual obligation to accept them. At the same time he had published the Trotsky book. So many books published on Russia frightened him. He wrote me his hesitations. I sent someone to ask him to return the manuscript so I could give it to someone else. But, the day before, the reader of the Rieder publishing house had finished it and had submitted a warm—excessively warm—judgment. Rieder said: “I’m not giving this book back now. If I can’t publish it, I’ll give it to another publisher. I assume full responsibility.” Thus, the book will be published this season and will be come out at the same time in Germany. Regarding Kapétan Élia they told me immediately that they accept it, but I’m going to hold on to it some more because I don’t like it. In the meantime, the Kölnische Zeitung is publishing several of my articles on Russia and has accepted those on Sinai also. Europe took Egypt and Sinai. Other German newspapers too. “Προβοδέβουμε.” That’s all, in brief. We’ll speak about Panaït when we meet, if it’s worth the trouble. That’s it for today. These days I’ve been reading day and night, but I don’t get tired because this mountain air is a great miracle. Only I’d like to take a trip to the Congo lasting three months all in all as soon as I reach canto 12 of the Odyssey—just to see the vision of the heart of Africa. I haven’t taken action yet. I have time (six or seven months from now). Maybe I’ll write another book in French. In the meantime, I’ve seen what I need for the Odyssey from cantos 1 to 12. I have work for six months. For today, that’s it. I’ll continue my letter at another time. N [Gottesgab,] 27 August 1929 All these days: calm, preparatory work. The days are beautiful, sunny and cool. Smell of cut hay. Gypsy violins at night when they come by in their carts. I’m impatient for 1 October to come although I fear that I’ll start the Odyssey earlier because of impatience. My body is absolutely healthy, all dark from the sun. I wish I could remain here several years. Today I received Πρωτοπορία. A terrible journal: shallow, insulting, disgustingly Yiofyllis-worshiping. If you still haven’t given them the epilogue, keep it for a better opportunity. It would be better if it were never published.

1929 Letters  •  359

It’s a shame, because your translation is excellent, perfectly rendering the original’s rhythm. I would have written a few things differently, but that doesn’t matter (e.g., instead of ghetto, a word certainly international, I would have put “Ovriaki.” That word is totally alive for me, because we had an Ovriaki in Iraklio and my mother often used to threaten that she’d take me to the Ovriaki. (How could she have known that later I’d go there on my own, and how moved I would be!) Also, instead of πονεί I’d put πονάει, instead of αντίκρυ, αντίκρα, instead of χάμω, χάμου, etc. Purely personal things. But two or three are more interesting: (1) Why σχολάρχης for maître d’école? Quite simply δάσκαλος, which indeed is demotic and specifically for a primary school. (2) Not Turkish “καπηλειά”—the Turks don’t have them—but “καφενέδες.” (3) Not Μοσκοβίτης but Μόσκοβος. That’s how it is in our demotic folk songs. Daskaloyannis tilted his fez and said “I’ll bring Moskovos.” (4) Not “πλεξίδες” (p. 203) but ψάθες. The word natte has that meaning here. (5) The monastery is called οι Απεζανές; it’s near Pompia on the Messara Plain. I think that’s all. As soon as I have a complete manuscript available, I’ll send it to you. I learned something from the periodical that I find interesting: How did they discover that the El Greco in the National Gallery of Art is a fake? Certainly Papandoniou must have slipped up from ignorance and not from dishonesty. I also read Psiharis’s story: gracefully and lightly written, but dishonest, exceedingly vulgar. And I don’t like the word σαρκοανάφτρα (good God, what ugly words of the lamp, this method of creating words!). In Crete we have πυρώνω (to ignite the flesh), πυρωμένη (lustful, lewd); perhaps πυρώτρα might be better. Yiofyllis did not even have the courtesy to send his periodical’s entire series. What peasants! And Glinos, the beast, does not answer. I’ve written him four or five times from Russia and from here. What a beast! Do me a favor: look at Laografia to find me some interesting exorcisms and curses. Especially the malaria exorcism. Did you receive Miheliό a while ago, also your short story, and a German periodical for Eleftheroudakis? Write to me. You are the only person in Greece. Always with you, N

1  je réforme, déforme: I form anew, distort.  1  Europe:  Well-known Parisian periodical, published by Rieder.  1  Προβοδέβουμε:  Kazantzakis plays with the word προοδεύουμε (“we’re making progress,” spelled in his way) by inserting a β, which seems to suggest that the progress is somewhat oxlike: προβοδέβουμε (ox = βόδι). Or he may have heard uneducated Cretans making this mistake. Or he is combining προοδεύουμε with προβοδίζω (to see someone off, to accompany someone who is leaving), suggesting his pleasure in seeing certain manuscripts to the door.  1  your translation: Of the prologue to Toda-Raba (written in French), into Greek.  1  Ovriaki:  Οβριακή,

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Jewish quarter, ghetto.  1  maître d’école:  schoolmaster.  1  Σχολάρχης: An antiquated term for the headmaster of the σχολαρχείο (roughly middle school), which no longer exists in Greek education; it also now means the owner of a private, independent school.  1  “καπηλειά” . . . “καφενέδες”: The καφενές (plural: καφενέδες) is of course a café where coffee is served—a καφενείο. The καπηλειό (plural: καπηλειά) is a tavern where wine is served from the barrel. Ironically, the etymology of καφενές is Turkish (kahvehane from kahve [coffee]) whereas the etymology of καπηλειό is ancient Greek (καπηλείον from κάπηλος [tavern keeper, publican]).  1  Μοσκοβίτης: Μόσκοβος: usually Μοσχοβίτης, someone who lives in Moscow.  1  Daskaloyannis:  Yannis Daskaloyannis (1722–71), Cretan shipowner and revolutionary executed by the Turks; subject of folk poetry and song.  1  “πλεξίδες” . . . ψάθες:  ψάθες are mats or hats, etc., made of bulrush or straw; πλεξίδες are a woman’s or girl’s braids—that is, twisted, plaited hair; also a bunch of garlic—but not mats or hats!  1  natte:  (French), matting of straw; but also plait, twist of hair, silk, etc.  1  the monastery:  The Μονή Απεζανών, founded in the mid-sixteenth century, partially destroyed in the Cretan revolt of 1866.  1  σαρκοανάφτρα:  “She who ignites the flesh” (the title of Psiharis’s story).  1  Papandoniou:  Zaharios Papandoniou (1877–1940), especially known for his prose poems and studies of contemporary art; appointed director of the National Art Gallery in 1918.  1  Laografia:  The major periodical dealing with folklore.  1  Miheliό:  Το Μιχελιό, Κρητική ηθογραφία, by G. Marantis, requested earlier (see letter of 12 July 1929 to Stefanidis).

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 160–62.

[Gottesgab,] 12 September 1929 Dear brother Prevelakis, I’ve now finished leafing through the issues of Protoporia that I received, and I much enjoyed whatever polemic Psiharis has there. This old man is miraculous; no one else has as much verve, power, grace, and poison in his polemic as he does. I’m not interested in whatever imaginative literature he writes. Also, Varnalis’s book reviews are good, true, and powerful. I laughed when I saw that he found an opportunity to make a dig at me. “The poor devil,” as one of my teachers, Pandelakis, used to say. Varnalis sees a narrow circle penetratingly. Beyond that circle, it’s all provincial. In other words, he’s a clever “Romios” who doesn’t realize that he is determined not to be taken for a ride and resorts to all the defensive measures he can, in excess. I remember a peasant friend of mine in Iraklio, Fouzetis. They’d told him, too, that I

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make fun of people. Well, Fouzetis wrapped that up in his delicate handkerchief, taking it to heart, and resolved that I wouldn’t fool around with him, too. I used to see him in the street: “Good morning, Fouzetis!” And Fouzetis, smiling craftily, would wink his eye: “Try that on someone else, someone else! Good morning, yeah?” Anyway, people will never understand my utterly simple secret: I see “A” and “not A” not successively but simultaneously. And not one behind the other but on the same level and with the same lighting. If I prefer one of them, that derives not from its particular worth, which consequently would distinguish it from its opposite, but from my own intervention, whose source is the entirely personal needs of my organism. These two (and when I say “two,” I mean an infinite number) never fit into people’s heads at the same time or in this way. They do so successively, erratically, and with sentimental nuances. And so forth and so on. Some day I must undergo psychological analysis, but it’s still too soon. Continually—chiefly when I see others—I arrive at my former conclusion: that I am not a human being but a monster—something between demon and wild beast, because sometimes I not only see but experience my greatest joys, sorrows, ideas, and concerns in four dimensions. God, how far behind me now are Toda-Raba and Kapétan Élia! I’ve entered the Odyssey. I started randomly, still skirmishing in this way, awaiting the 1st of October. The poetry is miserable. Every line needs to be cast again, reworked to attain suppleness and simplicity. I spend every day correcting, and the difference is astounding. I’d like six months to work on the first twelve cantos, afterwards to go to the Congo for three months, then to continue with the other twelve, because that’s where the heart of Africa is. Will I be able to? We’ll see. Nouvelles Littéraires is going to publish everything I wrote about Palestine and Spain; also, Egypt and Sinai will appear in another periodical. I translated, shortened, and corrected them; they’re fine. They’ll help me a lot to find foreign newspapers so that I can go to the Congo. Kölnische Zeitung, which is most important, is publishing my article about Murmansk, etc., and pays five English pounds per article. In this way I’m still able to live. Do whatever you desire with the epilogue. Use this mask, too. It resembles Toda-Raba more that the one sent me by Kalmouchos, which resembles Kalmouchos. I’ll send you Toda-Raba as soon as one of the manuscripts comes my way; they’re scattered now throughout Germany. Kapétan Élia not yet. He’s finished, lying down, growing calm. When his time comes, I’ll look him over, and then . . . But he will be delayed, because I’ve now departed far away from him. I’ve seen magic spells, I think, in Λαογραφία. I’ll write to my friend in Moscow again, with great willingness, but I have doubts. These young Russians are “matérialistes”—their ideal is America,

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dollars, and afterwards to go to Paris and spend the money in the cabarets. It was very natural for the strict, desiccated, despairing materialistic world theory to degenerate into this misunderstanding. Apart from a few exceptions, Russia’s young people, the Komsomol, are brutes—tiny, greedy brutes, ardent and superficial. The exceptions, however, are a great miracle. They are the type of the free human being of the future. But they are very few. Of course, it doesn’t matter. One more favor: Can you find how the birds I enclose for you are called in demotic? They’re difficult, but I need them so very much. How is Sikelianos? I often think of him here with great sadness. Sometimes I feel like writing him. I experienced immense joy with him. He used to be a great, world-class poet. Write me if there’s any hope. Always, N

1  Use this mask, too:  He means the sketch by Kalmouchos that he is enclosing.  1  I’ll write to my friend in Moscow again: To help Prevelakis obtain permission to print a translation that he had done (from the French) of a Russian work.  1  How is Sikelianos?:  Kazantzakis feared that Sikelianos’s involvement with the Delphic Festivals had made him give up writing poetry.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 163–66.

Gottesgab, 25 September [1929] Dear brother Prevelakis, Thanks very much for the magic spells and the birds. I’m embarrassed to keep annoying you, but that’s the difficulty of this mountain: it lacks “aids,” as the boss says. And now, once again, another favor: What is the order in the twelve signs of the Zodiac? I remember them, but not in order. Odysseas is tattooed all the way around; it’s his “mystical belt.” I’m working well and I’m sending you the forty-six initial lines today. I attach the greatest importance to the perfection of each verse. When a line is faultless, it remains. The others, no matter what their content, are gone. That’s why I’m asking you please to look at them carefully, rigorously, scholastically. Don’t pay attention to what they say, only to the verse, the shape, the musicality, the meter—the prosody according to Poriotis. I can’t write better lines this year; I don’t know what will happen two years from now. The second draft will involve enrichment, change, addition, but chiefly it will pay attention to the verse. The third draft (in 1930–31) will pay attention to substance.

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Every morning when I get up I feel terrible indignation and sadness. But as soon as I start, I lose myself and forget everything. I figure on finishing three cantos per month. But for canto 12 and beyond, I need to go to Africa. Will I be able to? We’ll see. Don’t forget me concerning any new words you have. In the entire Odyssey, I haven’t invented more than ten words of my own. Two of these should be of interest to your translation of the prologue to Toda-Raba: instead of τάραντος I have βοδαλάφι. A missionary told me in Irkutsk that for reindeer the Chinese have one composite word made of three, donkey-deer-ox, because the animal resembles all three. So I took the opportunity and created ox-deer. I would have preferred λαφομόσκι, but it means fawn in demotic. The second word is βορράστρι (like μεράστρι, Morning Star), instead of πολικό άστρο. ΄Αστρο της τραμουντάνας is dreadful. Βορράστρι seems so right and good to me that it may actually exist. Do you know, perhaps? I’m delighted that “swift” is πετροχελίδονο because swifts are the only birds that mate in flight, like bees, and I needed to know about that. Frau Stoecker will come to find you in a few days (I’ve given letters to her for you and for Eleftheroudakis): elderly, plump. blue-eyed, short, an important woman, author, psychoanalyst. She’s the permanent representative of Germany to feminist and sexual congresses, etc. I don’t think you’ll find her interesting; nevertheless, get to know her. Regarding Varnalis, I don’t believe I’ll ever write. Only in conversation would I tell him what I think, but he won’t listen. Since he assuredly is not an evil person, it seems he is simply aigri. A bad sign. Aigreur means lack of creativity when you’re a good person, or psychic decline, or regret about your life—that is, things that for us have no interest. I’m thinking more about Sikelianos. I don’t have anything else to write to you today. It’s evening; it rained; in the afternoon I took a walk into Germany. Now the weather has calmed down. I have all seven windows of my two rooms open; a peaceful breeze is blowing; I’m all alone. I feel that I am a good person and that I have work to do first thing tomorrow morning. All this gives me serenity, a rhythm so human, simple, and fertile that I assume I might be happy. Always yours, N

1  the boss:  Kostas Eleftheroudakis.  1  τάραντος . . . βοδαλάφι: Reindeer . . . ox-deer.  1  βορράστρι . . . μεράστρι . . . πολικό άστρο:  North star . . . morning star . . . polar star.  1  ΄Αστρο της τραμουντάνας:  Polar star.  1  Frau Stöcker:  Helene Stöcker (1869–1943), who accompanied Kazantzakis and Istrati on their Soviet journey in November 1927 and to whom the novel Toda-Raba is dedicated. She was a German feminist, pacifist, and sexual reformer who advocated the equality of illegitimate children and the

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l­egalization of abortion; she was a cofounder of the War Resisters’ Inter­ national and during the Weimar period collaborated with the Socialist and Communist parties in her campaign to legalize abortion.  1  aigri:  Soured.  1  Aigreur:  Sourness.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 167–68.

Gottesgab, 15 November 1929 My dear brother, I was greatly pleased to receive your letter. As for me, my life has entered the tempest of the Odyssey again. I awake before daybreak and begin, until nightfall. By the time you read my letter, I will have finished canto 8. I figure that the whole thing will be written by March. I’m using almost none of the old lines; I’m rewriting everything from the start. The only thing that remains the same is the trame. That, I continue to think, is good. But I’ve already begun to daydream about the third draft and I already know exactly what is needed and what I will do. I find myself in a splendid fever, as in Aegina. It’s terribly cold here, snow everywhere, tranquillity. The house is always fine; life is regulated as though it were a plant. Yet un point très noir: I won’t be able to continue this life very much longer because of economic reasons. It occurred to me that, before I apply to Eleftheroudakis to give me work to do, I should first ask you (1) if there’s a likelihood that he’ll give me something, and (2) what I should ask for. If I can’t do that work here, I’ll go to Paris, where I’ll have access to the aids I need. Thus, after two years of freedom, I’ll be obliged to tie myself once again to slavery. But that doesn’t matter, provided I finish the Odyssey in time—I’ll keep working on it in Paris, too, collecting what’s needed in advance for the third draft. So I beg of you ardently, answer me and advise me regarding what I should do, and how. It seems that two months ago I came within an inch of becoming rich. An English company offered twelve thousand English pounds for a mine I own, but it found another mine at the last minute. In the meantime, let’s work. Thank you very much for the Zodiac, even more for your note on the seventeen-syllable verse. I’m eagerly awaiting the sequel. I’ll do what I can in the third draft to rework the poetry more. I attach absolute value to technique. But right now I’m in a hurry to formulate emotion in words. In subsequent drafts I’ll devote all my attention to the verse and to something else even more difficult: to purging every word and expression of its “intellectual” content, leaving only emotion, substance, music. Absolute simplicity, a simple, clear, visionary picture.

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We’ll see. When will I see you? How I envy you for having seen Crete! I wish I’d been with you. For the third draft I really must be back in Greece. May our “God” be with us—for His own good. Always, N

1  trame:  Plot framework (literally: the weft in weaving).  1  un point très noir:  A very dark matter.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 168–70.

[Gottesgab, 5 December 1929] My dear brother, First, thank you for the notes on the seventeen-syllable verse. I’m certain that I will benefit from them. Write me whatever else you think on the subject. I’m happy about the other matter and await a letter from you. Perhaps I’ll be able in this way to live in Paris—something useful for the Odyssey. I’m at canto 11 now, and everything will be ready in March. Then I’ll leave here, and we’ll see. Maybe three months in the Congo. In any case, I’ll try to live in Paris. I’m very glad that you’re going to write El Greco. It’s exceedingly difficult. We know very little about his life. Either you’ll be forced to speak “pictorially”—doing a critical analysis of his work, etc., something that has already been done and that is not convenient for you because you haven’t seen this work with your own eyes—or you’ll do a biographie romancée. I once took lots of notes and had outlined such a book on El Greco—entirely free, lyrical, a rendering of his anguished effort to discover spirit in matter and to liberate it. I had experienced his daily life in every detail: his struggle for art, his dreams at night, his relations with his wife, son, friends, Góngora, Cervantes, etc. I created dialogues with him, speaking to him about our contemporary anguish (so similar to his), and I brought him “news” of our world today— aesthetic, philosophical, and theological problems—, trying to discover the answers that El Greco would have given. I wish I knew what became of all those notes because I intend to write about El Greco many years from now: a dialogue between El Greco and myself in which we’ll talk and express our final judgment on many things. I’m writing you several sentences that I found, plus bibliography. The most important book is Cossío’s. It can’t be found; out of print. When I was in

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Spain, it was about to be reprinted. Borja is a specialist who has all the archival materials. I met him in Toledo. But all our information is minimal. I don’t know if you want to do a biography or something entirely original, declaring immediately at the start, in a preface, what meager historical information is available to us, and saying that you are treating El Greco freely and that you understand him and will resurrect him in such and such a way. I recommend for you the biography of Goya by Eugenio d’Ors (N.R.F.). You’ll see how the author involves himself, speaking about someone else. It’s a useful book for you. Don’t forget to find the sonnet that Góngora wrote about El Greco when El Greco died. Karthaios or the Spanish embassy will translate it for you. I cannot write you responsibly about “Philip’s Dream” because I don’t remember it well. Always keep me up to date; write how you imagine the outline. First and foremost, if you can (i.e., if the publisher permits), you should mix your creative involvement with the few historical facts about El Greco’s life that are available to us. I just received a letter from Eleftheroudakis and a manuscript: Vellianitis on Russian literature. Useless. I answered him, suggesting a mensualité of ten pounds. I would very much like him to accept. I await a letter from you and one favor: Sometimes on Sundays would you like to send me Eleftheron Vima? I don’t know what’s happening in Greece. Write me regularly what you decide about El Greco. I consider him a personal concern of both of us. Warmly, N

1  you’re going to write El Greco:  Prevelakis’s book, Δομήνικος Θεοτοκόπουλος (Ελ Γκρέκο) was published in Athens in 1930.  1  biographie romancée:  Novelistic biography.  1  Góngora: Don Luis de Góngora y Argote (1561–1627), Spanish lyric poet who, like Kazantzakis centuries later, placed obscure words in his poetry so that they would be preserved.  1  Cervantes:  Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (1547–1616), Spanish novelist, poet, playwright, best known for Don Quixote, often considered the first modern novel. The extreme contrast between the noble, idealistic Don Quixote and his servant Sancho Panza is mirrored humorously in the contrast between Saint Francis of Assisi and Brother Leo in Kazantzakis’s novel Saint Francis.  1  I intend to write about El Greco: Of course, he did so, but not until 1955–56, in Report to Greco.  1  Cossío:  Manuel Bartolomé Cossío (1857– 1935), art historian whose El Greco (Madrid: Victoriano Suárez, 1908) contained the first comprehensive catalog of El Greco’s works.  1  Borja:  Francisco de Borja de San Román y Fernández (1887–1942), art historian who, in 1910, published eighty-eight new documents relating to El Greco, including the inventory of El Greco’s house, which listed 143 paintings.  1  Eugenio

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d’Ors:  Spanish Catalan essayist and art critic (1881–1954). His La vie de Goya was published in Paris by Gallimard in 1928 and his L’art de Goya in Paris by Delagrave in the same year.  1  Karthaios:  Kostas Karthaios (1878­–1955), translator, poet, demoticist; editor of Νεοελληνικά Γράμματα in Athens; appointed director of the National Theater in 1935; collaborated on Triandafyllidis’s Grammar of Demotic.  1  a letter from Eleftheroudakis:  Suggesting that Kazantzakis write a two-volume history of Russian literature and sending him Vellianitis’s manuscript as an aid. Kazantzakis acceded to Eleftheroudakis’s request. His two volumes were published by Eleftheroudakis in 1930.  1  mensualité:  Monthly remittance.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 171–72.

Gottesgab, 14 December 1929 Dear brother, Thanks very much for everything—letter, photo, newspaper. If this photo of you is the latest, you’ve had an interesting bodily change. The outline of El Greco—within the limits given by the publisher—seems very fine to me. There is only one thing to which perhaps it would be right to pay special attention: the influence of Arab blood on Cretan history and psychology, in chapter 2. The Arab conquest of Crete caused an amazing change in the Cretan character. Thus, Theotokopoulos, deeply influenced by Byzantium and Arabia, consequently already had much that was Spanish inside him since Spain, too, was so influenced by the same Arab blood. That’s why Spain was El Greco’s real homeland: the synthesis and essence of his various homelands. Also, that’s why he understood the Spanish so well. The aridity and impetuosity of his art are more characteristically Arab than Byzantine. But 160–200 pages are very few for such a detailed explanation. Your outline is thus complete, I think. If you make any changes, let me know. I haven’t read Istrati’s book, and did not even know that he’d written about me. We’ve had no contact for many months. The final words I wrote him, from Moscow, were these: Je te laisse de moi ce souvenir atroce: Que mon âme fut loyale et que ton âme fut fausse. From these lines you’ll understand my opinion of Istrati. Now you write that he has written about me. He is a sort that is inégal, superficial, fourbe, and sentimental. My sister’s address. Noti Botsari 6.

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I’m sending you the Theotokopoulos bibliography that I forgot. Do me this favor: Send me Góngora’s sonnet in Spanish. I want to copy it into my anthology and don’t have it. The Odyssey is going fast and well. I’m finishing canto 13 now. In a few days: 14, where I’m in Africa, the homeland. The entire Odyssey will be finished by the beginning of March. Then, in Paris, I’ll prepare for the third draft. What you tell me about Eleftheroudakis is right. I asked him for ten pounds because it was the minimum, and I thought probably he’d accept. I’ll be glad if he does because then I’ll be able to stay in Paris, which I need to do.

1  Theotokopoulos: Domenikos Theotokopoulos (1541–1614), known after his death as El Greco (The Greek); born in Crete while it was occupied by the Republic of Venice; traveled to Venice at age twenty-six, then to Rome, and in 1577 to Toledo, Spain, where he remained. Kazantzakis’s novelistic autobiography Report to Greco treats Theotokopoulos as his spiritual grandfather.  1  Istrati’s book:  Vers l’autre flame (Paris: Rieder, 1929).  1  Je te laisse . . . fut fausse: I leave you this cruel memory of me: / that my soul was loyal and your soul was false.  1  inégal: Uneven.  1  fourbe: Deceitful.  1  my anthology:  Kazantzakis planned an anthology of one hundred poems by Greek poets and another anthology of foreign poems but did not complete either.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 173–75.

[Gottesgab, 4 January 1930] My dear brother, Once again I thank you very much for your letter, Góngora’s sonnet, and the newspaper. Thanks to you, I’m learning Greek matters “of greatest importance.” Here I work all the time with the same ferocity and good health. Terrific snowfalls, storms, the house ice-bound, and inside the profoundest otherworldly tranquillity. I believe that it’s one of the greatest joys a man can have—to work on a high, snow-covered mountain. Eleftheroudakis answered very vaguely. If he doesn’t accept, I don’t know what to do in March. What you tell me about Plato would be excellent, but it seems to me totally unlikely for them to give us work. And then imagine what a torture the restrictions they impose on us will be: linguistic, etc. If it were pure demotic, I’d be happy if we had Plato. It would be a marvelous exercise. I wrote Papandreou about the other plan we had regarding the Institute of Intellectual Collaboration. It depends on Marís, who is a friend of mine, and

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on the foreign minister, who considers me a Bolshevik, and naturally on the pantopatronus, who has a mysterious antipathy toward me. Didn’t Saridakis’s nephew keep saying that I was “the disgrace of Greece”? Good God, why? Sometimes when I get up from my horrendous work after twelve and fifteen daily hours and observe my life for a split second, I say that a “saint” could never have lived differently. A saint—or, better, a hermit or, still better, a Stylite. But Venizelos doesn’t understand anything, not even Thucydides, and if he’s told that I want to be placed in the institute as the representative of the Greek intelligentsia, he will utter hysterical screams. In any case, I wrote to Papandreou. I’m very pleased that you are going to write the final chapter of El Greco: “the admiringly intent gaze.” I keep thinking that a dialogue between a young Cretan and the painter—one that brings him “the news” and that contains Cretan words and the whole ritual of a Cretan evening get-together—would be something exceptional. How two Cretans talk about art, life, death, and God. Draw your bow as far as you can—and shoot. I’ve been thinking of you intensely this New Year’s. These artificial divisions of time are useful because they create an occasion for us to arouse our hearts, to make resolutions and decisions, to stretch the bow of desire to the point of craquement. I did all that this year, too, but you were more inseparably with me this year. N I received your letter this very minute and thank you warmly. However, I am not going to grant a power of attorney. I need to lodge the complaint in Berlin or Prague, and God knows what delays there will be. Moreover, I wouldn’t want to. I wrote to Kalomoiris and said to him, regarding the photograph, that he made a “painful” impression on me by not mentioning my name and that “surely he will not forget the percentage.” If he does nothing, so much the worse for him. I thank you warmly for writing me. I’ll await a letter from you. Always, N

1  I’d be happy if we had Plato:  The Ministry of Education had announced its intention of sponsoring translations of ancient Greek writers into modern Greek.  1  I wrote Papandreou about the other plan we had:  See letter of 24 August 1927, above, concerning two positions in the Institut de Coopération Intellectuelle. Kazantzakis’s good friend George Papandreou was then minister of education.  1  Maris:  Then minister for economy.  1  foreign minister:  The minister then was Andreas Michalakopoulos (1875–1938), politician; previously prime minister from October 1924 through June 1925.  1  pantopatronus:  Protector of all—that is, Venizelos, who was prime minister at that time. Perhaps “patron for everyone” might be closer to the meaning,

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since every powerful prime minister was expected to give a job to those who supported him.  1  Stylite: Christian ascetic who lived unsheltered on the top of a high pillar. The best-known example is Saint Simeon Stylites (ca. 390–459), who spent thirty-seven years on top of a pillar near Aleppo in Syria.  1  not even Thucydides:  Venizelos had translated Thucydides.  1  craquement:  Snapping.  1  Kalomoiris:  Manolis Kalomoiris (1883–1962), composer of symphonies, concertos, song cycles, and five operas, including Ο Πρωτομάστορας (1915), with a libretto from Kazantzakis’s homonymous play. The Kazantzakis opera was then being performed in Athens, and Kazantzakis was meant to send someone with a power of attorney in order to lay claim to his royalties.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 176–78.

[Gottesgab, 3 February 1930] Dear brother Prevelakis, I’ve delayed a little in answering, because these days I’ve been especially submerged in the Odyssey. I’m now at canto 20, revitalizing even the plot here. I’m progressing well. The second draft is infinitely superior to the first. I hope that the entire Odyssey will be finished in a few weeks. More than ever, my body is tireless. As I proceed, the Odyssey is getting continually better. I’d like to send you entire cantos copied out, but I don’t have the time now. Later. I wouldn’t like us to give them to Protoporia. We don’t have anything more leftist, but it’s terrible. Let’s wait for another that’s better. I don’t feel any sort of impatience except for one thing: when the third draft will begin. Your translation is excellent in its rendering of rhythm. Once again, a very few insignificant details. I hope to have the whole book soon to send to you. I haven’t read Galatea’s; it got lost in the post. I’m afraid she won’t send me another. I hope it’s very good despite all the stylistic faults that characterize her—she’s a great prose writer who, thanks to “bad company,” neglects essential things. Thanks for the Nouvelles Littéraires. I was surprised to see that I am “en vogue.” I am not, nor will I ever be. Neither my faults nor my gifts permit it. This book review was written by the disgusting arriviste Thrasos Kastanakis. What he says about Theotokis and Varnalis is right. But he omits Galatea— the beast!—and speaks disdainfully about Sikelianos. Lahanas writes that he’ll do everything to send me a thousand drachmas! I wrote him thanks but I don’t want them. He says that not even one in twenty were sold. Probably.

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I’ll wait longer to hear from Kalomoiris. If he doesn’t give a sign of life, then I’ll take action. I’m impatient to receive a definitive answer from Eleftheroudakis. His article in Πειθαρχία is very good. Spirited. Sikelianos’s reply is totally harebrained. Thank you very much for the newspapers that you keep sending me. In the last one I found African traditional tales that I needed on precisely that day. I used something in a verse: how, when the song is finished, it “goes to the sea and falls in.” I wish I had time to copy out one of the final cantos for you. I’d enjoy that, because I like them a lot. In the final cantos, Odysseas meets the great leaders of souls—entirely changed, of course: Buddha, Faust, Hamlet, Don Quixote, the Poet, Christ, and this gives me the opportunity to place Odysseas’s soul in contact with, and in opposition to, all these others. As soon as I finish the third draft (beginning in March), then I’ll have time and I’ll copy it for you. I’m ashamed that this whole letter of mine is so businesslike. I am so restless and possess such a psychic superabundance that I don’t dare turn on the faucet and speak to you about the fevers I am enduring—full, as they are, of miraculousness, completion, fecundity, and joy. Rarely have I been so “ripe” as in these months, so far from every trifle—perhaps because the Odyssey is reaching completion and I am enjoying the fearsome discipline. I’m awaiting a letter from you. Write me details about your El Greco. Passing through Berlin, I’ll glance at Mayer’s book and write you. I’m assuming that it will be just illustrations with critical commentary on each. I don’t think that the legend about Phodele has any worth. I think there’s still one family there called Theotokas. But that, too, doesn’t prove anything: the Theotokos is everywhere known. If you ever see Galatea, please tell her that I’d like her, please, to send me her book. I never received the one she did send me. We had some gorgeous days here—sunshine and snow. Now it’s snowing again. But inside the house is the warm, peaceful atmosphere of an ascetic’s cell. I think of you every minute and don’t know when and where I’ll see you again. What’s happening with “Plato”? I wrote to Papandreou so many times about the other matter (please keep that absolutely secret), but I haven’t received any answer. Now that there are both Papandreou and Maris, it’s a unique opportunity. It would be my complete salvation. I don’t know what to do. Write me regularly and don’t try to be on a par with me. Sometimes I may be tardy, but don’t attach any importance to that. I am always with you, and I always rejoice because you exist. N

1  your translation: Of the epilogue to Toda-Raba.  1  Galatea’s:  11 a.m.– 1 p.m.  1  en vogue:  Fashionable.  1  arriviste: Upstart.  1  Thrasos Kastanakis:  Novelist (1901–67); resident in Paris after 1919; teacher of modern

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Greek literature at the School of Oriental Languages in Paris.  1  Sikelianos’s reply:  The subject was Sikelianos’s Delphic festivals, which Eleftheroudakis had criticized.  1  Mayer’s book:  A. L. Mayer, Dominico Theotocopuli El Greco: Kritisches und illustriertes Verzeichnis des Gesamtwerkes (Munich, 1926).  1  Phodele:  Village 31 kilometers (19.25 miles) northwest of Iraklio, supposedly the village of El Greco’s family; most scholars feel that El Greco himself was born in Iraklio.  1  Theotokos:  Mother of God, Virgin Mary.  1  both Papandreou and Maris: In Venizelos’s government, Yeoryios Maris, from a distinguished Cretan family, was minister of the economy, and Georgios Papandreou was minister of education.  1  I don’t know what to do:  Prevelakis comments in a note: “Kazantzakis . . . is forty-seven years old, and he still has not managed (such a man!) to ensure his daily bread.”  1  don’t try to be on a par with me:  Kazantzakis means: Don’t be tardy in writing just because I am tardy.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 179–82.

[Gottesgab,] 22 February [1930] I just received the Eleftheron Vima and was horrified to see that there were earthquakes in Crete again. I hope that no one was hurt. I’ll appreciate it if you write me if it’s true that Maximos is no longer a communist, whether he really “flew the coop.” Do you know his address? I’d like to write to him. I’m nauseated by how fainthearted and self-serving people are. Poor Istrati wrote a fine article in the February Europe. He’s struggling to rectify the wrong. But he doesn’t have any brains, and his great vitality is not sufficient. I have become increasingly intractable precisely because so many abominations take place in “Mother Russia.” Of course, I find communism’s narrow, assuredly materialistic basis odious. But it is indispensable because, according to my long-held conviction, communism is not the beginning of a new civilization but the end of an old one and consequently it exacerbates the old civilization’s efforts—materialism, the machine, Americanism—to the extreme. N I’ll write to Eleftheroudakis, as you tell me to. Kalomoiris did not answer my letter. Do you think it’s worth the trouble for me to continue? Or was Protomastoras a flop, and the percentage not worth discussing? No hope from Lahanas. I’m entreating him to at least send copies of Odysseas and Christos to Lebesgue, at the Mercure de France, who in the issue of December 1928 wrote very enthusiastically about Nikiforos Fokas, which reminded him

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of Aeschylus and Shakespeare! He’s superficial but useful, and he writes me that he’d like me to send him Odysseas and Christos so that he can write about them. Yesterday I finished canto 23 and tomorrow I start 24. I’m struggling the best I can not to rush, but the “daimon” inside me is rushing. Thus everything is getting finished more quickly than I had reckoned. Afterwards I’ll begin Russian Literature, and I’ll anxiously await Eleftheroudakis’s letter. How shameful! If he does not agree, my situation will be difficult, and I still don’t know what I’ll do. But let the evil moment first arrive and then we’ll think. For now: 24. Regarding Papandreou, I thought to send you the letter now and to ask you to see him, please, when you can. The situation is as follows: Before he became minister, I wrote him to see Marís. (The minister of finance plays an important role here because the position will have value only if he allocates funds.) He saw him, and Marís promised him. (But Marís’s promises are worthless except when they involve his own partisan interests.) Now that he’s become minister, he wrote me that he sent a memo to the Foreign Ministry asking what’s happening with these positions. Probably the embassy in Paris will be asked. Papandreou has written me at the same time that he’ll do what he can and that he’s waiting now for the reply to his memo. As you know, there are two positions, one at forty-eight thousand francs a year, the other at thirty-two. Certainly you have not forgotten our old dream that we discussed one day in the Royal Gardens. The circumstances are quite favorable, because we have two ministers who are friends, Maris and Papandreou. Might it be possible for you, too, to take action with friends of yours concerning the other position? That would be one salvation. The matter is so important that when I think that upon it depends our external future (and also the internal to a large extent), my blood boils. What to do? Currently, for form’s sake, they have an unsalaried person in Paris, Makris, an insignificant, vulgar individual. Many people in the Foreign Ministry desire these positions, and a great deal of secrecy and much pressure is needed with the ministers. It depends on the three of them: foreign minister, minister of education, and minister of the economy. Of course, Venizelos is everything. I wonder if he still feels his former antipathy toward me. I have no idea. But if he wishes it, our entire fate will be settled. So here again is a joint effort for us. Write me what you hope for and what we must do. I am very friendly with Kafandaris, Papanastasiou, etc., but now they are powerless. My greatest confidence is in Papandreou, my close friend. When you see him (read the enclosed letter, too), tell him that you’ll see him from time to time on my behalf so that you can write me where the matter stands and he needn’t be bothered. Explain to him the degree to which this position is of the utmost vital importance to me. I entreat you ardently to write me if there is hope that the actions of both of us might be combined, and how. This interests me so much that, if necessary,

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I’ll come to Athens briefly in order to act. One thing only: don’t say anything to anyone. With warm love, as always, N Jean Cassou’s El Greco is coming out soon from Rieders. Zervos’s words pleased me to the proper degree.

1  Lebesgue:  Philéas Lebesgue (1869–1958), French poet, novelist, dramatist, essayist, a well-known Hellenist whose pen name was Démétrios Astériotis and who spoke, besides Greek, Portuguese, Italian, English, and Hebrew. He wrote a regular column about Greece in the Parisian literary magazine Mercure de France. Author of La Grèce littéraire d’aujourd’hui (1906). When Kazantzakis met him in Paris, he commented (2 June 1930, to Prevelakis), “He knows nothing,” and in a letter to Knös (29 January 1949), he wrote: “Lebesgue is a malevolent Frenchman who has fallen the victim of a wretched clique in Athens.” The clique would, of course, be Katsimbalis & Co.  1  our old dream:  That he and Prevelakis would be appointed to the two positions available in the Institut de Coopération Intellectuelle Internationale.  1  Kafandaris:  Yeoryios Kafandaris (1873–1946), a Venizelist politician serving in Venizelos’s cabinet as agriculture minister, subsequently as minister of justice, and as prime minister for less than a month in 1924, later as minister of finance.  1  Cassou’s El Greco:  Jean Cassou, Le Gréco: 60 planches hors texte en héliogravure (Paris: Rieder, 1931).  1  Zervos’s words:  Kazantzakis’s old friend Ioannis Zervos, director of the Fexis publishing series of translations, had spoken to Prevelakis about his admiration for Kazantzakis and his view that restrictive elements in Greece had prevented Kazantzakis from attaining his proper stature.

To Edwige Levi —Manuscript (in French) in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. Levi /43.

Still at Gottesgab, [early] March 1930 Very dear friend, I found your hesitant and warm letter after a long hike in the mountains and valleys of Czechoslovakia. I’ve finished the second draft of my Odyssey (there will be five) and in a month I’ll be leaving for Paris. Why? For how long? I don’t know at all, “God” be praised! “En avant, rêve, mon boeuf laborieux!” In the worker’s head, vague landscapes are taking shape. India? Africa? These will stand out in precise relief sooner or later and will become “Erlebnisse” of laughter—of tears too, let’s hope—and, doubtless, of Odyssean verse.

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With effort I follow my hero Ulysses; plein de temps et d’espace. I am becoming more and more united with him. In writing him, I voluptuously break my heart. I am his master, and he is mine. Maturing along with me, he enters my dreams, brings me very simple things: grapes, pomegranates, and tiny yellow birds, a sort of canary. He plays; he makes fun of me; I make fun of him. Are we not free souls? O soleil, O mon grand oriental, bonnet d’or de mon esprit, comme il me plait de te porter de travers! Those are the two opening lines of the Odyssey, frightfully translated. Dear, dear friend, I often think of you. You are in Ulysses’s small boat, there, beneath the red sail with the African mask. The boat’s sail is tattooed just like the captain’s body. You are there with your large black eyes, so naïve and ironic, with your curls lashed by the sea winds. During severe storms we exchange a few very simple, very humane words and, despite everything, are not afraid. In spite of yourself, or rather without knowing it, I believe that you will always be there—crouching, smiling, wings folded—like a sea bird whose heart beats and beats in unison with the waves. This year on this mountain has finished well. “Well”—which means in incessant work, in complete solitude, in the incessant and painful toil of a consciousness that is attempting to transform the ephemeral into the “eternal.” For me, “eternal” has a significance loaded with irony, bitterness, and violence. I know that my soul is a vapor that will soon disappear. This vapor is my banner. I advance without any hope and without swooning. “I hope for nothing, I fear nothing”—that phase has accompanied and consoled me ever since my youngest years. To it I owe everything that I have attained so far. Mano gemella, where are you? I have prattled on for too long. I want so much to continue the conversations we had around Athens and on that splendid day at Sounion and during that evening that was so blue, so violet, full of olive trees, and, on the way back, under the stars at Kaisariani! Do you ­remember—the monastery near Athens? Then Daphni, where the black surface of the cool water at the bottom of the well is still impregnated with your countenance, ruddy from the Attic sun. I beg of you, do not forget me! Do not allow so many months of silence to intervene between you and me any longer. My countenance is also at the bottom of the same well, right next to yours. N

1  En avant, rêve, mon boeuf laborieux!:  Forward, dream, my hardworking ox!  1  Erlebnisse: Experiences.  1  plein de temps et d’espace:  Full of time and space.  1  O soleil, O mon grand oriental, bonnet d’or de mon ­esprit, / comme il me plait de te porter de travers!: O sun, O my great oriental, my spirit’s golden cap, how I love to wear you askew!  1  Mano gemella: Kindred hand.  1  Sounion: Cape Sounion, forty-three miles from Athens,

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is the site of a temple of Poseidon, one of whose columns bears the engraved name of Lord Byron. An easy half-day touristic excursion from Athens.  1  Kaisariani:  An eleventh-century monastery (no longer functioning as such) on the outskirts of Athens, a quiet refuge in the busy city.  1  Daphni:  Monastery about seven miles from downtown Athens, founded at the end of the sixth century; the principal church has splendid mosaics, including a famous Christ Pantocrator in the central dome.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 183–85.

Gottesgab, 15 March 1930 Dear brother, I’m very sorry that the Plan is not going to be realized. Let’s hope for later. I’ll write to Papandreou about Plato, but I don’t have much hope. The only thing that is certain is that you’ll send me the articles and thus I’ll be able to stay away from Greece for another year—an indisputable gain! Afterwards, we’ll see. Only I ask you, please write me all the necessary information so that I can do articles that the Lexicon will like. I finished the Odyssey on 3 March, in exactly five months and three days. I’m impatient to begin the third draft, but first I need to glance at Chinese and African poetry and at two or three books by Frobenius. I hope that I’ll be able to go up to a mountain again this winter and finish the third draft. Before this, I’d like a long journey. We’ll see. I’ve begun Russian Literature. I’m gathering material. It’s a very big job, and I want it to be good. But it will swallow up five or six months on me. I have a lot of studying to do—not only books on Russian literature but also on Russian history and on her best poets—and I need to find translations of characteristic pieces. Certainly I cannot give six months for the small compensation, but at the same time I’m ashamed to write a book that is very unripe. I saw the translation of Rilke in Protoporia. That little book by Rilke is among those that I love and keep with me. I immediately compared the translation. How awful! It doesn’t render anything. First of all, the rhythm. Tell him to read you a few phrases, and you’ll see. What a marvel! What sadness, fatigue, and sometimes what a heroic gallop! In addition, the translation makes an abundance of mistakes. In addition, what an absence of taste in the selection of words! To translate Rilke is extremely difficult, of course, but it could have been done better in any case. This German text is a miracle that our language is able to render, at least rhythmically. What you tell me about Maximos fills me with disgust. A person so educated in communism, with such intelligence, so accustomed to the simple

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life! Without a doubt, communism never discovered how to capture a person’s essence—which essence, without a doubt, is not located in the belly! That’s why it has not produced a conversion until now, a radical change in its adherents. Lenin and Dzerzhinsky elevated the essence despite itself. As for all the others, communism either leaves them as they were or lowers them— even if only intellectually. Last night I had a wonderful dream about El Greco. Together in his house all night long, we were eating, speaking Cretan, laughing. I woke up, fell asleep again, and continued the dream. Of course, I can’t say it in words, but I remember a multitude of details very well and discovered a plan for writing Conversations with El Greco later. This pleased me greatly. I intend to stay here another month. I need to copy out the whole Odyssey, a large, boring job. (Please tear up the lines I sent you earlier from canto 1 because they were full of mistakes and I have now corrected them.) If I am unable to live in Paris, I’ll go to another city that has a library so that I can work on the articles and Russian Literature. I still don’t know where—maybe Bruges, which I like, maybe Antwerp, a port four hours from Paris. We’ll see. I received Galatea’s book. Excellent stories, full of life and truth. Only her language is impromptu and the style careless. She lacks the hammered, taut phrases that can give durability to a work of art. She is a big talent but not at all a stylist. Lahanas sent me four books: Palamas’s Pedestrian Roadways (exceedingly pedestrian), a little book by someone called Digenis, jovial and lively but messy, Varnalis’s Slaves Besieged containing a few good verses (this year I liked it less), and Galatea’s book, which was the best. It’s snowing terribly hard. Primitive, lunar silence. This year at Gottesgab was beautiful; let’s see what next winter has in store for me. I’d like India with you and Kalmouchos (he’s at Vori, in Stefanidis’s wine cellar; he was godfather to the priest’s child). Let’s see. 20 March Please, whatever is meant for the articles, send it to me directly to Paris: Luc Kastanaki (for me), rue Lecourbe 277, Paris XV. I’ve decided to leave at last for Paris, in April, in order to finish the articles more quickly and to be able afterwards to complete Russian Literature at my leisure. After that, we’ll see. I’ve already written to Papandreou about Plato. In any case, I’m not leaving until I receive a letter from you here. Always, N

1  the Plan:  For positions in the Institut de Coopération Intellectuelle Internationale.  1  you’ll send me the articles:  Subjects assigned to Kazantzakis to write for the Eleftheroudakis Encyclopedic Dictionary. All in all, 174 of

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his articles were published, but he wrote still others that remained unpublished or appeared anonymously.  1  the translation of Rilke: Rainer Maria Rilke (1875–1926), Die Weise von Liebe und Tod des Cornets Christoph Rilke (The Lay of the Love and Death of Cornet Christopher Rilke), translated by Yorgos Karanikolos, whose Rilke translation had appeared in March 1930 in the journal Πρωτοπορία, pp. 83–89.  1  Dzerzhinsky:  Felix Dzerzhinsky (1877–1926), revolutionary associated with Rosa Luxemburg, then active in the October Revolution; appointed by Lenin as head of Cheka; elevated by Joseph Stalin (1879–1953) to the Politburo.  1  a little book by someone called Digenis:  This little book that Kazantzakis found “messy” has turned out to be one of the most important in twentieth-century Greek literary culture: Ελεύθερο Πνεύμα by Yorgos Theotokas, whose pen name for this book was Orestis Digenis.  1  Luc Kastanaki: Teacher of modern Greek at the School of Oriental Languages in Paris, first as the assistant to Yannis Psiharis, then to André Mirambel.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 189–91.

Paris, rue de Plélo 13iv (Paris XV) [19 April [1930] My dear brother, I’ve been several days now in Paris, where I feel no pleasure. Never have I felt so certain about the degree to which I have freed myself from throngs of people, from the vain concerns of large cities. From now on I can visit these centers of a superficial, insipid civilization for only a few days, and then return to the eternal elements—soil, grass, cattle, solitude. These are the only elements that correspond to what interests me. Odysseas feels dépaysé and écoeuré here. I’m wasting valuable time. In order to travel to a library or someone’s home, I waste my day. The people are all damned within their tiny selves—self-interest, petty egoism, the need to “assert themselves,” to show off, to blab. The museums do not attract me any more, nor do the books, nor does the senseless traffic. I no longer need any of these stimulants. And the worst is that I’m obliged to return the articles you sent me, because it’s impossible for me to work here. No library has the aids that I need. The Bibliothèque Nationale doesn’t have Meyer, Brockhaus, or the Encyclopedia Britannica! The others are even worse. Only the Bibliothèque Carnegie has the Encyclopedia Britannica! Tomorrow I’ll go to the German embassy, where maybe I’ll find the German dictionaries. I make the rounds of the libraries from morning to evening, in vain. I went to Larousse, brought them letters from the embassy, begged them to let me work with the aids they have.

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Impossible. They refused “on principle.” It’s astonishing that these elementary works do not exist in Paris. The only things that flourish here are prose fiction, decadence, and sexuality. I’ll write to Eleftheroudakis, and if he doesn’t have any other work to give me—whether something original or something to translate—I’ll be obliged to leave and won’t know what to do any longer. If only he would send me a translation; it would be more commode because I would leave Paris and go to a peaceful French seashore to work. Paris is fine for those who have not seen it or for naïve people, partygoers, or loafers. Everything here—museums, streets, people, ideas—strikes me as vieux jeu. Paris is beginning to become a “Venice” for aesthetes; yet it is definitely without charm because it still lacks the temporal distance and consequently the exoticism possessed by the other Venice. I’m glad that this experience has enabled me perfectly to understand my liberation from large cities. While waiting, I’ll make a fair copy of Russian Literature and send it. I’m impatient to receive a letter from you and for you to tell me how you’re doing, where you’ll be going this summer, if the printing of El Greco is finished. Oh! if I could only pop over to Toledo now that I’m close by. In Eleftheron Vima I’m reading an article by Marion. I met him in Moscow. A smart young man, full of life and frivolity. Now he, too, is beginning to lose heart and not to understand. What has become of “Plato”? Is there any hope? All these uncertainties annoy me, and I must quickly find a way to regulate my life again, as at Gottesgab, making it simple, industrious, and fecund, without unworthy contacts or conversations. This needs to happen soon because time, now, is my only hope—nothing more precious is left me. Dear brother, I think of you at every moment. Would that you, at utmost speed, could go through all the stages that I have gone through so slowly and could organize your life with the same strict and joyous simplicity. If I were in your place, I think I would take possession of whatever I wished. Now I must stretch myself, grow wild, isolate myself in order to reach where I intend to reach and where I will never reach if I am the least bit remiss. I’ve seen some former friends here—I no longer have any relationship with them. They bore me. I annoy them. What do I want in their company? It’s a pleasure to be alone and to invoke one’s solitude. I’ll write Eleftheroudakis tomorrow, and we’ll see. How humiliating for one’s external life to depend on an individual’s reply! Yet how pleasant to know that you are ready in your internal life to conquer every external obstacle! Write me. I am with you always, N

1  dépaysé . . . écoeuré: Exiled . . . heartsick.  1  commode: Convenient.  1  vieux jeu: Old hat, out-of date.  1  Marion:  Paul Jules André Marion

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(1899–1954), French journalist and communist, regular contributor to Humanité; graduate of Moscow’s propaganda school; eventually, however, he became a right-wing opponent of communism and a member of Marshal Philippe Pétain’s Vichy government.

To Eleni Samiou —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 283–85; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 232–34; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 237–39.

Sanary, 11 June [1930], midday, on a little bench Dear Lenotschka, I’ve arrived just now, deposited my things in the left-luggage room, ran to a real estate agency. The agent was eating. I brought him down from the second floor and spoke to him: “A Sanary, cher monsieur, tout est pris. Adressezvous ailleurs.” He showed me the road to Le Brusq. One hour on foot, but a tram goes halfway. So I go the rounds of the port, find the stop, a bench, and wait. The port is attractive, the heat terrific, but a gentle sea breeze is blowing. Provence is exquisite, totally Greek: cypresses, pines, vineyards, anemones. However, the heat will be unbearable away from the sea. Sanary reminds me of Aegina: rowboats, caïques, they’re frying fish. (The right tram is coming; a fisherman hollered to inform me. God be with me, I’m off!) 2:00 p.m. Nothing! Everything taken. I came too late. And the village is charming, quiet, surrounded by the sea. Distress. I go back. I’ll go to La Seyne-sur-Mer immediately and from there to Les Sablettes and Fabregas. Thus, I’ll cover the entire peninsula by this evening. Heat. The soil is fragrant; the broom is flowering, also the agnus-castus and thyme. Abundant fig trees. Exactly like Crete. Sanary, 7:00 p.m. I’ve returned now from my tour of the entire peninsula. Very tired, sunburned, hungry, thirsty. Nothing. . . . It’s lucky we didn’t come together because you would have grown very tired. I can bear up. I often think how much we would gain if we were rich and, at the same time, how much we would lose. I feel a great pleasure suffering in

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this way in order to find a yard of sand where we can stretch out, one next to the other. 8:00 p.m. I’ve come to a good hotel because I was tired and dirty. There’s hot and cold water. I washed myself thoroughly and rested. The chambermaid is Italian, and we began talking Italian. She was touched by this and told me that she would give me her house. But Sanary lacks the solitude and simplicity we want. Saturday noon [14 June], Côte des Corailleurs . . . I’ve been walking for five hours now, looking. I went along the entire coast as far as Agay; magnificent villas where the rich people live. Everything rented. Saturday evening, Cannes, alas! Nothing at St. Raphael. I made friends with the agent; he took me in his car; we covered the entire waterfront. Well, I came to Cannes in the afternoon. Imagine a seashore two yards wide at most, then the street next to it, full of passing cars as on the Champs-Elysée, and immediately next to the street the railroad and immediately behind that the houses. Thousands of thoughts passing through my mind. The seashore we’re looking for, a maritime Gottesgab, does not exist here. Of course, it must exist somewhere in France, but where? Everything here is civilized, beyond our means. I’m exhausted. You can’t imagine how I’ve been rushing about. I keep wondering what we can do, and the notion that I cannot communicate with you increases my anguish. If we were together, we could decide. After Nice, it strikes me that I might set off for Bordeaux and start investigating there. Meanwhile, time is being wasted. I’m not working. I’m spending money and fretting. Nevertheless, always the idea that I can find a stretch of sand for you on which to sun yourself and grow strong gives me courage. Sunday morning [15 June,] Juan-les-Pins I slept on the famous beach here because the cheapest hotels in Cannes cost forty francs a day! Abominable night. The beach was full of mosquitoes, the heat terrible. When I asked the hotel girl why this narrow, mosquitoladen seashore is so famous, she replied (almost everyone here speaks Italian), E! la reclama, signore! Sunday afternoon [15 June 1930,] Villefranche

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Dear Lenotschka, Desperate after Cannes and Juan-les-Pins, I came here. A small, attractive, totally Italian city. Very few French. At the edge of the sea only a few people, palm trees, flowers, laurels, etc. I found a marvelous hotel. I’m sitting in its garden, writing to you. Tomorrow I’ll turn the vicinity upside-down. In my yellow shirt (it got dirty, and I washed it), in my white shoes, with my forehead sunburned black, I go round all day long, looking for our hideaway. [Monday,] 16 June [1930] [Nice] . . . I found an excellent villa with a garden, quiet, for us alone. Of course it’s not ideal—that is, nothing’s available any longer by the sea. I’m eager to see you and touch you. May our God, the “Great Oriental,” grant that we may pass these four summer months as we deserve, that we may remain alone, working again, talking, and being silent together. Life is good because we are good people and each loves the other. Come as quickly as you can. Our villa is splendid, peaceful, full of roses, two peach trees all laden, lemon trees, orange trees—all ours. . . .

1  A Sanary . . . Adressez-vous ailleurs.: Everything is taken at Sanary, dear sir. Apply elsewhere.  1  E! la reclama, signore!: Eh! the publicity, sir!

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 216–18.

Nice, etc., 27 August 1930 Dear brother, I received your letter this very moment and am eager to receive your definitive one, to see where our collaboration on the dictionary will begin. As I have written you repeatedly, the best would be far away from Greece. If, however, this is impossible for you, then write to me early enough, and I’ll come to Crete—going directly to Rethymno without passing through Iraklio. I must leave here on 15 October. I’ll stay in Athens a little to see my sister; then let’s go on 15 November to the house you mention. My pleasure at seeing you greatly reduces my displeasure at seeing Greece. I’m writing this to you so that you won’t feel distressed on my account. Everything is fine for those who can exist exclusive of the people around them. Two things are occupying me now: 1.  A new prose work is ripening inside me. I call it A Rainy Day. A German publishing house that read Toda-Raba wrote me that they found the

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work génial but also trop rouge for their house, and they cannot publish it. But they will undertake to publish something unpublished by me that is purely literary. And they want me to assume the responsibility of not giving the manuscript to anyone else. A Rainy Day has been troubling me a lot. It will be one customary day of mine—starting with my dream of going to see El Greco and ending with another dream I had, about Buddha. 2. I need to acquire a regular pied-à-terre, a small house where I could assemble all my manuscripts, books, etc. and work at ease. This matter must be resolved immediately after the dictionary. I would want it neither in Greece, nor in a large city, nor in a warm climate. The ideal would be on a high mountain in Switzerland, but I don’t have money. Even if I managed to devote all the dictionary money to such an apartment, it still wouldn’t be enough. Toda-Raba will yield me nothing, naturally. The screenplay you write me about is difficult for me to undertake because there’s so little hope. I know how the competitions work in Greece as well as everywhere else. People’s dishonesty is without bounds. So why should we waste our time to no avail? It’s absolutely necessary that I withdraw into solitude again for two years at the least, right after the dictionary. This problem is occupying me, and I need to solve it. We’ll see. I’m sorry about all you’ve written concerning Eleftheroudakis. When I leave here, I’ll have twenty truly excellent children’s books ready. I’ve found some masterpieces. I don’t translate them. I adapt them with lots of liberties, adding entire chapters to some of them and deleting a horde of prattle from almost all of them. I’ve sent two to Eleftheroudakis so far; now I’ll send him another two. He’s been sending money quite regularly. Unfortunately, I had already written to Dimitrakos proposing that I collaborate in his Children’s Library, if he wished, because my obligations to Eleftheroudakis finish on 31 December. I’m waiting for his reply. It would be good, because I could give him one book each month (naturally I did not write him that I have books ready). Thus, I’d be at peace for quite a few months. In one month I can comfortably write five books of one hundred typewritten pages each. But I don’t tell any publishers that, lest they think that the job is easier than it seems. Please send me a copy of your El Greco as soon as you have one. I’m eager to read your Crete. A Rainy Day, too, will naturally be set in Crete. I’m sending you a note from Mercure. An American woman has written a novelistic biography of El Greco! It would be interesting for you to read. I was thrilled about Akritas. It’s as though I were writing it myself. Thus, the regret that I did not manage to write it disappears. We have a lot to talk about, toward evening. Thanks for the German note you sent me. Regarding Istrati, perhaps I’ll read what he wrote about me. I didn’t read it because that’s the best way I have of placing my scorn for minds of that type.

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It’s an old habit of mine not to read what’s written about me, good or bad, by people who don’t interest me. A friend whom I trust has written me that Pêcheurs is just a trivial rehash. Always, N

1  our collaboration on the dictionary:  Their plan was to collaborate on a French-Greek dictionary, including both katharevousa and demotic in the Greek definitions. After much travail, this eventually amounted to nothing.  1  génial . . . trop rouge:  Brilliant . . . too red.  1  pied-à-terre:  Secondary lodging.  1  all you’ve written concerning Eleftheroudakis:  That Kazantzakis’s royalties would be delayed owing to temporary economic difficulties of the Eleftheroudakis publishing house.  1  Mercure:  Mercure de France.  1  An American woman:  Virginia Hersch, The Bird Of God: The Romance of El Greco (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1929).  1  thrilled about Akritas: Prevelakis had announced his decision to treat this theme himself, following Kazantzakis’s earlier encouragement in his letter to Prevelakis of 22 February 1929.  1  Pêcheurs: Istrati’s novelistic Le pêcheur d’éponges: pages autobiographiques (Paris: Rieder, 1930).

To Harilaos Stefanidis —Manuscript in Demosthenes Stefanidis family archive, Iraklio; printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, pp. 153–54.

Athens [15 December 1930] My dear Harilaos, It’s been so many days since I’ve received a letter from you, I’m worried. What happened to the business? Did you reach an agreement? Please write me where the matter stands, because I’m worried. Kalmouchos leaves on Saturday, the devil willing. He saved a few drachmas, enough to live for two months. After that, we’ll see. Several of his works that I was keeping for him he sent to America, where apparently there’s a demand. Let’s hope that he’ll still be alive by the time they go, are sold, and the dollars are sent. Gandhi’s son lasted sixty days while fasting; that news encouraged Kalmouchos considerably. He hasn’t eaten for two months and won’t eat for another two, making four—until the dollars have time to arrive. You see, Kalmouchos’s decision to leave for Paris is based on sure grounds. As for me, I’ll probably spend the winter in Aegina. Afterwards I’ve decided to leave for a high mountain in the Austrian Tyrol. I’ll stay there as many years as I can.

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Life here is insufferable, but fortunately I go out rarely and see very few people. I’m leaving for solitude in a few days. But you should write me at this address: Noti Botsari 6. I’ll never forget the days I spent with you. Would that you could set yourself free and have your pension in four years, so that we could live together on some mountain. My joy would be indescribable. Among the old friends, you are the only person that my heart needs.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 234–35.

Aegina, 28 December [1930] Dear brother, I’m going to stay here all winter in Anghelakis’s house, surrounded by a large garden. I’ve secured various aids for the dictionary and have begun to work. I hope to finish my portion by spring and to bring you the aids or send them to you so that you can continue. I’m anxious for us to get rid of this weight. Afterwards, we’ll see. Your second letter pleased me since you appear to be more settled in Paris. I hope that things are even better now. Before this letter arrives, you will have received Kalmouchos. May God be with him because he is a fine, worthy comrade. [Aegina,] 2 January [1931] I think of you continually. May this year be good for you, brimming over with ripe seeds! I’m working here, a slave. I awake before dawn and begin; I finish at night. I’m overcome by the fever to escape as soon as possible from Verne’s forty books and the dictionary. I hope my body holds out. I enclose a note for Mme Pipon, concierge of rue Léopold Robert 6 (Montparnasse, two steps from the Café Dôme). It was where Eleni Samiou was living; she left there three packages of books I had purchased in Gottesgab. They’re in danger of getting lost, and I entreat you ardently to go and get them. Open them, and if any book interests you, read it or hold on to it. You’ll give them to me when we meet. (Please give the concierge a tip of ten francs because she’s almost always tipsy.) This Aegina house here is excellent. Large garden, orange trees, tangerine trees, laurels, vegetable garden, olives.

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I’m able to work in absolute peace. Please write me often. Always, N Aegina, the Anghelakis house.

1  the dictionary:  Their plan was that Kazantzakis would do the first half, A through K, each French word on a separate file card together with its equivalents in both demotic and katharevousa, and would then give the cards to Prevelakis for checking. Prevelakis would thereupon do the second half, L through Z. Kazantzakis completed his part between January and June 1931, but the dictionary never went further because Dimitrakos reneged.  1  Verne’s forty books:  Kazantzakis was adapting, together with the dictionary, various works by Jules Verne (1828–1905), the French author who pioneered the science fiction genre, for Dimitrios Dimitrakos’s “Children’s Library.” Four titles were published in 1931, three more in 1942, and one in 1943 (Katsimbalis 1958, pp. 9–10, nos. 40–47).  1  concierge: In France, a person who lives in an apartment house, acts as janitor, and watches over the entrance; caretaker; equivalent of the θυρωρός in Greek apartment houses.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 236–238.

Aegina, 29 January [1931] My dear brother, Your letter disturbed me a lot because I am well aware of all this anguish of yours and your pent-up vexation. So far, I’ve used many trucs in my life to be able to endure without falling ill or committing suicide. This is because it has seemed to me that the heroic, disciplined enduring of anguish is always a most precious and supreme good. I have fortified my body as much as possible, making it an obedient donkey for whatever its rider seeks from it; then I tossed various bones down into the soul’s lower mouths so that those lower ones might be mollified and allow me to hear my “unspeaking” highest mouth clearly. People call these bones love, pride, morality, learning, travel, poetry. In this way I’ve been able to endure so far. You are perhaps the only one who knows—because you have experienced it—how terribly I suffer, how greatly I rejoice, and how severely I fail to fit in. Sensing now that your heart, too, is breaking, I can do nothing, because pain in this case is never gain. This hawk that seizes us by the scalp and drinks

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our blood does so to avoid perishing. If it did perish from the earth, we would perish with it; consequently, we need to let it act freely. When we were together even in the lowest atmosphere in Athens, I thus kept hearing the πλούσια μονάδα of our anguish and said nothing. Perhaps this silence of ours, I kept thinking, will become the cause of more blood being drunk by what we call a hawk. Here my life is once again a terrible, relentless clock. I awake in the middle of the night and begin work. I’ve gone further and further into the dictionary; I’m now at B. Consuming, thrilling work! I labor more than fifteen hours a day, but the project does not go quickly. In any case, this entire job cannot be anything else except a preparation for our future dictionary. Otherwise, if I had to stop at each word to find the demotic equivalent, etc., not even three years would be enough. I record as many words as I find ready-to-hand. I’m doing well with the plants because I have Gennadios and with nautical terms with Palaskas. Difficulties remain with birds and fish. I’m composing the text in katharevousa. I suggest that we leave the demotic text for our own dictionary. It’s impossible to make a fair copy—I don’t have time. The job is immense. I advise you never to undertake it in Paris. It must be done in a village, in absolute solitude. I hope to have finished the half dictionary by the spring; then we’ll see where I should leave the materials for you. Perhaps, if it turns out that you don’t really need to spend these years continuously abroad, it would be good for you to work here—that is, in Crete—to rid yourself of this Herculean labor and then to continue freely whenever you wish. As for me, my plans are these (nothing is happening with Papandreou): As soon as I finish the dictionary, I’ll leave for a mountain that Bilili has recommended to me, 5,761 feet high, near Tyrol, Austria. Absolute quiet, cheap, extremely beautiful. There we’ll see. If you want to work there, I’ll find a room for you to stay. I intend to begin the Odyssey again up there, starting in the summer of 1931. The house here on Aegina is much better than the other one I had. Huge garden, excellent building, solitude, the sweetness of a Greek springtime. I don’t know what’s happening in Athens; I read neither newspapers nor magazines. No time; no appetite. Never have I detested the well-known Greeks so calmly—that is, so absolutely. Eleftheroudakis has been totally faithful so far. Of course, he isn’t going to learn about the dictionary. I don’t need the books. If Kalmyk happens to leave in a few months, give them to him. I intend to build a little hut on Aegina with the money from the dictionary. I can work splendidly here and have found a divine location outside of Aegina town, across from Athens. This will happen—if it happens— later. Nothing else for today. Write me in your turn how your external life is: where you go, what you’re seeing, what gives you pleasure—everything. I would like

388  •  1931 Letters

to be able to keep seeing and following you from a distance. Perhaps it would be useful if you saw Jean Cassou, who writes on El Greco (he’s the literary director of Fourcade Publishers, rue Condé). He knows me. Go on my behalf. You might be pleased. I await your letter. Don’t be on a par with me if I delay. Always, N I’m sending you the first spring flowers from my garden.

1  trucs:  Stratagems.  1  πλούσια μονάδα:  “Rich monad.” Using Leibniz’s term, Kazantzakis posits a paradoxical unity that is at the same time a multiplicity.  1  our future dictionary:  He hoped also do to a French–demotic Greek dictionary instead of the current project, which required Greek equivalents to be given in katharevousa as well as demotic and all definitions to be written in katharevousa.  1  Gennadios . . . Palaskas:  P. G. Gennadios, Φυτολογικόν λεξικόν (Athens, 1914), Leonidas Palaskas, Γαλλοελληνικόν λεξικόν των ναυτικών όρων (Athens, 1898).  1  Kalmyk:  As always = Kalmouchos.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 241–44.

Aegina, 29 March 1931 Dear brother, The days are approaching when I decamp. My breast, like that of migratory birds—cranes, let’s say—is quivering while it awaits the wind. Which way will it blow? All the winds are available again; all are blowing. The other day I received a proposal to assume the chair of modern Greek literature at the University of Leningrad. Followed by other winds. I wonder how long my heart and feet will be equally ready for every departure, how long I will experience an intuition of the entire “Rose of the Winds” and feel that it is mine. Perhaps this yearning for travel and this freedom will last even beyond death. We shall see. The other day I received another letter from Glinos telling me that our trial will take place one of these days and that I must come to Athens so that we may reach an agreement about the defense. What a comedy these people are—judges, district attorneys, lawyers. The weather will still be hot and they’ll be sweating and shouting in a narrow room. Why?

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Also a letter from Lambridi. She’s leaving for America (who knows—to proclaim the Delphic Gospel, but in such an economic crisis!) and says that I must come to Athens to bid her farewell. What misery! And to think that a great poet is lost because he didn’t have a modicum of brains in his head. Moreover, Easter is approaching, so they say, and Anghelakis is going to come here with his wife (he got married, poor fellow) and with all his wife’s relatives to eat the barbecued lamb and to celebrate the holidays. On account of all this—judicial trial, Lambridi, barbecued lamb—I’m forced to abandon Aegina for a few days. My part of the dictionary will be finished exactly a month from now. So I’ll return here around 15 April unless the remainder is done in prison, where unfortunately I’ll also have my comforts, thanks to Skouriotis. Thus, I am not destined to enjoy even the glory of the martyr who is imprisoned, etc. for his God. Let’s hope for later. Then we have Dimitrakos as well, that colossal boor. 1.  He doesn’t like the children’s books the way I’ve adapted them for him; the language is too outlandishly demotic, etc. 2.  Since November, when he’s been obliged to pay ten pounds a month, he has paid only one month, and that deficient. I write him, write him again. Nothing. Now that I’m going to Athens, I too must know definitively if I should count on him. I’ll write you at once. So far, nothing. The dictionary is an unimaginably frightful task. It will be impossible for you to finish it if you don’t do as I do: dedicate your entire self from dawn to dark (or, better, from considerably earlier than dawn) for three or four months. Perhaps it would be practical for you to spend your autumn in Crete and finish this Herculean labor there. Otherwise you’ll be dragging this fiddlefaddle along most annoyingly and inseparably. Afterwards you can arrange for monthly remittances from Dimitrakos and can take off in peace for eighteen months or two years abroad. I’ll try to avoid more of such drudgery for quite a few years. The pain of the Odyssey is itching me. I cannot describe how much I think of you. I still don’t want to believe that we were born on the same date, because hordes of dark and bright powers inside me are ready to rush forward and smash the trap door of rationality beneath which I have nailed them down so that they will leave me in peace— leave me at peace, alas, to do what: children’s books for Dimitrakos and Eleftheroudakis! Is that why I am squandering these supreme, most mature years of my life? Is that how that policeman, the mind, is being used? I don’t want to think any more along those lines. But I sense that I’ll quickly think about nothing else any more and that the trap door must be smashed and all the powers be marshaled. It seems to me that I am now sufficiently certain that I can indeed marshal them.

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Regarding that, too, we shall see. I’m sorry about Cassou. I’d like this book to be published, precisely because in it I speak about you somewhere and send you a letter—which is my testament. I wrote to Cassou; he didn’t answer. However, I have their contract, and perhaps I’ll be able to force them. How disgusting to touch miserable human beings! But what to do, since we, too, possess noses, hands, and feet just as they do—and the stature that Saint Teresa talked about, which begins precisely above our heads, is invisible! N

1  a great poet is lost:  The reference is, of course, to Angelos Sikelianos and his scheme to found a worldwide intellectual center at Delphi with a worldwide university plus festivals to be paid for by his wife, Eva. Festivals that had been held in 1927 and 1930, however, exhausted her funds, which may have been further depleted by the market crash of 1929 and the onset of the Great Depression.  1  Skouriotis:  Kazantzakis’s friend, then director general of the Ministry of Justice, which governed prisons.  1  this book:  Toda-Raba.

To Ioannis Anghelakis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

Aegina, 7 April 1931 My dear defense lawyer, You are absolutely right; the memorandum must be based on the fact that Askitiki is a work of art and nothing else. Moreover, the passages they quote are completely unsuitable and stupid. If they want something approaching the style of Askitiki, there’s lots in Scripture. The entire “Song of Songs” is brazen, daring, love-mad, and not for families. (The pretext is that the girl of Shulam—her virtuous breasts better than wine—is supposedly the church.) I don’t believe that this case will ever come to trial. It might become a cause célèbre (Glinos’s secret desire); advertisement and clamor are, however, totally antipathetic to my temperament, and thus we must do whatever we can to ensure that nothing happens. If it does happen nevertheless, we shall exert all our strength to support our case on a very high level and with “seemly disdain,” without either provoking or avoiding the verdict of guilty. I don’t have Scripture handy here to search, but I don’t think it’s necessary. I still have not received a summons. I’ll be in Athens on Thursday in any case. If you all come to Aegina on Thursday, you’ll find the keys at the gardener’s.

1931 Letters  •  391

Happy Easter to your wife and to you. May the God of Askitiki be with you both! N

1  Happy Easter:  Greek Orthodox Easter in 1931 fell on 12 April.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 244–46.

Athens, 17 April [1931] My dear brother, I’m returning to Aegina today. I received your letter and read it insatiably. I’ve delayed replying for a few days because I was waiting for Dimitrakos to return from his trip to Constantinople. He came last night, and I went at once. All the problems were immediately rectified by means of personal contact. When he’s in front of you, this man is willing and prompt; when you are absent, he has such disorder in his office that it seems he does nothing. When I depart, I’ve decided to leave a power of attorney with a lawyer to force him to send the monthly remittances regularly. A lawyer friend of mine has undertaken to do this and has told me that based on our contract we are guaranteed, and that if he delays, he’ll pay a penalty in reparation. So it would be good for you to do the same, later. Eleftheroudakis, as he said, is inégal. I saw him. Warm love for you—he said he’d support you, etc. But we don’t have any confidence in him. The dictionary will be finished in two weeks. It has filled an extremely heavy valise. The aids I use are few: Ipitis, Varvatis, Larousse, Geoponiko Lexiko, Naftiko Lexiko, and nothing else. We have a big deficiency in fish and birds. I don’t think that you’ll want more aids. In any case, I have all that were given us (Latin Syntax, Koumanoudis, Bulletins of the Dictionary, Vyzantios, Zikidis, Stratiotiko Lexiko, etc.). When I return definitively to Athens (beginning of May), I’ll put them in order and leave them for your brother to pick up. I agree with everything that you wrote me: to Dimitrakos I’m not giving any of the dictionary’s index cards; you’ll send them to him based on his payments. Toda-Raba will be published at the end of May or first days of June. I received notification from Fourcade, and they asked me to give them, as well, an option to print the first three books I write. I gave it to them. Thus, this matter is finished, and I’ve gotten rid of a manuscript. I hope that you’ll see it first, before me. I detest reading it at this point.

392  •  1931 Letters

Yesterday Kalmouchos came, suddenly. He related everything to me; he leaves for Mount Athos shortly. He gave me lots of pleasure and also some concern about his future development. One extremely tiny aspect needs to be saved. But will that happen? We’ll see. Thanks for the stylisé African work you’re sending me and for Don Quixote. I need to see the exposition, I know. But will I be able to? If Samiou’s cousin can give me hospitality in her spare room, I hope I’ll manage. It’s indispensable for the Odyssey. Consequently, I’ll do everything possible to come. Recently I’ve learned that if I aspire to be appointed in Paris, it will happen. But I don’t want to insist at the last moment. I sense that it’s not in the best interests of the Odyssey. What I need now is the same pure, unspoiled solitude that I had in Gottesgab. If perhaps I were able to rush over to Africa or India on the double, and return, that would be the very best. Before I plunge once again into the seventeen-syllable waves, I need to touch the tropical atmosphere, to inhale the heavy tropical aromas, to see the southern stars. But will I be able to? We’ll see. I think of you at every moment. Only keep your body healthy. I sense that I still have not begun to struggle. A large book is crossing my mind; a large fruit is ripening right between my eyebrows. Everything is going along well; everything is pointing out the road. I have the slight tingling of the person who desires to rise up and strap on his armor. May God be with us, brother! It’s great pleasure that you exist. You’ll go beyond me. N

1  inégal: Uneven.  1  Ipitis:  Andonios Ipitis (1854–1927) wrote a FrenchGreek, Greek-French dictionary of scholarly terms and also a general French-Greek, Greek-French dictionary.  1  Varvatis:  Konstantinos Varvatis, Nouveau dictionnaire français-grec moderne (1860).  1  Larousse:  The well-known French encyclopedic dictionary in its Greek edition.  1  Geoponiko Lexiko: Dictionary of gardening and agricultural terms.  1  Naftiko Lexiko: Dictionary of nautical terms.  1  Koumanoudis:  Stefanos Koumanoudis (1818–99), archaeologist who also compiled a Latin-Greek dictionary. Kazantzakis is presumably referring to Koumanoudis’s Συναγωγή νέων λέξεων υπό των λογίων πλασθεισών από της Αλώσεως μέχρι των καθ’ ημάς χρόνων (Athens, 1900).  1  Vyzantios:  Skarlatos D. Vyzantios (1798–1878), author of a Λεξικόν ελληνικόν και γαλλικόν (Athens, 1846), which was also issued in later editions.  1  Zikidis:  Yeoryios Zikidis published a dictionary of ancient and modern Greek (Athens, 1899).  1  Stratiotiko Lexiko: Dictionary of military terminology.  1  stylisé:  Stylized.  1  Samiou’s cousin: Mary Pandou.  1  the exposition:  The Colonial Exposition that was scheduled to take place that summer in the Bois de Vincennes, on the eastern outskirts of Paris.

1931 Letters  •  393

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 246–48.

Aegina, 4 May [1931] My dear brother, The dictionary is finished. My service here in Aegina is finishing again. In about ten days or two weeks, I must prepare for Athens, and from there—who knows where! In any case, I’ll certainly come to Paris for the exhibition, but I cannot determine when. The possibilities opening in front of me now—fanlike, as is customary— are the following: 1. Paris, at the institute, if I aspire to this. (Michalakopoulos said recently to Vendiris that he was thinking of sending me.) 2. Leningrad, where, as I think I wrote you, the Greek undergraduates want me for the chair of modern Greek literature at the university 3. A big, hasty trip for two months. Red Sea, India, Siam, Japan 4. The high Tyrolean mountain to work on the Odyssey My heart is on that mountain, but I’m allowing the other possibilities to operate and ripen as well. Anyway, it’s a rich selection. When the critical moment arrives, I’ll say goodbye to them unhesitatingly and sadly (it goes without saying): an action useful for stoking up my agitation. So I cannot answer your question any more clearly. The answers and the action will occur simultaneously once again. Only then, when the critical moment arrives, will I know. May it be welcome, whatever it is! The dictionary cost me exactly three months of untiring, persistent labor. I’ve looked over the whole thing again. Of course, a horde of demotic words escaped me, and now on the rereading I added quite a few; yet an abundant number are still missing. However, there’s no need for us to persist. This dictionary will serve solely as the basis of our own that we’ll work on in peace much later. I don’t know if I should carry it with me for you when I come to Paris. I advise you never to work on it in Paris. On the other hand, you decide when the time comes and write to me. Regarding Spain, I wish I could come with you; however, it might be better for you to go alone. By then I’ll find my Baedeker, a most valuable book, and will send it to you. In Madrid you must go at once to the tourist office (Baedeker has the address); there they’ll give you complete information. In Toledo I stayed in a private home that the local tourist office found for me (a young woman, pale and blond, was the manager; she spoke French; she’ll still be there, except if she got married). I’m afraid that my friend the marquis will have departed.

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Thanks for the two splendid postcards. They’ve been placed above the index cards. Toda-Raba will be published at the end of May or beginning of June, so be on the lookout. You’ll be the first to see it. I’m sick and tired of it, but I’m happy to have escaped from that manuscript. It was a moment, and it’s gone. Now to the Odyssey—reworking it in solitude, line by line, syllable by syllable. Later, much later, when at last I’ll be bidding farewell to ce cher univers dans mes mains connaissantes, I will turn toward the other side of the Mask— toward Buddha. The moment I finished the dictionary, I began to cast sidelong glances at the Odyssey and to correct it here and there. I’m sending you the very first lines as they will be in the third draft. With you always, N Καλή ναι ετούτη η γης, αρέσει μας, σαν το σγουρό σταφύλι στον μπλάβο αγέρα, Θε μου, κρέμεται, στον άνεμο κουνιέται κι αργάζεται μες στην ερμιάν, αργά, την αγουρίδα μέλι. ΄Ορτσα, παιδιά, κι οι φούχτες μου με τρων κι υπομονή δεν έχω! Αναμεσός στα δυο μελίγγια μου, στο μέγα πατητήρι, το τραγανό σταφύλι λαχπατώ κι ο μαύρος μούστος βράζει κι όλη γελάει κι αχνίζει η κεφαλή μες στην ολόρθη μέρα. Μαΐστρες πέταξεν η γής, φτερά; δεν καλοξεχωρίζω· απάνουθέ μου ο γαύρος ουρανός και κάτουθε η κοιλιά μου σα γλαροπούλα απά στη θάλασσα κρουφοδροσολογάται. Ανοιούν τ’ αρθούνια μου και τα φεγγιά κι αντιχτυπούν στις πλάτες γοργά-γοργά τα κύματα και πάν, και πάω κι εγώ μαζί τους!

1  my friend the marquis:  Marqués de la Vega Inclán.  1  ce cher univers dans mes mains connaissantes:  This dear universe in my knowing hands. Compare Paul Claudel’s “ô cher univers entre mes mains connaissantes!” (from “La maison fermée” in Cinq grandes odes).  1  the very first lines: In the published epic, these lines come in the prologue, lines 4–16. Some of the published lines are exactly the same, but most are significantly changed.

To Ioannis Anghelakis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

Paris, 12 June 1931 My dear Anghelakis, Don’t be a bit worried that you missed the exposition. Melodramatic décor for an Orient (well-combed, with fresh makeup, clean, odorless) that does not

1931 Letters  •  395

exist. Bonne pour l’Occident. All this is fine for Americans who gape before a camel or a djellaba. I’m leaving double-quick for the mountain. Life in large cities is accursed, damned. Say hello to your wife for me and don’t forget the building lot in Aegina. Salvation is there. N

1  Bonne pour l’Occident:  Good for the West.  1  djellaba:  The traditional long outer robe worn in Arabic-speaking countries around the Mediterranean.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 253–56.

17 July [1931] I think Gottesgab, Erzgebirge, Czechoslovakia My dear brother, I shall never forget our evenings in Paris. They left an inexpressible sweetness in my heart—sweetness, simplicity, warmth, an atmosphere elevated while at the same time warmhearted and peaceful. I’m working exceptionally well, once again from dawn to dusk. I’ve already corrected cantos 1, 2, and 3. Tomorrow I start 4. I’ve got to rein in my impetus because it isn’t right. How terrible it would be if I died before completing this third draft! What defects, roughness, and haste the second had! Doubtlessly I’ll say the same (I hope!) for the third, too, and the fourth, etc. However, I’m still in the dramatic and epic element; in a subsequent draft, perhaps the fifth or sixth, I must flood these firm elements with the liquid, imprecise, continually undulating element of lyricism. We’ll see. I’m pleased and jealous that you’re in Spain. How I’d like to have been able to go there again! What joy when you enter the El Greco gallery opposite the large Velázquez gallery! That Cretan will devour us! I beg you ardently to write to me often. Don’t pay attention to the fact that I am reserved in my speech and correspondence. I would like to conquer the hard rind that covers my walnut heart, but I cannot. If I remember correctly, Geranos in Toda-Raba is aware of this husk that is so difficult to break. Similarly, I acquired a mask that has already deluded almost everyone who “knows” me. I shall leave behind a legend astonishingly unlike my true features, which are severe, tender, unrelenting, and despairing. Warm thanks for what you’ve written about Toda-Raba. While I was writing it, I was often unable to hold back my tears. Nevertheless, everyone will

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say that it is a tour de force by a psychic blusterer. This empty threshing floor that is formed in this way around me, this persistent lack of understanding, this mistrust, this fear that I might be “playing,” has created a desert around me that, as you know, is most profoundly good, elevated, and extraordinarily cruel—in other words, an atmosphere that completely suits my soul. N [20 July 1931] Three days have gone by. Yesterday Eleni sent me some French newspapers. Suddenly I saw that Germany is on the brink of the abyss. That wrings my heart. The whole time I’ve been writing verses, a people a half hour away from me has been in danger. I wonder what’s happening now. Since then (the newspapers were for 13 and 14 July), I haven’t read anything. Tomorrow I must abandon my writing and go to Germany to see. I’m eager for you to write to me. I’m afraid that this letter will go astray. If you remember, send me some Spanish newspapers, which interest me greatly. I’m sending you the article by Ouranis. If I had time, I’d like to write a play in which time, place, and causality were overcome—all the daring, the irrationality, the essence—as though human beings were piccoli. But I don’t have time. Perhaps I’ll place several scenes in Buddha. We’ll see. Now La grande Méditerranée de vers horizontaux! Sikelianos’s decline is horrible. I never expected such an abomination. It seems to me that there’s no salvation anymore. Orphic Matsoukas!. Write me much and often. I’m always with you. N I just received your card from Bayonne. Thanks. God be with you and who cares if it’s raining! God was gently drizzling, and the young man sweetly singing. Always

1  Germany is on the brink of the abyss:  Hitler’s Nazi party was now the second largest in Germany, thanks to the elections of 14 September 1930. But the Nazi deputies in the Reichstag had no intention of cooperating with the democratic government. Hitler’s appeal grew apace, and in February 1932 he ran (unsuccessfully) for president; on 30 January 1933 he was appointed chancellor and in effect ruled the nation.  1  a people a half hour away:  The German city Wiesenthal was about an hour’s distance by foot from Gottesgab.  1  the article by Ouranis:  Kostas Ouranis (1890–1953), pen name of Kostas Niarchios, prose writer, one of the originators (along with Kazantzakis) of travel writing as an art in Greece; diplomat, journalist, married to Alkis Thrylos (1896–1971), pen name of Eleni Ourani-Negreponti. The article

1931 Letters  •  397

in question was about the Karaghiozis puppet theater and seems to have stimulated Kazantzakis’s remarks about dwarfs and overcoming causality, since Ouranis wrote about “seeing the tiny creatures of chimera, imagination, and dream” (Eleftheron Vima, 16 March 1931).  1  piccoli: Dwarfs.  1  a play in which time, place, and causality were overcome:  Kazantzakis attempted precisely this in his play Othello Returns, written in 1936, modeled somewhat on Questa sera si recita a soggetto (Tonight We Improvise) by the Italian playwright Luigi Pirandello (1867–1936), which Kazantzakis had just translated.  1  Buddha:  All references to a projected work called Buddha are to a screenplay, not to the play.  1  La grande Méditerranée de vers horizontaux!:  The great Mediterranean with horizontal verse. Again from Claudel, this time from “Les Muses,” also in Cinq grandes odes. (See the note to the letter of 4 May, above.)  1  Sikelianos’s decline:  Kazantzakis was responding to a speech by Sikelianos (printed in Eleftheron Vima, 21–23 June 1931) on the Delphic ideal.  1  Orphic Matsoukas!:  Spyros Matsoukas (1873–1929), poet specializing in patriotic songs. Orphic: mystical; entrancing, spell-binding.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 257–59.

[Gottesgab,] 3 August 1931 It’s impossible to convey what emotion and joy your emotion and joy have given me. You saw a sublime good, and now you will sense even more deeply how futile are all the other transient concerns of human beings. I think of you at every moment here on my mountain, and I’d like not to be writing you at all because all speech is auditory torture and dissonance at this vibrating moment at which you find yourself. The only thing of value now is for you to write to me. That’s why God knows when I shall ever send you the letter that I am now beginning! [Gottesgab,] 17 August [1931] As I wrote you, I had a slight fever. It’s gone. I received your last letter with great, double pleasure because you tell me that you’ve begun la “Obra.” May our God be with you day and night! Send me a page as soon as you can—do so! I want to see the rhythm, diction, color. And write me, if you wish, what the general conception is—the outline. I want to see what decision was settled upon by the great fever. The photos are a great pleasure. All are excellent. I remember even the smallest stone. I must return to Spain just for El Greco. I had a pile of other

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concerns then, and unity was lacking; now I could go with utmost ease if I were alone. It would be good for the Odyssey, too. But my means are insufficient for two people. Later. Perhaps your second trip we’ll do together. ­Everything in the world is possible and easy. Eleni is at Salzburg listening to the series of great Mozart and Bach concerts. How I wish that I, too, could have gone! I’ve not heard music since 1923 in Berlin, and I’ve been thirsty. It would have done me a world of good, especially Mozart’s eternal freshness and Bach’s exquisite, deep, flowing river. Necessary. But patience. Let’s not forget our customary movement: biting the lips. Perhaps you’ll be able to come here for Christmas. I, too, am eager to cash, a hundredfold increased, the mite I contributed—if I did contribute. These things are all mysterious: people’s meeting and contact, the wind that suddenly blows above us, a word, a glance, a life that suddenly awaken inside us whatever we always possessed from the start. They are mysteries exactly the same as in dreams, when in the morning and all day long we’ve forgotten what dream we had, and suddenly a word, an insignificant object, reminds us of the entire viscous, colorful, rich nighttime vision. I’m at the end of canto 8. I’m writing you in this way, as though I were traveling and noting the stations. But what am I going to do as soon as the third draft is completed—that is, in a short while? Once again there’s A Rainy Day, the prose book I mentioned last year, and this year En fumant comes to mind. I thought of it while I was smoking my pipe for ten minutes: a dream of my entire life, of the turmoil—but a dream that, when subjected to formulation in words, necessarily enters a mode contrary to its nature, becoming analyzed, ordered, and commonsensical. It cannot be otherwise. The ten minutes of the viscous essence of the rêverie ardente will turn into perhaps a thousand pages. We’ll see. If I remain without work, I’ll write it of necessity in this inhuman solitude where “I live and gird myself.” Thanks for remembering the two lines. Only it’s not in the “white” air but in the “dark blue”! Look to find some convenient arrangement (private home, pension, etc.) for a future trip to Spain. I don’t have anything else to say to you, except once again that you should write me about many things and whatever is possible regarding Ia “Obra.” God be with you, always! N As a gift for you at the hotel, Eleni left an ancient silver coin that I like very much. Did you get it? [Gottesgab,] 18 August [1931] I’ve just received the excellent diario Crisol. Thank you very much. Thus I’m following with interest all the ferment in Spain.

1931 Letters  •  399

I wonder if you saw El Greco’s painting, the copy of the Saint Ferdinand (?) that’s in the Louvre, which the Marquis de la Vega Inclán, donor of the El Greco Museum in Toledo, still has in his collection. His home in Madrid is at Plaza Cristino Martos 4. This work is a troubling masterpiece, a splendid hair-raising apparition. Do what you can to go see it. Don’t forget Jiménez (Calle Lista 8). He’s an amazing figure; you’ll like him. We need to learn good Spanish. That’s easy. Spain’s language and rhythm are most profoundly our own. There’s also an interesting woman, Isabela de Palencia (Calle Villamagno, 2 triplicado), a novelist, very lively. But will you be in the mood?

1  the . . . transient concerns of human beings: One of Kazantzakis’s favorite verses—from Dante, Paradiso 11.1: “o insensata cura de’ mortali” (oh foolish care of mortals).  1  la “Obra”:  the “Work”—a phrase learned from Jiménez. Actually, the work that Prevelakis was beginning, “Pilgrimage to El Greco,” was never published.  1  En fumant:  Smoking.  1  rêverie ardente:  Fervent reverie.  1  in the “dark blue” [air]:  Στον μπλάβο αγέρα.  1  diario:  Newspaper.  1  Marquis de la Vega Inclán: Don Beningno Vega Inclán y Flaquer (1858–1942), at one point royal commissioner for tourism. He created the El Greco house in Toledo in the approximate location of El Greco’s actual residence; the house remained the marquis’s personal property until his death, after which the state took over ownership.  1  the copy of El Greco’s painting:  A copy by El Greco’s son, Jorge Manuel Theotokopoulos (1578–1631), which hangs in the Louvre, of El Greco’s painting not of Saint Ferdinand but of Saint Louis.  1  Jiménez:  Joan Ramón Jiménez (1881–1958), Spanish poet much admired by Kazantzakis; awarded Nobel Prize in Literature in 1956.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 260–62.

Gottesgab, 8 September [1931], I think My dear brother, I read your outline with great care. Naturally I cannot predict what you’ll put in that ample, logical frame. I like its steady coherence, and I’m eager to see how you’ll manage the feat of turning érudition and lyricism into an organic synthesis. Sometimes lyricism can exist precisely where lyrical phrases are missing: that is surely the highest and most difficult lyricism. In any case, your idea to accumulate the scholarly footnotes at the end of the book is a salvation. Eugenio d’Ors’s method in Goya is also fruitful and convenient. I’m eager to have you write me that you are finishing at last, and even more that you’ll read it to me, because I’d prefer to have you to read it rather than

400  •  1931 Letters

for me to read it myself. Thus we must meet. Maybe next spring, maybe summer, ether in Spain or Holland, where I might spend several months next year. A phrase that often enters my pen while I’m writing you has returned now as well: I’m glad you exist. If we were together, we would be able to converse a lot about your book because each of my thoughts would immediately have your own thought as its whetstone and, at the same time, its knife blade—sometimes the one sometimes the other. Thus, our conversation would have practical value. Now, at a distance, it becomes aimless. May our “God” be with you during all of your creative exaltation; expend all your strength on the first draft and don’t think about anything. You’ll look at it again in a few months; then you’ll give it the form you want, the definitive one. The small page by the Jewess that you sent me moved me greatly, as though it were a warm hand reaching out into my wilderness. I’m beginning now to understand, from personal experience, Nietzsche’s agitation when sometimes a person went up his mountain and said a warm word to him. This is certainly a weakness that it is correct for us not to eradicate entirely, because it gives us great strength. There are a certain number of souls in the world—our sisters, Amazons—who fight together with us. It is good for us to keep seeing their faces from time to time. Your information about Traveling gave me almost the same pleasure. Less, of course, because my soul is plus à nu in Toda-Raba; thus, whoever finds Toda-Raba troubling is more my brother because it isn’t Geranos who represents me therein but all the characters—absolutely all the characters—especially Toda-Raba himself and the Buddhist monk: all seven of them, the seven facets of my unified consciousness and subconsciousness. Write me if you went to the marquis’s to see the exquisite canvas he has. Do everything you can to see it. It excited me greatly. Also see Jiménez—it’s worth it. I’m awaiting the feuillets of Toda-Raba. I’ll send them to you as soon as I receive them. Thanks also for the excellent Buddhist poem; also for the abominations of the Greek poets. Kastanakis will like them! My sister must still be in Athens. Eleni says a big hello. She’s back after doing the entire musical season at Salzburg. We’re poverty-stricken people with the comforts of millionaires. She saw Zweig. Very likable, good, warm. They said a lot. He invited me to go see him at home; unfortunately, the Odyssey cannot allow me (I’m at canto 11), and thus I have postponed a useful acquaintanceship. Most deeply, however, I don’t have any appetite to know famous people. What you tell me about Ouranis (“Apostolado,” etc.) is true brutality. No matter how much I fail to expect anything from “human beings,” still, that infuriated me. I don’t have Istrati’s address; perhaps c/o Rieder (Place Saint-Suplice 7).

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That’s all. I’m working a lot. I think of you at every moment. As soon as I finish the third draft of the Odyssey, I’ll write En fumant, a work completely fou because I’ll have in mind that it will never be published. As always, and write me, N

1  the Jewess:  Marcelle Braun, a French university student, who had written to Kazantzakis after reading Toda-Raba.  1  plus à nu:  More naked.  1  the feuillets:  Proofs.  1  Kastanakis:  Thrasos Kastanakis was a personal friend of the avant-garde poet Theodoros Dorros (1895–1954) whose edited anthology Η ελληνική ποίηση του 20 oύ αιώνα (Greek Poetry of the 20th Century) Prevelakis had just sent to Kazantzakis.  1  What you tell me about Ouranis: Ouranis had written that the thirteen paintings of Christ and the twelve Apostles (“Apostolado”) in the Casa del Greco were not by El Greco but by his son. These paintings are now definitely attributed to El Greco himself, although it is recognized that late in life he accepted the assistance of collabo­ rators while nevertheless maintaining complete control. The apostle Judas, by the way, is replaced by Saint Paul.  1  fou: Insane.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 266–68.

[Gottesgab,] 16 October 1931 Dear brother, I’ve just received the two books and your letter: 1. Deeply moved by the “new book.” Another devilish coincidence: many years ago the figure of Julian moved me profoundly: I had decided to write a large work with him as hero, and I named it The Apostate. I had studied a pile of books—first and foremost a remarkable English one (its title must still be in my notebooks where my notes on Julian will still be); also on his teacher Libanius, fathers of the church, especially Nazianzus and Basil, who were his fellow students in Athens, and even Ibsen’s Julian and Merezhkovsky’s, etc. I was very moved by his dual nature: though externally an ascetic monk, internally he held against his chest—like the Spartan boy holding in silence the stolen fox that was lacerating his chest—all the Olympian gods. Now that I saw that the same idea has come to you, I jolted with a shudder. Could it be that a mysterious cohesion exists among human souls, that an intense desire is never to no avail, and that what one person has not carried out will be carried out by someone else? I do not know now why I abandoned that work

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unfinished (I wrote it in prose)—perhaps because I read Merezhkovsky’s, which disgusted me. If you do begin it (you, too, may abandon it, whereupon someone else will write it without fail, later), then, as soon as I return to Athens I can give you various bits of useful information. I worked hard and had assembled extensive documentation. But that’s in the past. 2. Regarding El Greco, as I wrote you, it’s very good for you to allow it to age, like wine. Write as much as you can now in whatever way you can; later you’ll give it its perfect form. I’ll read Kyrou and return it to you. The one glance I gave it disgusted me. 3.  Agreed! I’ll write to Alexandria at once, although Cairo would be better. You’d find that city amazingly interesting. I’ll ask them to look into Cairo as well. Papanoutsos was appointed assistant director of the teacher’s college in Mytilene, but Panetsos is in Egypt, as are many other friends of mine. As soon as I receive letters from them, I’ll send them to you. Would that you could spend one or two years there. That terrain, atmosphere, the tombs of the kings, will give you great pleasure. Afterwards, we’ll see. 4. I’m at canto 16. In January I’ll begin Buddha in a new mode. Six Askitikis will come first; then Buddha’s vision will begin. I’m not going to hurry at all. Like a shepherd, I shall be herding these two head rams of mine—­ Odysseas and Buddha—from mountain to plain for many years, until we reach (just before we reach!) the grave. 5. I received the La Revue des Vivants in which Toda-Raba is printed in its entirety. The book comes out at the end of October. 6. I’m sending you some verses unknown to you that I’ve sent to Melachrinos, who is going to publish the journal O Kyklos. However, I don’t know if he’ll print them. It occurred to me to publish the entire Odyssey in monthly installments in a journal—later, let’s say five years from now—as it is then (in the fifth draft, perhaps). In other words, I’d create a journal every issue of which would contain one canto (i.e., it would last two years). It would be a great pleasure if you wished us to bring it out together, just the two of us writing each issue. But we have time. We’ll see. 7.  Still nothing from Dimitrakos. Nor from Anghelakis. As soon as I have anything I’ll write you. Thanks for the pleasure Cossío gave me. Also for the passages from the Greek newspaper: Mata Hari and the North Pole. Both pleased me, and the second was of use to me for the Odyssey in one of its phrases. I’m glad that there was a misunderstanding between B. Shaw and C! But I’m ashamed now that I have a heating stove in my room and that for seven months I haven’t been working at a temperature of 2 degrees below zero. Let’s hope that the stove this year will not influence the work’s quality. If I see even the slightest effect, I’ll remove it. Our body, “l’asino, il fratello asino,” let it suffer in order to yield all the more soul. We always have time— we too, like Saint Francis—to beg its forgiveness at the moment of our death.

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Eleni says a big hello. She’s working from dawn to dusk at the typewriter, copying Verne. God be with you, always! N P.S. I just this moment received a letter from Anghelakis, who says that Dimitrakos has submitted a pile of applications that will permit him to send me twenty pounds and they still have not been approved. He adds that fortunately he did not seem disposed to take advantage of the difference in the rate of exchange; indeed, he said to me in addition, “Ten pounds doesn’t make 3,750 now,” implying that the difference should be made up. Difficulties exist, consequently, only because of the rate of exchange. He doesn’t speak about the legal question, because he went to Dimitrakos as soon as he received my letter and didn’t manage to see the contract. But he says what I’m writing you. I think that Dimitrakos won’t want to take advantage. And it occurs to me: Can’t he send us the money in drachmas and we exchange them? Today I wrote to two banks in Dresden and Prague to find out if they purchase drachmas. You ask, too, in Madrid. Always, N

1  the “new book”:  Prevelakis’s new book was meant to be on the Roman emperor Julian the Apostate (Flavius Claudius Julianus, 331/332–63, emperor from November 355 to June 363), the last non-Christian ruler of the Roman Empire, rejecting Christianity in favor of Neoplatonic paganism. Prevelakis never wrote on this subject, but Kazantzakis did in 1939—his play Julian the Apostate.  1  Libanius:  Master of rhetoric (ca. 314–ca. 394) of the Sophist school, teacher of the future emperor Julian, pagan teacher of the future Christian Saint John Chrysostom. Many of his orations and letters survive.  1  Nazianzus:  Saint Gregory of Nazianzus (330–89), also known as Gregory the Theologian or Gregory Nazianzen; archbishop of Constantinople.  1  Basil:  Basil of Caesarea/Saint Basil the Great (329–79).  1  Ibsen’s Julian:  Henrik Ibsen (1828–1906), Norwegian playwright. His play on Julian is called Kejser og Galilaer (Emperor and Galilean) and was published in 1873.  1  Merezhkovsky: Dmitry Sergeyevich Merezhkovsky (1865–1941), symbolist poet and novelist. His historical novel on Julian is called The Death of the Gods (1896).  1  Kyrou:  Achilleus Kyrou, Δομήνικος Θεοτοκόπουλος ο Κρης (1932).  1  I’ll write to Alexandria:  Prevelakis was looking for a job teaching in a Greek school in Egypt.  1  Papanoutsos: Evangelos Papanoutsos (1900–1982), important educator, philosopher, essayist, translator; secretary

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general of the Ministry of Education after 1950, minister of education 1963; responsible for the establishment of demotic in the secondary school system, for dividing secondary education into gymnasium and lyceum, etc.; member of the Academy of Athens; editor of the periodical Paideia, 1946–61.  1  Panetsos:  Perhaps Panagiotis Stylianou Panetsos (born 1875), a schoolteacher.  1  Melachrinos:  Apostolos Melachrinos (1880–1952), poet, editor of O Kyklos.  1  Mata Hari:  Stage name of Margaretha Geertruida Zelle (1876–1917), a Frisian exotic dancer and convicted spy who was executed by firing squad for espionage.  1  B. Shaw:  George Bernard Shaw (1856–1950), Irish playwright and music critic, awarded Nobel Prize for Literature in 1925.  1  2 degrees below zero: Equals 28.4 degrees Fahrenheit.  1  l’asino, il fratello asino:  The ass [donkey], brother ass. Kazantzakis is, of course, recalling Saint Francis’s metaphor for the body.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in my possession; also in University of Crete, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 269–73.

31 October 1931 My dear brother, With great pleasure, I’ve just received your letter. I was especially pleased by the Cossío and by the two pieces of information—1541 and dwarf. You had your lovely fill of Spain. It would be nice if we could go together. As soon as I finish the third draft (I’m at canto 18), I’d like to go on a “lofty vagabondage” but don’t know if I’ll be able to. As you know, I’ve been promised a trip to the Far East. We’ll see. Meanwhile, I’m going to finish the Odyssey here at the end of December and will immediately start the new Buddha. (I’ll write you details another time.) In March I’ll begin to copy out the corrected Odyssey in the large “ledger book.” At the end of April I’ll be free. Naturally I don’t have the slightest idea what I’ll do then. The winter here is horrendous. I haven’t gone outside for two weeks. Lots of work. All morning Odyssey, all afternoon Verne! I don’t have time to read anything. Sometimes a glance at d’Ors or at Valéry. But I’m in a hurry to entrust my bodily capital to sleep so that the morning may yield it back to me plus a little interest. As I advance in the Odyssey, the more I see how much is missing, what lacunae it has, and how much more struggle is needed for it to be able to navigate Time, the more I sense this most simple fact: the meaning of happiness is to surrender your soul to a huge monster that devours the soul. In this way you rid yourself of the multitude of microbes—fleas, bedbugs, Galateas, Nazoses, etc.—that assuredly would have consumed your soul. That’s what the ancient ascetics did: surrender their souls so that they

1931 Letters  •  405

might be wolfed down by Jehovah, Christ, Buddha, etc. In this fashion they did not see la petite vermine, since they had the big one. I wrote to Melachrinos to ask you if you have anything to give him for O Kyklos. This issue is coming out in a few days. I assume that it’s going to be good, judging from the editor. M. is highly cultivated—a little arriéré, completely “a man of letters” but very brainy and with good taste. If you have something, you could send it to him (Daidalou 26, Athens). Our own periodical will come out—“God” willing. Jiménez used to tell me that he had put this system into practice. I think it’s right, but we have time. Nevertheless, I wrote my friends in Egypt all the information you sent me. Now I’m waiting for an answer. I’m writing you in detail about Dimitrakos. Please write me immediately so that I can settle on the answer I’ll give him. If you want, we’ll postpone the dictionary (if Eleftheroudakis can send you the forty thousand he owes me); if you want, we’ll tell him that how the collaboration takes place is our own affair, that we do not assume responsibility for a given typeface, and that we’ve seen, after some experimentation, that the job will turn out better the way we choose—which I truly believe is the case except that afterwards I will need to see your file cards from L to Z, par acquit de conscience. Only please write me quickly, because I also must answer him regarding other things that he asked me about. Dimitrakos writes: “Regarding the French-Greek dictionary, we do not see how it is possible for you to collaborate with Mr. Prevelakis and to keep sending us material while one of you is traveling in Spain and the other in Czechoslovakia. For this reason we shall wait until both of you settle definitively, if not in the same house, at least in definitive dwellings in any city whatsoever so that you will manage to work together.” I’m thinking to answer him that both of us began to collaborate simultaneously on the dictionary but that we saw that the work was not progressing well and then decided to divide it. I completed the first draft of A through K and brought it to you in Paris, where you checked it for a month and a half while I was present. You will do L through Z. When you finish, you will send those letters to me, and we will meet once more for a month or two to polish them and allow me to check them in my turn. Consequently, the requisite collaboration took place for A–K, and he shouldn’t be cantankerous about depositing the monthly remittances. Of course, given the way the drachma is in danger, it might be in our best interests to hold on to all the dictionary material and to place it when we wish. But you must need the income from the dictionary; therefore, it seemed best to me to answer him as I’ve written you. However, I’ll wait for your letter, so that you can tell me whether you agree, or what else you want me to tell him. Thus I’m postponing my reply to Dimitrakos. Eleftheroudakis still owes me forty thousand drachmas. If there happens to be a need, tell me, and I’ll ask him to send them to you. Then you’ll be able

406  •  1931 Letters

to arrange the matter of the dictionary more freely. You will write to me about that, too. The other day Dimitrakas sent me ten pounds and fifty-six dollars, and he tells me that it would be best if I authorized him to deposit the 3,750 drachmas each month with a person I designate because he’s having a lot of trouble with the exchange. So, either he does not want to take advantage of the decline of the pound, or cannot. That’s fine. P. S., 4 November 1931 I’ve now received your last letter from Spain with the beautiful lines by Jiménez and with the coolness given me by the huge raindrops that struck you, too, beneath the same tree. I hope it happens that we travel again to Spain! I want you to know that, after this letter of yours, I wrote to Dimitrakos about the dictionary in the same spirit in which I’m writing to you. When you finish your portion of the dictionary, we’ll meet, and I’ll look it over. I might be able to get away from here in the spring. I’m sending you fifteen francs for you to get me one of those old-fashioned diaries that you gave me as a gift. They make excellent notebooks, glossaries, etc. Keep it for me and give it to me when we meet. I haven’t read any of the book you write me about, or any of Zweig’s Nietzsche. If you have copies, lend them to me. I have a list of books I want but lack both time and money. You’ll be finishing your time in Paris soon. That city has involved a multitude of good things, to be sure, but the atmosphere is wretched. Something is decomposing there: an intellectual pollution that smothers the soul. I hope that you go to Egypt so that I can come, and we can go together to the tombs of the kings! God be with you! Write me regularly again from Paris, too. Every letter from you gives me the profoundest joy. Soon I’ll copy out the lines of the Odyssey that you liked (the African bard) in order to send them to you. You have warm greetings from Eleni. Always, N

1  1541:  Verification by Borja de San Román of El Greco’s birth year as 1541.  1  dwarf:  Part of a sentence dictated by El Greco to a lawyer and preserved in the minutes of a trial: “To be a dwarf is the worst thing that can possibly happen to whatsoever type of form.”  1  Nazoses:  This cruel reference is to the likes of Yorgos A. Nazos (1862–1934], a well-known Athenian journalist and poet who at one point was Kazantzakis’s friend.  1  la petite vermine:  The small bug.  1  arriéré:  Behind the times.  1  par acquit de conscience: To salve my conscience.

1931 Letters  •  407

To Elli Lambridi —Manuscript in my possession, gift from Yolanda Hatzi.

Gottesgab, [20] November 1931 Dear Mudita! Good god, how you are suffering from human beings! How much you are exhausting yourself with your inferiors! How unjust that you are squandering so much strength! I cannot understand at all how you still deign to come in contact with wretched human beings, to compete and vie with them obstinately. What a strong organism you must have, and what a weak one to endure the continued inhalation of their breath! You ask for my opinion, although you well know my answer. I’ve told you so many times and have entreated you and invoked your most hautains qualities in order to convince you. Renounce schools, teachers, ministries. Settle in a small apartment. Begin to work for yourself. Write what you like. Follow one of your attributes definitively at last. Take philosophy—since it still excites your curiosity—and play with it. Suffer, write, find relief. It’s the highest and at the same time the surest path. Only in this way will you soon get a university chair, where finally you’ll be able to work at your convenience. Schoolteaching, lessons, principalships, assistant principalships: all that is unworthy of you. The subject of “time” that you tell me about is excellent and interests me, too, even though I cannot formulate it in abstract terms. For me, that’s all over with. I’ve said goodbye to abstract thought. Never again! Like Odysseas on his raft, I am continually losing companions and advancing toward the innermost depths of Ithaca— the grave. Regarding “time,” don’t forget something that interests me “personally”: On the mosque of Moulay Idriss in Fez, there is a horde of large wall clocks all in a row, with a golden balancier. They’re called crazy clocks. Each has its own inconstant time. They sound at various times, some running fast, some slow, all disdaining accuracy and the like. Inside me, I have a pile of such clocks. I’ve learned that Angelos is progressing. He made a nationalistic speech in Thrace to—to the army (!). And he drew his sword for Cyprus and for the music and dance in ancient drama. I’m beginning to think that his head is screwed on right. Will you do me a favor (since you didn’t want to send me the booklet on El Greco)? I have great need of your English translation of Askitiki! Please send it to me via registered mail. I’ll make a copy and return it to you. My life here is the same. I’m working very much. In two weeks I will finish the third draft of the Odyssey and will begin Buddha. I work from dawn until nightfall. Let’s hope that I don’t collapse.

408  •  1931 Letters

Write me! Renounce humanity, the “hats,” and live alone (“alone” in the intellectual sense). May your “good” hand win out at last! N

1  hautains:  Haughty.  1  balancier:  Pendulum.  1  Angelos . . . head screwed on right:  All this is about Sikelianos, of course, and must be entirely ironical given that Kazantzakis’s earlier reaction to Sikelianos’s speech to the army in Thrace had been “Sikelianos’s decline is horrible. I never expected such an abomination” (letter to Prevelakis, 17 and 20 July 1931, above, Prevelakis 1965, p. 254).  1  in the intellectual sense:  The word translated here as “intellectual”—namely πνευματική—also means “spiritual.” It’s hard to know which meaning Kazantzakis had in mind in this case.

To Ioannis Zervos —Manuscript photographed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 44; printed in Panopoulos 1978, p. 45.

1 December 1931, Gottesgab, Erzgebirge, Czechoslovakia My dear Mr. Zervos, These days I’ll be sending you, via Mr. Prevelakis, the first pages of the French-Greek dictionary that I have undertaken for Dimitrakos. I very much hope that he will give it to you to see, because consequently I am certain that attention will be drawn to how carefully and accurately we have attempted to compress into the space allotted us whatever useful material could enter such a difficult work. Half of the dictionary is already done. I myself revised it in Aegina and Prevelakis, too, looked at it on his own these past few months after our collaborative work in Paris during July. Thus, any serious alteration whatsoever would undo all the ferocious labor that has taken place up to now. Therefore, I hope that you will look at it and that Mr. Dimitrakos will not do what he did with one of my Verne translations—give it to D. Voutyras for checking! As you are aware, he knows neither French nor Greek aside from the argot of the café. I’m working feverishly here, fifteen hours a day, in absolute peace at an elevation of 1,025 meters, in the woods. I devote most hours to Dimitrakos, but the early hours, around dawn, I write the third draft of the Odyssey. I’m eager to see you—would that it might be outside of Greece!—so that I might submit the whole of the Odyssey to you and ask you to look at it, to keep it for two or three months, and to send me your impressions. It seems to me that you are the only person on this earth who can help me in this endeavor; therefore, when I see you, I am going to entreat you most fervently to do me this supreme favor.

1932 Letters  •  409

It would be a great pleasure if you cared to write to me. You know how much I love and honor you. You are a great personality, full of strength, delicacy, complexity, and depth. You possess what the Germans call daemonisches. May “God”—the one that we know—be with you! Always, N. Kazantzakis

1  argot:  Slang.  1  1,025 meters:  3,363 feet.  1  daemonisches: Demonic.

To Edwige Levi —Manuscript (in French) in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. Levi/47.

Gottesgab, [early] January 1932 Mano gemella! Finally, the mute year, 1931, is gone and the new year is beginning with a good, joyful word from your mouth! Behold, finally: life is filling that heart— yours—with joy! I love the tone of your last letter, after such a long and painful silence. As always, I’m living in the solitude that I love and that loves me. I possess everything that you wished for me in your letter. As you already know, I belong to that most difficult sect, the sempre alzati. I pursue my inner struggles without any hope and without any faltering. I live the spectacle of this world, so frightful and so beautiful, with a heart that has need of nothing except time. I ripen like a piece of slightly hard and bitter fruit, but one that receives the sun as a gift that is owed it—the sun, rain, wind, hail, and—later—death. You see, dear friend, I remain the way you left me. I have thought of you often. There is something bitter and very sweet that connects me to you. I would never want to liberate myself from this. Here, at the summit of this mountain in Bohemia, I am rewriting the Odyssey for the third time—it will be rewritten seven times. This large epic is still drinking all my blood. I have poured into it all the ardor of my avid, insatiable, oriental soul. Ah! why haven’t you learned modern Greek? You would be able then to view my entire soul naked, and I would be moved and happy. It seems that Toda-Raba, which you have read, will be published in Paris by Fourcade. It would give me great pleasure if you wished to translate it—to see your name associated with mine on the cover of a book that I loved while writing it, so full was I then with the vision of Russia. But it’s necessary that you apply to Fourcade, the publisher (rue Condé 22, Paris); he alone is able to authorize you, and he’ll do so willingly. I’ll write to him immediately. Ah! if you’d like to send me your translation of Goethe—that great man so level-headed and so distant from my heart!

410  •  1932 Letters

Dear friend, mano e anima gemella, do not forget me! Nikos Kazantzaki P.S. Would you like to write me a few words about Anna and Doro? They are two souls and two bodies that I love very much.

1  Mano gemella:  Kindred hand.  1  sempre alzati:  Always ascendant.  1  Doro: Doro Levi (1899–1991), Italian archaeologist specializing in Minoan Crete; directed Italian Archaeological School in Athens, 1947–77; excavated at Minoan Phaistos; worked with the American government to help prevent destruction of Italian monuments by Allied bombardment during the Second World War; brother of Edwige Levi.  1  mano e anima gemella: Kindred hand and soul.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 279–83.

Tuesday [Gottesgab, 13 January 1932] My dear brother, The joy still hasn’t departed from the house; it still seems to me that you are here and that we are maintaining our fruitful silence, as is our custom. The ten days were fine; what we said was fine; what we did not say was fine; the year has started out fine, very fine. May all that we decided upon bear fruit. I was touched to see that you remembered me as soon as you reached Paris. So far I’ve received the Anthologie Bouddhique, 2 volumes, and Payot’s Bouddha. Eleni was very pleased to receive Mukerji. I have already read his account with much pleasure; it has excellent parts, and a lot more that is entirely useful for Eleni’s Gandhi. She thanks you very much. She’ll send the book back to you in a few days by registered mail. I still have not received Don Quixote. I’m afraid it might have gotten lost. In any case I’ll write you. If I don’t receive the other, send me the bad edition— Garnier or Hachette—because I don’t need anything special for the screenplay. I shall try to extract the cinematic Don Quixote from the well-known story in a new way, if I can. The Buddha screenplay has advanced a lot, and well. Between what I had done and the “mystery” that you were telling me about, I have found the synthesis. I think that it will turn out very fine. The Anthology was of practically no help to me, but I’m hoping that I’ll find Payot useful. In any case, these are volumes that I need for the book on Buddha that I have in mind.

1932 Letters  •  411

This Buddha, the book, is also going well. I finally discovered the definitive frame, perfect for my soul, the frame into which I can comfortably place as much as I want, so that this Buddha will complement the Odyssey. Thus with loud shouts I’ll herd this couple into the sheep pen and all three of us will go peacefully and happily to the grave. It seems to me that these two works, if they turn out well, will be enough for me. As you know, I don’t like to scatter myself over frequent books. I shall pour all of my soul, my anguish, my tranquillity into this pair. Everything else I write will be secondary. I’ve written to Eleftheroudakis about Irving’s Life of Muhammad. But I ask you, too, please send me a vie romancée (that was published by N.R.F.? I don’t remember): Muhammad. In this way I’ll be able to begin the Mohammed screenplay also. When I come to Paris, I’ll bring you three screenplays (and pipe tobacco, the kind you like). We’ll go to the movies together; we’ll give the three screenplays their definitive form; after that: the major external goal of the Piatletnika! It would be wonderful if you’d met the screenwriter that you wrote me about. Since you left, the idea has been continually emphasizing itself inside me that this is the only way we’ll be able to escape publishers and the manual, unproductive work that is poisoning our time. With obstinate effort we’ll succeed. I will abandon all other creative work here and will attend to the three screenplays. Ultima salus! I’ll try, until I leave here, not to exceed the two hundred francs that we said you owe me for books. However, I need a Verne (because Dimitrakos still hasn’t answered about sending me books to translate, as he promised, and thus I remain without work). Please ask a bookstore to order for you one of the following books by J. Verne, one that includes illustrations, published by Hetzel: (1) Pays de fourrures, (2) Voyage au centre de la terre, (3) Village aérien (just one: if the first doesn’t exist, then the second, etc.). Tear off the binding and discard it, so we won’t have unnecessary weight, and send it to me not registered (to save money). If the Hetzel editions don’t exist (many have gone out of print), then get another illustrated edition. When you have time, prepare for me whatever is useful for the mystères in a way that will keep us from wasting time when I come to Paris. All the screenplays must be ready by summer; then we’ll see what to do. Eleni and I are thinking of coming to Paris, stay three to four months in some apartment and thus be at ease to see about buying some rooms. That is the surest and most practical way. Then, also, perhaps some apartment will be found for rent in Angela’s building. Let’s see, however: (a) if Dimitrakos pays all year long, (b) if I can exchange the drachmas for francs. I received your prologue and will read it tonight. I’m waiting for the “Agonia”; I’m sure that it will do me good. Eleni sends warm regards. The fact that you did not forget her Gandhi touched her. Mukerji is extremely useful for her; she found much about Indian customs and she’s sitting now and taking notes. She doesn’t want any

412  •  1932 Letters

other book at present. As soon as we get to Paris, she’ll find more. I think that Gandhi will turn out well and will find a publisher. I saw the article about Jiménez in Nouvelles Littéraires. But how can he reply? He is a “lyric poet”—in other words, a bird that warbles and does not remember. In any case, if Toda-Raba is ever published, I’ll send it to him. From Lambridi neither a word nor an English Askitiki. That’s another bird, but one that does not warble. I feel like writing her again. I’m impatient for you to tell me about Mauclair’s El Greco. I have not the slightest doubt that it will be mediocre. Your El Greco is excellent, and the more I think about it, the stronger my emotion becomes. Oh! how will the publisher that it deserves be found? I am so happy that you wrote it—happy, proud, and moved. Really, it seems that my life has been broadened. The Odyssey is being copied little by little. I don’t have time, and it is immense. I’ve just started canto 2. I sent Dimitrakos our letter. Let’s see! New chains and, what is worse, we are obligated to desire them. Let’s do everything we can to escape. Let’s direct all our attention to the screenplays. We need to endure in order not to “go down” to Greece. I’m leafing through Payot. It strikes me as a most excellent, useful book. Tomorrow I’ll see what I can garner for the screenplay. I’ll send you the first pages of the Buddha screenplay. Oh, if only we could find a good screenwriter as a collaborator, we’d do great things! Whenever I work on screenplays—I noticed this already in Russia—my mind leaps, I enter fierce, cinematic reality, but all my daring will be impossible to execute without the assistance of a good cinéaste. Doing screenplays, I sense only one wing inside me; the other wing, technique, I lack. “God” be with you! Courage! Take care! Let us attempt an “exodus” from the house of bondage. I am with you always—you know that, N I wrote to my sister about the books.

1  all that we decided upon:  Their “five-year plan” for collaboration, what Kazantzakis termed their Piatletnika involving screenplays written by Kazantzakis and translations done by Prevelakis. The word for five-year plan in Russian is Pyatiletka; Kazantzakis may be playing with this word and adding the Greek “nika,” which is a cry for victory!  1  major external goal:  A parody (perhaps unintentional!) of Soviet-speak.  1  Antholgie bouddhique: René Guyon, Anthologie bouddhique, 2 vols. (Paris: Crès, 1924).  1  Payot’s Bouddha:  Perhaps Carlo Formichi, La pensée religieuse de l’Inde avant Bouddha: le Rigveda, L’Atharvaveda, les Brahmanas et les Upanishads (Paris: Payot, 1930).  1  Mukerji: Dhan Gopal Mukerji’s Kari the Elephant, translated by Kazantzakis as Ο Ελέφας Καρί (Athens: Nikas, 1931).  1  Irving’s Life of Mu-

1932 Letters  •  413

hammad:  Washington Irving (1783–1859), Mahomet and His Successors, 2 vols.  1  vie romancée:  Novelistic biography.  1  Ultima salus!:  Final salvation.  1  (1) Pays de fourrures, (2) Voyage au centre de la terre, (3) Village aérien:  The corresponding English titles are The Fur Country, A Journey to the Center of the Earth, The Village in the Treetops.  1  Angela’s building:  Angela Valliadi’s. She was Thrasos Kastanakis’s first wife.  1  your prologue . . . “Agonia”:  Prevelakis’s prologue to Thomas William Rhys Davids’s Buddhism: Its History and Literature (1896); Prevelakis’s essay “Agonia,” which remained unpublished.  1  Mauclair’s El Greco: Camille Mauclair (1872– 1945, French poet, novelist, biographer, and art critic. His real name was Séverin Faust. The title of his book is Le Greco (Paris, 1931).  1  Your El Greco is excellent:  Prevelakis’s Pilgrimage to El Greco, which remained unpublished.  1  I sent Dimitrakos our letter: During Prevelakis’s visit at Gottesgab, he and Kazantzakis had drafted a letter to Dimitrakos proposing a collaborative book on various peoples and regions. This was never written.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 284–88.

[Gottesgab,] 16 January 1932 My dear brother, I received Don Quixote. Given the fever that sometimes overcomes me, I’ve already finished—in two days!—the first draft of the screenplay. I chose the most characteristic episodes from the two volumes and was able to extract Quixote’s tragic and comic soul from the complicated story. I’m sending you the first tableau so that you may see how we enter this soul. I, of course, changed the ending. On his deathbed, Quixote, in exaltation, views his supreme vision: Paradise opening up like a chateau. All the knights that he dreamed of in his life or saw in his books come forward with armies and banners to receive him in death’s great, definitive chateau. Dulcinea comes forward too, just as he imagined her, and embraces him. He in turn spreads his arms to embrace Dulcinea—Notre Dame la Mort—and falls down dead. Tomorrow I’ll start its cinematic elaboration. I’m satisfied with the difficult triage that I have accomplished. If we succeed in getting a good cinéaste, this film will be exceptional. I’ve corrected the Buddha screenplay again. I’ll translate it and send it to you. I think it’s very good. I have in mind now another screenplay suitable for the League of Nations competition. I’ll start it as soon as I finish Don Quixote. It’s about the miserable world situation today, the horror of warfare, the brotherhood of nations.

414  •  1932 Letters

Precisely what the competition desires. But from the Comité international pour la diffusion artistique et littéraire par le cinématographe (Hélène Vacaresco, director, Secrétariat Générale, 92 Avenue des Champs-Élysées), you’ll need to find out the following: 1. Whether a competition has been announced for 1932, and under what rules 2. If they accept libretti or if they require completed screenplays If they accept libretti, we’ll submit under your name, Eleni’s, and mine the three libretti that we have: Buddha, Don Quixote, and the third about war that I’m thinking about. If they want screenplays, we’ll need to find a good cinéaste as a collaborator, conceding a percentage to him. I feel all the Russian fever of the “Five-Year Plan.” We must exert ourselves to the utmost in order to escape the economic problem. Everything else will come of its own accord, most simply. So, until I arrive in Paris, see about a cinéaste! We’ll study the miniatures and the mystères in Paris. Thus, if we have the three libretti plus Muhammad and the miniatures, we acquire more likelihood of overcoming fate. I’m happy that our meeting generated so many sparks. The Five-Year Plan needs to be fulfilled, and, as in Russia, we need to outdo ourselves so that it may become a Four-Year Plan. For us, as for Russia, whether we win or we dabble away our whole life in daily hack work will depend on that. I’m working a lot, happily, and with hope. My contact with you is fruitful for me. No matter how exquisite solitude is, it is even more exquisite to journey together with one or two people. When they are so few, they never become a crowd, nor does their respiration pollute the atmosphere. Our weaknesses become strengths; our strengths becomes a productive fever, and joy. I received your Agonia. The atmosphere in which it takes place is that of the mountaintop. But, as you say, the mode of expression is Western. We, as Cretans, must bravely and proudly make this decision finally. We—Africans, souls all aflame, all El Greco, caring nothing for raison raisonnante and oldmaidish propriety—are something different from Europeans and Greeks. Our Cretan soul was perfectly expressed by El Greco. May he become our definitive guru at long last and may we attempt, in literature, to continue his work! As I have told you, in my book-length Buddha I shall liberate the “mania” to produce articulate discourse. I shall imagine that this book will never be published, never be read, and that I therefore will be free to give each word and each meaning in it the “super-angelic” wings that El Greco employed and that the Inquisition did not want at all. We have no Inquisition over us; nor are we are fulfilling any commission. May the angel of San Vicente, our guardian angel, lift up our every word!

1932 Letters  •  415

Eleni, too, is writing her Gandhi feverishly. Mukerji helped her a lot and gave her much pleasure. So we are all at work, and the Five-Year Plan is growing shorter. I’m impatient to come to Paris. Write me what Angela told you. I hear from Berlin that a person can find cheap apartments. Not a word from Dimitrakos or Eleftheroudakis. Mauclair’s El Greco pleased and saddened me. The French! I’m glad that you’ll be writing El Greco in French with the divine mania held in check, because it is exceedingly forceful. The photographs are extremely beautiful. Several are excellent; I’ll have them enlarged. That meeting of ours may acquire great value. It’s a stroke of good luck that we have the visual depiction of our souls in the snow. Don’t worry about the gratuity to Mr. and Mrs. Kraus that you write about. On your behalf, we gave a small gift to Hilda, and she blushed all over with pleasure. The Greek seashores you sent us are superb. Greece is fine; sometime we must go on a lengthy pilgrimage to her islands. But we have time: three or four years from now when we go down to Crete in order to write the Odyssey for the periodical. Eleni received the two postage stamps and thanks you very much. She sends warm greetings. She’ll mail the Mukerji in a few days. I wrote to Lefteris. No answer yet, no periodicals on the cinema. A weak, wounded, interesting soul. I’m waiting for Verne and Muhammad.

First Tableaux of Don Quixote (1st Draft) Burning-hot plateau, treeless. Midday, the stones seething. A hawk circling in the fiery air and screeching loudly. Lizards on the rocks warming themselves. A young shepherd with goats plays a pipe. Shrill pipe-sound. Suddenly the young shepherd, as though gone crazy, jumps up, grabs a goat, raises it on its hind legs, and dances with it. The goat metamorphoses into a shepherdess; they dance. It becomes a goat again; the shepherd releases it; his eyes bulge. He stones it. Ruined towers. Crows fly by. Broken-down windmills. A country inn. The fat innkeeper is treating customers to drinks. Village scenes. Castilian village. Various views: —Cobblestoned lanes. —A barber (the barber who appears in Don Quixote) shaving someone; tiny church, the curate (the one from Don Quixote) reading on the threshold. —Sancho Panza’s village home.

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—Don Quixote’s dilapidated castle, coat-of-arms over the lintel: “Heart with flames.” —Stable. Rosinante fighting with a sheep. Snorts. —Courtyard of a house. Pigs, hens. The governess and Don Quixote’s niece cleaning vegetables. They laugh (they’re talking about Don Quixote: he’s gone batty). —Shouts heard from inside; sword-blows. —They go forward in silence, peer through the keyhole: —Don. Q. fighting with the air. Et cetera.

1  Notre Dame la Mort: Our Lady Death.  1  It’s about the miserable world situation today:  Kazantzakis actually wrote this screenplay as well, under the title Une eclipse de soleil (An Eclipse of the Sun).  1  Comité international pour la diffusion artistique et littéraire par le cinématographe: International Committee for Artistic and Literary Distribution via the Cinema.  1  the miniatures and the mystères:  Their idea was to combine various ancient miniatures in a way that created a mystery, in order to create an art film.  1  The Five Year Plan . . . as in Russia:  The Soviet Union had thirteen Five-Year plans. The first, from 1928 to 1933, was completed one year early. The last was for 1991 to 1995 but was not completed, since the Soviet Union ceased to exist in 1991. The plans set targets for every industry, each region, every mine and factory, each foreman, and even every worker.  1  raison raisonnante: Deliberative reasoning.  1  the angel of San Vicente:  The angel of El Greco’s painting The Assumption of the Virgin that was in the San Vicente Museum, Toledo, but is now in Toledo’s Museo de Santa Cruz.  1  Mr. and Mrs. Kraus . . . Hilda:  The owners of the house occupied by Kazantzakis in Gottesgab, and their daughter.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 299–305.

[Gottesgab,] 27 February 1932 My dear brother, This letter of mine will undoubtedly be long. Let’s start with what is tedious: 1.  Fine, let’s make Anghelakis the lawyer (21 Marnis Street). I’ve given him a general power of attorney, and he acts on all matters, collects money, etc. in my name. Thus, only you need to give power of attorney either to him or to someone else. Anghelakis is entirely honest; we can have absolute faith in

1932 Letters  •  417

him. The best, however, would be if Dimitrakos, as soon as he sees that we aren’t joking, will want to change the job and give us something else instead of the dictionary, something comparable. Let’s aim our efforts there. Write Dimitrakos a good, stinging, calm reply. Zervos wrote me a letter—one more proof that he is guilty. He tells me that we should promise Dimitrakos that we’ll take better care of the dictionary, and he’ll try to convince him not to take the assignment away from us. I’m not going to answer him. It would be good for you to refute what Dimitrakos and Zervos write, using greater arguments since you have source materials. That will shake Dimitrakos’s confidence in his cheeky colleagues. Write to Anghelakis as well and reach an agreement with him; he is waiting for you to write him to take on the matter. Also, in order to make things easier for him, send him my answer to Dimitrakos as well as your own observations. At the moment there’s no need for you to grant a power of attorney. Write a letter to Anghelakis (one that he can show to Dimitrakos) and authorize him to take on the matter of the dictionary. I’ve already written him. If Dimitrakos insists, then Anghelakis will write you if a special power of attorney is required. 2. I much enjoyed your letter about Ruttmann and the screenplays that came the other day. It’s fine, wonderful, that they suggest detailed libretti. It’s also exceptionally fine that they won’t have anything else to shoot and might accept Muhammad. The lead actor they have—the one in Tempête sur l’Asie— is an excellent Muhammad. It’s just that his nose needs to be changed. He is passioné, concentré, a perfect Asian. I hope very much that they’ll accept Muhammad, and I’m eager to see his final agreement with you. 3.  We can reach agreements with companies to provide them with detailed libretti. Subjects abound. Send me Bovary because I think it’s an excellent subject for French moviemakers. The two of us can furnish them with one screenplay a month. You six and I six per year. 4.  The Decameron can make a great impression and will attract amazing sell-out crowds because everyone will be scandalized by the title and will want to see it. But it’s extremely difficult for anyone to make a libretto out of it. Nevertheless, I hope to manage. From the hundred stories, I have already selected ten, and I’ll group them with a certain crescendo rhythm. Naturally, they won’t be narrated. Instead, I’ve thought (Eleni gave me the initial idea) to have them played. Thus, the ten young men and women will get dressed in front of everyone, putting on whatever clothes they deem suitable that they find in the Florentine villa where they have gathered. They themselves will play each story. Meanwhile, the plague will encircle the villa and want to climb over its walls. The first scene will be the horrendous spectacle of Florence attacked by the plague. The contrast will thus be beautiful between this and the gusto, license, and insouciance of the ten young people who, in order to escape from the plague, have barricaded themselves in the villa (and in love). It’s a difficult subject. After the encouraging information that you’ve given me, I’ll come to grips with it starting tomorrow. I’m up to my neck in copying

418  •  1932 Letters

the Odyssey. I copy from dawn to dusk, and it takes me three whole days to be barely able to copy a single canto. Right now I’m at canto 6. But I’m going to set it aside and grasp hold of Boccaccio. I don’t know whether you ought to tell anyone about this idea. Perhaps it would better to confine our efforts now to Muhammad. Let it be filmed; meanwhile, we take action regarding Boccaccio, to whom I ascribe great economic importance. Thus, when one of our screenplays has been filmed, we’ll have the power to ask for greater royalties for Boccaccio, which will make large profits without fail. 5. It’s also splendid that Ruttmann has agreed to do the découpage of our libretto for CIDALC. But we have time. 6.  Now, regarding Don Quixote, Eleni has already begun to wail. I, however, don’t find it so tragic. Chaliapin will do Chaliapin rather than Don Quixote. Morand, according to the clipping that you sent, has put in “des nouvelles aventures.” In other words, it will be more Morand than Cervantes. Furthermore, two films on the same subject can be good. Everyone will certainly go to hear Chaliapin; but it’s most probable that other people will go to see our Don Quixote. I don’t have much hope regarding France, but I do have hope regarding Germany—or Spain, if we had someone there to take action. Morand will have distorted Don Quixote very much; thus, our own version will retain all the prestige. Everything depends on finding a good cinéaste. I still don’t have any answer from Germany. I don’t think it’s expedient for us to write to Charlot. For sure, nothing will come of it. As for me, I have not lost hope at all that our version of Don Quixote will find a producer. When you see Ruttmann, please ask him if I’m right and, above all, whether he can put us in touch with some German movie company (tell him what Germans like to hear: that if we’re successful, he’ll have a fixed percentage of the royalties for this intervention of his). Perhaps R. will put us in touch with Germany, and we’ll place Don Quixote right now. It may be in R’s own interests to take action and help us. Similarly, he may intervene—again with a percentage—enabling us to place a series of libretti with large German companies if the French company where he works is small and unable. I think that a collaboration of this sort with R. would be most useful for us and very agreeable for him. He’d thus be able to have a percentage from a series of our libretti, without any labor on his part. Please sound him out. I’ll be hoping. That’s everything concerning Don Quixote. 7. Eleni thanks you warmly for sending her the issue of Europe that has something about Gandhi. She also says that you should forgive her very much for the wretchedness of her cousin Mary; she told her to send you by post the money she got for her article, because she owed it to you for books. And the stupid woman (I mean Mary) made note of other people, mixing everything up.

1932 Letters  •  419

8. Eleftheroudakis wrote me—before he received my letter—that he is placing at my disposal the money he owes me (39,500 drachmas); he’ll give a sum each month to a person I trust in Athens, because he is unable to send me valuta. Yesterday I received a new letter from him answering my own. He says that he’s sending the sum to you with great willingness, etc. When your 14,000 is finished, take some of mine, so you won’t be in financial difficulty. Meanwhile, we’ve got to manage something with the cinema. 9.  We certainly must take out a patent concerning the miniatures. Every idea is in the air, and the danger is great. Eleni trembles at every moment for fear that someone will “catch wind of ” her idea and make a Gandhi for children. So she’s copying it feverishly on the typewriter and will go by herself to find R. Rolland and ask him to give her a prologue. Brave Five-Year-Planner! 10. I was greatly moved by everything you wrote me about Jouvenel. What pleasure! Every person who loves that Negro, Toda-Raba, moves me exceedingly. All that Jouvenel promised you is of the greatest importance, and I hope—since J. is not a lyrical bird like the other J—that he’ll keep his word. I’ll write him immediately and thank him a lot. If he sends me the clippings, I’ll send them to you at once. So, then, portions were omitted in the publication? I hadn’t been aware of that. I beg of you ardently: if you still have the manuscript of Toda-Raba, send it to me so that I can compare and inform the Dutchman. Today I learned that a publisher in Italy has requested the rights to translate and publish Toda-Raba. Fourcade answered him immediately (whereas he still has not answered me) and is asking him for twenty-five hundred francs. Your idea about Masereel is excellent. The Japanese card disturbed me. We need to come to grips with the miniatures with extreme care and after much experience, if we want “the fortress to surrender.” 11. I hope you’ll see Marika Papaïoannou. Eleni wrote her to telephone you. (She lives at rue Gounod 6, chez Mme Laferté, métro Wagram.) She’s giving a concert. She is a person surely deeper and better than what people say; don’t get on the wrong side of her. She’s a rare individual, sincere, good, a hard worker, pure. (The underlining you see isn’t mine; it’s the paper’s and luck’s. But I agree with it.) If you see her, Eleni asks you to tell her not to send her the issue of Europe that she had ordered from her, because you anticipated her and sent it to us. 12. If you wish, I’ll send you a letter so you can meet my extraordinary elderly friend, Abbé Mugnier. You’ll enjoy him greatly (he met me in Crete when I was your age, and he’ll be moved when he sees you). You’ll come to know a person (very old) who is exceptional, full of life, gusto, and love for Crete. How nice if we had something Cretan to bring to him! I wish we had a woolen sack, a jar of bitter orange preserve, a bunch of sage. But never mind. Even without these gifts, you perhaps ought to see him. He knows everybody

420  •  1932 Letters

and might suddenly become a valuable aid for us. Write me if you want this, and I’ll send you a letter. 13.  The conclusion: Long life the Five-Year Plan! We certainly shall not give up. Our true comrades are Piccard, the Indian, Saint Teresa. I possess a certainty and an obstinacy that are invincible. And I’m glad that you show such opposition, reaction, and humor regarding Fate’s (supposed) desire to trip us up. I, too, in the same way, mock idiotic, all-blind Fate. I keep telling her that she won’t get what she’s after! “God” be with us—for His own good! Always, N P.S. Don Quixote could be done excellently now with piccoli. In this way our version would be entirely separate, different from Morand’s and more interesting. Will you mention this to Ruttmann? 2nd P.S. 28 February. I worked on Boccaccio today. I discovered an excellent trouvaille. It occurs to me that it will turn out to be a first-class screenplay and a very profitable one. You prepare our way by finding out how to have it filmed. I’m very glad that I discovered how to proceed. Right now I need to actualize the trouvaille in every detail.

1  Ruttmann:  Walter Ruttmann (1888–1942), German film director.  1  The lead actor they have:  Probably Akim Tamiroff (1899–1972), Russian character actor trained by Stanislavsky at the Moscow Art Theater School; in Hollywood, he was closely associated with Orson Welles and was twice nominated for an Oscar as best supporting actor.  1  Tempête sur l’Asie:  Soviet film of 1928 that appeared in French under the title Tempête sur l’Asie (Storm over Asia).  1  passioné, concentré: Impassioned, focused.  1  Bovary:  Madame Bovary, the celebrated novel (1847) by Gustave Flaubert (1821–80).  1  Decameron:  A collection of one hundred novellas by Giovanni Boccaccio (1313–75), probably written between 1350 and 1353, and including bawdy tales, description of the Bubonic plague, tricks played by women on their husbands, and other attractive material.  1  découpage . . . for CIDALC: Editing . . . for the “Comité International du Cinéma Educatif et Culturel” (CIDALC), an international organization providing noncommercial film exchange among thirty nations.  1  Chaliapin:  Feodor Fedorovich Chaliapin (1873–1938), famous opera singer who acted in several silent films and in the sound film Don Quixote (1933), directed by Geog Wilhelm Pabst.  1  Morand:  Paul Morand (1888–1976), French diplomat, novelist, playwright, poet, member of the Académie Française.  1  des nouvelles aventures:  Some new adventures.  1  Charlot:  Perhaps André Charlot (1882–1956), French impresario and film actor; active first in Paris, then in London as joint manager of the Alhambra Theatre, finally as an actor in Hollywood. Apparently it was

1932 Letters  •  421

Charlot who suggested to Morand to write a screenplay of Don Quixote that would star Chaliapin and be directed by Jean de Limur (1887–1976), who in the event did not direct it. However, Kazantzakis by “Charlot” may mean Charlie Chaplin, known as Charlot in France.  1  her cousin Mary:  Mary Pandou.  1  valuta:  Foreign exchange.  1  R. Rolland: Romain Rolland (1866–1944), French essayist, art historian, dramatist awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1915. He viewed Gandhi as a new hope for humanity, sharing his belief in nonviolence. His biography of Gandhi appeared in 1924, and he also published a volume of his correspondence with Gandhi.  1  the other J:  Jiménez.  1  portions were omitted: In the publication of TodaRaba in the periodical Revue des Vivants.  1  Masereel:  Franz Masereel (1889–1972), Flemish painter who had published a book of woodcuts that Prevelakis thought could become the inspiration for an animated film.  1  Abbé Mugnier:  Arthur Mugnier (1853–1944), Catholic priest who participated in the literary life of Paris; published his Journal for the years 1879 to 1939, detailing encounters with famous writers, served as confessor for the “in-crowd.” He was admired by Proust, Valéry, Huysmans, etc. Kazantzakis first met him in Paris in 1909, then again in Iraklio soon afterward. He mentions him in Report to Greco (Kazantzakis 1965a, p. 148; 1961, p. 177).  1  Piccard:  Auguste Piccard (1884–1962), Swiss inventor and explorer who in 1931 became the first person to reach the stratosphere, by ascending 15,785 meters (51,775 feet) in a balloon carrying a pressurized aluminum gondola that he had designed.  1  the Indian:  The Indian in Kazantzakis’s story of the rowboat whose rower, approaching the fatal waterfall, ships his oars and begins to sing.  1  Long live the Five-Year Plan!:  Another parody of Soviet-speak.  1  Saint Teresa:  Saint Teresa of Avila (1515–82), much admired by Kazantzakis because of her unsubduable spirit. See his terzina “Saint Teresa.”  1  trouvaille:  Find, godsend.

To Ioannis Anghelakis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; photocopy in my possession, gift of Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke.

[Gottesgab,] 7 March 1932 My dear Anghelakis, I’ve just received your letter of 2 March, and I thank you. I’m very sorry that Dimitrakos continues to postpone. I need the money quickly. It seems to me that we ought to have the right to make him pay interest for his delay. If we had that right, perhaps he’d be forced to hurry. I’m glad that you found a way to calculate accurately the word count for each sixteen-page signature, because it’s a shame for that sly peasant to rob us.

422  •  1932 Letters

This, too, gave me a painful impression regarding his cunning: He says that he received the January manuscript only now! I’m sending you the receipt given by the German post office, which shows that I mailed it on the 21st of January, and the February manuscript on the 22nd of February! Please show him these receipts: (a) because I want him to know how regular I am (I almost always send him the manuscript around the 20th of every month, with mathematical precision), and (b) because he needs to know that he cannot fool us. The small-time slyboots is just striving to postpone, as well, the 3,750 additional drachmas. Tell it to him with the pretext that I want to complain to the post office if, as he claims, there is such a great delay! So he ought to give you the 7,500 drachmas for the two months because he received both manuscripts in extremely good time. The March manuscript I’ll send to him earlier. Please do one more thing: Since January I’ve been writing him to send me the books that are meant to be translated, and I’ve still received nothing. Tell him that since this delay (if it exists because he’s been failing to send me books to translate) does not derive from my responsibility but from his (because, as he himself wrote to me, the books that he ordered from Paris for me to translate he had already received in January), he ought to have been paying the 3,750 drachmas each month. It’s disgusting for someone to be registering all these details in such a large publishing house that is reputed to be honorable. I ask of you these two things: (a) post office, (b) drive home to him that he should send the books meant for translation. Regarding the dictionary: Dimitrakos wrote that he refuses to accept our work because he finds it defective. He mentioned a series of mistakes that he discovered. You’ll see from my answer, which I enclose for you, what defects he finds and how I reply to him. His intention is clear: he does not want to publish it because he changed his mind. I reached an understanding with Prevelakis, and he will be writing you to take on this matter. In the matter of the dictionary, Prevelakis will have the initiative. I’m having enough trouble with the other matter—the one concerning the translations. By no means do I believe that I should waste so much effort. What Dimitrakos wrote me is totally without basis. Here (strictly between us) your friend Zervos has his finger. It’s to him that Dimitrakos entrusted the criticism, and it’s he who submitted the observations to him. But, as you see, he didn’t get an A+ in either French or demotic. When all is said and done, is it not possible for me to know French better than Dimitrakos’s collaborators? My entire education is French. When I was a twelve-year-old boy, I entered and graduated from the French school on Naxos—and afterwards in Paris. Dimitrakos does not understand this. But if we take him to court, I hope that he’ll understand it. In any case, you’ll have a letter from Prevelakis. Come to an understanding with him regarding whatever pertains to the dictionary.

1932 Letters  •  423

Sometimes in the midst of all this businessmen’s sludge, I feel a certain joy. An abyss divides man from man. There are those whose nature is to be slaves and those whose nature is to be free persons, as old Aristotle used to say. There are men who by nature are unclean and those who by nature are pure human beings. Surely we are neither slaves nor unclean, and that is a consolation. I’m glad that the question of the building site is finally coming to an end. I feel a strange stability—completely without foundation—when I consider that I might live for a day on that deserted rock and die there. I will be very happy for my tomb to be there. (If I die suddenly, please show this letter to my relatives so that they’ll bury me there. Another day I’ll write you my epitaph as well.) Eleftheroudakis wrote me that he owes me 39,500 drachmas (it’s that amount exactly) and he asks me to appoint my representative to take a part of this each month until it’s all paid. So please call on El. some day and agree with him regarding each date when he is to give you these monthly payments. I imagine that he’ll give 4,000 drachmas each month; thus, it will all be paid by the end of the year. So please call on him in order to collect the monthly payment for March and deposit it in the bank. I’ve already written El. that you are my representative and that he should give the money to you. I received the kroner you’ve been sending, and I thank you. They came in time, and I got them without any formalities. Now we need to exchange all the five thousand French francs. Did you submit the paperwork? And can I get them here in Swiss francs (because even the crown is not exceptionally stable)? As a banker, you know all this: How I can get in Swiss francs as much currency as we can have each month? Please write me. I don’t think I have anything else today. I recapitulate: 1. Can we demand interest for the delay? (This would be a way to make Dimitrakos move more quickly.) 2. Show him the receipts from the German post office and catch him lying. We mustn’t let the slyboots trick us. 3. If he doesn’t send the books meant to be translated, he should be ­required to pay the 3,750 a month, because it’s his fault that the translation is not taking place. (With this method, he might postpone sending the books for a year, and then?) 4. Regarding the dictionary, come to an understanding with Prevelakis. 5. Call on Eleftheroudakis for the March installment. 6. Will we have the right to five thousand francs a month to support us here? If yes, can I have them here in Swiss francs? This would be a way for me to be able, little by little, to withdraw here whatever money I have. N

424  •  1932 Letters

If I were in your position, I would be happier than you seem to be: (1) a splendid wife, (2) ferocious health, (3) a most splendid piece of property on Aegina, (4) no children, (5) a genius that is a “παγά λαλέουσα,” something strange, strong, and valuable that springs up from inside you and continually cracks open the crust of habit. How many people have your advantages? God and the devil be with us! Many greetings to your wife. Eleni greets both of you and is happy that we’ll become neighbors on Aegina with “του κύκλου τα γυρίσματα.” Always yours, N

1  παγά λαλέουσα:  “Babbling wellspring,” from a passage well known in Greece because it expresses the shift from paganism to Christianity. Supposedly the text of the oracle that was delivered to Julian the Apostate at Delphi (the oracle in effect announcing its own death), it is repeated in the work of Saint John of Damascus (ca. 675–749), Theol. et Scr. Eccl. §35, lines 33ff.: Οὐκέτι Φοῖβος ἔχει καλύβαν, οὐ μάντιδα δάφνην, οὐ παγὰν λαλέουσαν, ἀπέσβετο καὶ λάλον ὕδωρ. . . . Ταῦτα ἀκούσας ὁ Ἰουλιανὸς παρὰ τοῦ μάρτυρος ἔκθαμβος ὅλως . . .  1  του κύκλου τα γυρίσματα:  “The turnings of the wheel [of fortune]”; first half of the opening line of Erotokritos).

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 329–30.

[Madrid,] 11 October 1932 My dear brother, A hasty word, in order to send you the Oración a Rusia by Benavente and the translation that I did tonight very hurriedly; I left out some sections (Benavente, whom I saw yesterday at his home, recommended this); the word materializada (page 8 of the text) I translated as “plunged in matter”; I didn’t find anything better. In any case, you look at it, correct it, and give it to Eleni to make three copies again and to send one to Melachrinos (26 Daidalou Street). I’m writing him from here and he’ll be expecting it. I hope that he wants to publish it. I’ll write you another time about my life here. In any case I tell you again how deeply moved I was by the paintings of Quinta del Sordo: vehement, hallucinatory, without color. Yesterday I saw Mörder at the movies. Frissonnant, splendid parts, only I didn’t like a certain “didactic” tendency it has. Benavente’s play isn’t anything very special. Old clichés, tirades, etc. The actor who plays the young Lenin as an exile in London (1903) is fine.

1932 Letters  •  425

The other day in the museum I had a cruel, salutary sensation owing to the plaster replicas. In the entrance I saw the statues of Pergamum—criards, tempestuous, baroque—then the Charioteer of Delphi. All of a sudden I felt, with extreme bitterness, the worthlessness of my art. I must leave Pergamum for Delphi. For the first time in my life, I sensed what this Charioteer is bringing to us in his victorious chariot because, perhaps, I myself was capable of being victorious for the first time. We shall see. The pension here is excellent: two elevators, central heat, etc., etc. At midday I look out through the dining room window and see the church they are demolishing—the one you were telling me about. Your letter moved me greatly; there is a secret umbilical cord between us— che il tacer è bello. I found an excellent translation of Dante here (1931): terzinas, rhyme, faithfulness. A splendid edition (which includes the Vita Nuova also) but it costs twenty-five pesetas, and I didn’t buy it. Maybe later. Give Lapa-López a push. I wrote him that I expect Lidio-Lidia on 15 October. Go and see him. Get him moving. Still nothing from Jiménez! Rubio does not answer. But this evening I’ll go to his house to ask. Benavente is reading Toda-Raba now. You see how much the Oración agrees with Toda-Raba. I’ll write you about my visit to Benavente another time. Did you give Eleni the card? Always, N

1  Oración a Rusia:  By the Spanish dramatist Jacinto Benavente (1866– 1954), published in Kazantzakis’s translation as Δέηση στη Ρουσία in Ο Κύκλος 2 (1932): 194–96, preceded by an introductory letter on page 193. Cf. Benavente’s book Santa Rusia, which Kazantzakis cites in his letter of 18 October 1932 to Prevelakis, below.  1  Mörder:  1931 movie directed by Fritz Lang and starring Peter Lorre, commonly known as “M.”  1  Frissonant:  Shuddering.  1  criards: Crude, garish.  1  che il tacer è bello:  Silence is beautiful.  1  Lapa-López:  The Spanish journalist and translator José López was supposed to be translating Kazantzakis’s adaptation of the farcical 1513 comedy La Calandria (The Follies of Calandro) by Cardinal Bernardo Dovizi da Bibbiena (1470–1520). Kazantzakis plays with López’s name by prefixing the Greek word λαπάς, which means rice boiled to pap and, metaphorically, a spineless individual.  1  Lidio-Lidia:  Kazantzakis’s revised title for La Calandria because those are the names of the main characters, the twins, in his adaptation: Santilla, dressed like a man and calling herself with the masculine name Lidio, and her twin brother, also called Lidio but now, because he dresses as a woman, Lidia. Cf. the note to the letter of 5 May 1947 to Tea Anemoyanni.  1  Rubio: Timoteo Pérez Rubio (1896–1977), painter; assistant director of the National Museum of Contemporary Art in Madrid.

426  •  1932 Letters

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 331–35.

Madrid, 18 October 1932 My dear brother, As always, your letter moved me and gave me pleasure. I had come back from a long walk in the Prado park—marvelous sunshine—and along the way I was overcome by the need to write the poem on Dante. I returned home quickly and noted down various scattered verses that occurred to me while I was walking: —two blonde cherubim on your right and left the Yes and No, two fires that burn —with a bitter laurel leaf between the lips —and Ravenna shedding leaves like a rose —heavy hammer of holy disdain you strike earth’s infamous anvil —tall pomegranate tree that blooms flowers of flame —you hold fire in your hand like a rose —heavy coppersmith of verse and human beings When your letter came, I was writing these verses quickly so as not to forget them—I might need them. Oh, if only everything you say about the Odyssey were true, my heart would be relieved a little. But my heart remains heavy, a skein of worries, despair, and unspeakable lamentation. The only thing I admire is my body, which can endure. If time were my own, I would go up on a forsaken African mountain to rewrite the whole thing from the start; perhaps I’d feel relief. The work assuredly is not successful because my heart has not been liberated; what that means is that a horde of emotions, lightning flashes, and sorrows have remained inside me without being expressed, without emerging and relieving me. Perhaps I’ll empty my innards somewhat in the fourth draft; perhaps in the fifth. I’ll realize this owing to the happiness and delightful lassitude—like those of a woman after childbirth—that will overcome me. If death is willing to wait, I’ll find salvation without fail. But if it comes suddenly? Yesterday—no, the day before, on the 16th—I hurried early in the morning to the Atocha Station to take the 9:10 train for Toledo. Suddenly an automobile passed and touched me; a hair’s breadth and I would have been a goner—in other words, all my hopes that my soul might be saved in the Odyssey would have been lost. Fortunately I escaped, and that day ­remains as one of the most splendid of my life. Sunshine, dear God, sunshine, a pure breeze, hills roasted dry like those in Crete, olives, goats, donkeys,

1932 Letters  •  427

voices, and then suddenly in the distant light our tiny Mecca, Toledo. As always, once again I was seeing for the first time what I had seen before. Is it that I fail to pay attention, I wonder, or is my soul advancing, changing, and is everything changing with it? The emotion that El Greco gave me was completely virgin. And what was the height of emotion? How did I manage not to shout (perhaps because the loquacious priest was next to me, and Thomas the painter behind me) when I saw the Assumption of the Virgin, the angel, our Guardian Angel, lifting the Virgin with such arms? I forgot all the Goyas I’d seen and the Velázquezes and the beautiful bodies by Titian. That angel clutched me all of a sudden with his two arms. I saw the Panteones. The bell rang twice, the nun appeared—narrow-nosed, exquisitely clean, silent—with the heavy keys in withered hands. Marvelous woman! But you have experienced all of this. I was glad to be following in Toledo the traces of your footsteps: Rodriguez, the priest with the inflamed eyes, who continually talks and coughs, Thomas with the tiny little mouth and the faded blue eyes. They both send their greetings to you and remember you. Returning home I found a card from Rubio. He came again last night and found me. We talked a lot, ardently. Tonight I’ll be eating at his house; his wife will remain in Berlin until spring. Sarita vanished and no one knows where she is. Jiménez has started new sexual escapades with a gigantic American widow, and has become ridiculous. I wrote him yesterday and am hoping to see him one of these days. I’ll write you. The Revista de Occidente is relatively small and completely philosophical. So Toda-Raba cannot squeeze in there. Rubio will speak to Ortega and also to Jiménez, and Rubio’s wife will write: to read it and to recommend it to the large publishing house Espasa Calpe. We’ll see. López writes that he still has not begun Lidio-Lidia! But he promises to do so. Please give him a push. I am unable to work here, and I’m despondent; the days are so marvelous I cannot remain inside. I go round for hours and hours. I’ve sent you the Blanco y Negro so that you can see the commentary on Santa Rusia, etc. If you don’t get it, write me, and I’ll send another copy. Today I’m sending you one of Bronstein’s translations that I saw by chance; I was moved the moment I saw that name, and I bought the book so that you may see it. Rubio sends warm greetings. It’s evening now. I’ll stand up in order to go to his house, and I’ll continue tomorrow. God be with you! 19 October I came back from Rubio’s very late. He had invited to dinner a very interesting young professor of philosophy at the university. He told me some very accurate things about Spanish literature and about today’s intellectual and spiritual anarchy in Spain. He recommended the most dämonische works of

428  •  1932 Letters

Spanish literature. I’ll purchase as many as I can because I think they’ll be very useful to me for the Odyssey. The entire period of the conquistadores is splendid, completely demonical, full of sacred mania. I hope to receive a word from Jiménez today. This professor greatly esteems him; he considers him a “great poeta minor.” Please give Eleni the little colored piece of paper I enclose; on it I beg her, feeling very ashamed, to make five copies of Askitiki. I hope that she wants to, although this job will be laborious for her because she doesn’t know English. I plan to write a word or two to Lambridi. Has she ended up in Lamia? Don’t forget López. The theaters here are full; the crisis hasn’t paralyzed people yet. I read Sol every day (it’s the most serious). I go for long walks, waiting for the moment to come when I start work. I’m going to write Nikiforos Fokas for the French theater. Maybe the Compagnie Pitoef will do it. Write me regularly. The joy you give me is precious. N

1  Thomas the painter: Tomás de Malonyay (1905–?), also known as di Malognier; a Hungarian lawyer and painter who in 1927 settled in Toledo, where he taught German in the city’s leading high school. During the Spanish Civil War he became director of a committee devoted to safeguarding Toledo’s art treasures. The New York Times reported on 9 October 1936 that under the direction of “the Hungarian art expert Thomas Malonyay,” five famous El Greco canvases were moved to the strong room of the Bank of Spain. When Toledo was captured by Franco’s forces, Malonyay moved to Madrid, where he continued his efforts to safeguard paintings in the Prado. But he was apprehended there when the city fell, kept five years (1939­–44) in a concentration camp without trial, then sentenced to twenty years’ imprisonment for “aiding the Republican military effort.” No information seems available regarding his future life or his death. If he ever emerged from prison, he may have changed his name, as did many others.  1  Panteones: Tombs at the Hospital de San Juan Bautista, Toledo.  1  Sarita:  Sarita Halpern, a friend of theirs from Lisbon.  1  Ortega:  José Ortega y Gasset (1883–1955), famous Spanish liberal philosopher; founder of the periodical Revista de Occidente.  1  Blanco y Negro:  A daily newspaper published in Spain during the 1930s.  1  Santa Rusia:  By Jacinto Benavente (1932).  1  Bronstein:  Léo Bronstein (1902–1976), a friend of theirs who published on El Greco in 1950; professor of fine arts at Brandeis University; he had introduced Prevelakis and Kazantzakis to Sarita Halpern and to Rubio.  1  interesting young professor: Cardenal, a professor of philosophy. Kazantzakis later gave him lessons in ancient Greek.  1  the crisis:  What was happening in Spain is well described by Kazantzakis in a subsequent letter (21 January 1933 to Prevelakis, see below): “This

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is a crucial moment for Spain. . . . bombs every day . . . street-fighting . . . , anarchy, communism without a program or brains. . . . The agricultural question and the Catalonian one are still boiling.”  1  Sol:  A newspaper.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 336–39.

[Madrid,] evening, 19 October 1932 My dear brother, Jiménez is leaving my room this very minute. He was completely different from how I had remembered him. Short, gray, only his voice the same: sonorous, pleasant, with marvelous Spanish. He talked continually about poetry, about two great American poets, Frost and Masters. He judged and condemned Keyserling (huge drunkard, arriviste, womanizer, liar). He told me how much he likes you and remembers you (and when I told him that you always lovingly await his books, he said that he’ll make a large packet of them and send them to you because he wants to include the completely new works of his that he prefers). He was pleased that we are going to translate his poems; he’ll tell us which he considers the better ones, if we wish to prefer those. Serious and pleasant, he talked and talked, possédé by poetry. But this idée fixe naturally had something raide about it, as though I were listening to a dig­ nified madman converse with me. Even when he laughed, his laughter was completely voiceless. He opened his mouth, spread his lips, the teeth showed— and nada más. He seemed most willing about Toda-Raba. He’s going to invite Ortega to his house together with someone else who is the head of Calpe publishers, and I’ll be there too—and thus we’ll talk. Vedremos. 22 October 1932 Sacros, altos, dorados capiteles que a las nubes borráis sus arreboles. Febo os teme por más lucientes soles, y el cielo por gigantes más crueles. I remembered these sonorous lines by Góngora today as I saw the Escorial again. Beautiful day, chestnut trees all golden, odor of fallen leaves, a heightened atmosphere of tranquillity and recollection. My emotion once again in front of The Martyrdom of Saint Maurice cannot be expressed. Another miracle, which I seemed to be seeing for the first time: the all-gold Saint Peter in the sacristy. There’s no use going on. You have sensed all these joys, and I’m

430  •  1932 Letters

glad that I am renewing the faith and joy of the two of us in contact once again with our Guru. 26 October 1932 The days are passing, and I haven’t received a letter from you. This disturbs me greatly, but I know that these days are heavy ones for you, with the “oposiciones” that are approaching. As for me, my life here continues the same. The sun and autumn sweetness are miracles. This morning I began work on Nikiforos Fokas. In the late afternoon: either movies (yesterday I saw Shanghai Express, splendid as a film, and Dietrich a real miracle) or I see Rubio and we eat together, sometimes at my lodgings, sometimes at his. Or I go for a solitary walk in the Retiro. I’m reading a pile of Spanish books. Tonight I’m going to Concha’s home (she’s the minister’s daughter, a friend of Rubio’s), and I’ll write you. No news from ­Jiménez. “Lyrical poet,” pajarito. I don’t know whether he sent Toda-Raba to Calpe’s. Still nothing from López. I’m eager to receive the manuscript to see what can happen. You know about Dimitrakos. Everyone has joined together in order to devour us. But “good stalwarts know another path”; and none of these people can set foot on this path of ours. I met Valle Inclán at Concha’s (the daughter of the cabinet minister). He lives next door. We found him in bed: beard, glasses, a beautiful priestlike face; perky; unrestrained garrulity. Never have I seen such a long-winded person. He talks with gusto, humor, and superficiality. There’s a hostile wind blowing here against Cossío (they consider him a shallow, hypocritical operator); he put everyone of the Institución in his proper place, and was put in his proper place himself. Inclán spoke for hours, and finally I got up and left. Jiménez’s wife is seriously ill with flu. Jiménez telephoned me that she’s doing better today and that I should come to his house as soon as she’s cured. He himself will take Toda-Raba to the publisher’s, but it seems excessively communist to him. Toda-Raba seems like a cannon shot to the pájaro arabe. In any case, we shall see. Still nothing from López. Sarita is ill in Berlin, vomiting blood. I’m waiting for a letter from you, in order to continue. 31 October 1932 The letter hasn’t come; I’m continuing. I saw the Salón de Otoño: paintings by the dozen, awful. Just a few very nice sculptures. Rubio has four lovely donkeys at the Museum of Modern Art, full of gentleness, sensitivity, discretion: plateros. Whatever else by him that I’ve seen is flou, colorless, lifeless. It seems he’s good only at painting donkeys. He’s also good as a human being. I haven’t gone to his house yet because he wants me to live there without paying. Naturally that is impossible; thus, I’m still staying at the pension. I’m reading

1932 Letters  •  431

Ortega: very interesting, nothing new, pero muy claro. I’ve met several young poets. Lorca is full of youthfulness and life; others have technical wisdom but alientos cortos. I’m thinking of you very much during these days of trial for you. I’m eager for you to escape. I am with you always, under the same yoke. N

1  Frost: Robert Frost (1874–1963), American poet specializing in the life of rural New England; winner of four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry.  1  Masters: Edgar Lee Masters (1869–1950), American poet, biographer, dramatist, best known for his Spoon River Anthology (1915), a collection of monologues from the dead in an Illinois graveyard.  1  possédé by: Infatuated with, possessed by.  1  raide: Inflexible, rigid, stiff.  1  nada más:  Nothing else, nothing more.  1  Vedremos:  We’ll see.  1  Sacros, altos, dorados capiteles . . . gigantes más crueles:  Sacred, tall, golden capitals / that steal from the clouds their sunset radiance, / the sun fears you as brighter suns / and the sky as crueler giants.  1  oposiciones: Official exams that Prevelakis was about to take at the Sorbonne to qualify him for teaching at university level. Kazantzakis uses the equivalent term in Spanish.  1  Retiro:  Madrid’s main park.  1  the all-gold Saint Peter:  Also, of course, by El Greco (painted 1610–13), “all-gold” because Saint Peter’s cloak is a bright yellow. He is standing on “the rock on which the church was built” and in his hand holds “the keys to the Kingdom.”  1  Concha: Concha Albornoz, whose father was then minister of justice.  1  pajarito:  Little bird.  1  Valle Inclán: Ramón María del Valle Inclán y de la Peña (1869–1936), Spanish dramatist, novelist, viewed by some as being the Spanish equivalent of James Joyce.  1  Institución: Institución de Libre Enseñanza, a school whose director was Cossío and which produced many of Spain’s democratic leaders.  1  pájaro arabe:  Arabian bird (but pájaro, whose chief meaning is “bird,” also means “a sly fellow,” “a crafty devil,” and the like).  1  plateros:  Kazantzakis is thinking of Jiménez’s prose-poem “Platero” in the celebrated collection Platero y yo (Platero and I) about a donkey named Platero. The name refers to the donkey’s silver fur, the word meaning “silversmith” in Spanish. Kazantzakis’s “plateros” is simply the plural. Jiménez’s prose poem begins (in Stanley Applebaum’s translation) “Platero is small, thick-coated, soft; so spongy on the outside you’d say he was all of cotton, boneless. Only the jet mirrors of his eyes are hard as two black-crystal scarabs. I let him loose, and he goes to the meadow, where with his warm muzzle, barely brushing them, he caresses the little pink, sky-blue, and yellow followers. . . . He’s as tender and affectionate as a little boy or girl . . .”  1  flou:  Blurred.  1  pero muy claro:  But very clear.  1  Lorca:  Federico García Lorca (1898–1936), Spanish poet and dramatist with an international reputation whose best-known play, Blood Wedding, was produced in 1933. He was murdered by Nationalist militia at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War.  1  alientos cortos:  Shortness of breath, limited staying power.

432  •  1932 Letters

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 340–43.

[Madrid,] 1 November [1932] My dear brother, I received your letter this very minute; yesterday evening I sent you a letter enclosed in one to Eleni, because I know that with Basch’s impetuous haste I must not wait for your letter in order to write. There is no moment when I do not feel you near me, at my right-hand side. Writing you is my sole conversation. One talks to Rubio once or twice, and then the fellow empties out. Jiménez is in the clouds, inhumanly possédé by his warbling. He sees you, says hello, talks, gets turned on, the door shuts, you vanish. Valle Inclán is insufferable; I saw him once more, but never again. As garrulous as Lahanas, as empty as Skipis, full only with himself, in other words with air—and not fresh air! A professor of philosophy, Cardenal, who comes to my house regularly, is good, smart, a serious intellect—but a professor. I go to the Prado two or three times a week; I look at everything I love, look again ever so slowly. I cannot get my fill of Titian’s Charles V on Horseback. The way he flies out of the dark forest—pale, tired, unyielding—reminds me a lot of Rembrandt’s Warrior. This figure is inside me, very deep inside—it’s as though I were gazing at my own soul. These two are my secret portraits. When I look at them, I shudder; it’s as though I were seeing my true features in very deep, hidden waters. Write me at once if I should write to Dimitriadis, and what I should write him. It seems to me that it’s always useful. I don’t know what’s best for you now: Athens or solitude in Crete. You yourself know much better. It pains me to see you returning to Greece—I’m afraid that I’ll be following you very soon, and that breaks my heart. All our efforts, the practical ones, gone to ruin! Everyone has joined to devour us. Sometimes I’m intensely overcome by the idea of ascending a mountain and never coming down again. We don’t have anything in common with people; we don’t need them, they don’t need us. They have laid siege to us in a thousand ways—even the most select among them—to make us capitulate. It’s as though we were the first examples of some future race, and the physical and spiritual conditions around us were still hostile, our “climate” being neither the atmosphere, desires, nor thoughts of “human beings.” This is not “romanticism.” Neither is it révolte, weakness, nor simply strength. I feel that it is something deeper, more secret, more organic. We shall see. The “philosopher” is arriving. I leave you. 2 November [1932]

1932 Letters  •  433

Everything you write me to see in the Prado I’ve looked at with great care. If you remember anything else, please write me about it. Who knows when we’ll be able to return a fourth time? Today I got Montherlant’s Olímpicas for you, and I’ll send them to you in a day or two. How indignant I am that I am unable to send you as much as I would like. I still haven’t gone to Suárez’s to ask him for Cossío. But for sure I’ll buy it for you when I’m about to leave, using the money I still have. Another bookseller (Calle Mayor alley, near the Puerta del Sol) told me that he has a copy, but he’s asking two hundred pesetas. Concha told me yesterday that she managed to get entry permission for Leon el Majo. So there is hope that I’ll see him here; then I’ll meet Eugenio as well, because I saw that Léo hesitated to give me a letter for him, when we asked him. Thank you for the efforts you’ll make on my behalf in Greece. As always, now that my economic situation at this moment is so crucial, I am pathologically impassive. I will exploit whatever happens, making it the best of everything that might have happened. This is natural, since our kingdom is not of this world and since we possess the philosopher’s stone, which transubstantiates all base metals into gold. I always know in advance which is the most comfortable and pleasing benefit for my soul, but I never know which is the deepest. I finished Nikiforos Fokas today. Oh, if only I were a master of the French language, like Claudel, I think I would have written something very strong. Now I’m suffocating. Well, it’s finished, and tomorrow I’ll begin to rewrite it. There’s not a single hope that it will be produced. This one, too, is “grouillant, apocalyptique,” as Grasset says, and not for French dwarfs. I sense my climate better here in Spain. I think that I’d be able to work here. This race has impetus, joy, tragicality, ardor—splendid faces with eyes full of fire. So, like El Greco, I feel that I am among brothers. God grant you patience and strength! Don’t write me now, given that you are so plunged in obligatory study. Later, as soon as you escape. Just write me about Dimitriadis, whether I should write him, and what. This small note to Eleni, please. Always, N And to Segredakis, please, when you see him. I don’t know: 109 or 190 Saint-Honoré, Faubourg Saint-Honoré? I don’t remember.

1  Basch:  Victor-Guillaume Basch (1863–1944), professor of philosophy at the Sorbonne and Prevelakis’s examiner there in art history. Although his publications are chiefly in philosophy, they include a book on Titian (1927). In 1944 he and his wife were murdered in Lyon by Vichy anti-Semites.  1  Rembrandt’s Warrior:  Prevelakis identifies this as Rembrandt’s Man in a Gold

434  •  1932 Letters

Helmet, also called Old Warrior.  1  Dimitriadis:  Kazantzakis wanted to write to the sculptor Kostas Dimitriadis, director of the School of Fine Arts in Athens, in order to help Prevelakis get a job there. But in the end he did not write.  1  All our efforts . . . gone to ruin. Everyone has joined to devour us: Kazantzakis had just learned that witnesses had been called in the “Dictionary Trial” in Athens to testify that he did not know French and produced poor translations. The whole sad story of the French-Greek dictionary that Kazantzakis and Prevelakis were meant to do for the publisher Dimitrakos and the lawsuit that resulted is recounted in Bien 1972, pp. 196–98. Also see Kazantzakis’s remarks in his letter to Prevelakis dated 29 January 1931, above.  1  révolte: Rebellion, mutiny.  1  Montherlant’s Olímpicas:  Las Olímpicas (1926) by Henry de Montherlant (1896–1972), French novelist, essayist, and leading dramatist.  1  Leon el Majo:  A possibly cruel nickname for Léo Bronstein because “majo” means a dashing, strapping man who is a real beauty but also perhaps a foppish dandy. Nowadays the term is used in a positive way, but the negative meaning was current in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It is hard to know whether Kazantzakis’s nickname was cruel or not.  1  Eugenio: Eugenio Montes Domínguez (1900–1982), Spanish essayist, Bronstein’s friend; participated in the founding of the Falange Party, which imitated Italian fascism and became General Franco’s party in the civil war.  1  I finished Nikiforos Fokas today:  His French translation and adaptation.  1  Claudel:  Paul Louis Charles Claudel (1868–1955), French diplomat, poet, playwright, member of the Académie Française.  1  grouillant, apocalyptique:  Stirring, apocalyptic.  1  Grasset:  Bernard Grasset (1881–1955), founder of the Parisian publishing house.  1  Segredakis:  Manolis Segredakis (1890–1948), born in Crete but took out French citizenship and lived in Paris, where he ran a gallery for paintings and objects d’art. Kazantzakis had enclosed another note, this one for Segredakis.

To Leah Dunkelblum —Manuscript (in German) in Kazantzakis Museum; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 313–14; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 258; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 264.

Madrid, Calle San Bernando 13 Pension Abella November 1932 Dear dear Leah, Finally I got your good letter! How often have I scanned all directions of the earth to find you. Like a blind man, I search for you over mountains and

1932 Letters  •  435

seas. Ah, again you are in that Holy Land that I wish never to forget, nor am I able to. When will I see your wonderful face again? Sometimes the world seems too big to me, too vast, and my different souls and bodies seem destroyed without consolation. But our laughter and voices will ring out happily, together again, one time for sure, in spite of everything. For two months I’ve been living alone in this dear, beautiful city. Sun, fruit, and black eyes everywhere. I’m “almost” happy—I mean that I have no need of happiness. I see, hear, think, write good verses, remember, and, as always, greedily soak up precious, deep life. At every moment I take leave of everything; at every moment I see everything for the first time. I know suffering well and love it; I know pleasure well and love it. Everything is holy and good; I am never sated. I do not play, despite what Rachel maintains; on the other hand, I go right up to the edge and there, before the abyss, I feel that everything is a wonderful fairy tale without a purpose, beyond every purpose. For Ulysses, Ithaca is not a small island; rather, it is the voyage to a small nonexistent island. I have no idea how long I am going to stay in Spain. Where I’ll go after Spain I don’t know either. Eleni has remained in Paris; she longs to be in Spain, but that is impossible at the moment. Ah, if I could only do everything I wanted to do! But—we shall see. Leah, what are you up to? How is your artwork? Where is your path leading you? How is your child? How is your husband? I don’t know what’s going on in your life. Please believe firmly that I love you very much and that I am a good friend. Istrati says that I am strong. I don’t know. I know only that I can suffer and be joyous with all whom I love. I forget nothing; I feel myself strongly bound to certain souls. The horrible life of our times cannot touch me. I do not allow it to and, because of that, my heart still beats strongly and without compromise. Happiness is certainly not the highest good; neither is work. The highest good, I believe, is heroically to contemplate this fruitful, wonderful life and to say “Yes” to it. No optimism, no pessimism—with biting lips to understand and bear all. Dear, dear Leah, goodbye! I am always thinking of you. I feel very much affection for you. Nikos

To Edwige Levi —Original in French; unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete?) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 263–64; Greek translation (incomplete?) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 312–13; English translation (incomplete?) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 257.

Madrid, 6 November 1932

436  •  1932 Letters

Amica cara, You speak to me about chance and about individual virtue and their multiple combinations—mysterious things about which I cannot give any precise answer. From my personal life, I am well aware of the following: there is something terrible in the human soul, a projectile of fire and light that pierces the immense sluggishness of matter and darkness. There is a tiny sarcastic, provocative laugh that emerges victorious from every trial. I have never found happiness except at the peak of the greatest despair. Why? Because I have persisted (with lips clenched, scorn for death in my heart) to ascend all the way to the end. Everything around me has always been organized against me. Seeing so many enemies, I have felt myself prepared, lightheartedly scornful, silent, and finally victorious. My friends think me happy because they are unaware of the struggles that preceded the victory, because they do not know that my happiness is the supreme flower of my despair and of my scorn of all things earthly. I am neither a romantic in revolt, a mystic who scorns life, nor a disdainful type who struggles against materiality. I love life, the earth, humanity, animals, ephemeral things. I have perfect awareness of their value but also of their limits. I do not feel myself possessed by any illusion, nor have I fallen into any trap even though I enter all the traps like a very agile rat that enters, eats the bait placed at the trap’s bottom in order to catch him, and goes out toward other traps, knowing full well that the last one, the trap of death, is there waiting for him to enter it and never leave again. Dear friend, words are treacherous, simplifying everything excessively. That’s why I always feel a loathing for conversation. But you are pure and you understand the entire ineffable halo that quivers around words. That’s why (not just because your arm is broken) I am speaking to you and slightly disclosing my secret.

To Juan Ramón Jimémez —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (in Spanish) in Zavala 1964, pp. 132–33, and in Garfia 1966, p. 5; written in French, then translated into Spanish; translated here into English by Maria Margarita Malagón-Kurka.

Wednesday, 17 November [1932] Dear Master, I went to the Center of Historic Studies, and Mr. Moreno introduced me to Mr. Menéndez Pidal; everything depends absolutely on him. Mr. Menéndez Pidal was very busy (he had a board meeting that evening), and I explained the issue in a few words and very quickly. I also told him that I was going on your behalf. He replied that the idea could be of interest to the center and asked me to come back on Monday at 7.

1932 Letters  •  437

I think that I can get some kind of result, but I am totally foreign and unknown to them. That is why I allow myself to ask you the following: Could you personally introduce me to Menéndez Pidal? Your intervention could be decisive and to achieve a project of such importance would most surely influence my life in the current critical moment. With my deep admiration and recognition, Nikos Kazantzakis

1  Menéndez Pidal: Ramón Menéndez Pidal (1869–1968), well-known Spanish medievalist and linguist, professor of romance philology at the University of Madrid; he recommended to the Spanish government, as did Jiménez, that Kazantzakis be awarded hospitality for several months in order to translate Spanish poets and write articles about Spanish culture.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 348–50.

[Madrid,] 26 November [1932] Plaza del Progreso 5 My dear brother, I’ve just received your letter, and I hope that this one reaches you in time in Paris. Everything that took place with López is very good. What’s left now is for us to see whether Bureba will do anything. He is so exceedingly busy that we meet extremely seldom. I telephone him continually or write him and prod him. Heads of theater troupes or movie companies make appointments with him, Spanish style, a week or two ahead of time and then don’t show up. They make new ones. So, time passes, and the torture grows. I agree about Mandragola. Send me the three texts, and I’ll try to make a new version. When you go to Athens, see Anghelakis without fail and do your best for the dictionary. It’s a great shame that so much work might go to waste. Here I am trying—or, better, others are trying—to find a way for me to remain. I’m very doubtful. In any case, I’ll spend the whole of December here. I go to the “Ateneo” and read lots of Spanish books. The days are beautiful again, full of sunlight. I go for walks, sometimes to the movies, see some friend, take another look at the French Nikiforos Fokas. None of that has any value, and I am impatient to enter the incandescent atmosphere of solitude again, the only place where I am able to breathe. When will that happen? How? The uncertainty continues to grow. Perhaps what I need is some Greek island. Why should I persist in living this external life in large cities, which are useful for one or two months and afterwards tedious and unnecessary?

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The fourth draft of the Odyssey is shining in my mind, beginning to take hold of me. My soul has become like a meadow, with the seasons of sowing and harvesting coming and returning according to equal intervals of time. I’m interested only in the fourth draft, not in either the third or fifth, and my eyes go round and round restlessly, searchingly, like those of a cat about to give birth. I sit in the sun in my splendid room (full of light, sunlight, with a sun roof), I smoke my pipe (I’ve found a fine brand of tobacco), and I think. Nothing interests me except the fourth draft. I’m yearning to plunge headfirst into its waves. Only in that way, I believe, will I cool off. You write me a lot about López and only a little about yourself. Is everything finished? Have you gone through everything? Have you rested? I sent you Góngora’s poems via Mary but I doubt if she’ll reach you in time. In addition, she’s is carrying my poem on Dante in the hope that you’ll be able to get a copy before you leave. Otherwise I’ll send it to you in Rethymno. There’s nothing I want you to do in Athens. Just go and visit my sister, please. You’ll make her very happy. The aids for the dictionary will still be there, and you should take them if you need them. Galatea is triumphing. I wrote her a few words, and I hope they won’t be a pretext for her to remember me and start hauling me over the coals. You’ll, of course, see Kalmouchos and Anastasiou. They are people whom I, too, would see again with pleasure. Take along the Dante and speak to Eleftheroudakis. But I have no hopes. Melachrinos hasn’t written—in other words, O Kyklos must have died. So Venice lost a needle! I’m eagerly awaiting a letter from you, also one after you reach Athens. You can imagine how much. God grant that everything may still be OK. This uneasiness about secondary matters is beginning to tire me. We are losing time— especially I, who don’t have much time at my disposal. Only I’m trying to make use of all this rage in order to keep the time from going entirely to waste. Tomorrow, Sunday, perhaps I’ll go to Avila. Perhaps that will make me happy. I’m in a hurry to send you this letter so that it will reach you in time. If you leave on the 29th, as you say, it will just make it. God be with you. I’ll stay here and struggle a little while longer, with the Five-Year Plan in mind. Say hello to Crete for me. N

1  Bureba:  Perhaps Isidoro Bureba Muro (1892–1972), journalist, critic, editor.  1  Mandragola: Comedy, first performed in 1518, by Niccolò Machiavelli (1536–1603), suggesting that the use of fraud is acceptable so long as it furthers a worthwhile cause. The three texts mentioned were the Italian, the French, and Prevelakis’s version in modern Greek. Kazantzakis thought to prepare a version of the play for the Spanish theater but never did.  1  do your

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best for the dictionary: Dimitrakos had finally reneged on his agreement for the dictionary. The matter had been placed in the hands of Anghelakis, Kazantzakis’s lawyer.  1  Ateneo:  Madrid’s chief library and intellectual center.  1  Mary:  Mary Pandou.  1  my poem on Dante:  His terzina.  1  Galatea is triumphing:  Her play While the Boat Travels had been performed at the Royal Theater for two weeks in November.  1  the Dante:  His translation of the Divine Comedy.  1  So Venice lost a needle:  A nice expression for an insignificant loss.  1  Avila:  Birthplace of Saint Teresa.

To Eleni Samiou —Manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete and somewhat differently) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 323–25; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 266–67; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 274–75.

Madrid, 5 January 1933, evening My dear Lenotschka! This morning I sent you a telegram: “Accept England!” and a long letter. I’m writing you again tonight, but no matter what I do, I shall never be able to recompense you for the worry I caused you. I, who love you so much, am destined to give you so much distress. But it was impossible for me to write; if I had written, perhaps you would have worried even more. The sensation given me by this death was indescribable. I didn’t say anything to anyone, not even to Rubio, and I was obliged to maintain an untroubled look, which is what exhausted me. Only if I kept silent, if I fled, if I kept racing about as I did in Spain, if I kept fasting the way I fasted, would I be able to keep my brakes on, in order to avoid a crack-up. I tell you once again: what united me with my father was not love but a thick, deep root that has been cut. The entire tree tottered. This incident will have profound consequences in my life. Now that I am beginning to calm down, I sense those consequences emerging one by one. And first of all the terrible, profane sensation that I have been “liberated.” A nightmare had been crushing me my whole life long; now I will begin to breathe. Many of my timidities and hesitations will be swept away. I shall become more manly, proclaim independence, autonomy. I shall be able to do whatever I want, without any longer giving an account, inside myself, to anyone. I feel that I am now a bird of prey whose ties have been cut. The shadow above me has gone, descended, disappeared into the earth. Now that he who gave birth to me has vanished, I am born. These are terrible words, and I say them only to you, because you sensed them all the many years we have been living together. Please burn this letter so that no witness remains, because no one will be able to judge this complexus

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as I truly feel it. I am relieved, saved. My soul will burgeon. I no longer fear anything or anyone. This salvation shocked and lacerated me. The loss of mother was all aesthetic sadness, the grievance of a child being left alone in the dark and the beloved hand slipping out of his grasp. The loss of father was anguished relief—freedom, comfortable breathing like that of a tiny infant who, being born, is in pain because his lungs are splitting so that he may breathe. This is why for so many days I have found it impossible to write to you; impossible to speak. I would have managed only to cry out, but I didn’t want to do that. Forgive me for worrying you. But never again shall I experience an earthquake of this sort, one able to block my mouth. I am writing you these words, but they are nothing, they say nothing. You, however, will give them whatever content they lack and cannot be uttered. You should go to England. God be with you! I’ll be counting the days and hours. Get well, learn whatever you can, and may 1933 become fruitful and good! With your eyes I’ll see the country that I do not know, and you will bring me messages from there. Do not work very much, breathe calmly for several months, vegetatively, without cares. When you come, you’ll tell me about your experiences and will read me the English poets whom I love so much. Together with you I will remember once again the lost Atlantis of my knowledge of English. I’ll expect you here in July, and we’ll go on a long trip and settle down in Paris if we can because life here à la longue is certainly provincial, worth experiencing for a year or two, but for longer it ends up sterile. Dearest, the separation is long, but let it be the final one. As I told you, I don’t see any reason to go to Crete. If some hand stole all the cash, what can I do at this point? I should have been there before the fated end came; but I’m sure that even then it would have been pointless. Surely, if nothing is found (Eleni is in Iraklio now and is examining the matter together with relatives devoted to her), it must be hidden somewhere in the ground. Will they find it? Once when my father was severely ill, he did this and afterwards unburied it. He must have done the same this time. A profound, dark, cavelike instinct. And then there was his monomania: that the children should not be happy after his death and on account of his death. Age-old, fierce feelings of an ogre! We shall see. In any case, I say to you again: my going there no longer has any practical value, let alone that most deeply I wouldn’t have gone even if there had been some practical value. I’m sending you Prevelakis’s letter. Please give me back only the last page, so that I can write to Dimitriadis. Have you moved? What is your new address? I’m impatient to receive a letter from you in which you seem calm. Today I returned the thousand francs to you before taking them. If I had taken them, it would have been impossible to send them; special permission, etc. is now needed for money to leave Spain. Rubio is suffering terribly in order to keep getting permission to

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send money to his wife. He sends warm greetings and is impatient to see you in July. My dear Lenotschka, forgive me and write to me. I kiss your shoulders and your knees, dearest! N

1  this death:  The death of his father.  1  à la longue: In the long run.  1  Eleni is in Iraklio now:  His sister Eleni.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 351–53 and (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 325–26.

Madrid, 5 January 1933 My dear brother, I received your telegram. I left at once, overcome by inexplicable horror. I had a need to tire myself out and undo my body, in order to feel a little relief. It wasn’t love, but something deeper, more animalistic, as though a large piece of my body had crashed down to the ground, as though horrible roots were dragging me into the earth before my time. I toured Salamanca-ValladolidBurgos-Zaragoza-Valencia-Alicante-Elche, 2,000 kilometers, almost without eating, without sleeping, with exhausting nightmares. I came back at midnight yesterday, slightly rested. The sea at Alicante, the sun, the sweetness of the earth, lying on the warm sand, did me lots of good. If Eleni didn’t exist, this would be the moment for me to make the decision. I have no need at all for cities, conversation, or efforts with and for people. Soledad, soledad, pureza! Yesterday, at midnight in Madrid, I found your two letters. I shuddered reading about Athens. I felt disgust and at the same time joy at the fact that we have remained all alone in this way, without any fear of recognition and collaboration. What we desire seems absurd or anachronistic to them, because it is eternal. Just as they cannot pronounce long, polysyllabic words because they run out of breath, so, too, they cannot endure Dante or the breath of our God. In which circle of hell, which cesspool, should we hurl them? Hades will dehydrate them. I read your second letter. Forgive me for being unable to follow your advice. What you tell me is correct, reasonable, indispensable; yet an extremely harsh inner voice prevents me. Some beast inside me is bellowing and not allowing me. I hear this bellowing sometimes in my life, I know that it is entirely unreasonable, asking me to do things perhaps above my strength; it wants to make life unbearable for me, full of anguish, uncertainty, and torment, yet at

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the same time more “heroic.” I say “heroic” because I don’t know which other word to find; perhaps “pride” would be better suited, perhaps pureza. Here, in these circumstances, the bellowing is also strengthened by the scorn I would feel for myself if I rushed to my father’s grave in this way, not in order to pick up a handful of earth and throw it upon my head, but in order to open up his strongbox and see what money was inside. I know all the arguments— absolutely all of them—that urge me to overcome this opinion. But the “unseen stature” that looms over these arguments signals to me: No! You are surely the only person on earth who has so much pureza and so much pride that he can sense what I feel, what I say, and what I am unable to say. I am thinking of my sister, but in Iraklio—where she already is—she has relatives far more intelligent and shrewd about getting things done than I am; they can protect her if it happens that she needs to be protected (and I am sure that it will happen). Please forgive me for not following your advice, contrary to my habit. But I’m certain that you would do the same. Perhaps I’ll be able to stay here a few more months. I’ll write you later. Right now my hand is trembling just a little, and I’d like not to write anything else. You write me. You do me very much good. I clasp your hand and your right shoulder. N

1  5 January 1933:  Note that this is the same day as that of the long letter to Eleni Samiou, above.  1  I received your telegram: Informing him of his father’s death.  1  2,000 kilometers:  1,243 miles.  1  Soledad, soledad, pureza:  Solitude, solitude, purity.  1  they cannot endure Dante:  Kazantzakis’s translation of the first three cantos of Dante’s Inferno had been published in Ο Κύκλος 2 (1932):  145–54 and had been severely criticized as anachronistic and as utilizing an excessive form of demotic. For subsequent critiques (in 1934 and 1935) damning or defending the translation, see Katsimbalis 1958, p. 47, nos. 902 through 908.  1  your advice:  Prevelakis had advised him to go to Crete to attend to his family affairs and to recover the supposed “fortune” left by his father.

To Juan Ramón Jiménez —Manuscript (in French) photographed in Elli Alexiou 1981 hors texte between pages 224 and 225, also in Garfia 1966, p. 3.

18 January 1933, Madrid Plaza del Progreso 5 Dear Master! I have just returned from a long, very interesting trip: Avila—Salamanca— Valladolid—Zaragoza—Valencia—Alicante—Elche.

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I learned about the junta’s decision: favorable although provisional for the moment, on a trial basis for three months. I have already set to work researching extensive documentation on today’s Spanish culture—school, education, universities, science, art, literature, culture of the population, elevation of the peasant’s and workingman’s intellectual level. At the same time I have begun translating contemporary poetry in order to introduce Spain’s living poets to Greece. I intend to write a series of articles and studies in Greek periodicals and reviews and in La Revue des Vivants. This opportunity given me to continue to remain here and then to speak about Spain in my country I owe in large part to you, dear Master. I thank you and am grateful. With my profound admiration, N. Kazantzakis

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 354–58.

Madrid, 21 January [1933] My dear brother, I’ve just now received your letter of 11 January. The way you describe Crete to me, my heart leaped. Here, for certain, I’m wasting time in futile projects and fruitless sights. My mind is momentarily pleased and nourished; then afterwards it accepts nothing, deigns to accept nothing, and the time adds up to nothing. But I’ve got to stay here some more—another time I’ll write you why. I’ll know at the end of March precisely when I’m going to leave, and I’ll write you. It’s impossible to say how much I would like to complete the fourth draft in Crete. We shall see. Meanwhile, I’m reading Spanish poetry here, translating lots of poems, going to the “Ateneo” and leafing through books, entering the Spanish soul, which, more than any other, continually seems to be closely and profoundly related to my own soul. I am disturbed and moved by Garcilaso, Fray Luis de León, Góngora, Ruiz, San Juan de la Cruz, Quevedo. Perhaps this will do my life good. If I could live in solitude for nine months and travel for three, that, I believe, would be precisely what I need. I am not made fruitful by contact with people, social life, or action, etc.; for me, these things are unbeneficial and degrading. Lots of solitude, abrupt whirling about, then solitude again—that is my rhythm. I’m glad you liked the poem about Dante. I have no idea whether it is good or bad; as things press on, I’m reduced to not being able to judge anything

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that I write. I know how much personal emotion can deceive us; therefore, I no longer place any trust in the joy or agitation given me by something that I write. Fortunately you exist and tell me—because in whom else can I place my confidence? I sent this poem to Xenopoulos asking him to publish it in Nea Estia if he likes it. He didn’t answer me, which means that he did not like it, and I don’t know whether he is right or wrong. I don’t know whether Eleni sent you the corrected copy. For example, line 105 is: “Κρίνο λευκό ανοιχτό το φως στη χέρα.” Do you have this copy? Eleni is in England now; in July she’ll return to wherever I am. I’m glad that I’m alone precisely during these difficult days that I’m having. I think of her with deep emotion. I marvel at her bravery, nobility, pride. It seems to me that I did not deserve so much. But life is sometimes incalculably generous. Fortunately, I sense this; thus, I taste the unexpected benefit even now, the moment that I am experiencing it, and I am not waiting to lose it in order to understand what I lost. Panaït has begun to write me huge letters full of sadness, vitality, and outcry. He’s in some monastery in Rumania, seriously ill, bedridden now for seven months. He can neither talk nor walk; three-quarters of his lungs don’t work any more. He married a most beautiful young girl twenty-two years old, and he suggests that we write a book together, give it to Grasset, and undertake a trip! I marvel at his feline vitality. I write him in my turn with feeling, erasing the past entirely and remembering only the One. I am writing a series of articles about Spain—cultural Spain: schools, intellectual currents, social progress, etc. In addition, I am translating the best poems by all of Spain’s contemporary poets. In order for me to remain here, I need to place them in Athenian newspapers (naturally without any payment, and if possible without my name). I wrote to Vendiris to intervene with Lambrakis; I wrote to Vlachos asking if he would accept them—but so far not a single reply. Do you perhaps know a way to get them published in newspapers? The conditions are of the best: I don’t want payment, nor do I ask for my repulsive name to be included; thus they won’t even have any trouble “correcting” my language to their hearts’ desire. I also wrote to Melachrinos asking if he’d like me to present all the contemporary poets of Spain, one each month, under the same terms. He did not reply either. The asinine rudeness of the Greeks fills me with horror. What should I do? Think about it and help me. You know journalists in Athens. If a newspaper writes me that it accepts, I’ll send it a series of welldocumented articles: what progress has been made by the republic in today’s cultural Spain (therefore it is chiefly democratic newspapers in Athens that will be interested). This is a crucial moment for Spain. I don’t know if the Greek papers report everything that is happening here. Everywhere, even in the smallest villages, there are bombs every day. Factories making explosive materials are discovered; bombs burst, killing and wounding; street fighting,

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chiefly in Andalusia; anarchy; communism without a program or brains. The house in which I’m staying is guarded day and night because the floor directly below where I live is inhabited by the minister of justice. The agricultural question and the Catalonian one are still boiling. Naturally, my articles will not be concerned with all this but exclusively with the good accomplished by the republic and with what it hopes to accomplish. The Ciudad Universitaria is excellent. There are students full of life and enthusiasm. The youth of Spain are struggling to clear up the differences between royalists and anarchists. I met some of them and liked them. My tour of northern Spain was extremely moving for me. I very much wanted to dash across to Portugal, but I couldn’t. Maybe in the spring. However, perhaps I’ll come down to Crete in the spring. Everything is vague again, uncertain, the most unexpected being perhaps also the most probable. Eleni is going to England, intending that I’ll be able to go as well. But England, for me, is good only for a few months; my heart desires sunlight, mountains with aroma, seashore. The word “jasmine” that you wrote me filled my temples with fragrance. I received Deffner’s book and reread it with pleasure, especially the dragon poem. I’ll bring it to you when I return. There are beautiful books here, but I cannot buy them. The Works of Ortega y Gasset in a single excellent volume costs fifty-five pesetas! How? Fortunately I save a lot by staying at Rubio’s. My body is healthy—I wonder when it will cave in. I’m thinking of writing another canto on Dante, one in which I speak to him. I had that in mind as I was beginning the other one. But the train of thought of each line pulled me elsewhere, and thus the result was different from what I had expected. It would be wonderful if we could publish the Dante translation five or six years from now, with you writing a long prologue and Lefteris doing the annotations. If we live together, that too will be possible. Bronstein, Lala. “Diós, ya que lejos!” as the Andalusian peasant used to say. I sense now how far we are from Léo, from that odorless white dahlia! Rubio thinks of you often and sends his greetings. He is ardent, good, and would do very fine paintings with feeling, sobriété, nobility if he had time (his son and wife drink all his blood). I imagine you happy in your home amid the familiar warmth, and I am happy. I still have not written to Dimitriadis, because Eleni had your letter with the information, and she returned it to me just yesterday. Do you want me to write to him now? Tell me, and I’ll write him at once whatever is necessary. Lidio-Lidia, if it’s to be produced here, needs to be completely revised. They find it statique. They want music, a sort of operetta. In a day or so I’m going to meet an operetta maker. But it’s impossible to describe how slowly the Spaniards move. The screenplays: three months already, and they haven’t read them! Bureba telephones every day, and every day they promise.

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God be with you, my dear brother! Write me regularly. Do not always wait for my letter. I am impatient for us to meet in solitude. N

1  Garcilaso:  Garcilaso de la Vega (1501–36), soldier and poet born in Toledo.  1  Fray Luis de León:  Lyric poet, humanist, Augustinian canon (1527–91).  1  Ruiz:  Juan Ruiz (ca. 1283–ca. 1350), poet and cleric whose Libro de buen amor (1330, expanded 1343; The Book of Good Love) is probably the most important long poem in medieval Spanish literature.  1  San Juan de la Cruz:  Saint John of the Cross (1542–91), poet expressing growth of the soul in the mystical tradition.  1  Quevedo:  Francisco Gómez de Quevedo y Santibáñez Villegas (1580–1654), nobleman, politician, and poet whose style contrasts with that of Góngora.  1  Xenopoulos:  Grigorios Xenopoulos (1867–1951), important Greek novelist favoring urban settings; dramatist; critic; founder of Nea Estia in 1927and its editor until 1934.  1  I need to place them in Athenian newspapers:  His articles on Spain were finally published by Kathimerini from 24 May until 4 June 1933. His translations of Spanish poets were published in O Kyklos, issues of April, May, June, August–September 1933. The translated poets were Jiménez, Machado, Unamuno, Salínas, Villa, Lorca, Alberti, Aleixandre.  1  Lambrakis: Dimitrios Lambrakis (1887–1957), editor of the newspapers Patris, Ta Nea, also of Eleftheron Vima, which became To Vima.  1  Vlachos:  Yeoryios Vlachos (1886–1951), journalist, dramatist, anti-Venizelist, editor of the newspaper Kathimerini, director of National Theater, 1933–36.  1  Ciudad Universitaria: University city.  1  Deffner:  Michael Deffner (1848–1934), author of Οδοιπορικαί εντυπώσεις από την Δυτικήν Κρήτην (A Traveler’s Impressions of Western Crete).  1  Lala:  Lala Frank, violinist, a friend from their sojourn in Paris.  1  Diós, ya que lejos!:  “God, how far away already!”  1  sobriété:  Sobriety, austerity.  1  statique:  Static.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 359–63.

[Madrid,] 6 February [1933] My dear brother, I just this moment received your letter. We are at the two extremes of the Mediterranean, and we need eight days for our voice to be heard from each of the two bastions. All these days I’ve been translating contemporary Spanish lyric poetry, and O Kyklos has agreed with enthusiasm to publish whatever I send. I’ve already sent them quite a few poems by Jiménez. (El pájaro arabo informed me that he’ll be coming to my house one of these days.) I’m collecting

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material for a series of articles. Vlachos replied that he’ll publish with pleasure however many I send him, but he wants them under my name. That bothers me because he’ll change the language for certain. I’ll write him to accept a pseudonym if he doesn’t want to publish pure demotic. I hope he accepts. I also need a newspaper in Thessaloniki, and I’ve written to a friend—we’ll see. Maybe I’ll write directly to Progrès (does it still exist?) because it’s Jewish and is interested in Spain. It would be good if I also had a letter from someone in Crete saying that he accepts with pleasure to publish articles by me about Spain. Because I detest Mourellos and don’t want to publish in Iraklio, can you speak to Drakakis, for example, asking him to send me a letter of this sort, in French, saying that he accepts? It will always be useful here for my work. I see various cabinet ministers, wise men, writers. I collect material, but I don’t have any gusto for writing journalistic articles. Any desire I once had to become interested in social reforms and similar superficialities is gone forever. However, I am forced to do this in order to be able to keep myself here until Eleni comes and am able to give her some pleasure by showing her Spain. My duty was to take refuge in solitude—in Amari, ojalá!—but I feel inside me the human need to give Eleni some pleasure. As soon as that happens, I’m free. The lyric poetry of contemporary Spain interests me and perhaps will ­benefit my work. By translating, I enter various lyrical souls that are narrow and lacking impetus but have a terse sensitivity, which I like. The other day, while walking along the Paseo del Prado (bright sun, sweetness, springtime), I thought to change the fifth line of the Odyssey a little and the sixth line completely: Στον μπλάβο αγέρα, Θέ μου, κρέμεται, στο δρόλαπα (ή καταχνιά;)   κουνιέται Και την τσμπολογούν τα πνέματα και τα πουλιά του ανέμου. The former line threw away the élan abruptly and had other logical defects. If I can’t do it at Amari, then the fourth draft will take place in Zumaia. My plan, if everything here goes well, is to leave Madrid at the beginning of April (I don’t desire this city any more) and to go to Zumaia or to Fuenterrabia, on the border, in order to work on the Odyssey for four months until Eleni comes. If I can’t, then Crete: Amari. As always—two strings to my bow because we have a purpose and are not touched by people (they know this, which is why they cannot tolerate us). It’s as though they were Wilde’s ghosts. We overcame our fear; we ridicule the chains that they drag and the huge shouts they emit in order to threaten us. We want nothing else beside bodily health, perseverance, and spiritual gumption. Of course, we do not expect these things from people. I don’t hate people; I merely pity them and detest them corporeally. Wretched victims of dark forces independent of themselves, they are more insignificant and unfortunate than evil. I often suffer from this “philanthropic” idea of mine, and I shall always suffer from it. That’s why I wrote as well to Xenopoulos and will not be surprised

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by either his refusal or his acceptance. The way he behaved, I pity him twice as much. I’ll write him again—one day. Eleni writes me that she has seen marvelous things at the British Museum: Parthenon, Buddhist art, Persian miniatures. (Address: Tolmers Park, Herts, that’s all.) She’s sending me the Times Literary Supplement. Let’s hope that this trip turns out well for her and that she learns English. I’ve not received any letter from Panaït for some time and am afraid that something might have happened to him. Despite everything, I love that man very much, because he is “warm.” What significance do all of his faults have compared to a bloodstream that boils? As we said: All the warm ones to paradise, all the cold ones to the inferno! Oh, if only you could go to Italy for your new work! But how? We would meet then in Italy and go round together. But how? How? No hope here from Lidio-Lidia. From Athens, then? We shall see! Anghelakis doesn’t write me a word. I sent him an angry letter a month ago, and since then he hasn’t written. You are nearer. Give him a push. I’m enclosing my business card; it might be useful. So Zervos, you say, is opposed to us? God be praised! We’ve escaped him, too! Encore une étoile qui file. I’ll fill your orders for El Greco as soon as it’s convenient for me. I carried binoculars each time I went to The Martyrdom of Saint Maurice, but I didn’t discern anything. Now I’ll pay special attention. I was sent the Iraklio newspaper with the contract. I intend to notify Cossío, but he’s still very ill. I, too, love Lefteris, but he’s a professor! Warm, fickle, carefully laconic, a scholastic bookworm. He lacks the divine, demonic flame. A worker with magnifying glass in a corner of the cathedral, he incessantly carves some embellishment on God’s feet. On the toenail! The nail of his little toe! The callus of his little toe! He can’t even reach God’s knees. I’ve been thinking to write one more canto: Dante’s “resurrection.” I’ll knock on his tomb and call him to rise up with the keys to the inferno in hand. A new inferno, new damned, paradise elsewhere, God different, a new birth of the universe! But I’m afraid that my hand will cross the boundaries and I’ll begin to write canto after canto until I reach a hundred of them. This must not happen. I must save all my strength for the Odyssey. The fourth draft is terribly rich, deep, sweet, fierce, and new in my blood. Patience, patience. Life is short; let’s not spread oneself too thin. We’ve got to have something whole— complete—to leave behind when we are finally lowered into the earth and Jiménez’s “huge butterfly” begins to open up. Do you know Góngora’s lines: Ven, Muerte, quando quieras; no me espanta la tronadora voz de tu eloquencia, porque, frente a su fallo, se levanta el sereno latir de mi conciencia; y, al borde de senderos ignorados, dándome crisma con su propia brasa,

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me redime de todos mis pecados la recia arquitectura de mi casa! Oh! when Góngora is liberated from gongorism, what divine, ripe verse full of meaning and sound! Then—but only then—is he one of the world’s greatest poets. So that my voice reaches you quickly, I’m going to end this letter, all of which I wrote at a single gulp the moment I received yours. You are always with me, the only consolation on this earth. May “our God” be with you. Always, N

1  El pájaro arabo:  The Arabian bird.  1  Progrès:  Le Progrès, a Frenchlanguage newspaper for the Jewish community in Thessaloniki, edited by Sam Modiano (1895–1979), who, during the Second World War “used his contacts with prewar Greek politicians and the Salonika Italian consulate to obtain Italian citizenship papers for Salonikan Jews” (Hondros 2008, p. 533). Le Progrès was interested in Spain because its readers, members of the Jewish community of Thessaloniki, were primarily descendants of Jewish refugees who settled in that city after being expelled from Spain in 1492. They continued to speak Ladino (Judeo-Spanish), derived from Old Castilian. More than 90 percent of this community were exterminated by the Nazis in the Holocaust.  1  Mourellos: Ioannis Mourellos (1886–1963), journalist, historian, short story writer; a pioneer in the development of the provincial press; published the newspaper Nea Efimeris (1920–26) in Iraklio and the periodicals Neoellinika Grammata (1926–28) and Κρητική Στοά (1909–19). Nea Efimeris was the paper that printed Kazantzakis’s important political statements in 1925.  1  Drakakis:  Stelios Drakakis, publisher of the newspaper Αστραπή in Rethymno.  1  Amari:  A beautiful district in Crete, in Rethymno prefecture.  1  ojalá:  Hopefully.  1  Στον μπλάβο αγέρα, . . . τα πουλιά του ανέμου:  “It hangs, dear God, in the blue air and sways in the gale, / nibbled by all the birds and spirits of the four winds” (Friar’s translation). The text remains the same in the final version, using δρόλαπα, not καταχνιά.  1  Zumaia: Town in northern Spain, in the Basque country.  1  Fuenterrabia: Town in northern Spain near the Bay of Biscay, on the French border.  1  Wilde’s ghosts:  The allusion might be to The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890–91) by Oscar Wilde (1854–1900), Irish playwright, poet, and prose writer. Dorian, whose portrait ages while he retains his youth and beauty (being an apostle of hedonism), is pursued by various other characters until he gives up his life of hedonistic self-interest, whereupon, attempting to destroy the now-hideous painting, he suddenly ages and dies whereas the painting reverts to its original beauty. Kazantzakis obviously envisions a very different development for himself. On the other hand, Kazantzakis may be thinking of the ghost of Sir Simon in Wilde’s “The Canterville Ghost,” who clanks his chains around the house. 

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1  your new work:  Prevelakis was writing his Ph.D. thesis on El Greco in Crete and Italy.  1  Encore une étoile qui file:  Yet another shooting star. Kazantzakis is punning on another meaning of the French verb filer:  to decamp, make oneself scarce.  1  the contract:  The newspaper told about a Turkish contract of 1684 that included the name Mourinos Theotokopoulos.  1  one more canto:  Another terzina.  1  Ven, Muerte . . . de mi casa: Come death, whenever you are willing. / The thundering voice of your eloquence / does not frighten me / because before its judgment / my conscience’s serene heartbeat rises, / and along ignored paths / giving me confirmation with its own embers / my house’s stark architecture / delivers me from all my sins!

To Panaït Istrati —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed in the original French in Eleni ­Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 279–81; Greek translation in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 330–32; English translation in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 271–73.

Madrid, 8 February 1933 My dear Panaïtaki, At the moment when Abdul Hasan, the great Muslim ascetic, knelt, praying to God, he heard a voice that said: “Abdul Hasan, Abdul Hasan, if I reveal to men everything that I know about you, they will stone you to death!” Then Abdul Hasan responded: “Hey, God, be careful! If I reveal to men everything I know about You, woe is You!” Then the voice of the Lord made itself heard: “Shush, shush, my dear Abdul Hasan! You keep your secret, and I’ll also keep mine, O my brother!” When I think of your life, your words, your acts, of our meeting and of that hallucination of Russia, this dialogue returns to me often and I laugh happily, my eyes sparkling with kindness and malice, just the way your ogre Cosma, whom I love, laughed. I’m sure that in three decades (I had written “two decades” but I realized that two were too few), when we finally decide to leave our hut on earth, we will find ourselves seated—very gaunt, very roguish, very garrulous, with long white beards—in an oriental café, you smoking your hubble-bubble, I my pipe, and we will converse with God—that oriental mirage of ourselves—using these words of Abdul Hasan’s and this laughter of Cosma’s. Oh, how beautiful, brief, blasphemous, and sweet life is! And how worthy of both of us, O Abdul-Hasan-Panaïtaki! No, you will not depart before me. We shall go behind the scenes again together—as we did that memorable evening in Baku, when both of us jumped up on stage arm-in-arm, and rushed into the wings in order to see up close that young girl, that fleur du pétrole who was dancing, dressed in gold like a bishop—and to touch that unheard-of, so simple miracle with our expert fingers. We will do the same

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thing, in the same way, here on earth, we shall rush in order to finger that other mysterious dancer, Life, that diminutive trollop who has seduced us so extravagantly on stage. Do you still remember my Ben Yehuda? Physician: “You have only two months to live.” Ben Yehuda: “Me? But I cannot die. I have a great idea!” You, Panaïtaki, have something even greater: You are a great idea! And you are a great idea naturally, happily, without even knowing it, O my great Ignoramus! I am sure of you and am not afraid. As for me, I am going to die at age eighty-three, in the month of March. If you care to accompany me, the black Volga is waiting for us both. How happy I would be to see you suddenly in Madrid! Rest at ease: I won’t show you the museums, but instead the tiny corners of this half-African city, and some little Spanish girls with spit curls at their temples, wriggling their hips fit to kill. And I have a pile of devilish things to tell you about, things that you love. My black head is filled with beautiful things, and I will give all of them to you. But Rumania is too far away, your monastery is impregnable, your wife keeps watch over you, and if you wake up at midnight to seek your liberty to go where you please, she will ensnare you by the shirt, this all-tooreal Dulcinea, O my Don Quixote, and will lead you back to where you ­belong—your bed. I expect to spend the summer on some deserted seashore on the Atlantic. I am going to write the fourth version of my Odyssey. Oh, why don’t you know Greek! You would have discovered my entire soul in this epic. Who was able to understand it in Greece? Only Prevelakis! Being a voice crying out in the wilderness gives me a harsh pleasure that is exceedingly pure and bitter—the only kind I like: inhuman, monstrous, solitary, just what I need. You know Buddha’s saying (or, rather, you know nothing): Follow your path alone, O my heart, O aged rhinoceros! Au revoir, my friend! Take care of your body. Our soul has no other donkey on this earth. Care for it, do not tire it too much, feed it well, don’t give it any wine (or cognac or raki, naturally), don’t give it too much to smoke (since when do donkeys smoke?). Don’t think! Open your eyes; look at everything plainly. Breathe easy, saying: “I am a plant! I am a plant!” Later you will evolve, climb a degree higher, and say: “I am an animal! I am an animal!” After that, still one more degree. In this way you’ll be cured; once again you’ll become a thinking, drinking, smoking, traveling human being. And we will meet again. Once more, dear friend: au revoir. N

1  Abdoul Hasan:  Born Abdul Hasan Ali in the eleventh century, he became known as Data Ganj Bakhsh (the Bestower of Treasures) because of his

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generosity toward the less privileged. Author of a famous book on mysticism, he was one of the most esteemed Sufi preachers and today is a notable Sufi saint in Pakistan.  1  fleur du pétrole:  Petroleum flower—that is, beautiful child of this petroleum-producing region.  1  Ben Yehuda:  Zionist (1853– 1922) who advocated the revival of Hebrew as a spoken language for the ­Jewish homeland.  1  Dulcinea: In Cervantes’ novel Don Quixote, Dulcinea (“sweetness”) is Quixote’s imaged true love, a simple peasant whom he believes to be the world’s most beautiful woman. Although he has never seen her and she never appears in the novel, he describes her as with golden hair, “her forehead Elysian fields, her eyebrows rainbows, her eyes sun, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her bosom marble,” etc., etc.  1  Buddha’s saying:  Buddha’s “Rhinoceros Sutra” advocates the merits of solitary asceticism as opposed to asceticism in a community of monks. Apparently the rhinoceros wanders alone. The refrain in the sutra may be translated as “Wander alone like a rhinoceros.”

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 364–67.

Madrid, 23 February [1933] My dear brother, This very moment—so delayed!—I received your letter of 12 February. You won’t have received mine yet, nor the periodical I sent you concerning 18 February, with the Velázquez landscapes. I hope that you’ve received them by now. My heart frets seeing how the two of us are oscillating with superfluous worries. When will they end? How will they end? I feel suffocated sometimes, but I keep firm control over myself and do not allow chaos to gain the upper hand. I bring various brave sister-souls to mind, place them beside me, and clench my lips. We are losing time but gaining intensity. I am working here on horrendous, half-useless things: the whole history and literature of Spain, and what relates to Spain. I’ve emptied out the “Ateneo” library. Several books are useful for my work, a horde of them not useful. In March I’ll know how long I’m going to remain here and I’ll write you at once. No matter what happens, I’m going to work on the Odyssey. It’s impossible for me to leave 1933 fruitless. When I gain solitude and quiet, I’m also going to write several other cantos: on El Greco (the moment when they tell him in the palace courtyard that the king has not accepted Saint Maurice), on Buddha, Mohammed, Moses, Lenin, Genghis Khan, etc. I hope that forty-four or eighty-three will be done by the time I die. We shall see. Trials: Don’t give anything to Anghelakis. I’ve written him already that we don’t have money and that for my trial he’ll get a percentage when he wins it.

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For the other one, let him reckon that he owes me four thousand drachmas. I wrote him; don’t you bother. I’m disturbed that I don’t have a little money to send you for Aegina. I’m glad that you’ll be living in the same house. Mme Zoï is a splendid person. I used to give her something (I don’t remember how much), and she used to bring me a meal every midday; in the evening I ate eggs, tea, yoghurt. The (excellent) yoghurt from Poros is sold by a refugee confectioner near the waterfront; you’ll find him with ease by asking for Poros yoghurt. I envy you. Here my life is purposeless, but I undertook a specific obligation. If I’m released in March, I’ll come immediately in order to go to Crete with you. (I’m glad, and didn’t know, that Mary has bought a house.) The articles have been placed. Seven newspapers (Kavala, Thessaloniki, Athens, Alexandria) write that they accept with pleasure. Now let’s see if I write them! I’m enclosing a note about the value of money in El Greco’s time; it might be of use to you. I remember that this occupied our attention in Gottesgab. (Was Gottesgab a dream? Peace, sweetness, fir trees, snow, uninterrupted work, camaraderie, solitude—paradise!) Eleni is struggling in London. She’s worried, impatient for the months to go by. But the only months that go by like lightning are the good ones. The others don’t have feet. The thirteen-syllable line is a mistake! It needs to be fixed. But how? “Τον αρχηγό αγναντεύτε μες στη ράπη”? Look to see if you find another way that’s better, and tell Melachrinos (Daidalou 26), because if he publishes it with that mistake (I’ve sent it to him), it will be very embarrassing. “Τον αρχηγό αγναντεύτε . . .” Regular correspondence with Vlastos. I like this Arvanitis. Steady mind, a highlander’s straightforward and proud thought, spiritual freedom! Which witnesses? But you know them better, from Eleftheroudakis’s Encyclopedic Dictionary. All of them will be considered specialists by the court. I hope they accept. Maybe Karthaios, Poriotis, some university professor— who knows? It’s important that we win; that way you’ll be released from cares and will be at peace in Hanos’s marvelous garden. I received the Shakespeare. May your wish come true, because the FiveYear Plan is at a crucial point. I continually purchase lottery tickets here—but nothing! There is some sort of secret organization in the atmosphere that continually prevents luck from approaching us. For how long? Is it perhaps for our good? I very much doubt that. Here there’s cold, wind, snow. Political abnormality, chaos, bombs. The whole of Europe is the same. Possibly a new war? Here the news is alarming. Lefteris’s narrow-mindedness about language astonishes me. I don’t understand anything. What does malliari mean? Rich? Where does he find the malliari element—in other words, the far-fetched, incomprehensible word? I shudder seeing the degree to which agreement is impossible concerning such a simple, simplistic question. What can we say then to other people, or about

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other questions? Soledad! Soledad! as Jiménez maintains. If Melachrinos publishes the manuscripts I sent him, you’ll see that word often in his brief autobiography. I’ve copied out for you on a slip of paper a sentence about El Greco by Ehrenburg. What can one say? Where can one turn? Where can one find Ehrenburg and grasp him by the throat? Or it is better to remain calm, assured that the human being is still a beast, and to have no claims upon him and no disillusion? Sometimes the first alternative, sometimes the second—in my best, most détachées Buddhistic moments, the second. I’m rereading your letter to make sure that I don’t have anything else to answer. It’s a sad letter that breaks my heart. What can we do? We must save ourselves quickly from the swamp of stagnation, but how? I’ve answered everything. At least may your El Greco give some pleasure to your soul. It’s the surest good. Write me how you’ve settled in, and perhaps I in my turn will write you that I am coming. Here, Madrid gives me no pleasure. I’m fed up with the Prado (which I’ll yearn for later), and the fact that I’m fed up horrifies me. What? Not to want to see El Greco any more? Goya? The soul is something perfidious and uncatchable that understands little and is quickly satiated; it is not a bottomless crevice in the abyss, not a fissure that incessantly receives and will never be filled. Behold! I haven’t gone to the Prado for such a long time now, and I haven’t desired El Greco. Only one thing at present: solitude, solitude, peace, a pencil, paper, a slice of bread, some olives, a little fruit. Nothing else. Those are the great materials, the divine raw materials. Write me regularly, because the distance is great. Your letter took ten days to arrive. I’m answering at the same moment, on purpose. Give my greetings to Kalmouchos; I plan to write him. Don’t forget to leave the corrected verse at Melachrinos’s (unless you want to see him). How embarrassing that I didn’t realize it was a thirteen-syllable verse! I still haven’t learned prosody. I am with you every moment, N

1  concerning 18 February:  Kazantzakis had sent the September 1932 issue of the Madrid journal Arte, inscribing on it “18 February 1933,” 18 February being the date of his birthday and also of Prevelakis’s.  1  other cantos:  More terzinas; the total number published in Kazantzakis 1960b is twenty-one. Bibliographical information on first publication is given in the note by Emmanouil Kasdaglis, the editor, on pp. 182–83.  1  living in the same house:  Mary Pandou’s rented house on Aegina that had been occupied by Kazantzakis in 1927.  1  has bought a house:  Mary Pandou purchased a house a little outside Aegina town; subsequently, Kazantzakis purchased land nearby and built his own house there.  1  The thirteen-syllable line is a mistake:  Kazantzakis

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had written his terzina on Dante using eleven-syllable verse because that is what Dante used. But he had inadvertently written one line with thirteen syllables, which is why he says it was a mistake.  1  Arvanitis:  Albanian. Petros Vlastos (1879–1941) was a member of an illustrious family established chiefly in Chios before being forced into the diaspora by the famous massacre there in 1822. It is not clear why Kazantzakis calls him an “Albanian”—perhaps because Vlastos wrote articles hailing the Albanians as a superior kind of Greek. A Greek intellectual living in Liverpool England, he worked there for the Rally Company until 1928. Important demoticist; admirer of Ion Dragoumis; published in O Noumas, corresponded with Psiharis, etc.; campaigned for spelling reform; wrote a demotic grammar and a pioneering lexicon of synonyms. Kazantzakis eulogized him as a “fearless Akritas of our language.”  1  Which witnesses:  For their lawsuit against Dimitrakos.  1  Karthaios:  K. Karthaios (1878–1955), poet and translator, a director of the National Theater, worked with Triandafyllidis on the demotic grammar published in 1941.  1  Poriotis:  Nikolaos Poriotis (1870–1945), journalist, translator of Homer’s Odyssey, editor of the Eleftheroudakis Encyclopedic Dictionary.  1  malliari:  Supposedly excessive demotic was termed malliari (hairy), apparently because the early demoticist poets had long hair. Lefteris Alexiou was complaining about Kazantzakis’s language in the first three canticles of his Dante translation, published in Ο Κύκλος, arguing that since Dante’s Italian was not malliari, Kazantzakis’s Greek should not be either.  1  Soledad! Soledad!:  Solitude! Solitude!  1  Ehrenburg: Ilya Grigoryevich Ehrenburg (1891–1967), a Soviet journalist and novelist, resident much of the time in Paris (where Kazantzakis had met him), who had written disparagingly about El Greco.  1  detachées: Emotionally aloof.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 373–76.

Madrid, 14 March [1933] My dear brother! Your warm letter filled with indignation and pride found me plunged in the new construction site of the new terzina on El Greco. The other day I went to Toledo to see a new German friend, Máximo Kahn, and as I was passing through the lanes, a horde of cries, words, and verses fell upon me. From that moment on, I haven’t been able to think of anything else. And when I got your letter, I was completing the plan: Midday, Escorial, “the king, that venomous figwort,” high up on his crag, is supervising the stonemasons who are building. A vulture, gyrating above him, “smelled the stench thirty years

456  •  1933 Letters

­before.” The Cretan is kneading in his fingers a lump of cistus gum that he’d brought with him from Crete, and the words of the messenger are still echoing in his ears: “The king rejects Saint Maurice.” The stones shimmer, the world is steaming, a new creation all tremulo and flame, a second level looms above the stones, trees, people (the second level of Orgaz). The Cretan’s mind shimmers; monks, women, pale noblemen pass by (he’ll paint all of them). “Thick colors pour out into his mind”—Apostolados, crucifixions, angels with wings “that exceed what is legitimate.” El Greco’s mind descends from on high and clumplike flames fall on animals, humans, stones, worms—all are Apostles! But the king refuses to let him fill the Escorial’s walls. He squeezes the cistus gum, smells it, and the whole of Crete rises up into his mind: Vrondissi, plane tree, marble fountain, the plain, “thick, gnarled, the somber holm oaks,” and his venerable teacher who had ordered him: Kyriakos, don’t consort with prominent people, “a potlicker in regal courts.” Ah! to go back to the island: “I’ve had enough!” “And he turned sunward to leave.” But then an angel, “a warm south wind,” the yellow wings (of San Vicente), grasped him with his strong arms, his wings redolent of cistus.” El Greco “firmly tightens his Cretan kerchief ” and darts forward, seeing far beneath him Escorial, kings, people, himself high aloft on the second level, his true homeland, Upper Crete, “inside the wings of his inner archangel.” That’s the framework: two levels; and the smell of cistus gum that fills it. I haven’t dared to begin it yet; I’m purposely allowing the vibration to make me tremble a few more times. Then there is also this: these days, maybe today, it will be decided whether I stay here or return to Greece. The moment is exactly like El Greco’s: I’m turning sunward; “I’ve had enough”; my entire brain smells of cistus. But at the last moment will some inner archangel come along to sweep me away? I’m enjoying the vibration “peacefully” and am awaiting the archangel “passively”—like the Virgin. No matter what happens, the Conception and the Birth are certain. 15 March [1933] Today I went to the library and copied this out for you from Ortega’s book. I had read it with great interest. What he says about Goethe is correct. Ortega is one of the most thoughtful writers of our time. I’d like very much to buy his Collected Works, fifty pesetas. We’ll see. The mauve anemone you sent me is miraculous. My valises are packed. Somehow or other I’m going to leave Madrid this week. To go where? I’ll know this evening and I’ll write you immediately. I’m totally ready for both Zumaia and Aegina. I haven’t done anything to push right or left. Let’s allow the angel of San Vicente to decide. Meanwhile, I’m working over the El Greco canto in my head, finding scattered lines, but I’ll

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wait before starting it. This one, too, will be in terzinas—a perfect form, because it offers me many difficulties. The rhymes corner you; they lead, hinder, are a great pain. But that pleases me in short poems of up to two hundred lines. It’s a laborious discipline, yet useful. I plan to have all the cantos take this form. People really are right not to want us; if they were braver or more consistent, they would kill us. You see, I find myself in a despairing ambiguity; instead of thinking like a normal person, I sit and arrange my soul in words and rhymes. I think of Goethe, how Ortega berates him for betraying his duty—he who had nothing in his mind except his work! Yet Ortega is right, and the mol oreiller of Weimar plunged him into comfortable sleep. May such a pillow never chance to be our lot! What we need for a pillow is what we have: a stone. Comfort and certainty can go to the devil! Let us find what our individual duty is, and not betray it, not even in sleep! Let us regulate even our dreams, so they acquire consistency and contribute to our goal! That means a monster—a monster! No other salvation exists for us any longer. Isolation, pain, work, silence, intransigence. My heart has turned to stone, and I shudder from pride sensing your similar heart next to me. Two stones that people cannot engrave with their names or dates. Aegina! That’s what our guardian angel commands! On 20 March I will leave Madrid for Paris. I’ll stay there about ten days if Eleni is able to come from London; otherwise I’ll leave immediately. I’ll write you from there so that you can know more or less when to come down to the harbor to get me. What an unexpected pleasure! Say absolutely nothing to anyone. Not even to Kalmouchos. I’m not writing to my sister. I’ll stay only one day in Athens and won’t see anyone; my luggage and papers I’m preparing for Aegina. But how will we arrange things in that small house? You need to think well about that; you’ll need to send me c/o my sister (Noti Botsari 6) a letter telling me what I need to bring with me, so that I won’t find it necessary to return to Athens. I’m saying goodbye to Madrid without bitterness—I’ve had my fill of it. I’m returning to Greece with pleasure because you are there. I’m very sad that I wasn’t able to bring Eleni here. I yearn to work in solitude, near the sea. My heart is a ball of thread all tangled and uneasy; only my mind is at ease and certain—from on high. Here’s to our meeting! As soon as I reach Paris, I’ll write you definitively. (Address: rue Erlanger 17 bis, c/o Mary Pandou.) May God be with us! N

1  the new terzina on El Greco:  The finished terzina is translated into ­English in Kazantzakis 1965, pp. 501–5.  1  Máximo Kahn:  Máximo José Kahn Nussbaum (1897–1953), Jewish German who moved to Spain in 1920, joined philo-Sephardic intellectual circles, served briefly as Spanish consul in Thessaloniki, and relocated in Argentina. In 1945 he published a scathing

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­indictment of National Socialism and its extermination of six million Jews:  “Mit Brennender Sorge.” La Contra Inqisición.  1  Orgaz: El Greco’s masterpiece, Burial of the Count of Orgaz (1586–88), in the parish church of Santo Tomé, Toledo. The painting has two distinct levels, the earthly and the heavenly.  1  Vrondissi:  Vrondisiou Monastery outside the village of Zaros in the Iraklio prefecture played an important role in both letters and arts especially during the Venetian period, tradition claiming that even Theotokopoulos spent time as a student in the monastery’s workshops.  1  angel . . . of Saint Vicente: Of El Greco’s painting Assumption of the Virgin that used to hang in the Saint Vicente Museum in Toledo and is now in Toledo’s Museo De Santa Cruz.  1  mol oreiller:  Soft pillow.

To Panaït Istrati —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete, in the original French) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 285–86; Greek translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 335–36; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 277.

[Madrid, 15 March 1933] Dear Panaïtaki, I finally received your letter and find you again, now in Bucharest. How I’d love to appear in front of you all of a sudden and to drink with you for several days, once again, the black, oh so aromatic coffee of life! Of your seven souls, give God and the devil two or three and keep the rest for yourself, for your older brother, who loves you, for the highways of the vagabond. It’s only now that our true life is going to begin. We have become veritable sources of wisdom because we understand absolutely nothing—so says Mizra Abdul Bider, another Eastern poet whom I love. It’s only now that we are going to begin to knead the clay that we have collected and to play on the world’s beach. I think of you with such voracity that you will never be able to leave on your own. Is there perhaps another Volga, a subterranean one, that we shall explore together as we wait (let’s hope in vain) for Eleni and Bilili? I read your book at one sitting. I like it a lot—alive, profound, human. But what I like the most is the introduction, which is totally Panaït: vehement, insolent, prophetic, thirsty for justice—and unjust. Unjust toward Bilili. You were too hard on her, or, if you will, too fair, which for women is the supreme injustice. You well know that, materially, morally, and intellectually, women have another universe. Their soul is laden with flesh, saturated with it. Even in their great infidelities (especially in that case!), they are innocent because they obey a subterranean, prehuman, extremely profound urge. They are always faithful to that urge—truly, that is their great, sad quality. A man can

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sometimes gain freedom in an instant of heroism or inebriation, a woman never. This sort of freedom, which is the man’s honor, for her would be disobedience to her fate, hence a vice. That is why I find your anger against Bilili unjust. Besides, shouldn’t we pardon everything in a woman who has given us a moment of happiness? Au revoir, old brother! Write to me, if only a single word if you still feel weak. I, however, will always write you long letters in the hope of conquering just a little the distance and absence. N

1  Mizra Abdul Bider: Could this possibly be Abdul Bhitai, a Sufi poet and dramatist who lived from 1689 to 1752?

VIII  •  Back in Greece, Having Failed

Elsewhere; Traveling in Far East; Odyssey Completed and Published; Visit to England

To Emile Hourmouzios —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed in Kazantzakis 1997, pp. 235–36.

Aegina, May 1933 Dear Mr. Hourmouzios, I’m sending you eight articles on Spain as installment no. 1. I have made every possible linguistic concession and beg you (if you publish the articles under my byline) not to change anything. I see that Proïa is publishing articles by Vlachoyannis in unadulterated demotic. If this annoys you, then either do not publish the articles at all or add a statement saying that this is my language, for which Kathimerini requests forgiveness from its readers. That is my first request. The second is this: that you send me proofs to correct, since I fear that many mistakes will occur. Perhaps you can print three or four all at once. I do the corrections and you send me the articles that follow. You find the way. Also take care that each title you add bears some relation to the article’s contents. The title must not refute the article. Writing by hand has tired me out very much (I failed to bring the typewriter with me), and I may have made many errors while writing. I don’t have time even to reread the articles. But I hope that you can make out my handwriting. Please begin to announce the articles and write me the precise day on which you’ll start to publish them. If I find the publication’s method and placement satisfying, I’ll send you seven additional articles—a form of continuation for the eight, treating Spain’s contemporary social and political renaissance. Otherwise, if Kathimerini does not satisfy me, I’ll give that series and still others to another newspaper that is asking me for them—and indeed will pay. But I promised you and am glad to be fulfilling my promise. As you see, economic reasons do not always play the primary role. Please (I wonder if this is an excessive demand) start sending me Kathimerini as soon as you start announcing the articles. (If there’s a need, say that I spent seven months in Spain, traveled everywhere there, had been there previously, had published about Spain in my book Traveling, and have begun a

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large series of translations of the work of contemporary Spanish poets in O Kyklos, etc.). When the articles begin, please send me ten copies of each because I want to retain several series and send them to my friends. I’m waiting for a letter from you (do not write on unsealed post cards, because in that case I’ll be the last person on Aegina to learn what you have written). When you read the articles, write and tell me if they are any good. And say hello from me to Nazos, who—as a Cretan villager used to tell me about a newly married friend of his—“He is now passing through his honey-tube!” N

1  Emile Hourmouzios:  Significant figure in Greek literary, journalistic, and theatrical life (1904–73); editor in chief of Η Καθημερινή starting in 1931, director starting in 1945, until 1967; director of National Theater, 1955–64; communist in the 1920s but renounced his allegiance owing to the Stalinist purges of 1936–38, although he maintained friendly contact with former comrades such as Galatea Kazantzaki; author of books on Psiharis, on katharevousa versus demotic in school curricula, on opera, on Karyotakis, Palamas, etc.; married Marika Papaïoannou.  1  Nazos:  Yeoryios Nazos (1895–1948), theatrical reviewer for Kathimerini.  1  his honey-tube:  Kazantzakis’s transmogrification of the Greek for “honeymoon.”

To Juan Ramón Jiménez —Unable to locate the manuscript; original in French; Spanish translation printed in Zavala 1964, pp. 134–35.

Aegina, Greece, 21 May 1933 Dear Master, This small island where I now live and work is marvelous. My house is located on a rocky place with the sea below and the village further away. Soledad sonora. I write long Mediterranean verses and, together with Prevelakis (we live together), read and reread your suggestive work that is so deep and pure. I have been able to translate some of your poems, and I hope that I have measured up. They have made a deep impression on our poets. I would like to publish a book with an anthology of your work and a long introduction on your personality and art. It would please me to convey to the Greeks some of the joy and emotion that I feel when I think of you. The May issue of O Kyklos has published the Machado poems that I translated; the next issue will publish those of Pedro Salinas. This work will continue during this and the following year.

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Today I started to write a series of articles on Spain for the newspapers. I will send all of them to you when I finish. I have heard that a group of representatives from the University of Madrid will be visiting Athens in a month. I will take advantage of this opportunity to publish my articles on the Spanish universities, on the reforms made during the republic, and on the intellectuals of contemporary Spain. You know that I would be very pleased if I could teach ancient Greek at the University of Madrid. Might that be possible? I await your response. However, if something important happens, would it be possible for you to communicate with Mr. Pérez Rubio (Plaza del Progreso 5)? He has promised to keep me posted on everything. I have thought also, with great interest, about the translation of Plato and our tragic theater that is planned by Mrs. Jiménez. The first step toward that project, I think, should be an appointment at the university. Hoping to see you next autumn, I beg you, dear friend, to receive the expression of my deep admiration. N. K.

1  Soledad sonora:  Sonorous solitude (in Spanish in the French original).  1  Machado:  Antonio Machado (1875–1939), Spanish poet, leading figure in the movement called the Generation of ’98.  1  Pedro Salinas:  Pedro Salinas y Serrano (1891–1951), Spanish poet, member of the Generation of ’27; scholar teaching at the Sorbonne, University of Seville, Cambridge University, and The Johns Hopkins University.  1  This letter was translated from Spanish by Maria Margarita Malagón-Kurka.

To Eleni Samiou —Manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 338–39; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 279–80; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 287–88.

[Aegina,] 8 June [1933] Dear Lenotschka, I feel like writing you a thousand times each day without having anything to say to you—just to be talking with you and to experience the foretaste of future pleasure when we meet. My heart is entirely with you today; we must never again stay apart for so long. Prevelakis returned this morning from Athens, where he had gone for a day, having left here with Marika. He came back in despair. Everyone an enemy, Athens insufferable, the entire Dexameni rising up against him: why

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he stays with me, why he isolates himself, why he doesn’t live in Athens, etc., etc. They’re all organized against us. Frightful insults hurled at Marika. (How did they learn that she spent one night in our house?) It was Nakou who kindled the fire. A deplorable spectacle! Prevelakis came disgusted and wants never again to go back! I’m glad that we have isolated ourselves in this way. My faith in the quality of our souls is increasing. I have no need of those people; hence, my only sorrow is that they are so degraded. We spoke with Marika indirectly about marriage, etc. She declared most emphatically that she is opposed to marriage (she must have answered similarly to the proposition that I had made to Katy and that she had transmitted). “Marriage? Never! Never!” “And with someone you love?” “Especially not with him!” “But do you have the social courage to cohabit freely with the person you love?” “I do. However, I don’t love anyone.” “How long have you had this courage?” “More than a year.” “So marriage is impossible?” “Impossible!” That’s how the dialogue ended. Prevelakis sat quietly and listened, without saying a word. I assume that Marika must have weighed her words before uttering them. Maybe she wrote you more about it, maybe nothing at all. I was simultaneously both sorry and glad. I was glad because her soul has moved forward; it is brave and strong. I was sorry because she doesn’t love anyone. But is love perhaps just a coup de foudre? Let’s keep hoping. I’m working a lot on the Odyssey (I’m at canto 13). I took a break yesterday for a moment in order—eagerly—to read the newspaper. Of course you must know that the royalists attempted to kill Venizelos on Kifisias Avenue, between Marousi and Athens. Two cars filled with assassins pursued his car for five kilometers and shot at him with revolvers, rifles, and machine guns. Venizelos wasn’t hit. Four bullets struck his wife, but she’s not in danger. One of his Cretan bodyguards was killed; the automobile was riddled. People are in turmoil, Crete is boiling. I, who am so opposed to Venizelos, feel how revolting and shameful it is for them to pursue him like a beast traqué—this old man who doubled the size of Greece—and to shoot him with machine gun bullets! Those Greeks are brutes. 13 June [12 June?] Dearest, Today is Monday, and I don’t have a letter from you. I’m very worried, afraid that you are ill, disturbed, and not writing. You must have received

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everything I sent you. I’m glad that you’ll have various things of mine to read, even though they’re just newspaper articles. The situation here in Greece is horrible; the fatherland is headed for the abyss. I’m disgusted, furious. Surely there must be two Greeces. Their soldering together still has not happened and perhaps will not happen soon. They are two immensely different souls, not that one is good and the other bad, but rather that the one is bad and the other worse. It’s terribly sad to see with what stupidity, passion, and malice the one Greece attacks the other. It’s been raining and cold all these days. This June is astonishing. Here in the house: ascetic silence, work, a tiny bit of conversation at lunchtime, more in the evening. I’m at canto 14. The way things are going, I will have finished the Odyssey by August; afterwards I’ll want to do the second draft of Dante. But then how will we be, and where will you be? You assuredly prefer Paris to Aegina. If I need to stay here, will our separation last even longer? I’m trying here to settle the property, the inherited real estate. For it to be sold advantageously, however, I need to wait for the currants to be sold in Iraklio, at which point people will have money and Eleni will be able to sell the store and I’ll be able to sell whatever belongs to me. Then I intend to buy a house in Athens with Eleni and thus to enjoy a regular income (with a combination of safeguards that Prevelakis’s brother recommends). I’ll try to have the property shared out by August so that I’ll know what I’ll be selling. This is a difficult, boring, but necessary business that I have no desire at all to undertake; yet I’m being spurred on by Prevelakis, quite appropriately, and thus I’m hoping for results. If Eleni wants to join me in purchasing the house, that will be excellent. But I still have not spoken to her about it. I’m waiting for her to come here. I’m writing you all these things so that you’ll forgive me, because I know that you are more interested in them than I am. If everything turns out suitably, we’ll have a regular income. But Greece is going to the devil, which makes things more difficult. No news from Spain. I’ve been sending my articles to Jiménez, to place where appropriate. I’ve written him how much I’d like to return to Madrid as a professor. At the end of June, a group of Spanish professors (two of whom I know) will be coming here as tourists. I’ll see them and will perhaps talk to them. That would be the best solution. But Jiménez is a “lyrical bird,” and Rubio is drowning in his own private worries and still hasn’t replied about El Greco. It rained on Sunday, and no one came. Better! If you come here, the troublemakers won’t, especially not the women. Marika will return here in August. She asked me about Plombières. I told her that it would be splendid if both of you could go this year, but I don’t know if we’ll have enough money. The same again with Dimitrakos. He suggests horrible conditions as a compromise. He’s the most dishonest man alive! We found a friend to help us photograph Mary’s house, but it’s raining, so we’ll wait.

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I love you very much, continually more. I cannot exist without you. I’m glad that for this reason I can sense life to be warm and rich, and can finally have the right to bless the day I was born. Because you exist, life has become exceedingly sweet and holy, something truly divine. “If only we had a little comfort, wife, my child!” as Dehmel says. That, too, will come. All of today’s bitterness and separation will prove to have been a most useful sacred trial. Yet it must not last too long. Write me what plans you have and if the stéréotypie will be able to determine our decision: (1) Madrid, (2) Aegina, (3) Paris—wherever fate directs. I’ll send this letter to you tomorrow in the hope of having received a letter from you. It has become very long; thus, you won’t complain. I kiss your shoulders, dearest. I kiss your hands that work. I kiss your knees that wait. N

1  Dexameni:  Galatea’s crowd.  1  coup de foudre:  Love at first sight (literally: clap of thunder).  1  a beast traqué:  A hunted animal.  1  13 June: Kazantzakis says, “Today is Monday” but Monday was 12 June; 13 June 1933 was Tuesday.  1  Eleni will be able to sell the store: Eleni in this paragraph is, of course, his sister, not Eleni Samiou.  1  Plombières:  More properly Plombières-les-Bains, a town with hot springs known since Roman times; Eleni Samiou frequented this spa town for health reasons.  1  stéréotypie: Printing by stereotype: using a relief printing plate cast in a mold made from composed type or an original printing plate.

To Juan Ramón Jiménez —Unable to locate the manuscript; Spanish translation of French original printed in Zavala 1964, pp. 136–37.

Aegina, 20 June 1933 Dear Master, Undoubtedly you have received the newspapers in which my articles on Spain are published, as well as the magazines in which some of your poems and Antonio Machado’s have been published. I am sending you today the June issue, in which you will find the translation of some verses by Unamuno and some by Salinas. The impression made by these poems on our poets is very great. For the first time, contemporary Spanish poetry has been translated into Greek. This work will continue every year. I am very happy to contribute in this manner to the physical rapprochement of two great peoples. A month ago the Spanish government invited journalists from different countries. The Greek journalist has already started publishing his impressions. It would please me very much if his texts as well as mine could be translated

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for the Ministry of Foreign Relations in Madrid, so that you could tell the difference. I think of you very often. Together with Prevelakis, I am translating your second Poetic Anthology, and we are thinking of finding a publisher, despite the terrible crisis. Our language is so beautiful and deep that it can effectuate the miracle whereby your poetry’s beauty and depth are preserved. Greek, I believe, is the only language in Europe capable of making this miracle happen. I have an intense nostalgia for Spain, but I still do not have the letter from Pérez Rubio on the issue. Could you possibly be so kind as to deal on my behalf with the necessary procedures before the university authorities? You are aware of my degrees. Here in Greece I am very well known as a creative writer and a translator. I am sure that I would do my job at the university in an absolutely satisfactory manner. I have a deep knowledge of ancient Greek, and I would teach it much better than do the French, who usually teach it. I apologize, Master, for being so insistent on asking you to intervene, but I am sure of being worthy of your recommendation. Besides, I would be very happy if I could live in Spain. Hoping that you will not forget me, I beg you to believe in my admiration and my deep recognition. N. K.

1  my articles on Spain:  Η Καθημερινή published a series of fourteen articles entitled “Spain 1933,” running from 21 May until 4 June (for full titles, see Katsimbalis 1958, p. 24, nos. 362–375).  1  the June issue:  Ο Κύκλος 2 (June 1933):  142–56.  1  second Poetic Anthology:  Segunda Antolojía Poética 1899–1918 (dated 1920 but issued in 1922).  1  This letter was translated from Spanish by Maria Margarita Malagón-Kurka.

To Eleni Samiou —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 342–43; English translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 282–83; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 291–92.

Aegina, 20 August 1933 . . . Harilaos came suddenly today, and you can imagine my pleasure. We picked figs, grapes; we laughed. I tried to liven him up a little, but he’s grown old, he’s full of worries, the royalists have dismissed him into the bargain, and he doesn’t know what will become of him. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart and did what I could. He has thawed out a little, but when he leaves he’ll fall again into the abyss.

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. . . The atmosphere in Greece is horrible. The sordidness, vulgarity, and dishonesty of the men who govern is indescribable. Light nowhere. If I didn’t have Odysseas, Dante, and you, I would suffocate from disgust and anger. But nothing touches me now: mon pain est cuit—the bread of angels, not the other bread. The day after tomorrow I’m waiting for Skouriotis to come and spend three days here. He, too, has been dismissed by the royalists and has been left in the streets. The best, most honest civil servant of Greece! . . . On Sunday, Haritakis, the physician, is coming here. . . . He, too, is poor now, living near Dafni in a little house he built among the pine trees. He’s suffering, struggling to nourish his two “creatures.” He says he’s impatient to see me, to let off steam. Would that I could be of use to my friends in a more positive manner!

1  Harilaos:  Stefanidis.  1  the royalists:  Venizelos’s republican government from 1928 to 1932 fostered a period of stability; however, the worldwide depression made him default on Greece’s national debt in 1932. He fell from office and was replaced by a monarchist coalition government led by Panagis Tsaldaris (1868–1936). Although Tsaldaris condemned the assassination attempt against Venizelos, members of his political party and close supporters were deemed responsible. The monarchy was restored in 1935.  1  mon pain est cuit:  My bread is baked—that is, I don’t worry about myself.  1  Haritakis:  Kostis Haritakis (1889–1956), microbiologist, childhood friend of Kazantzakis’s.  1  his two “creatures”:  How he termed his wife and daughter.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 391–92.

[Athens,] Sunday [3 September 1933] My dear brother! I’m afraid that I’m going to remain away from Aegina longer than I had supposed. R’s wife is a Jewess: fierce, silent, beautiful. I tried to escape on the first day with the justification that I didn’t want to disturb two newlyweds, but it turned out to be impossible. I am obliged to be with them; I’ve felt how the opposite would be extremely rude. So: today museums, Acropolis, etc.; tomorrow Delphi; the day after Mycenae; then Olympia. They want to come to Aegina, too, without fail, but I hope they won’t make it. They send you lots of greetings. I told them that you said to me that you’d gladly come to see them. Last night we ate at a taverna near the Acropolis (lunch at Chrysakis’s, very nice). The three of us drank two and a half okas of retsina, ate kokoretsi, tomatoes with salt, and touloumisio cheese. Lots of cordiality and gusto.

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I didn’t know whether Mme J., being so taciturn and farouche, was satisfied or bored. Her eyes filled suddenly with huge tears of joy. She said that she felt one of the greatest joys of her life amid the wine barrels and the workmen, with the retsina and touloumisio and primitive paintings on the walls (implausible dancing evzones, shepherds, caïques). Good grief! Jews have a hidden nostalgia for the East and a vehement romanticism. I’m spending as much as I can in order to seem somewhat civil to them. I surmise that the final thousand-drachma note will be totally expended, and I’m sorry that I cannot offer them pension complète as hospitality—ashamed that it’s impossible for me to pay for their hotel. Ancient Cretan instincts are torturing me, foolishly for sure. But my ancestors would have had such great pleasure if their descendant had been able to spend lavishly for foreigners. The Review will come out in October. He’d like you to prepare a little from El Greco, whichever chapter you wish. He plans to start a small publishing house, too. But there’s no hope for him to have control of money in Greece, except if he receives compensation for his accident (he’s asking for a million, damages and interest). I hope that you don’t have any useless visit today. I’ll certainly come before next Sunday. I’m terribly homesick for that little house by the sea and the rhythm of our life. Everything else is vain noise. Always, N

1  R’s wife:  Arlette, née Dreyfus, wife of Renaud de Jouvenel.  1  two and a half okas:  = 3.25 pints, almost half a gallon.  1  kokoretsi:  Stuffed lamb intestines, roasted, but it’s best not to ask what’s inside: probably hearts, spleens, liver, lungs, testicles, and assorted other guts!  1  touloumisio cheese:  A soft white cheese prepared in a touloumi (goatskin sack).  1  farouche: Sullen, unsociable.  1  evzones:  Literally the “well-girt”; various historical elite infantry and mountain units of the Greek army, dressed in skirts and special shoes with pompoms.  1  caïques:  Wooden fishing boats, with sails or motors, used in the Mediterranean.  1  pension complète:  Full room and board.  1  The Review:  The fortnightly periodical Le Cahier Bleu published by Bergis, Paris, with Jouvenel as editor in chief.  1  a million:  A million francs, compensation for a severe automobile accident suffered in the spring of 1933.  1  homesick for . . . the rhythm of our life:  However, when Kazantzakis returned to Aegina on Wednesday, 6 September, he was accompanied by the Jouvenels, who remained for two entire days.  1  Jouvenel: Renaud de Jouvenel, communist editor of the Revue de Vivants and Le Cahier Bleu; close friend of Kazantzakis’s. The novelist Colette was his half sister, and the philosopher Bertrand de Jouvenel his half brother. Jouvenel published a fine memoir of Kazantzakis in Europe, June 1958, pp. 85–105, later translated into Greek in Nea Estia 72 (1 November 1962): 1570–85.

1933 Letters  •  469

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 394–95.

[Aegina,] 29 September [1933] Dear brother, Divine days here. Now that I’m alone, I’ve grown fierce. I’m working terribly hard, writing annotations for ten to twelve cantos a day; today I’m finishing the annotations for the whole of Dante. I sleep a little, my right arm gets tired, and if I remain much longer alone I’ll surely fall ill. No other salvation exists for this abnormal fever. If I remain only a moment without intense work, I feel such sadness, such pure despair devoid of illusion, that I fear I’m going to die. Tomorrow I’ll begin to rewrite Dante—οι γλυκασμοί—and at last I’ll see if it’s going to be printed. Afterwards I’ll start the Odyssey. The whole thing needs to be rewritten and copied out. Maybe Eleni will come; she’s still looking for work in Paris, fearing the trap that’s Greece. As for me, I feel that I am absolutely happy here. For the moment, I’m not overcome by the demon of travel. I hope it takes its time. I view sea, absolute peace, weather—all of them—like my private orchard, and I go down and harvest the fruit. So long as the travel demon does not overcome me, I feel that I don’t require anything any more. All I need do is shift the demon to my inner world; then everything is complete and self-sufficient. Lefteris sent me the third canto, too, and asks me if you’re in Crete. I didn’t even look at it. What am I supposed to do with it and say to him? What’s missing is the Dantesque atmosphere; everything else is grammar. Eleftheroudakis wrote me. He’s going to send me one of his manuscripts to correct. He’s written a children’s book. He was most polite in the letter, but there’s no practical return. I found a word for you in Nouvelles Littéraires: Focillon was appointed in aesthetics, in Basch’s place. I’m glad that you’ve settled in somewhat. May this year pass well and quickly. Surely it will not be unproductive. Renaud writes that he is “follement heureux” about the trip, and they send greetings to you. He ardently reminds you of your promise to send him a little bit of El Greco. No change here. Sengopoulou came. Smart, made-up, mediocre. No contact. Hypatia comes from time to time; she’s calmed down a bit, grown happier. Her brain is voracious and unripe. Kalmouchos will come in a few days to do a lot. I’m eagerly waiting to see what he’ll produce. Perhaps I’ll write a schoolbook for the third grade, if I’m in the mood (and assuredly if Eleni comes). It would be useful for me to reread the books that you once brought—about sponges, scarabs, etc. I wonder if you could send

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them to me for a short time. I don’t have any resources here and they’ll be invaluable for me. Don’t forget me; write me. You are everywhere here. N

1  writing annotations:  Kazantzakis was preparing an annotated edition of his translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy. This was published by Kyklos editions in 1934 and included 112 pages of notes.  1  οι γλυκασμοί:  Kazantzakis remembered the Song of Solomon (Song of Songs) 5:16 in the Septuagint Greek: Φάρυγξ αὐτοῦ γλυκασμοῦ καὶ ὅλος ἐπιθυμία: “His speech is most sweet and everything is completely desirable.” (Of course, φάρυγξ, literally “throat” [pharynx], could mean “kiss”!)  1  Lefteris sent me the third canto: After criticizing Kazantzakis’s “hairy” demotic in the latter’s Dante translation, Lefteris Alexiou had begun his own translation in presumably acceptable demotic.  1  Focillon:  Henri Focillon (1881–1943), French art historian at the Sorbonne and later at Yale University; Focillon as well as Victor Basch had been Prevelakis’s teachers at the Sorbonne.  1  follement heureux: Insanely happy.  1  Sengopoulou: Rika Sengopoulou (d. 1956), published the first collection of the so-called Cavafy canon, illustrated by Takis Kalmouchos (Athens and Alexandria: Alexandrini Techni, 1935); maiden name Rika Agallianou; journalist; editor of the periodical Alexandrini Techni. She and her husband Alekos Sengopoulos were entrusted by Cavafy with valuable notes, etc., on his work. Her archive is in ELIA.  1  Hypatia:  Hypatia Pappa, later married to Andreas Vourloumis. Her family spent summers in Aegina.  1  a schoolbook for the third grade:  He submitted this and another under Eleni’s name. It was authorized by the Ministry of Education in 1934 and published by Sideris.

To Thrasos Kastanakis —Manuscript in ELIA, missing from Kazantzakis Museum Kastanakis archive; printed in Kazantzakis 1986, p. 3.

Aegina, 1 October 1933 Dear Mr. Kastanakis, I read your new work with care, in a single sitting. I seems to me that you have attained astonishing mastery the way you take the subject and unfold it. Your reader’s curiosity grows from page to page but, little by little, so does his anxiety. You do not limit yourself to a faithful representation (as they say) of life; instead, you purposefully burden your major individuals with all the psychology that you need in order to raise them to representative figures and make them tragic caricatures—in other words, the essence of the Greek

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personality. This great technical skill of yours ends up being dangerous, it seems to me. It rouses to excess the sentiment of curiosity, which is always inferior to the sentiment incited in us by art. I caught myself sometimes hurrying to skip pages to see what would become of your hero. This excessive curiosity engendered by your power of narration atrophies other, deeper areas of interest that should be developed in readers of works such as yours. Instead of discerning your mode of expression, language, depth, or vision, the reader pursues the adventure’s denouement. The ancient Greeks were so aware of this danger in their tragedies that, as you know, either they employed well-known plots or they announced the denouement right away at the start in order to free the spectator from curiosity and to direct his attention solely to art’s profound joys and demands. Because I believe I can have an opinion concerning only poetry at this time, I don’t know if I am correct. But I am writing you my impression and noting for you the danger to which your virtue seduces you. I’m sorry that I was unable to see you at all. When you came to Aegina, the crowd in the house did not allow us to have a single meaningful conversation. Every time this happens to me, it makes me sad. For me, bad use of time is one of the mortal sins. Like the faithful of a demanding religion, I feel a psychic sorrow resembling “remorse” every time an invaluable moment is lost. If you leave for Paris before I see you, may “God” be with you and your wife, always! N. Kazantzakis

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 396–98.

Aegina, 20 October 1933 Dear brother, I received your brief letter and saw that the boredom of military service has already begun. It’s terrible to think that this is going to last a year. But surely you will discover a way to bring honey out of poison; thus the year won’t be wasted. Meanwhile don’t forget to write to me, even if only briefly. My life continues the same, except that the work has become more turbulent and sad seeing that I am all alone now. Weeks go by without my uttering a word. When Kalmouchos came the other day, my voice, deep down in the larynx, was broken, and he was afraid I was ill. But little by little, after two or three hours, I began to speak normally again.

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Kalmouchos promised to come again and stay for three months, working. But it’s now ten days and he hasn’t showed up. He’s struggling to distance as much as possible the bitter cup of solitude and contemplation, and to taste his creative power. He continually discovers pretexts to escape. I fear that he’ll keep on escaping in the end—that everything was “an imaginary pregnancy.” But let’s wait a while longer. Dante—that is, the copying of the annotations—is finished and the poetic text is now in the printer’s hands. In a few days he’ll send me the prospectus (I sent it to him on 14 September, and he still hasn’t printed it!). I’ll send you several copies, to send to Mr. Venieris to see if perhaps he or some friend of his will enroll as a subscriber, something that will cost them only one and a half pounds, for which they’ll have five splendid books, to use also for gifts. He says that the printing will start as soon as we have fifteen thousand; up to now we have eight thousand. Fortunately we chose high-quality paper. Pallis and Vlastos sent in, and Petrokokkinos also wrote in for others. I’ll send the prospectus as well to Marselos. I’ll be very happy if it’s printed. Eleni hopes to be here in early November. Preparation is taking place in Aegina: I brought in a carpenter. He repaired the doors and windows, put in locks, fixed the frayed walls, etc., so that Gentucca may be startled as little as possible. Melachrinos came here the other day—a heavy, indolent oriental. I didn’t know that he failed to send O Kyklos even to you. As soon as I received your letter, I wrote to him to send you several copies, because it’s shameful for him not to do so. To me he sent only one! And I sent it to Jiménez, because I’m afraid that he probably didn’t send one to him. But I’ll write him to send me more. Greeks! I’m sending you Góngora’s exquisite poems. They’ll give you great pleasure. What lines, what elevated convictions, what humane pride! Could you possible translate one for O Kyklos? (However, he probably did not even return the periodical on Góngora to you; but I’ll write him, because I detest this despicable Greek spiritual and bodily sloth.) Now that I’m without work, I’m thinking of writing the canto on Genghis Khan. After that I’ll begin to revise the fourth draft of the Odyssey, so that the typing may begin. The children’s books will perhaps be written by Eleni. I asked for your manuscripts not in order to copy them but for information on nature, especially zoology, since I don’t have any resources here. Consequently nothing to fear from Dimitrakos. But I’ll write you again if a need turns up. Patras and Hypatia send you greetings. Hypatia had some adventures, but she’s gone back home. She’s written me from Athens. Renaud sent me the periodical: it’s good, polemically leftist, a useful Kampforgan. Did he send it to you? The young folk—Papatzonis, Kalamaras, Emmanouil, Drivas, etc.—are preparing a manifesto against all those who write genuine demotic, and Melachri-

1933 Letters  •  473

nos says that I’m the one who annoys them the most! Miserable fallen generation! They’re doing the opposite of what youth should do. May God be with you—come what may! N

1  he’ll send me:  Melachrinos will send me.  1  Venieris:  Yeoryios Venieris, Cretan-born lawyer serving in the Egyptian court system; Prevelakis’s uncle.  1  fifteen thousand . . . eight thousand: Drachmas.  1  Pallis:  Alexandros Pallis (1851–1935), demoticist, translated the Iliad (1904) into demotic and also the New Testament (1901), the latter leading to riots that left eight dead and seventy injured.  1  Petrokokkinos: Dimitrios Pavlos Petrokokkinos (b. 1898), author of books on Greek elementary education and the Greek language. He was a wealthy businessman who, like Vlastos and Pallis, gave moral and financial support to Psiharis’s demoticist movement.  1  Marselos:  Athanasios Marselos (1889–1953), writer; book editor; publisher at the Librairie Sérapéion, Alexandria, Egypt.  1  Gentucca:  Probably a girlfriend of Dante’s; see Purgatory XXIV.37–38: “Somewhat I heard him whisper of Gentucca: / The sound was indistinct, and murmur’d there . . .” Samiou was from a middle-class family and accustomed to comfort. Her ­father was a distinguished forester who had designed the National Garden in Athens.  1  Patras:  Then a young university student who sometimes visited Kazantzakis.  1  Kampforgan:  A militant organ (speaking of Le Cahier Bleu).  1  Papatzonis: Takis Papatzonis (1895–1976), poet, essay writer, translator; later, member of the Academy of Athens.  1  Emmanouil:  Kaisar Emmanouil (1902–70).  1  Drivas:  Anastasios Drivas (1899–1942), poet.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 401–4.

[Aegina,] 20 November [1933] My dear brother! I’ve delayed writing you because I’m in great turmoil awaiting Eleni. She’s still doing battle out there with the Europeans. Every morning she waits for the preface she was promised, and she cannot depart and thus leave her publisher exposed in this way, since he has printed the whole book and is waiting. There’s yet one more misfortune: Of the two thousand francs she borrowed from Mary, a thousand were stolen from her purse, and now she’s asking for loans again in order to return to Greece. And more: Dimitrakos continues to postpone, which means that I am unable to send her anything at all from here

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because I don’t have anything. And more: up to now, only Petrokokkinos and Pallis have sent their two thousand drachmas for Dante, and Marselos two thousand. No one else. Lefteris writes that it’s impossible for him, and assuredly no sudden friend will be found in Iraklio. Manolis Georgiadis is certain not to send either, seeing that I’m not an insincere hypocrite. And I’ve been sitting here writing the canto on Psiharis. As soon as Eleni comes, I’ll ask her to type it and send it to you. Where the devil do I find this brutal power to sing on top of so many embers? This reversal of fortune and my complete abandonment and solitude upon the earth give me such strength, calm, and productivity that I realize that inside me is Someone—Someone else—who is whistling, someone like Death, with his fez awry! It must be some Ancestor or some Offspring, surely not myself. Thank you for all you wrote about “Genghis Khan.” Those words were the only pleasure I had all these months. But I wonder if you are right. Does everything that I arrange into verse have any value? This doubt does not sadden me at all, because I know that if I write I do so willy-nilly, and that creativity in and of itself relieves me, without my seeking any remuneration. What remuneration exists superior to the disinterested game? If Eleni is further delayed, I’ll rewrite another canto, but I still don’t know which one. Maybe the one on my father. Or the one on Nietzsche. Or on Rahel. I still can’t make out very well which will rise up first. Innumerable pleasures, sorrows, memories well up inside me as I sit now at the large table in your room and look out at the sea. My heart is ardent, my hands ready, God is like a fool, the kind that kings have, and He is parading up and down in front of me to make me laugh. I remember King Lear. Shakespeare has seized hold of me all these weeks. I think there is no creator superior to him. If only I, too, could write a tragic game with so much ease, with such richness, could create nonexistent women, nonexistent men, utopias, wellsprings of reality! What a divine moment for creativity is the point where I am now, with no philosophy, idea, hope, or illusion hanging over me! The Odyssey is constricting; it cannot contain all my pain and all my joy. Only if I were a musician could I vent my entire self with not a single drop of soul spilling outside of the work. But words are an obdurate, exceedingly solid material; they distort and narrow the flow. When I see how the tempest in my breast becomes rigid in words, I am disgusted. That is not what I wanted—not that! I shall die without being able to immortalize my ephemeral eternal Moment. That is my great and only anguish. 21 November Καβάλα τρώει ψωμί, καβάλα γράφει, καβάλα πολεμάει, καβάλα μπαίνει στην άσπρη Χιο, στο λιόχαρο ξωτάφι. That’s how the canto on Psiharis begins. It has 157 lines. The early stalwarts follow: Pallis, Eftaliotis, Palamas, Filindas. They pass through the new cesspool

1933 Letters  •  475

of Hades, where Hatzidakis is screeching with the still-famous leek in his mouth; then “they enter time and go along.” Psiharis becomes a legend; “he anchors in the immortal waters of legend,” and a thousand years later a grandmother tells his fairy tale to her grandchildren, identifying him with Saint George, who rescued the princess from the monster who was poisoning the fountain. That’s the simple outline. If Eleni delays in coming, I’ll copy it out for you, because I’m impatient for you to tell me if it’s worth anything. It’s different from the others. Today it’s very cold and windy. The region is wild, reminding me of Avila as I saw it in December last year. And behold, Teresa took a step, moved into the front line of the twenty-four, and if Eleni takes a few days to come I’ll be compelled to write her canto, to relieve myself. I find it extremely troubling to remain a single moment without conquering some difficulty. I drown in my blood. My father in such moments—because he had such moments, exactly the same, on another level—found relief by clasping a thick drinking glass in his hand and with one gentle motion squeezing it into bits like a lemon. I do the same, using another kind of drinking glass. It’s cold, a Castilian nunnery; the nuns in the courtyard lack fire and bread. A diminutive nun begins the famous song: Véante mis ojos, dulce Jesús bueno; véante mis ojos, muérame yo luego. Teresa clutches the baking pan and begins to dance and to sing her erotic outcry to Christ, calling upon Death, the dark underground path that leads to the Lover. Hunger, cold, and poverty (all of which I am experiencing here in Aegina these days) vanish, are transubstantiated into joy and epithalamium. The peasants come quickly, seeing flames leaping up out of the distant nunnery. “It’s not a fire,” the nuns declare, “it’s not a fire. It’s Teresa singing to God!” (This last element I take from the life of Saint Francis.) That’s the plan of the new canto that was born today. I don’t know whether I’ll start it. But I do know that it would do me good if I did write it. It would constitute a transubstantiation of my sadness, a “catharsis.” Because everything is poison—everything except the creator’s heart—we are lost if we do not turn poison into honey. N

1  the preface: To be written for her Gandhi by Maurice Martin-du-Gard (1896–1970), French writer and journalist, founder in 1922 and director of the important revue Nouvelles Littéraires.  1  Καβάλα τρώει ψωμί, . . . / . . . το λιόχαρο ξωτάφι:  “He eats bread on horseback, writes on horseback / makes war on horseback, on horseback enters / white Chios’s sun-bathed graveyard.” These lines mimic a well-known demotic folk song about Kolokotronis’s band

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of soldiers: “Καβάλλα τρώνε το ψωμί, καβάλλα πολεμάνε, / καβάλλα παν στην εκκλησιά, καβάλλα προσκυνάνε” (Politis 1978, p. 71). In addition, Kazantzakis was aware that Psiharis’s remains were transferred from Paris to Chios in 1932 and buried in the “sun-bathed graveyard” there.  1  Genghis Kahn:  Mongol chieftain (ca. 1162–1227), founder of the Mongol Empire, which he ruled from 1206 until his death. The reference is, of course, to Kazantzakis’s terzina on Genghis Kahn.  1  Nietzsche:  Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900), German philosopher trained as a classical philologist; a significant influence on Kazantzakis, who wrote his Ph.D. dissertation on Nietzsche’s political philosophy and sensed a personal identification with him.  1  Eftaliotis:  Argyris Eftaliotis (1849–1923), poet, prose writer, one of the most radical of the early demoticists; began a translation of Homer’s Odyssey (it was finished by Poriotis).  1  Filindas:  Menos Filindas (1870–1934), educator, journalist, admirer of Psiharis; wrote a demotic grammar in two volumes (1902, 1910).  1  Hatzidakis:  Yeoryios Hatzidakis (1848–1941), leading linguist of his time, professor at the University of Athens, an opponent of demoticism although he also opposed excessive katharevousa.  1  leek in his mouth:  See Pallis’s Κούφια Καρύδια (Liverpool: Liverpool Booksellers, 1915), pp. 443–48.  1  the twenty-four:  Kazantzakis was writing a terzina for each of what he considered his twenty-four “bodyguards.” (The Greek alphabet has twenty-four ­letters.)  1  Véante mis ojos, . . . muérame yo luego:  Let my eyes see you, / sweet, good Jesus; / let my eyes see you, / and then let me die!

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 407–8.

Aegina, January 1934 My dear brother! As usual, I enjoyed your letter very much. As you say, we may end up writing only for each other, something excellent and dangerous. The daring elements that you say these cantos possess are entirely unconscious for me; I fail to discern them even now. I write with the greatest simplicity to which my nature is susceptible and, when I finish writing, I think that the canto is very simplistic, and I want to rewrite it. What will the second draft be? The other night I had a characteristic dream: Someone—I made out only his lips—came and asked me: “Who is your God?” I replied without hesitation: “Buddha.” “No,” he answered, “Epaphos!” whereupon he vanished. Now I see that my God truly is Epaphos. If whatever I think or write is not tangible, if it lacks a body, I find it completely repulsive and insipid. That’s why all of my writings

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seem very simple and obvious to me. When I see people becoming surprised and displeased, I am amazed. How can anyone doubt Touch—the God Epaphos? My mind has been enlightened; now—only now—I understand. That dream will greatly facilitate the entire remainder of my life. I am looking at the Odyssey again, now that Eleni is typing it. There’s no end to it! Every line engenders corrections in me; new images; “αλλόμενα ύδατα”; every word a flint that I strike, so that new sparks fly. I keep saying: How horrible if I had published it! And I fear that this will last my entire life and that the Odyssey will remain a posthumous work. This pleases me, because it makes my game even more disinterested.

1  Έpaphos:  The god of Touch; in both ancient and modern Greek, the noun επαφή = touch, contact; in ancient Greek the verb ἐπαφάω = to touch on the surface, to caress.  1  αλλόμενα ύδατα:  “Water welling up” (John 4:14: a spring of water welling up).

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 409–10.

Aegina, 5 April [1934] Dear brother, As soon as I arrived, I received the enclosed telegram. Why should Bertos consult me? Why didn’t he say anything to me when we met? I immediately wrote Papandreou a long encyclical letter. I told him again, but much more vigorously (now that I had a new fearsome argument: Michelangelo), how shameful it is for him to allow incompetent people to be appointed to the university, people who will perpetuate the decline because they will always choose people just like themselves and will fear anyone better. I mentioned (I had seen Tazedakis, and he told me lots) how far the University of Thessaloniki had declined and depreciated. I appealed to Papandreou’s strengths and weaknesses; perhaps I managed to affect him emotionally. I think that you ought to telephone him in order to see him. Direct contact is always good, never bad. In any case, the telegram pleased me because it gave me the pretext to write again and because it shows that the enemy is frightened. I’m waiting impatiently for you to write me about Theodoridis. Please tell Melachrinos that I’m expecting the three signatures that he promised this week. I don’t want to write him because I’m afraid that I won’t be able to control my indignation. It’s terrible to struggle with sluggards.

478  •  1934 Letters

When you go by Eleftheroudakis’s, see if they put the prospectus for Dante in the window. I’m curious. Mrs. Persaki still hasn’t come. Write me when the proper time arrives for me to write to Papanastasiou. It’s miraculous here. Springtime, the sea, sweetness, tranquillity—as though human beings did not exist. Great happiness. My heart throbbed and danced when I took the path along the shore and returned to my house. How futile and wretched is city life! It seems to me that I shall never again be able to endure life amid dust, gasoline fumes, and people. God be with you! At every moment I’m puffing on the sails of Fate to make them swell out at last so that we may depart! N

1  Bertos:  Nikos Bertos (1885–1949), archaeologist, aesthetician; candidate for the chair of art history in the University of Thessaloniki; later became director of the National Archaeological Museum and of the National Art Gallery.  1  Papandreou:  Then minister of education.  1  Theodoridis:  Haralambos Theodoridis (1893–1958), professor of philosophy at the University of Thessaloniki.  1  signatures:  A printed sheet after being folded to form a group of pages for a book.  1  Mrs. Persaki:  Julia Persaki (1895–1980), wellknown short story writer; their neighbor in Aegina. To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 424–26.

Aegina, 15 July [1934] Dear brother! I received a letter from you after such a long time. All you say about the cantos is correct, but I find myself between two dangers: to allow my wrath to be expressed by means of the word that most expresses it today and that relieves me by expressing it, or to weigh the future deterioration that the word and the feeling will suffer and to find the more stable, future expression. The danger of the second path is great; moreover, that path is contrary to my temperament. The only thing I have decided to do is to place the twelve cantos I have written up to now in a drawer (today I’m sending you “Muhammad”; in subsequent letters, one by one, “Nietzsche,” “Buddha,” “Moses”), in order to allow them to “age” for a while like wine, and around October, when the new wine is ready, to open the drawer and correct them with a steadier hand. I’d very much like to publish them in December if I’m able to. But “Dante” (i.e., Melachrinos) is consuming my resources more than I had calculated, and I

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don’t know if I’ll have any money. I now have four books ready to print. Nikiforos Fokas was naturally rejected by Politis (he suggests that I write a new adaptation). Calandria is still being judged. I notified them to reach an agreement directly with you. But I have no hopes. I don’t know if Eleni is going to leave for the spa in France (she will if the books are adopted). In that case, I’d like to go on a trip in Greece. But your work will make it difficult for us to go to Sfakia, Selino, etc. on a walking tour together. Let’s wait and see. Eleni has composed about twenty poems up to now—without meter or rhyme. They’re extraordinarily attractive, ardent, very courtly. She wants to send them to you on your name day. For my part, I’m going to send you a book for your name day that will give you some pleasure. I think of you at every moment here. Fate is harsh. It is fashioned “κατ’ εικόνα και ομοίωσιν.” It’s not to blame; we are. For certain, Fate holds in its hand neither a sword nor a shroud, but a mirror. I don’t intend to write other cantos in the near future. I wanted twelve this year; that’s enough. I don’t know what to begin now. Yesterday I completed the Rilke translation in half a day. It’s beyond description how awful Karanikolos’s translation is. Let alone the meter, let alone gross misinterpretations: listen to an example: Rilke says, “Flüche, Farben, Lachen.” And Karanikolos: “Oh! what evil, what laughter, what songs! The world is burning up!” Greeks are gross, insensitive, vulgar. I shudder at the thought and sight of them. Write me about your life—when you wake up, how much you work, what walks you take, what fruit there is, what horizons, what people. The dragon you sent me that chews iron was a great joy. How fortunate that the Cretan race still gives birth to such demigods. I am consoled. We have visits here on Sundays. Manolis Triandafyllidis came the other day. Frigid, obsessed with the “great problems” of grammar, certain that he is the one who is going to regulate the language that we shall write. Patience, patience, O my heart! Eleni sends you warm greetings. I’m afraid that Kalmouchos continues to be lost. I am with you always! N

1  Politis:  Fotos Politis (1890–1934), became director of the National Theater in 1930; son of Nikolaos G. Politis (1852–1921), the founder of Greek folklore studies.  1  Sfakia, Selino, etc.:  Historic villages in the Hania prefecture.  1  a book for your name day:  The book he sent was Toda-Raba as published by Le Cahier Bleu.  1  κατ’ εικόνα και ομοίωσιν:  Genesis 1:26: “Then God said, ‘Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.’ ”  1  Flüche, Farben, Lachen: Curses, colors, laughter.  1  Manolis Triandafyllidis:  Linguist (1883–1959), professor at the University of Thessaloniki, author of the definitive demotic grammar (1941).

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To Panaït Istrati —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed in the original French in Eleni ­Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 312–13; Greek translation in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 365–66; English translation in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 303.

Athens, 6 February 1935 Hey Panaïtaki, dear Lazarus who doesn’t even need Christ, O super-Lazarus, greetings! What a joy it is to live on this clod of earth and to love! To love this confounded haïduk with the leaden backside who, after each tumble always lands on his feet! Greetings, O brother, O fellow trickster, eternal Ulysses! I’m leaving for China and Japan in three days. I’m glad to see God’s yellow face, those monkey’s eyes, those cunning smiles, those mysterious masks of our future masters. I’ll be back in five months. But, in the meantime, I place at your disposal my maisonnette on Aegina (three or four rooms, kitchen, verandah, flat sun-roof, vineyard, well, fig tree); on the seashore, a splendid beach! Come, dear Panaïtaki, you’ll be happy there with that young wife of such dazzling beauty and such a dangerous laugh and teeth! We are happy, the two of us, the only happy people in this world, because we play with fire and have need of nothing but our magnificent, voracious, blood-filled hearts. We will devour those hearts each day, and it will be born again each night; we are Prometheus and, at the same time, Prometheus’s eagle—we are complete beings. Seven months ago I sent you Toda-Raba with an affectionate dedication. (Whenever I think of you, affection puts a lump in my throat.) Now you can put it to whatever use your fancy desires. If there is anything to give to its author, drink to my health, to your health, to the health of your wife, Bilili, and Eleni.

1  haïduk:  The title of Istrati’s 1924 novel is Haiducii. This word means “outlaw” in Romanian—a heroic freedom-loving outlaw during the Ottoman period.  1  maisonnette: Cottage.

To Eleni Samiou —Partial manuscript (from 18 February through Port Said, 20 February inclusive) in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 366–68; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 303–5; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 313–16.

Steamship Cyprus, 18 February 1935, afternoon

1935 Letters  •  481

My dear Lenotschka, my Saint George! The Egyptian shoreline has finally appeared. Through the porthole of my cabin, far away, I make out an extremely faint, dark line. We arrive at Alexandria tonight and leave at dawn for Port Said. I’ll arrive exactly on the eve of the departure of the Kashima-Maru, the Japanese boat. I’m the only passenger on the whole ship. No one else in first, second, or third class! My yacht! A furious storm. I had to hold my plate in my hand and feed myself because the tables were dancing. Today the sea calmed down a bit, and the breeze has already become warmer. Some gulls have appeared from nearby land. All day I am lying down and reading and thinking of you, Lenotschka. I hope that you’ll be able to leave for Plombières during the months I am away. (I forgot to tell you that you’re going to receive seventeen hundred drachmas from the Iraklio town hall for the four copies of Dante it purchased.) Just imagine how eagerly I await your first letter in Peking poste restante. I’m stretched out in my cabin today on my birthday and am thinking about my life, recapitulating it and making new decisions once again and fighting to purify myself still more, to get rid of defects, to strengthen whatever in me is good, to ascend— lighter, cleaner—to my forever shifting summit. You are with me, O great Love, and I shudder from joy, delight, and pride. Alexandria, 19 February, afternoon We arrived at Alexandria last night. This morning I was awakened by the shouts of the fellaheen. The ship had come alongside the pier; the fellaheen, barefooted, dressed in djellabas, turbans, fezzes, leaped into the hold like pirates and began to unload, accompanying their toil with monotonous, sorrowful singing in order to lend a rhythm to their movements. The waterfront full of venders—fruit, socks, girls’ jumping rope games, soft drinks—and diminutive women in rags, with hoarse voices. We’re leaving for Port Said at noon and will arrive at midnight. The sea is calm and bright green from the waters of the Nile. So it’s true what the ancient Egyptians used to say: “The great Green.” I’m sitting stretched out on a deck chair looking at the gulls. Far in the distance, the slender silhouettes of date palms. I keep thinking of you continually, Beloved. Because you exist as the highest, profoundest talisman, nothing can trouble me. I am impatient to see the yellow world and at the same time to come back near you and to tell you about the new spectacles. You know how much I love you, or how much the latest affliction, your illness, illuminated the entire chasm of love. After you are healthy, let this be the more precious profit from such an agony. I’ll finish this letter and finally send it tomorrow at Port Said. God be with you, O much-beloved! Port Said, 20 February

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I’m going up and down. I bought the ticket for as far as Shanghai, where I’ll arrive on 20 March. Problems, but by coincidence I found a Cretan (with a fez, and speaking Arabic) as director of the customshouse here, who knew me from Galatea! “Are you Mme Galatea’s husband?” “Yes.” It’s impossible to describe what happened. An armchair for me to sit in, coffee, sweets, and at midday he takes me by force to eat at his house (he’s having pheasant, he tells me). I’m afraid that Mme Galatea will be known in Tokyo, too. No matter! Repulsive heat here. Dust; cheap rubbish in the shops. Salvation Army Englishmen with cruel looks, frigid, pitiless. Nincompoops in short pants; disgusting. The only consolation here was eight excellent tangerines that I bought and that refreshed me. Antlike swarms of people, diseased eyes, poverty, Menschenmaterial full of mud, stink, and shouting. Lenotschka, may God be with you! This is the first letter from the yellow journey. My greetings to Anna, Polly, Alka, Froso, and all queens of the walk. I kiss your arms and shoulders, always, my L! N 20 February 1935, evening . . . So I went to the Greek’s home to eat pheasant. How can I describe the living room to you? It frightened me, and I lost all my appetite. The wife, as a young girl, occupied herself with painting. So, she had made immense, crude copies of post cards and filled the walls. Ghastly dolls on little blue cushions; celluloid Negroes in the corners; horrendous Chinese vases. After a little, out comes Madame, strait-laced, not knowing what to make of me: a tramp, savage, or a superior being. Somewhere a radio was bawling, gurgling amanedes— the wife told me later that she’s crazy about good music! So we sat down at table: mullet, the celebrated pheasant. The servant girl, Katina, was from Crete. A partridge (alive!) began to cluck in the adjoining room, and Monsieur ran out to bring her in. It, too, is from Crete; he brought it from there to remind him of the Cretan mountains. He placed it on the table and, as we were admiring it, it soiled the tablecloth. Madame jumped up and put it in its cage. The meal followed. Cretan wine, Cretan cheese. The ice broke little by little. I asked the wife, “What is the purpose of your life?” and she asked me if God exists. I told her, “Pas encore, Madame!” and she told me to give her a good recipe for life, so she could become happy. I said to her: (1) clean conscience; (2) love something passionately in life, no matter what; (3) never wound a human heart. She thanked me profusely and promised me that she would be happy when I returned four months later. Then we turned off the radio, and I felt indescribably relieved. We went out on the balcony. The sea in front of us was stormy; there was a cool breeze. I breathed deeply. I departed at four o’clock and wandered through the streets until now, seven o’clock. I filled my pockets with marvelously sweet tangerines and kept eating them in the street. Toward evening a little Arab boy came over to me and

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spoke to me in Italian. He removed from his pocket the most obscene photographs to sell to me. Then he offered to take me to his home, where he had a most delectable sister. I told him that I don’t want women, and then he offered me his brother, once again at his home. I said that I don’t want males, and then he looked at me with fear and left me. . . .

1  poste restante:  Postal category that allows letters to remain in the post office until called for.  1  No matter:  Kazantzakis’s phrase here, Πάλι καλά, could perhaps be better translated “It might have been worse” or “it could be worse.”  1  Menschenmaterial:  Available human stock.  1  amanedes: Plaintive songs, very nasal, and filled with the word aman (alack, alas).  1  Pas encore, Madame!:  Not yet, Madame!”

To Eleni Samiou —Manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 373–76; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 310–12; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 320–22.

Siamese Sea, 12 March [1935] Azuma ha ya! We’ve left Singapore, and we’re heading up to China at last. The wind has become cooler; we are moving away from the dreadful tropical countries. Singapore is almost on the equator. We arrived at four o’clock in the afternoon and I went ashore immediately. Unfortunately I was unable to be alone. The French woman was with me, and a German university student, very attractive (the Lange type), who fortunately speaks French, and thus engages in all the talk with the continually insufferable French woman. A splendid sight: first of all the streets filled with Chinese people and Chinese signs: huge white letters on black backgrounds, or gold on green, or black on dark purple. The Chinese men wear the well-known conical hats with a wide brim, the Chinese women trousers and long jackets of black chintz or alpaca or silk. Outdoor eating places and barbers everywhere, unbearable stink from the shops and the sewers (you can’t distinguish which smells come from the people and which from the sewers), exotic fruits that are gluey when you eat them and extravagantly sweet. Children, piled on top of one another, roll in the filth, and everywhere there are divinely green trees with clusters of red flowers, like wisteria. I smoke my pipe and proceed very slowly, enjoying this amazing yellow vision. What greatly impresses me is the unexpected elegance of the Chinese women: simple, well-tailored pajamas without any frills, hair sometimes in long pigtails (each woman has just a single plait) and

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sometimes tightly wound buns (the married women), their faces exceedingly clean, as though licked clean, carved in polished knotless wood, and they walk lightly, decisively, like young men. We felt hungry finally and sat down at an outdoor restaurant: a crowd around us circling the tables, everyone with a bowl in hand, eating with legerdemain, playing with the two chopsticks. Silence; nauseating smell. They brought us rice, fish, eggs. The rice smelled like a Chinaman, the fish had a thick, suspicious sauce, and the eggs, as the Chinese are accustomed to them, were rotten and with the tiny embryo of the bird visible at the center of the yolk. I tried not to vomit (the German was the only one who ate, out of curiosity), and I asked for tea. They brought me a thick liquid that resembled half tea, half hot chocolate. But mostly it resembled salep, unbearably sweet. We left in despair. Fortunately we suddenly encountered a bakery with bread. Each one bought a loaf, purchased bananas, too, and began eating dinner as we walked. In this way we reached the great entertainment center, the famous amusement park, where the radios were shrieking—some Chinese bagpipes made the whole atmosphere howl like a lovesick cat. What could we do? We entered. A huge terrain filled with attractions: a theater in one corner, a cinema somewhere else, dance and music further on, a cabaret at the far end. All around, everywhere, little shops that sold lovely games, cigarettes, face powder, food, women. We made the rounds. In the theater, two amorous couples were howling. The men wore huge beards and bonnets covered with bells; the women were painted gorgons screeching in a sing-song and dancing around a violet scarf kept in motion. Upstage, the Chinese band. Stone implements like garlic crushers, woodwinds, bells, oblong lutes, and a large brass gong like a baking pan that was struck every so often, awakening you from the monotonous, hypnotic lulling. The cinema tasteless, American. But what was indescribably attractive was the multitude that was sitting in the park or walking up and down. Faces full of mystery; harsh, exceedingly intelligent eyes full of fire. A smell like cheap soap. A quiet, incessant rustling, like silkworms feeding. Finally at ten o’clock, the half-moon shining greenly in the tropical sky, we sat down in the doorway opposite the cabaret, in order to watch the Chinese coquettes who were entering. That was the most troubling sight, the most intense vision that the journey has given me so far. Just imagine slender, tall Chinese women like erect snakes, dressed with utmost simplicity in silk, without jewelry, in green, orange, sky blue, black silk sheaths. Never has the human body more resembled a sword. And at each step, through the slit in the side of the dress, the yellow blade of the leg gleams up to the crotch, slender, strong, invincible. And imagine on top of this snakelike, slow-moving body an astonishing heavily powdered papier mâché mask with the slenderest and straightest of eyebrows, and an orange, motionless mouth. The slanted eyes—they, too, are motionless—looking

1935 Letters  •  485

at you indifferently, coldly, mercilessly, just as a snake looks at you. I watched them slide by and disappear one by one beneath the arched doorway of the cabaret as though I were watching serpents slithering into a cave. You heard real hissing from inside. They were dancing, women with women, women with men, on a shiny parquet, their dance led softly and whiningly by an invisible reed-pipe. An exotic, eerie spectacle, sensuality that has reached the deadly point of hallucination, exhaustive identification of opium with woman. The time went by like lightning. The moon had already set when we got up and left. I felt fatigue, pleasure, and disgust—a dim, thick sensation, as though I had drunk hashish and was awakening with horridly deep nostalgic memories of paradise lost. Just like their streets, full of stench from the sewers and odors of jasmine, just like their nauseating, sweet-smelling fruit, just like their women filled with charm and syphilis, so, too, their paradises both attracted and repulsed my soul. I imagine that the Sirens must be similar for a soul filled with courage and self-respect, one that does not wish to lose any of this world’s temptations, yet at the same time does not wish to fall. Of the two methods discovered by mankind—to give oneself over completely and rot, not to give oneself over at all, and to become sanctified—the method of Odysseus is the best.

1  Azuma ha ya: In a letter to Eleni Samiou of 22 February 1935 (Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 369; Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 306), Kazantzakis explains that this phrase is Japanese, meaning “Oh! my wife!” and is connected with a legend about a young woman named Tachibana Hime drowning because she casts herself into the sea in order to revenge herself upon her husband. Azuma is the name of the eastern coastal provinces of Japan, the name deriving from the husband gasping in remembrance of Tachibana, “Azuma ha ya” (Alas! my wife).  1  salep:  Beverage made from the roots of several species of orchids ground into a powder that is then mixed with milk, sugar, and spices.  1  of the two methods:  Kazantzakis says “of the three methods” but then cites only two.

To Alexis Minotis —Manuscript in Paxinou-Minotis Archive, ELIA; photocopy of manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

Kyoto, 1 April 1935 Dear comrade! What a joy it would be for us to be together, two men, and to move about beneath the multicolored lighted lanterns and the blossoming cherry trees! The earth is beautiful. How can two eyes ever have their fill, how can they

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contain it! I take what I can, tossing all the yellow people I see and all the colors and all the sounds into the sinkhole of my mind, and hoping that “God” will grant that some of them may emerge as various fine verses in the Odyssey-sea. I’m ashamed to be going around in this way, like a bandit. I lack the aesthete’s or the superior person’s disinterestedness. But I’ll be in the Odyssey’s service for another ten years and the two of us will have time afterwards to degenerate, to become aesthetes, or to be raised up and reach effortlessness, the acme of human effort. I continually think of you. I don’t see a woman, apple, red lantern, or dancer without us sharing them together in our very depths. This is another population, another world, another of God’s faces. Yellow mud, throats with shrill voices, smiles that are suspiciously mysterious. I often shudder from sensual delight or fear. Tokyo, 2 April God be with you! I’m sending you this letter hurriedly. I’ll remain here until 23 April; then to China. I hope that I’ll be hearing your deep voice again in June and that we’ll be eating refreshing fruit together in Aegina! Always, N

1  Alexis Minotis:  Minotis (1900–1990), born in Crete, became a leading actor; married to the actress Katina Paxinou.

To Eleni Samiou —Manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 382–84; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 317; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 328.

[Tokyo,] 15 April [1935] Azuma ha ya! I received the newspapers and the terrible news in the envelope that Panaït had died. I’m impatiently awaiting a new letter from you in order to learn the details. Life is horrible, and we don’t realize this and lose ourselves in trifles and abominations. Only when someone we love dies do we sense that we are walking on the lip of the abyss. I’m impatient to return to your side and for us to walk hand in hand. It’s the only consolation. I’m unable to write anything to Kaiti. Everything seems to me futile, senseless words in the face of fearsome reality.

1935 Letters  •  487

My days here are finishing now, and I’m leaving. Many difficulties—I’ll relate them to you. But I am indifferent to everything because I know that you exist and that the divine days of our holy cohabitation will arrive. It’s raining here, too. It’s cold. Good days are rare. The cherry blossoms have fallen. Every day we have small but annoying earthquakes. There are some pleasures: theater, ancient art, folk music, landscapes. I’ve bought many books to leaf through, all about ancient painting. I go every day and inquire about the pearl. It was ordered at the central store where they have oysters and is expected today. I’ll stop by again this evening. They’re at war again in China, but I hope to be in time to see Peking and to depart from Shanghai on 6 May on the Japanese ship Yasukuni Maru. Thus send the letters you write me to Colombo or Port Said. I bought a new valise to put my purchases in. I wish I could carry home the whole of Japan for you. But what I can—that is, a trifle—I will keep for your trifling pleasure. 17 April It’s cold, raining and raining. All day yesterday I was in Nikko, an ancient city three hours away from Tokyo. Lovely mountains; huge cryptomeria trees, a kind of conifer in the cypress family; splendid old temples; statues, paintings; passageways of stone lanterns. I bought several prints for gifts. Right now I am in my room, narrow and long, a beautiful brass brazier in front of me and on the wall the painted panel of Buddha that I bought. A pile of books. I’ll need to purchase another valise. The gong is hanging in the window, and I’m eager for you to hear its sound. The German university student came, the one I met on the boat; he got me a ticket for Siamese dancers who’ll perform on Saturday. The other day I went out at night with a friend to a house of geishas. It’s impossible for me to describe to you the purity and joy of the atmosphere. A wooden house, like all the others. Two huge paper lanterns at the entrance. As soon as we knocked, the door opened and a mass of young girls leaped forward to welcome us, as though we were old, old, beloved acquaintances. They bowed to us, touching their foreheads to the ground. Removing our shoes, they led us to the living room. Mats, the wood aromatic, no furniture except a little low table, two brass braziers, pillows. On the wall a panel with a religious subject: Buddha meeting a woman and conversing with her, surrounded by flowers. We sat down cross-legged, the geishas around us. I spoke, using my rudimentary Japanese, and they all laughed. They brought us pistachios and sweets, warm saki. We drank. One of them took the samesen and began to play, kneeling on both knees. A very young one rose and danced. Grace, calm, modesty, dressed in their brightly colored kimonos, their eyes happy and innocent to a degree that I never saw in any European family. My friend, who knows Japanese perfectly, joked with them, and they all laughed like seven-year-old children. Never have I felt such innocence and womanly

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sweetness. Sitting quietly with crossed arms, like Buddha, I watched them. I did not extend my hand to touch them, so afraid was I that the enticing vision would vanish. We left very late. They bowed to the ground, kowtowing to us, put on our shoes, kowtowed again, joyously chirping like birds: “Arigatou gozaimasu! Arigatou gozaimasu!” (We thank you very much! We thank you very much!) 20 April I’ve been days again without receiving a letter from you, and the world has grown dark once more. I’m leaving Tokyo the day after tomorrow, going back to Kobe, from where I’ll take the boat to Peking. I’ll stay in Peking five days, then Shanghai, and on 6 May I board the Yasukuni Maru and return. On 31 May I’ll be in Port Said, and from there it’s a Greek ship. Yesterday I dined in a Japanese restaurant with a former Japanese ambassador to Athens. Once again a young girl came to the threshold where we were entering, kowtowed, touching her forehead to the paving stones. We climbed the utterly clean steps and sat down cross-legged on cushions. Every customer has a private room because very few customers come here. The room was bare. Mats on the floor; three cushions; three brass braziers with lighted coals. On the wall a panel, painted reeds, and in the corner a vase with three flowers. Nothing else. The waitress came with her mauve kimono and strangely architectural hairdo. She kowtowed with face to floor: the ritual of the meal was beginning. Green tea, then hors d’oeuvres of thin slices of raw fish and saki, then hot napkins to wipe our faces. Then wonderfully delicious turtle soup, fried fish that we dipped in a strange sauce, shrimp, a sort of meatball, etc. At the end, huge strawberries. The charm that such dinners have is indescribable. Something religious, ritualistic, impossible to communicate. The girl who serves, a grand dame, sits crouching in the corner and keeps watch. Divining our every motion, she runs silently and brings saki, or matches, or tea, or a napkin, whatever we have in mind. We stayed three hours. Finally the lady came again, kowtowed silently, and withdrew. The ritual had ended. We rose, the girls ran, put on our shoes, kowtowed again, chirping “Arigatou gozaimasu! Arigatou gozaimasu!” (We thank you very much!) And we went out into the street, astonished by the noise all around us. I got you the pearl! Superb! Large! Colored light rose! I am very pleased. I had ordered it two weeks ago, but they didn’t find one large enough, except one that they discovered for me the other day. However, they wanted 3,600 yen for it—that is, 110,000 drachmas! Fortunately they found a much cheaper but extremely beautiful one for me today. You’ll have your ring at last. I’m leaving Tokyo tomorrow morning. This term of service, too, is finished. Never again! Little by little, I’m bidding farewell, also, to the Japanese soil.

1935 Letters  •  489

I’ve not been sleeping well; the other day I awoke in terror. I seemed to be hearing a voice saying to me: “You are seated on granite, but you know that everything is air.” Almost every day there is a small earthquake here. The mountains a little beyond Tokyo are full of hot springs that smoke. It’s certain that we’re sitting on a volcano that’s still alive. But the voice that I heard at night had an assuredly metaphysical meaning, in accord with my entire vision of life. I’m sending you this letter because I’ve been waiting in vain for yours. I hope that I have time to send you one from Kobe as well. Do not forget me, my dear. You know that I have no one beside yourself, neither in this life nor in the next. N

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, p. 449.

[Aegina, early July 1935] Dear brother, I just received this manuscript of Eleni’s, and she asks me to send it to you to give to Eleftheroudakis for the journal. Eleftheroudakis had commissioned her to send him “Letters from Paris.” I hope he agrees to print it. Eleni writes that she doesn’t have a copy and doesn’t want to lose it. Today I’m signing a contract and buying the celebrated meadow for fourteen thousand drachmas. I’m very pleased, because it’s one of the most beautiful building lots on the shore. Now, the little house! If anything happens regarding the Thessaloniki matter, please write me. Always, N I’ve had workmen here since Monday. Yesterday I suddenly wrote a few lines of verse. The sea is indescribably refreshing.

1  the Thessaloniki matter:  The chair of art history was being advertised again at the University of Thessaloniki, and Prevelakis had applied.

To Eleni Samiou —Manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 390–91; English translation (incomplete)

490  •  1935 Letters

in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 324; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 336.

Aegina, 15 July [1935] My dear Lenotschka! Yesterday, Sunday, the moment I received your letter with the vigorous instruction about the house, I had visitors: Marselos, someone else whom you don’t know, Kalmouchos, and Douras! So I read out loud: “Septic tank . . . kitchen sink . . . I hate pink!” I notified the workmen that as soon as they come they need to receive instructions from Douras, who tremblingly appeared willing to assume the responsibility. The workmen came; the instructions began; they agreed; thus I felt relieved. The maximum will be done. The WC in the kitchen is already finished; it’s spacious, with a large English wash basin and a large cistern that will be filled from outside (a pump is impossible), also a large skylight, white tiles on the floor as well as on the lower portion of the walls, etc. After this, the outside wall of my office was cemented and I added a rain gutter so that water will stop running down the wall. Furthermore, they’ve got the pits open. Furthermore, the kitchen sink was tiled and the window made a bit smaller. Furthermore, the door downstairs to the veranda was built, as were cupboards and the upper windows. The workmen are busy this very moment that I’m writing you. Tomorrow the plasterer will come so that the walls can be painted as you ordered—the kitchen ochre (I hate pink), etc. At the end I’ll get oil paints for the doors and windows (they’ll paint the window bars with a special red paint that the salt will not wear away). How shall they paint the doors and windows? I didn’t have instructions, and I consulted Douras. They’ll be painted orange (the color of my tunic). The window frames and door frames will be yellow, as will be a wide band around the entire bottom of the wall; the wall above will be white. Hence: white, yellow, orange. (Inside, the doors and windows will be painted in accord with the room.) I’m doing what I can to ensure that everything is done that should be done. So don’t worry. I’m glad that I’m getting the house ready for you; in this way I forget all these anxieties and transform them into joy. What bothers me, however, and what I cannot convert into joy, is that I still have not received the money from Mary and from Toda-Raba. What’s going on? I’m very worried. I already wrote you about this, and it’s unnecessary for me to repeat myself. As soon as the workmen finish (I think in another six or seven days), I’ll go to Athens for two days to see Vlachos and will speak to him about the plays. Care is needed to keep them from getting the information and using it. Minotis and the others are away on tour in Patras; thus, I don’t have anyone I trust to ask. In any case, you need to keep them, because there is hope.

1935 Letters  •  491

I’m still up to my neck in the school primers, and I’ve nearly gone mad. I continually write and erase. Kalmouchos comes, we work together, and I rewrite. And I need to do another one or two readers for the second grade. The fourth grade one I’m not going to do. If Tagore’s story is suitable, use it for one of the readers. Thanks for the two photos. I like the expression in the one where you’re looking at the sun for the first time. I like the meaning of the poems, but their form is not comfortably simple. They need work, because the method that you follow is so compressed that it is incomprehensible if it does not achieve absolute simplicity (Nachman). What you need is the simplicity that exists after complication, not the other simplicity that still has not been contaminated by complication. The most difficult of feats, the supreme ambition. And you’ll need to suffer a lot. It’s a rough ascent. I sent the card to Anna and also to Zizi. I’m impatient for you to come at last, because today I have new worries about whether disturbances broke out in France yesterday. Katina brings me newspapers only in the evening; thus, I don’t know anything and am terribly worried. Douras, Kalmouchos, and Marselos send you warm greetings. They, too, are anxious. Today a well was started on our “estate,” and they hit rock after thirty centimeters! We’re going to bore through the rock; then we’ll find soil and water. Will it be good water? Hard to know. In any case, the house will have a small cistern. Douras rolled up his sleeves and asked for information on labor costs, materials, etc. He’ll submit an estimate. If one of the schoolbooks is adopted, we’re saved—the house will sparkle at the sea’s edge next year. A minimum of 200,000 is required. I’m receiving regular visitors again. People I don’t know, who want to meet “the person who writes articles for Akropolis”! Also people I do know, and I sit, and I cook for them and wash the dishes myself and make them coffee and then tea. When they leave, the kitchen is upside-down, and I linger again to sweep, wash dishes, tidy up—all this because Sophia is ill (uterus, she says), Katina is studying to become a seamstress, and I don’t want even to set my eyes on Mme Maria. Thus, I have Babbitt as my only helper, assistant cook, and sleeping companion. But what good can he do anyone? Dear Lenotschka, I kiss your oh-so-desirable body. Aegina will gleam on the 7th or 8th of August. People will say: “What’s going on? Is the house with the little tower, near Baltas’s, on fire? We see flames!” “No, they’re not flames,” someone who knows will answer. “It’s L., who has returned.” Always, N

1  Douras:  Vasilis Douras (1904–81)], the architect who designed Kazantzakis’s house on Aegina and, much later, the new wing of the National Theater.

492  •  1935 Letters

In the spring of 1937, when Kazantzakis occupied the house, it was only ­half-finished, and Kazantzakis himself aided the workmen in completing it.  1  whether disturbances broke out in France yesterday: On Bastille Day, 14 July 1935, in Paris, there was a large antifascist demonstration with the anarchists, barred as such by the police, joining trade union groups; between 100,000 and 500,000 marched from the Bastille to the Place de la Nation.  1  the person who writes articles for Akropolis:  Kazantzakis’s travel articles on Japan appeared daily in the newspaper Akropolis from 9 June 1935 until 17 August, followed by those on China from 18 August to 24 September. For precise titles, see Katsimbalis 1958, pp. 24–26, nos. 376–431.

To Eleni Samiou —Manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 392; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis, pp. 325–26; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 337–38.

[Aegina,] 6 December [1935] My dear L! I realized that today was my name day from the following incident: First thing in the morning, Mr. Katsimingos, in his black, official clothes and with a clean blue kerchief around his neck, came to express his best wishes. So I decided in my turn to celebrate by placing a few coffee beans in the coffee mill—a special for today. Thus, I drank my coffee today and wished myself a better “next year, too.” Beautiful day. I didn’t feel any joy. I got up to go on an excursion. I went by Aegina town, where a present was waiting for me at the post office—a beautiful edition of Hamlet in French and English that Prevelakis sent me. I was pleased and I continued on as far as Mesagros. There I discovered an excellent beginning for my book Mon père. I noted it in my carnet and turned toward home. Passing by Prokopis’s, I bought three pastries, presents from the three people who love me the most: you, my sister Eleni, and the unknown X. At home I had last night’s chicory and half a herring. At first, I said that I wouldn’t heat the chicory and would eat it cold (you know how awful it is cold); afterwards I remembered that it was my name day and said I’d warm it—so I warmed it. Afterwards, you can imagine how the Copenhagen pastry that I ate seemed to me? I also drank a little of Anna’s liqueur, to your health. Thus endeth the 6th of December. 7 December

1935 Letters  •  493

Dear! Pan. sent me the manuscripts on 2 December. I received them on the third and returned them on the fourth. As you’ll see, it was unnecessary for you to send them. I corrected practically nothing. When Kalmouchos comes tomorrow, I hope that he’ll be carrying a letter from you, so that I can see how you’re getting along. I ask you again, please, to get the bijoux de ceinture because I have a great need for En fumant. Also bring: loose tea, 100 drams, from Ethniko cocoa, loose, half an oka, from Ethniko good-quality chestnuts savory olives I got another two okas of olive oil. Eleni is coming this month, but she doesn’t know exactly when. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to come to Athens, and I’ll wait for you here. The entire outline for En fumant is ready, right up to the smallest detail. What’s needed is for it to catch fire. I’m waiting for the spark; but my heart is still shut and does not yield. I appeal to it every day, in vain. Have you seen Douras? Very great need! Worry about the house is consuming me. I’m sending you advertisements for Gandhi. Distribute them to friends, relatives, and Kauffmann’s. I still have a pile of them here. The afternoon was full of sunshine. I was sorry that you weren’t here. See Douras without fail. Probably Kalmouchos will come because I remembered that he is going to take care of the lumber. Get the bijoux de ceinture if you can. I don’t have anything else tonight. I’m sending you this letter hastily—I needed to talk with you. Greetings to Anna, Yorgo, Polly, Alka. Always, N

1  Mr. Katsimingos:  Aegina’s spice and coffee merchant.  1  Mesagros: Village on Aegina about 13 kilometers (8 miles) east of the main port.  1  carnet:  Notebook.  1  Pan.:  Perhaps Mary Pandou?  1  bijoux de ceinture: Trinkets for decorating belts, sometimes hanging by chains from the belt.  1  100 drams:  The oka was divided into 400 drams, so this is a quarter oka = 320.5 grams = 11.28 oz.  1  half an oka:  = 641 grams = 1 lb. 6.61 oz.  1  two okas:  = 2 kilos 564 grams = 5 lb. 10.44 oz.  1  Eleni is coming:  His sister Eleni.  1  Kauffmann’s:  Athenian bookstore specializing in foreign books.

494  •  1935 Letters

To Eleni Samiou —Manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 392–93; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 326–27; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 338–39.

[Aegina,] Saturday [14 or 21 December 1935] My dear L! Yesterday and the day before were gorgeous days—warm, May-like sunshine—and I didn’t budge from the terrace. Today: wind, cold, storm. I’ll go to Athens to get bread and newspapers, because Mme Maria didn’t even show up to ask if I wanted anything. I carried water to the storage tank. I’m cooking: on Thursday I ate spaghetti, Friday noon trakhana, trakhana in the evening, Saturday noon I decided to make trakhana and did, tonight I’ll eat trakhana. If someone comes tomorrow, I plan to make him trakhana. I’m getting along fine in this way, and for variety I eat trakhana sometimes with olives and sometimes without olives. The wall is finished; it turned out very well. Don’t forget to have Mary give you the other two hundred drachmas for the wall; the carpenter charged me four hundred. Thodoros is ill, and the construction hasn’t started yet. He says by Monday. I’ve done the outline for En fumant but I don’t know when I’ll begin it. My heart has been heavy all these months—I don’t know why—and I cannot enter the passionate atmosphere that is required for creativity. I’ve completely sketched out how the book will be, all the details and even the form. It will be in Japan, where a geisha lights my pipe for me and throws in a tiny little black grain—a bit of hashish. All of a sudden the idea that had been working on me secretly all that time leaps up, and I experience in a few moments everything about my father, Crete, and my childhood years until the pipe goes out and I hear the laughter of the geisha, who had been watching me in my abstracted state, as though I had forgotten for a moment where I was. The hashish is a perfect justification for the escape and at the same time for the jerky, violent, jumpy style that the book will have, and for the multitude of hallucinatory tableaux: Far Eastern and Cretan scenery inextricably entangled, slanted eyes and delicate, white, Cretan head scarfs, a difficult and fascinating confusion. I’ve got all of it in my mind, all of it, but I lack the divine moment of nonchalance and intoxication. But that, too, will come—in the winter, when we are alone. I am very tired of visits, conversations, and concerns about practical matters.

1936 Letters  •  495

I hope that you won’t go out tomorrow and won’t be distressed by the Athenian atmosphere. I don’t have any other instructions. Come only when you can, alone, so that our true rhythm may begin. All my other forms of life are tiring. Don’t forget to telephone Minotis. My warm greetings to Anna, Yorgo, and Alka. I’m well. Don’t worry about me at all. Always, N

1  trakhana:  Souplike meal prepared from crushed wheat or semolina boiled in milk and dried, crumbled, dried again, then added to boiling water; typical meal for very poor people. Something like frumenty. (“Trakhana” is the accusative case of the masculine noun “trakhanas.”)

To Harilaos Stefanidis —Manuscript in Demosthenes Stefanidis family archive, Iraklio; printed in Aposkitou-Alexiou 1978, pp. 157–58.

Aegina, 4 February 1936 Hey, there, welcome, long time no see! “First, I trust that you are in the best of health.” Second, I announce to you that in the spring I, too, shall begin to build a house with an upstairs and downstairs. It’s already all set on a large blueprint. You don’t believe this; you believe that everybody has your brains and your scorn of money. As for us, unfortunately we were forced by necessity to create something of a nest egg, and we thought that the best place to put it would be in real estate. (One should mistrust movable goods and chattels.) So from now on we invite you to make yourself at home in our mansion. And bring along your rifle, because once in a while there’s a goat here that ought not to escape you. That’s that concerning the property. Now I’m going to ask a favor of you: Since I have no way to buy pipe tobacco, I’d be most grateful to you if you could find an oka (or even half) of good tobacco leaves from your district and send them to me via our M.P., dear Polychronakis. (That way his election will be justified!) He’s a deputy (forgive me for using the word), and there’s no fear that his valises will be searched. He should leave the tobacco with Mrs. Anna Tsangridi (she’s Eleni Samiou’s sister) at 54b Ioulianou Street; I’ll pick it up from there. You’ll give me great pleasure, and since I know that you are hard up, tell Polychronakis how much it costs, and I’ll ask Mrs. Tsangridi to give it to him.

496  •  1936 Letters

Here, Kalmouchos and I drink to your health every day. At the first glass (for years now) we’ve been calling out “Harilaos!” and drinking. Now I’ll be smoking to your health! So much for the tobacco. Some more now: In Aegina I’m living in the house that you know, but fixed up. I’m working peacefully (writing—in other words, nonsense!), fully satisfied, without the slightest ambition, without worrying about anything, viewing the world as a soap bubble with a thousand and one colors and knowing that one day it will go pop and burst. In the meantime, I view it with lots of zest and interest. Everything that’s taking place around me—politics, the king, the republic, Kondylis (long life to you!—strikes me as even more futile and senseless than the poetry I’m writing. Only one thing is worthwhile: travel. I very much enjoyed China and Japan; now I’m sitting motionless here and digesting, like a snake. I’m planning another extended journey to Central Africa and South America. At the moment, however, I’m writing a book in French that will be published in Germany. In this way time passes—in other words I pass, but with many pleasures. My friend Buddha prescribes: “Observe everything as though for the first time. Observe everything as though for the last time!” I observe in this way. Thus, I observe both the most important and least important things, finding them all—a butterfly and a republic, a beetle and Mussolini—to be of equal weight. This is the way that you, too, should view the world if you want to acquire tranquillity and joy and to stop being tormented by superfluous sighs and groans. Your rifle (watch out for the goats!), a few books, the orchard at your home (how exquisite your Seville orange trees and your lemon trees!), the wine cellar (is the tube of the hubble-bubble still being filled?), and coming to Aegina sometimes—that’s what true life is. I hope that you’ll write me quickly because you really are the only person I long to have kept seeing here in my divine solitude. I wonder if I’ll ever deserve to come again to Vori—to see Despoinio, Styliani, Alexandros, Mihelios again? How are all those dear souls doing? Allah kerim! May God be with you! May the leap year 1936 give you great happiness! May the light of the sun see you in military uniform again and with many stripes! May Albion (even though she’s an old woman!) find them troublesome, to give you an opportunity to draw your sword! It’s about time the devil broke his leg. Always, N

1  First, I trust that you are in the best of health.:  Kazantzakis playfully begins with the formulaic opening to old-fashioned letters in katharevousa, the kind he used to send to his father: Πρώτον έρχομαι να ερωτήσω δια την καλήν σας υγείαν.  1  an oka (or even half):  2 lb. 13 oz. (or even 1 lb. 6½ oz.).  1  Polychronakis: Constantine P. Polychronakis, member of parliament

1936 Letters  •  497

from Crete.  1  politics, the king, the republic, Kondylis:  Yeoryios Kondylis (1878–1936) was in the military until 1923, then in politics. On 10 October 1935, after a coup overthrowing the republican government of Panagis Tsaldaris (1868–1936), Kondylis declared himself regent, abolished the republic, and arranged a plebiscite on 11 November for return of the monarchy. But he quarreled with King George II after the king’s return and died of a heart attack on 1 February 1936, three days before Kazantzakis’s letter.  1  Allah kerim!:  “God is generous.”

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 455–56.

Aegina, 11 April 1936 Dear brother! I’ve finished a novel in French, Le Jardin des rochers, and have sent it to the German publisher who commissioned me to write it. It will come out in German next autumn. Perhaps you’ll find time to read it. I’d like to send you the manuscript at the first opportunity. If this book finds readers in Europe, it will be prologue to a series, which I intend to write in French, of books in which I apply my vision of life. A few days ago I started another novel in French, Mon père, about Crete (the month of August 1896). Write me if you have in mind any book about Cretan derring-do and incidents in the insurrections. I would like this book to turn out well, and to be full of Crete. Happy Easter! Always with you, N Thanks for everything you keep sending me. I read it all, avidly.

1  Le Jardin des rochers:  The Rock Garden.  1  Mon père:  My father.  1  Happy Easter:  Greek Orthodox Easter in 1936 fell on 12 April.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, p. 458.

Aegina, [6] May 1936

498  •  1936 Letters

Dear brother! I was greatly moved by your letter. Given that you took so long, I thought that you didn’t like Le Jardin des rochers at all and you were postponing telling me so. I’m glad you liked it. I, too, have become confident that it might be good. I’m finally finishing the other novel about my father and Crete. But I’ll hold on to it for a while, so that I can revise it. I feel suffocated when I think about Crete and am unable to write about it with ease. Perhaps a trip to Crete will give me courage. Couldn’t you possibly hop over to Aegina some day? Eleni will be away in Athens almost the whole of May; thus I’ll be alone, and we’ll have time to talk. The manuscript of Le Jardin des rochers is the only one I have. I might need it at the end of May when Eleni comes. Give it to her then, if you wish. Para siempre! N

To K. Kostantoulakis —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from George Stefanakis.

Aegina, August 1936 No matter how distant I am by temperament from tender, nostalgic poetry full of grace and civilized refinement, nevertheless I am well aware of how poetically substantial your verses are. Thank you for sending them to me. N. Kazantzakis

1  K. Kostantoulakis:  The poet, critic, and translator (1917–83), born in Iraklio, whose pen name was Aris Diktaios (also spelled Konstantoulakis).

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 464–66.

SS Ousukuma, 12 October 1936, near Gibraltar My dear brother! It is with emotion that I see sierra nevadas again, the beloved coastline, and divine the wounded face of Spain behind it. Perhaps this is the bitterest

1936 Letters  •  499

motive making me repeat this journey, as though a dear friend had been wounded and I were hastening to see him. But steamships are still old-fashioned; they move like turtles and cannot conform to the feverish tempo of the modern heart. That’s why I am pacing up and down on this ship all alone, vexed, angry, and looking out upon the treeless, bare, entirely bony body of Spain on my right. I am thinking intensely about the spiritual length and breadth that I have been living through this year, and am attempting to describe it in simple forms. The simplest form that I have found is this: Until 1923, full of emotion and fire, I lived through nationalism. Dragoumis was the shadow I felt by my side. From approximately 1923 to 1933, I lived through the leftist faction with the same emotion and fire. (I was never a communist, as you know; I never caught that kind of intellectual scabies.) The vaporous shadow I felt by my side: P. Istrati. Now I am living through the third stage—will it be the last? I call it freedom. No shadow. Only my own, long and lean, dark black, ascending. I have liberated myself from red and other colors, have ceased to identify my soul’s fate—my salvation—with the fate of any idea whatsoever. I know that ideas are inferior to a creative soul. I am becoming continually more amoral, unidealistic, not however with the negative content of those words but rather with the deep, positive content they possess—for they are negative only for infertile, insensitive, frigid souls. I have liberated myself from all forms of the recompense always given by various factions. I don’t hope for any of the heroic martyrdoms or punishments they promise. I think that I have finally reached the climate that suits me, the climate that I possessed formerly only as a presentiment. Wearing this form of armor—that is, completely naked—I am undergoing the first crucial experience of my new freedom: I am going to see blooddrenched Spain. Lisbon, 16 October [1936] I’m leaving for Spain in an hour—for Talavera, site of the headquarters of the army that is besieging Madrid. I didn’t have time to see Lisbon. All day long I was racing around in order to get permission to enter Spain. I managed only to go to the Belém Monastery, the flower of the “arte Manuelina.” All my thoughts were on Spain, where ordeals of body and soul surely await me. But I’ll tie my heart into a knot, gritting my teeth. I hope that nothing happens to me and that I come back. From now on, it will be a long time before you receive word from me from Spain. I’ll write you as soon as I can, so you won’t worry. I think of you at every moment; you are truly one reason why I’ll be careful and will indeed come back. God be with you, para siempre! N

500  •  1936 Letters

1  sierra nevadas:  Not the actual Sierra Nevada range, but jagged mountains in general.  1  long and lean:  Kazantzakis’s word, μακροντέμπλικος, is defined in Pitikakis’s Cretan dialect dictionary as resembling the long, narrow, flexible sticks used to harvest olives by banging against the fruit and making it fall to the ground.  1  Belém Monastery:  The Jerónimos Monastery located in the Belém district of Lisbon, built in the sixteenth century.  1  arte Manuelina:  The Manueline style: Portuguese late Gothic, named after King Manuel I of Portugal, who reigned from 1495 to 1521.  1  Talavera:  Talavera de la Reina, site of a battle on 3 September 1936 in which the Nationalists captured the Republicans’ last line of defense before Madrid, thus enabling the Nationalists to begin their siege.  1  Para siempre:  For ever. In a letter to Max Tau dated 25 May 1952, Kazantzakis concludes: “. . . para siempre, as Saint Teresa used to say.”

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 410–11; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 341–42; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 354–55.

JUNTA DE DEFENSA NACIONAL Oficina Central CAMPSA BURGOS, 26 October [1936] My dear, I’m writing to you here in Burgos, and I don’t know when I’ll send this letter to you. There is huge censorship, and Greek letters don’t get through easily. That’s why I’m sending you postcards written in French, in the hope that they’ll reach you. I dream of you often and am afraid that you are ill or sad. Being far away from you, as I am, I feel once again what I know so well: that without you my life would be extremely sad. I keep you with me at every moment, I bring you into my blood, and I am glad that my life seems so fine, providing me in this way such a beloved person for whom I wait and who waits for me, a person who I hope will sit down next to me in front of a large window (with a shutter), and we will look out together at the sea until our eyes are closed with a handful of Aegina’s soil. My life here is filled with a spectacle that is exceedingly grievous to me, as you well understand. For a week I toured the entire northern front by car. Going to the front line amid bombardments and bullets, perhaps I was somewhat in danger, because several shells landed next to me. I remained standing at first, but then I trained myself and, as soon as the roar of the shell was heard, I dived down with the others onto the ground, so as not to expose myself to the explosion. I went into the trenches, saw the reds across from me,

1937 Letters  •  501

experienced warfare for a week. Villages in ruins, mothers weeping, people dressed all in black, dogs remaining still on the threshold, their eyes all red. I’m returning tonight to Salamanca, where I am quartered. I’ll stay there a short while and will then make another tour by car, this time of the southern front—Toledo, etc. Lots of difficulty, because it’s hard to get permission to go to the front and there are very few cars and no other way. I sent several articles but I very much doubt if they arrived. I’m keeping copies. As soon as we enter Madrid, I’ll stay a few days and then come home. Burgos—here—is a marvelous city, its cathedral God’s impregnable fortress. It is great good luck that the weather has been marvelous all these days. Divine sunshine, warmth, the autumn indescribably beautiful—yellow, gold, reddish brown. It’s nighttime, the moon huge. I’m sitting in a café in front the cathedral waiting for ten o’clock to arrive: the time to depart. I’ll be in Salamanca at four o’clock. A tiresome journey, but I’ve got some apples and my pipe, and I keep thinking of the little house on Aegina and saying that the days go by and I’ll come home, and we’ll find Thodoros the carpenter again and move ahead at full speed. Let’s celebrate Christmas there. Most probably I’ll keep this letter myself, but that doesn’t matter. I write in order to speak a little with you in this way as I sit all alone here tonight in the midst of this throng of people. God be with you, my dear Lenotschka. I’ll continue in Salamanca. Para siempre, N

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/2; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, p. 15.

Aegina, 18 March 1937 Dear friend! The house I’m building here will be finished in April, and the book cases will go in. Thus, I’d like to know if it’s possible for me to get the Great Encyclopedia, and under what terms. You told me that it won’t be difficult. I hope not! Please write me and tell me what to do. Please keep an eye out for the entire Faust that I am publishing every Monday in Kathimerini. I hope you like it. Yours, with love, N. Kazantzakis

1  Stamos Diamantaras: Diamantaras (1913–88) worked as a bookseller from 1933 to 1941 with Chrysostomos Ganiaris, eventually in the firm Pyrsos,

502  •  1937 Letters

which published Kazantzakis’s Odyssey. When this closed, he teamed up with I. and P. Zacharopoulos but was continually harassed by the police owing to his communist sympathies. His Greek resistance bookshop “Rigas” was demolished by an English tank in December 1944.  1  the Great Encyclopedia: Μεγάλη Ελληνική Εγκυκλοπαίδεια, published by Pyrsos in twenty-four volumes (1926–34).  1  the entire Faust:  His translation of Goethe’s Faust, Part I, was serialized in the newspaper Η Καθημερινή on 8, 14, 22, 29 March, 5, 12, 19, 26 April, 10, 17, 24, 31 May, 7, 14, 21, 28 June, and 5 July 1937. In 1942 it appeared again, this time in Nea Estia 31–32 (January through December), dedicated to Ion Dragoumis and Petros Vlastos.

To Alexis Minotis —Manuscript in Paxinou-Minotis Archive, ELIA; published (complete) in Kazantzakis 1985, p. 116, (incomplete) in Glytzouris 2007, pp. 181–82 and (incomplete) in Petrakou 2005, p. 85.

Aegina, 25 April 1937 My dear friend and comrade! Eight years have passed since you left here. My eyes have turned to glass staring at the sea. During your absence I have experienced many things, some good, some terrible. My heart broke in Spain—in other words, did its duty. I returned to Aegina, and my heart did its duty once again: jumped with glee and said, There is nothing sweeter than life, nothing bitterer, more unique, more irreparable. I composed poems, rewrote the Odyssey, printed a book, experienced joys and sadnesses, was deserted by friends, acquired new friends, and had you in mind the whole time and kept sending messages to Athens and asking people to tell me when you would return. In order to tame my impatience a little and to bring you here to my shore, I wrote an entirely modern play, Othello Returns, in which you have the leading role. I have not typed a copy, because I am waiting to read it to you in person when you arrive, and I am counting on you to help me because I haven’t written plays for many years and my pen is still a bit unpracticed. The play is a tragic, bloody game full of laughter and tears, without circumlocutions, quick and haletant. If it is accepted for production, I will write more plays. My brain is boiling; it’s in a hurry and wants to catch up. My body is a strong, trained horse, and my mind rides it, making it perform any tricks it desires, just as your father did when he wanted to prove to his son that he had not grown old. The difference in my case is that son, father, and horse are one and the same. The other day Prevelakis was at Bastias’s home and learned that you’ll be coming sometime in May. Thus this letter may not reach you in time. I hope

1937 Letters  •  503

it does. It’s impossible to express the delight I will feel in welcoming you to the new house (it’s nearly finished at last) in front of my office’s huge window overlooking the sea. I thank God that this world is inhabited by innumerable animals and plants, by only two or three human beings, and by exquisite fruit dripping with honey. I await you in the same way that I await the rosaki grapes and the figs. I’m eager for you to tell me what you saw and experienced, to what degree your soul moved forward and grew rich, to what degree your mind broadened. Now that you are returning to the swampland of dearly beloved Greece, I am experiencing all of your concerns. Would that someone could silently hiss the fatherland until the end of his life and never return to it! High thinking, hard work, adventure is excitement! Eleni greets you warmly, with love. I spend a day in Athens every two or three months and talk with Prevelakis until after midnight about our expatriated comrade in London. We make plans, build, construct a new architecture for the world, and laugh at mankind’s futile yet necessary struggle. Talking about Crete, we swim with her in the deep blue sea between three continents. When will you come, so that the three swimmers may become four! N

1  haletant:  Puffing from being out of breath.  1  Bastias:  See the note to the letter to him of 21 May 1938, below.  1  High thinking, hard work, adventure is excitement!: In English in the letter.

To Eleni Samiou —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 415–16; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 345–46; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 359.

[Aegina,] 24 August [1937] . . . I worked all day, and in the evening something astonishing happened: I was drinking my evening milk and getting ready to go to bed when a carriage appears. A lady with a broad-brimmed straw hat gets out. In the half darkness, I thought it was Polly. “Polly?” I call from the terrace. “No!” The lady mounts the stairs two at a time. “I came to stay overnight with you!” she says with a laugh. “Who are you?” “Don’t you remember me? We ate together one evening.” “That means?” “Aliki!” (It was Kyveli’s daughter, and she came to spend the night!) She sat down on the couch in my office. She said various things and finally: “But aren’t you going to ask me why I came?”

504  •  1937 Letters

“The ancient Greeks did not ask their visitors until three days later. I am an ancient Greek.” “But I’m in a hurry. I came because my theater is going to the devil, we don’t have any money to pay, we’re in debt, I was supposed to act tonight, and I deserted the whole business without telling anyone where I was going, not even my husband. I wanted to kill myself, but then I thought of you and raced here immediately. Allow me to live here near you for a few days. I’ll take heart and set out on a new path!” “Let’s go and eat at Marinis’s,” I said to her. “I don’t have anything here.” We went to Marinis’s and ate tomatoes and cheese; that’s all they had. . . . I made up a bed for her on the studio couch, and now, nine o’clock in the morning, she’s still sleeping. I’ll go down now to prepare her milk (she declared to me that she doesn’t know even how to boil an egg). I prepared her milk and set the table. We ate. She says she couldn’t sleep. She doesn’t have even a comb with her or soap, a towel, a nightgown. . . . Nothing. I gave her books; she’s sitting in the studio now, reading. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. She says she doesn’t know how many days she’ll stay. . . . She seems in despair and I feel sorry for her. A strong wind is blowing; autumn. . . .

1  Polly:  Polly Samiou, Eleni Samiou’s sister.  1  Aliki:  Aliki NikolaidiTheodoridi, daughter of the celebrated actress Kyveli (1888–1978).  1  Marinis’s:  See the letter to Mr. Marinis of 20 January 1945, below.

To Eleni Samiou —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 416; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 346–47; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 360.

[Aegina,] 26 August [1937] . . . The visitor continues to stay in the house. Fortunately she doesn’t bother me at all. She sits quietly in the studio (where she sleeps); she reads, doesn’t make a sound. I send an order to Marinis every day, and he brings us food (tomatoes, eggplant, string beans, etc.). We eat at midday, I go upstairs, tea at five o’clock, I go back to work, and in the evening we talk about the theater, her life, etc. She’s calm, a good human being. She didn’t bring along a nightgown, and I gave her one of yours. She came with nothing but a straw hat. Today the newspapers announce in huge capital letters: “Aliki’s disappearance! Her fate unknown!” etc. “Police fail to find a trace of her!” etc. I tell her to telephone, but she doesn’t want to. Meanwhile I’m preparing to leave on 1 September, and she will be obliged to leave also. She is a sympathetic person and terribly discreet.

1937 Letters  •  505

. . . The Dutch people departed yesterday, promising to do everything for our manuscripts Istrati and Le Jardin des rochers because they find both of them astonishingly timely. . . . I didn’t finish Mama Mary because, owing to Kathimerini and preparations for the trip to the Peloponnese, I lost the atmosphere. But it will turn out fine. It’s better that I don’t hurry. . . .

1  Istrati:  Greek text of Eleni Samiou’s book on Istrati, eventually published as La Verdadera Tragedia de Panaït Istrati (Santiago, Chile: Ercilla, 1938; “The True Tragedy of Panaït Istrati).  1  Mama Mary:  Novel on Mary Baker Eddy.

To Eleni Samiou —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 416–17; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 347; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 360.

[Aegina,] 28 August [1937] My dear Lenotschka, Aliki’s vicissitudes are terrible, what happened in the newspapers beyond description. The police got all excited, telegrams to the whole of Greece, fear of suicide, articles, etc., etc. Now it’s come to an end. . . . Since last night the house has been filled with reporters and photographers . . . and her husband finally arrived today, there was weeping, etc., . . . and they left. Her sojourn here was very sympathetic, tranquil. Last night we had dinner with Kalmouchos. We laughed. I’m certain that I acted well, and humanely, to feel sympathy for her and to behave well toward her. . . .

To Eleni Samiou —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 417; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 347; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 361.

[Aegina,] 29 August [1937] . . . Today all the newspapers are full of descriptions: . . . “This is the villa, Aliki’s hiding-place! This is the window of the room in which she slept. . . . This is where she drank her milk. This is the ship’s figurehead next to which, stretched on the chaise longue, she gazed at the sea.” . . .

1  the ship’s figurehead:  Given to Kazantzakis a year or two previously.

506  •  1937 Letters

To Eleni Samiou —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 417; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 347–48; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 361.

[Aegina,] 30 August [1937] Yesterday Mrs. Anghelaki brought a beautiful little tablecloth, green with lovely white, judicious embroidery, as a gift for the house. You can just imagine how eagerly she inquired about Aliki. Many people think that she was . . . my girlfriend. . . . Once again, a big commotion about nothing, around my name! Kathimerini telephoned me that I should have telephoned them at once that it was my home, and they would have had a first-class scoop. I told them I’m a bad journalist and an honorable human being. In any case Kathimerini is enthusiastic that so much clamor is being raised very apropos around my name. . . . They say that no masterpiece I might write could ever manage so well to make me known, etc., etc. . . . When will you come back? Our “villa” is superb, and the winter will be happy when we are both here. I have lots of subjects to write, but how can I find time? Christ, the canto, made a great impression. . . .

1  the canto:  The terzina.

To Eleni Samiou —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 417–18; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 348; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 361.

[Patras, 6 September 1937] Dear Lenotschka, . . . Patras: you know it. The provinces. All day long I roam through the narrow lanes like “the priest’s dog,” drink coffee, eat Turkish delight, watch a dancing girl in a colorful costume on the stage of the central café. The men are ugly, the conversation horrible. Alongside me today . . . an old lady with her two plump old-maid daughters, chattering away: “Potatoes . . . our aunt’s secret . . . pots and pans.” The young people are worse. I didn’t hear a single intellectual word. Food, flirting, money. My name is now universally known. They jump up every time they hear it: “Kazantzakis?” “That’s right.” “Aliki’s Kazantzakis?” “That’s right.” I could be a

1937 Letters  •  507

great writer and my name would never have become well known. And now, with the . . . abduction of the actress, I’ve become renowned! . . .

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 420–21; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 351; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 364.

Aegina, 5 October [1937] My dear Lenotschka, Your letters inviting me to come to Paris have upset me in various ways, and I’ve decided to send someone to Kathimerini to see if they’ll agree to cover just the travel expenses. I sent last Sunday and still do not have an answer. If they accept, I’ll telephone you. If you don’t receive a telephone call, it’s a sign that they don’t accept. Personally, I don’t want to come to Paris, although I know that I’ll have many pleasures there and that it’s necessary for the books. But I’m taking the steps needed for me to come and to give you some small pleasure. Besides, I don’t want to see Rahel. I don’t want to go back to things that I experienced very profoundly and were extremely moving for me, and whose entire essence I will lose if they continue. Besides, two weeks are minimal. But I set all this to one side, seeing that I will give you pleasure by coming. However, Kathimerini is slow to respond and I’m afraid. If they say yes and it’s possible, I’ll come by airplane because the idea of a boat journey over waters I’ve crossed so many times makes me tired. I’m glad that you managed to get help from V., but it would have been better if you hadn’t dissembled when you asked him to accept. If I were in his place, that’s what I would have preferred, rather than suspecting every friend and not knowing who to thank and not being able to face any of them. I think that you will relieve him greatly if you tell him the truth. Regarding the position in the theater, after your letter I decided to find a way to turn it down. I did it only for you, so you could have some small degree of comfort. For me personally, it was extraordinarily bothersome. But since you don’t care, I’ll find a way to avoid it. I had already committed myself by saying that I would accept; I’ll try to catch hold of some pretext for refusing without getting into a quarrel and without getting in bad with Prevelakis, who will find himself belittled. The act he performed indicates that I would not have deigned to do it. This would have bothered me exceedingly, and I need to find a clear reason to refuse. So far I haven’t received notification. But the other day via Steinen I was informed that they’ll be calling for me soon. I’m getting three thousand from Kathimerini but I’ve been terribly busy so far. I’m writing the articles on the Peloponnese now. There will be twenty.

508  •  1937 Letters

They are terribly difficult, whereas they could have been terribly easy, but I don’t want to fall into platitudes, and I’m doing them with great care. Impossible to write more than one a day. I’m pleased with “Esprit”; it’s just about what I would like. I hope that something happens with J. du R. But what occupies me above all is Othello, and I yearn for it to be a success—from obstinacy against our provincial types here. Do whatever you can. Don’t rely at all on Pierre. If nothing happens, send it to Renaud on the day you’ll be leaving. I received a warm letter from him the other day. He is fickle. He says that he read your R. and was animated by the atmosphere of T.R. Nothing from Roum. Nothing from Chile. Steinen was here the other day, extremely tiring. Froso came, too, and told me that she would cast my head in bronze. Aliki wrote that she wants to come to spend the winter in Mary’s cottage. But I hear now that she’s going to get a divorce, and I hope she stays at her father’s. If Kathimerini doesn’t answer this week, I’ll hop over to Athens for a day to try. If I’m successful, you’ll receive a telephone call. I’ll stay in Manolis Georgiadis’s home on Nikis Street; he gave me the key to go in. He’s alone, the apartment is splendid, in a very recently built apartment house. In this way I won’t bother Anna so much. Stöcker suddenly discovered me and sent me a letter and wants me to answer her. I did. Sumatrastr. 20, Zurich. Wouldn’t it be right, I wonder, for you to send Othello also to Herbert so he can translate it into English, taking half if it’s produced? It’s certain that this play will be a success in America, where people still have freshness and humor. In case I don’t come, could you do me the favor of buying for me the special issue of Commune (no. 49, September)? I’m profoundly interested in the subject treated. It costs six francs. Will you have any money left over to buy something for the house? Especially some small alcohol lamps? They shine beautifully, it seems to me. They don’t cost much. It’s gorgeous summertime here, as sweet as can be—the sea like glass, the house a miracle. It’s only that you are missing. Let’s hope that your sojourn doesn’t prove useless for the bosses. I’ll go into Aegina town now to post this letter to you. God be with you, dear. I miss you very much. Let’s hope that whatever happens is for the best. On the other hand, I, energetic in every direction, leave myself open to fate, which knows better than we do. I kiss your knees, very much, N I just received the answer from Kathimerini. They consider it excessive and don’t agree. They’re in a hurry for the Peloponnesus articles. Please, Lenotschka do not [the remainder is illegible]. I’m waiting for you.

1937 Letters  •  509

1  the articles on the Peloponnese:  These were serialized in Kathimerini under the generic title “Η Σύγχρονος Ελλάς (΄Ενα ταξίδι εις την Πελοπόννησον)” from 7 November through 15 December 1937. For the ­specific subject of each article, see Katsimbalis 1958, pp. 28–29, nos. 483–99.  1  J. du R.:  Presumably Jardin des rochers.  1  Commune:  The entire issue was devoted to minutes of the second international Congress of Writers for the Defense of Culture, which took place in Madrid (obviously during the Spanish Civil War) and Valence, France, on 4 and 8 July 1937, then in Paris on 16–17 July. Among the speeches recorded were those by Malcolm Cowley, Tristan Tzara, Stephen Spender, André Malraux, Heinrich Mann, Langston Hughes, Julien Benda, Bertolt Brecht. Twenty-eight nations were represented in this testimony against fascism. Directors of this periodical, subtitled “French Literary Review for the Defense of Culture,” were Aragon, Romain Rolland, and Paul Vaillant-Couturier.

To Alexis Minotis —Manuscript in Paxinou-Minotis Archive, ELIA; photocopy of manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

Aegina, 28 November 1937 Dear friend and comrade! Not a day goes by when I fail to concentrate my thought around you with ardent love. I shall never forget the emotion and turmoil you caused me on the evening when I saw you play Hamlet. I’m ashamed to write generalizations. Only if we were talking together could I formulate with some accuracy why you seemed so wondrous to me and why my turmoil was so great. That’s why I am writing you today in the hope that perhaps you’ll find time to relax here in Aegina after Hamlet, and we’ll be able to talk. The moment you are passing through is splendid because decisive; it will require ruthless intensity to continue. And if it does not continue, then it will be all in vain. Oh, if only I had your body together with your youth, how splendidly I would make use of it! With what ferocity, harshness, wisdom, and obstinacy! But you are exposing yourself to many dangers and are now crossing the Hair Bridge. That’s why I’m thinking of you every day with such intensity. If I had the strength, I would help you. However, I am unable to do anything besides thinking of you each and every day with uneasiness, love, and faith. I don’t know why I am writing you this letter. A sudden uneasiness overcame me today, and I could not restrain myself. May “God” be with you! N

510  •  1938 Letters

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 470–71.

Aegina, 14 January 1938 Dear brother! Thank you very very much for your regal gifts: Dürer and Shakespeare. They made me extremely happy. I kept waiting for you, but the holidays went by unfulfilled. Today, enclosed in a letter from Segredakis, I received his letter for you, which I’m sending to you. Eleni began today to type a play that I wrote in December. It has an ancient Greek subject, taken from various pieces of information given us by Herodotus. Writing it, I had Minotis in mind together with other actors from the Royal Theater, and in a few days I’m going to send it to Bastias with hopes that it will be accepted. It seems good to me, terse, strong, not weighted down by learning. I’ll send a copy to you and to Minotis at the same time so that you can read it before the selection committee reads and judges it. I hope that Bastias reads it and decides quickly. There’s no one who can tell me how your “department” is faring and what you are doing at the ministry. I think of you at every moment. Eleni sends warm greetings. Let’s hope you put in an appearance one day in this wilderness. Always, N

1  a play that I wrote in December:  Melissa.  1  with hopes that it will be accepted:  Prevelakis was working with Kostis Bastias in the Γενική Διεύθυνσις Γραμμάτων και Καλών Τεχνών established by the Metaxas dictatorship in the Ministry of Education, and therefore had considerable influence. However, Kazantzakis’s play was not accepted. (On Bastias, see note to letter of 21 May 1938, below.)

To Eleni Samiou —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 425–26; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 354–55; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 368.

[Aegina, 1938,] Wednesday My dear, Your letter was delightful. Let’s hope that Melissa is accepted. That would encourage me to write other plays. Otherwise . . .

1938 Letters  •  511

. . . The biscuits remain untouched, not so much in order that you may find them as in order that my willpower may be tested. I keep looking at Mama Mary, I struggle, but I still have not started it again. I’m waiting to see what happens with Melissa. A play is entirely different from a poem. I can write poems even though they’ll never be published and never be read by anyone. But dramatic works are like those fleshly beings fashioned in Tibet out of pure thought—autonomous organisms that detach themselves from you and want to climb up on a stage. If they don’t mount the stage, your power to bear another one is destroyed. . . .

1  those fleshly beings fashioned in Tibet out of pure thought:  The so-called “tulpa.” A creature that attains reality solely owing to an act of imagination, that may become physical reality through intense concentration, as Kazantzakis explains in his letter to Prevelakis of 27 July 1944, below: “the tulpa—. . . congealing the air and placing it before you to take the lead.” He gives a similar definition in England (Kazantzakis 1965b, p. 109). Mrs. Kazantzakis explains further (Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 465): “They say that Tibetian ascetics, concentrating their intellectual and spiritual powers, manage to fashion veritable beings, the ‘tulpa,’ which they use as their ‘servants’ or ‘disciples.’ Sometimes these creations revolt and disobey the will of their creator. And it is terribly difficult for the ascetic to unmake them” (cf. Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 392). However, Kazantzakis defines the term more specifically in his notes for Akritas recorded in Prevelakis 1965, p. 489: “Tulpa: heartless robot, fierce, barbarous: Superman” meant to destroy contemporary civilization.

To Aris Diktaios —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift of George Stefanakis.

Aegina, 12 May 1938 Thank you very much for remembering me. I am eager to find the spiritually appropriate moment to read your book. Judging from a few sentences that caught my eye, I like it. Yours, N. Kazantzakis

To Kostis Bastias —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession; manuscript photographed in Το Βήμα της Κυριακής, 31 January 1988, p. 54.

Aegina, 21 May 1938

512  •  1938 Letters

May God keep you well today and always! I’m pleased that you tamed the fearsome wild beasts of Agiou Konstantinou Street. With love always, N. Kazantzakis But you forgot me.

1  Bastias:  Kostis Bastias (1901–72), novelist, short story writer, journalist; high official in the Ministry of Education; director general of National Theater, 1937–41; along with Melas, one of Kazantzakis’s least favorite people. Bastias is credited with being the founder of the Lyric Stage in Athens and also in helping to launch the career of Maria Callas. Full information in To Vima tis Kyriakis, 31 January 1988, p. 54, under the headline “Ο δραστήριος θεατράνθρωπος και πρωτομάστορας της Λυρικής!”  1  Agiou Konstantinou Street:  The address, since 1901, first of the Royal Theater and then, since 1930, of the National Theater.

To Minas Dimakis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; photographed in Dimakis 1975, p. 6; printed in Dimakis 1975, pp. 16–17, in Dimakis 1972, p. 245, and (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 425.

Aegina, 1 July 1938 Dear Mr. Dimakis, Your letter brought joy and emotion to me here in my solitude. I still have five copies of Askitiki, and I’m sending you two of them, for yourself and your friend. I am happy that this bloodstained outcry of mine is heard—and, indeed, by Cretan ears. If the Odyssey, which is being printed now, has no value, then I have done nothing; my life will be futile. But even if it does have value, life will still be futile—that is its nature, its supreme nobility, and why we love it so passionately. We know this and are not afraid. We work as though we were immortal. In my opinion, wretched/marvelous humanity can reach no higher summit. Give my warm greetings to your friend. Always, N. Kazantzakis

1  Minas Dimakis: Cretan poet (1913–80), who worked as an employee of the Bank of Greece from 1937 until 1960 and died by suicide. A full collection

1938 Letters  •  513

of his poetry edited by Andonis Sanoudakis was published in 2008 by Dokimakis Press in Iraklio.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 474–75.

Aegina, [5] October 1938 Dear brother! Thank you very much for your letter. I, too, am glad that we are being published at the same time and am eager to read your Chronicle anew and enjoy it again. Melissa is still filling me with bitter poison. Soledad, Soledad, Soledad! Not bitter poison—bitter, intoxicating honey. Some inhuman god inside me is enjoying this and guffawing. And the “human” inside me stubbornly desires to write more plays in order, slavelike, to give the wild beast inside me new occasions to guffaw. I’m impatient for the Odyssey to be printed, to rid myself of that weight, at last to write whatever comes into my head, without any ulterior motive or any restriction—but for whom, since I am alone. A Greek in Russia put up a sign outside his shop saying “Khozyain piruet” (the proprietor is having fun) whenever he went on a binge. It seems to me that the time has come for me to write a book entitled “Khozyain piruet.” Steinen has the manuscript of Melissa. I notified him to hand it over to you. I’ll do a third draft and publish it next year. Japan is now in press. I very much like its prologue and epilogue. I plan to come to Athens for many days this month to continue with the proofs of the Odyssey, because Eleni is tired now. Perhaps I’ll stay at Georgiadis’s. Then we will see each other if there is no obstacle. I, too, have missed you very much, in my own way. Always, N

1  your Chronicle:  Prevelakis’s Χρονικό μιας πολιτείας, which he had read aloud to Kazantzakis one weekend in 1937 when he visited him in Aegina.  1  Soledad, Soledad, Soledad:  Solitude, solitude, solitude.  1  the proprietor is having fun: Or “The boss is feasting.”  1  a book entitled “Khozyain piruet”:  Kazantzakis did not write a book with this title, but for his novels he did write a prologue called “Khozyain Piruet” that is appended to his letter of 6 November 1948 to Prevelakis.

514  •  1938 Letters

To Emile Hourmouzios —Unable to locate the manuscript, which is missing from the Kazantzakis Museum’s Hourmouzios archive; printed in Kazantzakis 1977a, p. 180.

Aegina, 21 October 1938 Dear friend! It was a great pleasure for me to read your article on “Responsibility.” It seemed very fine to me—a strict and extremely noble lesson, from on high. I wonder at how you can restrain yourself when you write, at how you maintain a higher equilibrium that is strict and just. When I write, I suffocate and need to burst in order not to fall ill. That’s why I keep still and transubstantiate the Outcry into solitude. My solitude is a frightful Outcry repressed. I keep meaning to come, but I don’t tear myself away easily from this seashore. I must, however. In a few days, your office door will open again, and a man with his pipe will enter. Always, N. Kazantzakis

1  Responsibility:  “Το αίσθημα της ευθύνης,” Η Καθημερινή, 17 October 1938.

To Leah Dunkelblum —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 355.

Aegina, 17 November 1938 Dear, dear Leah! I think of you every day with lots of love. . . . . . . The times are fearfully heavy. For several years now, we have entered a total Middle Age. Wars, shadows, hatred, pogroms—they’re all there. A few magnificent, fiery hearts are still left, but without any tangible result. What is our duty? It is to remain faithful to the Flame. At present, the flame remains hidden, infirm, diffident. But the time will come when it shall rule again upon this awesome, marvelous earth. We must remain strong and faithful, Leah; that is the only salvation. Our cry in the wilderness today will later on once again change stones into human beings. There is something in the human heart that can never be extinguished, and this something is our only hope. . . .

1938 Letters  •  515

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 426; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 355–56; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 369.

[Aegina,] Monday [Winter 1938] Dear L! All day long today I’ve been carrying water from the well, pumping, helping to do the pointing in the stonework. Strong wind, very cold. Fortunately it’s not raining; thus, we’ll finish quickly. I’m coming at the end of the week; in the meantime, the storm, which is severe, will have ended. I read your book in Spanish on Panaït—twice. Fascinating! Written with verve and lots of craft. It was very difficult for such a clearly alive, impassioned book to be extracted from so many events. I sent a copy to [name scratched out]—to turn him lobster red with shame. I’ll keep one more for you. The remaining seventeen are to be distributed gratis. Unfortunately, the copies of Toda-Raba must have gotten lost again. I’m excessively happy about this book on Panaït. Fascinating! You’ve not only done a good deed concerning Panaït’s memory; you’ve also written a fine book. Now let’s see your third book. That Ercilla publishing house was a stroke of good luck; thus some emotions that we shared are being saved. Write me what I should bring along. You have time. Since you’re still in Spain, I’ll send you letters. You have cantos 19, 20, and 21 there. I’ll bring along the last three. The glossary is ready. The second melon was excellent, the feta cheese a dream, but very stale—thus, it dried out today. Just two more pork chops if you have time, nothing else. In the proofs, note where I indicate a blank line. I’ve observed in the typescript that sometimes you don’t leave the line blank, and that’s very bad. A new paragraph needs to begin when the meaning and events change. Something disagreeable: Peter Gray has left Aegina. In other words, the police told him that a foreigner isn’t allowed here, and so forth. So the poor fellow has taken refuge on Poros once again. Departing, he left me five or six very lovely books: Keats, Shelley, Lafcadio Hearn, etc. He was terribly sad that he was leaving. Barbarities. Have you seen what’s happening in Germany? I am right: we have entered a Middle Age. We are in the midst of a Middle Age. All the symptoms. What can we do? Dream, plan, work for the coming civilization. We hold a “lighted candle”; let us not allow it to be extinguished. I’m glad that I’ll be seeing you soon. Give my greetings to the Spaniards.

516  •  1939 Letters

It’s cold again, winter. I’ve brought the “Alexandra” inside; the basil is flourishing but scorched brown, down below, by the frost. The small vases are going to Sophia’s. I go down to Aegina town every evening; the walk does me good. No letter. Mme Despina says hello. Barba Yannis drinks every night in one of the tavernas. God be with you! Don’t tire yourself. Panaït Istrati is an excellent book. I can’t get enough of it; I shall read it again. Para siempre! N

1  your book in Spanish on Panaït:  La Verdadera Tragedia de Panaït Istrati (Santiago, Chile: Ercilla, 1938; The True Tragedy of Panaït Istrati).  1  cantos 19, 20, and 21:  Proofs for the Odyssey.  1  We hold a “lighted candle”: Compare Odyssey 23.669: “ένα μικρό κεράκι αφτούμενο κρατούσα κι έσβησέ μου” (I held a small lighted candle and it went out on me). The sentiment derives from the Cretan renaissance drama Η θυσία του Αβραάμ, spoken by Sarah when Isaac is being taken off by Abraham to be sacrificed: “μα ένα κεράκι αυτούμενο εκράτου κι ήσβυσέ μου.”

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/6; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, pp. 17–18, and also (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 435.

Aegina, 6 January 1939 Dear friend! Thank you very much for your kind letter. I’m glad that there are people who feel a little pleasure reading what I have attempted, with such a struggle, to save from my soul by incarnating it in words. I desire no other recompense. For an eremite, no greater recompense can exist. Many more turned up to purchase the Odyssey than I had figured. Pyrsos should quickly facilitate those who wish to acquire it by allowing installments. There’s a great need for this because the purpose of the Odyssey is to be read especially by young people. This work was not written for old people; it was written for the young and for those still unborn. Therefore, I would like to ask Pyrsos to publish the names of the most important people who bought it: Prince George, Waterlow, Tsouderos, Apostolidis, Melas, etc., because that will be an answer to Estia, that yellow-lipped old maid. Please suggest this to Mr. Ganiaris and Mr. Theodoropoulos. Please keep me up to date regarding whatever relates to the Odyssey, because I don’t think I’ll come to Athens again for a long time.

1939 Letters  •  517

Take care that every Odyssey that is sold (1) has a glossary, (2) has the list of errata, and above all that the accent on Αθηνας (canto 2, line 10), be removed. If any review of Japan or the Odyssey is written, please purchase the periodical or newspaper, charging my account, and send it to me. I read only Nea Estia and Kathimerini. And a few days from now ask Mr. Ganiaris to send me what I’m owed from the copies of the Odyssey that have been sold. I’ll be most grateful to you. With much love, N. Kazantzakis

1  to purchase the Odyssey:  The Odyssey was published in an edition of three hundred copies by Pyrsos in 1938 in a large format (36.5 3 26 cm), 837 pages, dedicated “To Miss Joe MacLeod,” who paid for the publication. It was accompanied by a separate ten-page glossary. Numbers 1–24 were specially designated; among those who received these gifts were Miss MacLeod, Kalmouchos (who oversaw the edition’s typography), Prevelakis, Anastasiou, Eleni Samiou, Lefteris Alexiou, Sikelianos, Georgiadis, Lambridi, Minotis, Marika Papaïoannou, Douras, Anghelakis, Hourmouzios.  1  Japan:  actually JapanChina, published by Pyrsos in 1938 as volume 2 of Traveling.  1  Waterlow:  Sir Sydney Philip Perigal Waterlow (1878–1944), Great Britain’s ambassador to Greece during the Metaxas dictatorship. Friend of Kazantzakis’s and his supporter.  1  Tsouderos: Emmanouil Tsouderos (1882–1956), born in Rethymno, Crete; elected to Cretan legislature, 1906–12, then to Hellenic Parliament; served as cabinet minister under Venizelos and also under Sofoulis; governor of Bank of Greece, 1931–39; became prime minister in 1941; fled with the government first to Crete, then to Egypt; prime minister of government in exile until 13 April 1944; vice president under Sofoulis, November 1945– April 1946.  1  Apostolidis:  probably Iraklis Apostolidis (1893–1970), journalist; an editor of the Great Greek Encyclopedia for Pyrsos publishers; editor of a very popular anthology of modern Greek poetry.  1  Melas:  Spyros Melas (1882–1966), journalist, dramatist, critic, stage director member of the Academy of Athens since 1935; powerful member of the right-wing establishment after the Second World War; one of Kazantzakis’s least favorite individuals.  1  yellow-lipped old maid: Reactionary Athenian newspaper, presumably Estia.  1  Mr. Theodoropoulos:  Kimon Theodoropoulos, president of the Pyrsos publishing house, whose director was Ganiaris.  1  the accents of canto 2, line 10:  What Kazantzakis had written was “of purest wool to weave the brilliant mantle of [the goddess] Athena,” but a misplaced accent (της Αθήνας replacing της Αθηνας—i.e., Αθηνάς) produced the nonsensical “of purest wool to weave the brilliant mantle of Athens.” This was corrected in later editions.

518  •  1939 Letters

To Yannis Hatzinis —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift of Yannis Petrikakis.

Aegina, 7 January 1939 Dear Mr. Hatzinis, Thank you for your kind letter. I’ll gladly send you Japan; let’s hope that you like it. Few people understand that I don’t produce “literature,” that I don’t write with ink. From what I’ve read of yours, I am sure that you are one of these people. I would like the Odyssey to be widely known among the young above all, because it was written for them. I write neither for the past generation nor for my own generation. I will do everything I can to have an inexpensive edition appear later. I’ve sent a copy to my dear friend the poet Skipis; surely you can read it there while waiting. If this work stirs the heart of someone younger than me, I shall want no other recompense. Yours, N. Kazantzakis

1  Hatzinis:  Yannis Hatzinis (1900–1975), critic.

To Ioannis Anghelakis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

Bedford Place 4, Russell Square London W.C.1. 2 July 1939 Dear friend! This letter is absolutely confidential. I beg you to act with absolute discretion: Without having said a word yet to Eleni, I have decided to legalize my relations with her. There are two reasons: (1) because Eleni is beginning to worry about being left open in this way to criticism from society, (2) because an illegal cohabitation is unacceptable here in England. Thus, I intend to finish this matter that is beginning to embitter Eleni, now that she is coming from France. So please take steps to have us obtain a license from the Archdiocese of Athens, and send me, here, all the required forms. I received my divorce in July 1926, I believe, as should be apparent from the records of the Archdiocese

1939 Letters  •  519

of Athens. My lawyer was N. Tazedakis; you’ll be able to learn the details from him, if there’s a need. At the same time, you’ll put together papers for Eleni, that she is unmarried and that there is no impediment to marriage. I beg of you fervently not to let anyone learn anything and especially not Eleni’s sister, because she’ll tell everybody and I don’t want—I have reasons for not wanting—the news to be circulated now. I beg of you exceedingly to act without causing any noise at all. Write me regarding any expenses, and I’ll give instructions for the money to be given you. I need to have the papers quickly and to present this surprise to Eleni quickly. I hope that the surprise will be a pleasant one. That’s what I wanted to ask of you. I hope that Sir Sydney will act as best man here. Naturally I haven’t said anything to him, but I hope that he’ll accept. Life in London is an interesting chaos. I’d like to be able to live for several years in this whirlpool. It might do me good for the new work, Akritas, which will be the final significant work of my life, the mate of the Odyssey. I’ve seen the most beautiful things in the museums. Above all, I’ve met people. Life—humanity—is now what interests me most. Works of art no longer constitute the most significant allurement for my mind. I get greater pleasure now from seeing people, coming in contact with lively souls. I think of you continually, of you and your brave, intelligent, splendid wife. If we stay here—which will be difficult—I would feel great pleasure if you both came to my new household. Life is capable of everything, even of such pleasures—still. Waterlow is my great friend and ally here. I go to his country house, near Bristol, and we talk or remain silent for hours in front of the lighted fire because it’s cold here, it rains continually, and Chamberlain’s umbrella is the indispensable “adornment” for one’s hand. I think of Aegina—the house, the sun, the dark blue sea—and say to myself what a monster a person must be, what a ravenous beast the soul must be, to abandon such priceless goods and to wander far away in the rain and fog. Why? No one knows. Yet I think it is the only way for this wretched Worm to make progress on the earth. I hope that Niki is entirely well by now and beginning to lisp out her first words, which make people wild with joy. May “God” care for all three of you, and may we meet soon here, otherwise in Aegina. I see the conical shape of the sacred island before me continually, and my heart leaps up like a young calf. I don’t have anything else to write you. My days are full; in the evenings I am tired when I come back home. If war doesn’t break out—a difficult thing but not impossible—perhaps we shall see better days. I feel joy and anguish every morning when I get the huge Times, leaf through it, and follow the world’s sickness. My greetings to your wife. I’m thinking of her now that they’re selling off fur coats, but where is Eleni to choose for her what she wants; I don’t dare to

520  •  1939 Letters

make a decision. Eleni will come at the end of July or the beginning of August, I hope. I’m eagerly awaiting a letter from you enclosing the required certificates. Once again I ask you not to say a word to anyone. Always, N

1  London:  Kazantzakis sojourned in England as a guest of the British Council, an invitation proposed by Sir Sydney Waterlow.  1  Waterlow is my great friend and ally here:  Among other things, Waterlow had tried to get Kazantzakis appointed to the Bywater and Sotheby Chair of Byzantine and Modern Greek Language and Literature at Oxford. The chair was awarded to John Mavrogordato. Waterlow also tried—again unsuccessfully—to have a readership established for Kazantzakis at the University of London.  1  Chamberlain:  Arthur Neville Chamberlain (1869–1940), prime minister of the United Kingdom from 1937 to 1940. In 1938 he appeased Hitler by allowing Germany to occupy the Sudentenland region of Czechoslovakia. His well-furled umbrella was a sort of trademark. He was forced to resign the premiership on 10 May 1940 after Germany invaded the Netherlands, Belgium, and France. He died six months later.  1  Niki:  Their daughter Katerina, born on 22 February 1939. Nikos Kazantzakis was her godfather. Her married name is Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke. She is a prolific author of prize-winning poetic collections and a frequent lecturer in England and the United States.  1  if war doesn’t break out:  The United Kingdom declared war against Germany on 3 September 1939.

To Emile Hourmouzios —Manuscript missing from Kazantzakis Museum Hourmouzios archive; printed in Kazantzakis 1977a, pp. 180–81.

Bedford Place 4, Russell Square London W.C. 1 7 July 1939 Dear friend! I now get Kathimerini regularly, and you can imagine how moved I am here in “black exile” reading all that you have written about the Odyssey. I was very moved by your article on the Odyssey’s language. You finally understood and expressed the poem’s linguistic effort. I thank you for being the one to defend a person who loved and compassionated his race’s language and whose toil was acknowledged by no one except you. In an age that is so rash and fainthearted, in which our splendid language is left unchampioned even by the

1939 Letters  •  521

“pioneering heroes,” I attempted as much as I could, with love and great care, to gather together its scattered and despised limbs and to give it as much lifebreath as I could. I was saddened because no one sensed this; that’s why I was so greatly pleased and moved to read your enlightened, honest article. Here, England does not give me any keen pleasure. I’ve seen the museums. I see people every day, I breathe in the atmosphere of freedom, but my business is elsewhere, far away in the solitude of Aegina and along its dark blue seashore. I’m yearning to finish my time of gray service here and to return to ever so sweet and so fertile solitude. As my life unfolds, I feel uninterested in any social ambition. Various Englishmen are trying to keep me here, to find a way for me to stay. But I want nothing, desire nothing, except solitude. Paper, pencil, and solitude—nothing else. The “internal cistern” is beginning to fill up again, and Akritas is swelling out my breast. How many more years will I be alive? I need to hurry in order to be in time—to be in time to utter what joy and sorrow I was given by this earth, sky, and sea, by women, men, and birds that fly, and by juicy figs. I have not had time to say anything yet; the Odyssey was large enough for only one flood in my breast. But my breast is swelling again and beginning to hurt like that of the woman whose breasts are filling with milk. Right now as I am writing you, I am overcome by a strange complaint— something rare for me. Turning back and looking at my life, I pity it for going to waste, pity it for such power that was lost, pity it for what I could have done. I did nothing. I uttered a few incoherent words, I cried out in the darkness, and my throat was lacerated. Now I am looking ahead. Will I be able to say something full and complete before I die? N

1  pioneering heroes:  People like Psiharis, Eftaliotis, Pallis, Vlastos, Palamas.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 483–85.

Bedford Place 4, Russell Square London, W.C. 1 23 July 1939 Dear brother! Akritas is blowing inside me like a warm, springtime breeze, a bittersweet shivering. That final spring just before he began to write The Tempest, Shakespeare must have felt a bittersweet shiver and, I am sure, a playful, exceedingly sorrowful farewell of this sort

522  •  1939 Letters

I’d been meeting all of my companions on this final journey of mine, meeting them internally, and here I am gathering together their scattered faces. Two things in the British Museum made the deepest impression on me: the fierce, superhuman Assyrian lion hunt (how thin, poor, and “faultless” the bas reliefs and metopes of the Parthenon are in comparison!), and the collection of oriental miniatures—Persian, Indian, Arab. Today I’m sending you one of the heroes of Akritas, the Poet. I bought a large collection, and I gaze at them every day and think with a shudder how much of my blood they’ll need to drink when I make the decision to bring them to life. I’d like Akritas to be very different from the Odyssey—I wonder if I’ll manage. I intend here to ascend to the highest level, beyond fleshly reality, to where animals, trees, water wells, and fairy tales talk like people, and where people walk along the street or make war in the wilderness as though in a fairy tale. I will obliterate time and space; I will play, liberated from the obligations imposed by reason; I will dance without feet. I’m in a hurry to begin, but I’m restraining myself. I know that the time still has not arrived. My words are still too heavy, my innards still full of beloved mud. First, my head needs to become filled with the precious gas called “helium,” which rises without flaring up. My sojourn here in England is slowly, imperceptibly, filling me. Contrary to what I did up to now when I traveled, I am not rushing about to grasp things; I am allowing things to soak through me. Museums, art galleries, streets, contact with people, reading, excursions into the English greenery: all are penetrating me as a fine drizzle penetrates soil. Gentility; self-control. An astonishing nation for the self-assurance with which it walks and lives, and the way it replaces worrisome thoughts and the playfulness of a wrestling mind with something steadier than thought, more fertile than worry. There’s a style here that I find attractive; it is broad, deep, and concentrated, an all-powerful river whose flow digs out its bed by inventing it, that conquers by licking the stones of time. I remember you every day and tell myself that we ought to have been born here, wealthy, silent, insulated squires like the aristocrats I’ve met living in the distant English countryside in comfortable, ancient castles, with paintings of their ancestors hanging on the walls—stern figures with white wigs and red cheeks. When I die, some biographer will write—the fool—that I was ascetic by nature, with few desires, a person who lived comfortably amid renunciation and poverty. And no one will know that if I ended up an “ascetic” it was because it was not feasible for me to live according to my true nature, and because I preferred nakedness to the cheap, humiliating livery of the bourgeoisie. “Be strong and play the man!” Those words, said by the archbishop as he crowns the king of England, are encircling my forehead, like a crown. I knew them, but I was glad to find them so established here in such an official—and panhuman—ceremony.

1939 Letters  •  523

I’m impatient to return to Aegina, to the routine of my days and nights. This trip was fine, but my duty is to be in solitude. My years are few, my work much. I no longer have the right to wander extensively in idleness. Sir Sydney is fighting to keep me here, and I say nothing, but the whole of me is turned around, facing Aegina in the distance. The final terrible struggle awaits me there, and it’s shameful to delay. “God” be with you! I think of you at every moment, even in my fiercest solitude. N

1  Akritas:  Prevelakis’s note 2 to this letter (Prevelakis 1965, pp. 485–90) reports that Kazantzakis on 17 March 1939 had decided to write Akritas in 33,333 lines of seventeen-syllable verse, similar to the Odyssey. But Kazantzakis’s detailed notes for the new work, printed here, show that he intended Akritas to be very different from the Odyssey. Odysseas fights to reach Nada; Akritas starts from Nada and enjoys the dream that is life. In technique, the work was meant to echo Shakespeare’s The Tempest, rejecting logic and perhaps entering fully the realm of postmodernism, which Roderick Beaton (2009) sees already operative in Kazantzakis’s novels. Prevelakis’s note also prints Kazantzakis’s detailed outline for the twenty-four cantos of this work (translated into French in Janiaud-Lust 1970, pp. 581–82).  1  Be strong and play the man!: In English in Kazantzakis’s letter. Cf. 2 Samuel 10:12: “Be of good courage, and let us play the man for our people . . .” (RSV) and 1 Chronicles 28:20. Apparently an anthem by Sir Henry Walford Davies (1869–1941) entitled “Confortare: Be Strong and Play the Man,” was sung at the coronations of George V in 1911 and George VI in 1937. It seems that the words were not spoken by the archbishop, as Kazantzakis claims.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, p. 490.

Liverpool, 16 August 1939 Dear brother! I’m writing you from the home of Vlastos, where I am receiving hospitality and where I chanced to read in Nea Estia some of your verses from the Calderón translation for the first time. I liked them very much, but I had time to read only a few. I’m anxious for them to come out in book form. I saw in Nea Estia that Avyeris’s diatribe will finally be published; I hope that gives him some pleasure.

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I’ve been going round from city to city for days now in the hot summer sunshine. I have the “go-fever” once again and am enjoying myself in the horribly black coal-cities that I’m seeing. I hope to be in Aegina in the autumn; I’m eager to settle down to work. I wrote you on your name day and hope you received my letter. I think of you a lot and always. N

1  Calderón:  Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600–1681), Spanish playwright whose best known play is Life Is a Dream, which Prevelakis had translated.  1  Avyeris’s diatribe:  Markos Avyeris, “Η νέα Οδύσσεια,” Νέα Εστία 26 (15 September and 1 October 1939): 1247–56, 1344–49. Reprinted in his Έλληνες λογοτέχνες (Athens, 1966).  1  go-fever: In English in the letter.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 441; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 370; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 382–83.

Sheffield, 18 August 1939 Dear L, Today I left Liverpool and went to Manchester. I went round it all day long, and in the late afternoon I left and came here, to Sheffield. Horrible cities, full of smoke and coal dust, morose kissers, and large buildings that all look alike. I go up and down in this hell and don’t want anything to escape me. I wish to enjoy every bit of the ugliness—in order to know. Every city has its art gallery and there are two or three beautiful examples of human creativity in each; they impress one all the more deeply for being nestled in this way in the bosom of ugliness. Tomorrow I’m leaving for Peterborough, which has a beautiful cathedral, and where I’ll be near London. I’ll be back on the 21st. I’m yearning to find out how you’re faring, what’s happening with your body, and when exactly you will come. Don’t forget to bring along some réglisse de poudre, Elise’s medication, because I don’t have any more and it’s impossible to find it in England. Bring along quite a lot, because it’s absolutely necessary. God be with you, dear. Looking forward to your arrival! N

1  réglisse de poudre:  More properly, réglisse en poudre, spice used in confectionery and also in flavoring various liqueurs; the flavor resembles aniseed, the chewy sweet licorice.

1939 Letters  •  525

To Petros Haris —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Petros Haris.

Bedford Place 4, Russell Square London, W.C. 1 23 August 1939 Dear Mr. Haris! I received your letter together with the Nea Estia sent me by Pyrsos. I thank you warmly for what you have written on Japan. Let’s hope that what you say is right. As for me, since I’m aware of the distance separating what I want from what I achieve, I can never find pleasure in what I write. It is a very pale reflection of the yearning, the joy, and the sorrow I feel as I greet the world and bid it farewell. I’m happy that the praise and censure of the Odyssey is being promulgated, according to what you write, in proportion to one’s age. The younger the person, the closer to me. I could not desire a better sign. The Odyssey is the highest that I’ve been able to reach so far. I wrote it for those much younger than me and for those yet unborn. When I die, they will realize that I was a person who dared look the Abyss straight in the eye and love it. I will certainly write something about England for Nea Estia. But I’m still struggling to assimilate England. I hope very much to return to my seashore in the autumn; then I’ll get to work and send it to you. It’s very difficult to write about England and not utter platitudes. One needs intensity, work, and pride. I’m struggling to gather all these together before I begin. Once again I thank you very much. N. Kazantzakis I just received the Nea Estia that you sent me. Thanks. N Please give the postcard to Mr. Sfak.

1  what you have written:  Π. Χάρης, “Τα βιβλία: Νίκου Καζαντζάκη, Ιαπωνία-Κίνα,” Νέα Εστία 26 (15 August 1939): 1147–48.  1  Mr. Sfak.:  Perhaps Sfakianakais.

To Marika Papaîoannou —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 453–54; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968,

526  •  1939 Letters

pp. 380–81; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 393–94.

Stratford-on-Avon [September 1939] . . . More fortunate and more penniless lords than ourselves do not exist. Look how once again we find ourselves at the center of the whirlwind at such a critical moment, and amid a marvelous people, imperturbable, assured, that never forgets the great motto given it by one of its poets: “Be strong and play the man.” Eleni must have written you about the house in which we are living, full of precious objects—sculptures, paintings, faïence, historical bedsteads, and, most impressive of all, fireplaces. At this very moment, Eleni, wearing some marvelous slippers, a ribbon in her newly washed hair, is sitting in an imported heirloom armchair knitting a new cardigan (the color of mulberry juice) with thick English wool. The enormous fireplace is lighted; a log caught fire, and the flames are dancing on the walls, on the expensive tables, and on my deep black forehead (black not from soot but from the Aegina’s sunshine). And I am writing. What else could I write here, beneath the shadow of my colleague Shakespeare, than a play? So, I am writing a verse drama and who cares if the world is burning. I keep looking at myself bent over the paper, far away—on another planet—metrically arranging words, struggling to insert my breath in words before it is snuffed out. From time to time Eleni, reading the Times (her great love), raises her head and says to me: “Hitler . . . Stalin . . . Halifax.” “Who? Who?” I cry out, perplexed. Then, realizing that I am “inhuman,” she does not reply. Or she says with clenched lips, “Nothing, nothing,” and dives back into the Times. Such is our life—a strange, incredible miracle. Aegina, of course, remains sparkling in the middle of the sea. It is the immovable focal point of the universe. When will I see it again, open the windows, feel the sea turning my thoughts blue? God knows—sooner or later. All is well. I no longer know what to wish for. Everything in this world seems marvelous. “But isn’t there anything ugly—anything, anything?” I ask myself, nonplussed. Thank you, my God, for having made my heart so inhuman. Without a doubt, some of the best “things” in this world are you and Katy. As we walk along the banks of the Avon, with its all-white swans, we often say to ourselves, “If only Marika and Katy were here!” and we both sigh. . . .

1  faïence: Delft-ware, crockery.  1  Katy:  Marika’s sister.

To Sir Sidney Waterlow —Photocopy of manuscript, in French, in my possession, gift of John Waterlow.

Stratford-on-Avon, Miss MacLeod’s House 24 September 1939

1939 Letters  •  527

Very dear Sir Sydney! I’ve been traveling for a long time, and letters have reached me with great delay. I’m taking refuge in the huge, deserted home of Miss MacLeod in a large garden and oh! such idyllic tranquillity, and have begun to work like a slave, insulating myself from the bloody delirium of this world. I’m writing a book on England and at the same time another work that is clutching me tightly in its grip. Since the 27th of August I’ve been awaiting the British Council’s full response to my offer to be of use in England in the censorship service, where I could be helpful. The response has not arrived; the time of my sojourn in England is going to finish at the beginning of November, and I remain very perplexed, not knowing what to do. I have not allowed myself to be troubled so far by anxiety; I have a great need for calm and isolation in these feverish days during which I am writing. But the problem looms up in front of me on its own, given its fixed date. Should I perhaps write again to the British Council, renewing my offer of service? I don’t know. I think of you every day. I have a great spiritual need to see you again; however, I still cannot set the date. I will come to your home if you are still there, and I know that I will be happy: when I think of you, a profound confidence regarding humanity returns to me, and I love this earth that is so degraded. Yours always, N. Kazantzakis

1  John Waterlow:  Son (1916–2010) of Sir Sydney Waterlow; professor of nutrition at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine from 1970 to 1981, recognized as one of the most influential nutrition scientists and an important contributor to our understanding of protein metabolism.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 491–93.

London, W.C. 1, Bedford Place 4 11 October 1939 Dear brother! This is the third time I’m writing you without having a word from you. I’m hoping that you are well—that consoles me. I’ve come back from Stratford, where I stayed in the house of Shakespeare’s daughter Susan that now belongs to Miss MacLeod. Minotis knows it well; he ate at the enormous oaken table where Shakespeare sat, in the kitchen with the large fireplace and the sofas, and the old mauve, green, and dark blue glassware. A divine house; the river splendid with its swans. I wrote a verse drama there, which, as soon as I return

528  •  1939 Letters

to Greece, I shall deposit in the archives of the Royal Theater—this one, too— without hope. This ban suits me well: neither any work of mine nor any of my translations acceptable any more in the official theater. When I die, I hope that all these works will be put to use in memoriam. It won’t be at all too late; no other recompense is necessary. I read the reviews by Avyeris and Paraschos, calmly, candidly, almost with pleasure—since the supreme recompense is to have no recompense. I am happy to be here in England at a moment of such worldwide historical importance. I enjoy following how frontiers move and shift, how the geographical map has rediscovered the fluidity that suits it so well. It’s a divine moment. We are living amid astonishing creativity. Every morning I feel indescribable joy when I spread the Times out across my knees. To live for centuries in the meager temporal interval allotted us, that’s what we have now—just what a voracious soul desires—and our joy should be great. I had never hoped for such a divine gift. I have it and am tasting it with profound delight. I hope to return to Aegina soon. I’ve taken what I could; it’s time now to immerse myself in solitude. I want to manage to finish whatever I still have formless and melodious inside me. I really don’t have any complaint with life; all I ask is to live a few more years, until I’m able to finish. I am living now at every moment what I wrote in the Odyssey, living it more now than when I wrote it—namely, that I should leave to Death only a few insignificant sweepings of flesh. You’d give me great pleasure if you wrote what you are doing, what you wrote this summer, what your life-style is at present. It seems to me that it’s been many years since I saw you and listened to you. I don’t know why these few months in England seem like enormous years to me. Let’s hope that I return soon and that we meet for a few days in Aegina, which I long for as my only remaining refuge on earth and on the seas. Eleni is here, struggling to return to France. She sends warm greetings. We remember you at every moment. As for me, I am living an “inhuman” life, as is my custom—that is, I am tranquil and happy (without any external cause) in the midst of worldwide horror, not as a spectator but as an inhuman power that looks upon human beings with neither disdain nor esteem. I’d like to be able to express precisely what I am thinking and feeling, but I would be stoned by all sides. And that is a sign that I am right. In a few days I may leave London and be near Sir Sydney, to keep him company before I leave forever. But my address will always be this one, in London. I have very much to tell you. I am eager to see you. Let’s hope that this happens in November. For today, nothing else. Always, N

1940 Letters  •  529

1  I wrote a verse drama:  Julian the Apostate.  1  Paraschos:  Κλέων Παράσχος, “Τα βιβλία. Ν. Καζντζάκη, Οδύσσεια,” Νέα Εστία 26 (1 September 1939): 1225–31; reprinted in his book Κύκλοι (Athens, 1939). Paraschos (1894– 1964) was a journalist, translator, poet, and—chiefly—a literary critic.

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/15; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, pp. 23–24.

Aegina, [3] March 1940 Dear friend! Thanks for your good letter and forgive me for taking so long to thank you. I’m drowning in ink. I received the two critiques by Panayotopoulos and was pleased that he understood many things. I was especially impressed by how accurately he spoke about the number 33,333. The Odyssey has its own independent life. The umbilical cord has been cut; it’s a free organism now and does not need me, nor do I need it. Let it struggle on its own with fearsome Chronos—Time— who devours his children, and be saved if it can. I’m not getting involved any longer. I’m not going to write to Mr. Theodoropoulos if he’s going to publish me on such horrible paper, as he did with N. Fokas. It’s better not to happen. There’s not a single reason. It would be a shame for Askitiki to be published so miserably. So, let it remain unpublished. I’ve finished England and will give it to Kathimerini first so that it can be read by more people. Afterwards to Pyrsos if they want it. I’d be very indebted to you if you could send me Rotas’s Hamlet and Karthaios’s Lear and Romeo and Juliet (and Nea Grammata if it has anything worthwhile). Bill me. I don’t know when I’ll be coming to Athens to see you. It would be more certain if you came here some Saturday, stayed overnight in my house, and went back on Sunday. I’m fine, working hard, taking a look at the globe and searching for somewhere to go. I’m very attracted to India, but will I manage? “Khozyain piruet!” Extend my warm greetings to Mr. Ganiaris and never mind if people call him “Chrysostomos.” I very much liked Karagatsis’s short story about Papadiamantis, but I’m ashamed to write to him. If you see him, tell him. God be with you, always, N

530  •  1940 Letters

1  Panayotopoulos: Ioannis M. Panayotopoulos (1901–82), important critic; later served as minister of culture.  1  Chrysostomos:  Literally “golden mouthed”; specifically Saint John Chrysostom (347–407), revered as one of the three holy hierarchs of the church, along with Saint Basil the Great and Saint Gregory the Theologian; renowned as a preacher; elected patriarch; reformed the liturgy.  1  Karagatsis:  M. Karagatsis (1908–60), pseudonym of Dimitrios Rodopoulos; important short story writer and novelist.  1  Papadiamantis:  Alexandros Papadiamantis (1851–1911), Greek novelist born on the island of Skiathos, often the setting of his extraordinary short stories; best known for The Murderess, a novella about a Skiathos midwife who kills newborn female babies because she deplores the restricted life of grown women on the island.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 495–96.

Aegina, 1 September 1940 Dear Brother! Your letters gave me much pleasure, and I’m waiting eagerly to read your El Greco. But I was very sorry that you were not able to stop for a moment in Aegina. It seems that I will never be fortunate enough to see you again on this deserted seashore. I’m working hard. I now have the entire Akritas in mind, but I don’t want to begin it yet. It will be my life’s final work, my swan song, and I’d like to finish it when I’m seventy years old. So, we have time. Do we? Now I’m writing a novel about Crete, in French. The hero is my father. It will be very long and, I hope, good. I am dedicated to work and am bothered only minimally by the terrible things that are happening. They pass through my mind and heart in such a filtered state that they are reduced to fairy tales. May “God” be with you always, dear Brother. My isolation is great, a cool fortress with a blue invisible banner, like a breeze. Para siempre! N

1  your El Greco:  Prevelakis’s study El Greco in Rome (1940).  1  a novel about Crete:  Mon père, which he was revising.

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/16; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, pp. 24–25.

Aegina, 17 September 1940

1940 Letters  •  531

Dear friend! Ever since the day you left Aegina, not a word either from you or from the beloved painter. However, Eleni and I always hope to see you here again. With this letter, I’d like now to ask a favor of you. There’s a great rumor that Pyrsos is going to close its bookstore. I’d like you to suggest what I should do regarding my accounts with Pyrsos. The books that are still there—Odyssey, Traveling, etc.—I hope I can leave safely in its storeroom. As you know, the agreement for Spain was for me to collect whatever is sold above seventy-four thousand drachmas. Where does the account for Spain stand now? Haven’t my royalties begun yet? Please write me with directions concerning what I should do and how I should formulate my letter to the director of Pyrsos. That’s what I wanted to ask of you. My life here is the same. I haven’t the slightest hope that Julian will be performed, but I continue to write as though everything were going splendidly. Right now I’m completing a long novel about Crete but written in French— thus, I’ll have immediate publishers: Spanish and Dutch. Immediately afterwards I’ll begin a new play. And I am continually feeding and cooking Akritas inside me. Lots of willpower, lots of “delight” amid worldwide sorrow. No other salvation exists. I’m struggling with such intensity because I know— and can bear this—that no recompense exists. Warm greetings to you from Eleni, and to the painter. Extend my warm greetings to Mr. Ganiaris and write me what happened with his daughter. I sent you a note to give a copy of the Odyssey as a present from me to a splendid young man from Kalymnos who lives here in Aegina, Mr. G. Manglis, who wrote an excellent book on the sponge divers. Naturally, give him a paperback Odyssey. God be with you, always! N

1  the beloved painter:  Valias Semertzidis (1911–85), painter and engraver.  1  Manglis:  Yannis Manglis (1909–2006), novelist and dramatist; translated Kazantzakis’s novel Toda-Raba from the original French into Greek; Kazantzakis’s terzina “Toda-Raba” is dedicated to Manglis.

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/17; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, pp. 25–26.

[Aegina,] 2 October 1940 Dear friend! I received both your letters. Thank you very much. For me to answer the first we need to see each other, and I hope that this will happen soon. I might spend the winter in Kifissia because Eleni is tired of the seaside.

532  •  1940 Letters

I received the accounts; they give rise to the problem of when I’ll get this money that I need so much. Eleni will be in Athens until about 10 October. If she can get it now, telephone 52083, Mr. Tsangridis’s house, Ioulianou 54. I’ll greatly appreciate it if you and Mr. Ganiaris intervene. Yesterday I finished my novel about Crete, approximately five hundred pages, but written in French. That’s what I’ve been reduced to, I the fanatical lover of our language—to be forced to write in a foreign language. I don’t have any publisher in Greece, and elsewhere I have three, and they pay well. A horror for me, and shame. The accounts do not refer at all to Japan. We had told Mr. Theo. that, when the expenses were covered, I should have royalties on the rest. How many have been sold? I see that Spain has sold quite a few. I’m glad because it’s a book that is accessible to many; thus I’m transmitting a little of my soul before the black wind scatters it. This morning I wrote a short poem about Dragoumis, in terza rima, that Nea Estia asked for. Tomorrow morning I intend to begin a Chinese play that I have in mind. If I remain unoccupied a single moment, I’m miserable and think I’m going to die. Are they thinking, I wonder, of bringing out Askitiki this New Year’s? But in a good edition; otherwise let it remain unpublished. Please ask. It’s such a thin book, and I think it will sell. I’m waiting for the painter. I ordered the photograph that you like, and I’ll send it to you when it’s ready. The painter should work from this one only. I think that it faithfully expresses my soul. Please give the painter the enclosed card, whose original is marvelous. Yours always, N. Kazantzakis

1  Mr. Tsangridis’s house: Tsangridis was married to Eleni Samiou’s sister Anna.  1  Mr. Theo:  Mr. Theodoropoulos.  1  a short poem about Dragoumis:  “Χαιρετισμός στον ΄Ιωνα Δραγούμη,” published in Nea Estia 29 (15 March 1941): 223; discussion and English translation in Bien 2007a, pp. 129–31.

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/18; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, pp. 26–27.

[Aegina,] 7 October 1940 Dear friend! Thanks for the letter. Please write me when my writing to Pyrsos regarding the settlement of the account will have a practical result. Regarding Japan,

1940 Letters  •  533

Theodoropoulos himself told me in his office at the bookstore that, as soon as Pyrsos recoups its expenses, they’ll assuredly give me the remainder. However, if he has forgotten, please do not remind him. I gave him Nikiforos Fokas for free, but I was disappointed at the edition he produced—totally disgusting for a clearly literary work. Never again will I grant a work for free unless the publication turns out as I want it. Therefore, please say on my behalf (I’ll write it myself if necessary) that by no means are they to publish Askitiki or anything else unless we reach an agreement regarding paper, format, printing, etc. N. F. is so wretched that I cannot bear to look at it (a printing like that doesn’t matter in the travel books). Askitiki must come out in an entirely fine publication; otherwise let it stay. God be with you! My greetings to Mr. Ganiaris. Always, N. Kazantzakis

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/19; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, pp. 27–29.

[Aegina,] 20 October 1940 Dear friend! Thanks for your letter. I’m answering immediately. 1. I’d like Askitiki to be printed exactly like Prevelakis’s translation of Valéry’s L’Ame et la dance: the same paper, same format, same font. The title ΑΣΚΗΤΙΚΗ in red letters, the same with the five chapter titles: “The Preparation” (p. 1), “The March” (p. 9), etc. (pp. 23, 28, 45). And, on the appropriate page, have him write the dedication (which I don’t think exists in the manuscript that you have): “greetings to pandelis prevelakis” 2. If England is printed, it must be printed exactly like the other travel books. I’d like only twenty—on good paper (because I’ll send twenty to England). 3. Of the two ways you mention, I prefer the first: royalties of twelve drachmas on each ten copies sold. It’s the simplest and most uncomplicated way, and I like it. I’d like just to learn quickly about England because it needs reworking, and I must be given enough time. 4. I gave a receipt for the rest of the account to be paid to Mr. Kalmouchos. He’s going to bring me the amount. Telephone him at Papachrysanthou’s ­lithography shop, 14 Thiseos Street (he’s there on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday) and ask him when he’s going to stop at Pyrsos.

534  •  1940 Letters

5. I’m also sending you the note for Mr. Panayotopoulos. 6. I’m sending you the first page of Askitiki because I don’t think it exists in the manuscript that you have. 7. Do you think you could do me a favor? Can you find me last year’s issue of Neohellenic Grammata that published “The First Sirens” that I’d sent from London? I want to insert it in the book on England and I don’t have it. I’m terribly busy and don’t stop. I’m working on four manuscripts, shouting them into the sheepfold like a shepherd his flock. That’s why I need to know at once if they decide to publish England, so that I can tackle only that and give it its definitive form. I plan to come to Kifissia at the end of November. Eleni sends her greetings to you as do I to you and Mr. Ganiaris. With much love, N

1  The First Sirens:  “Οι πρώτες σειρήνες,” Νεοελληνικό Γράμματα, 7 October 1939 (dated “London, 4 September 1939”). Interestingly, in 1911 he published “The First Sirens,” which is reprinted in Nea Estia 64 (1 October 1958): 1501–03.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 466; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 392–93; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 405.

[Aegina,] 7 December [1940] Dear Tulpitsa, Thanks to Mr. Papastavrou, the house is suddenly full of bounties. It was night; he knocked, came in, opened the valises: your gifts, my sister’s, etc.— cheese, broad beans, split peas, chestnuts, tangerines, apples, jam, walnuts, lentils, bread, cake, and finally the acme: a most beautiful embroidery. I was glad. I remembered when I was young. I received your letter, but I’m afraid that you did not get mine that had Mrs. Persaki’s inside it because you didn’t allude to it at all. Please don’t overlook it in silence. It’s necessary. You’re right about the corrections for England. Take care of them while you are there. I had written to Ganiaris for this sentence to go above the dedication: “May this book be considered an outcry for the new Great Idea: For Greece to unite with England.” Please tell him to write me if the censorship allows this.

1940 Letters  •  535

I’m writing to my sister today to get Dante and to send you the tea service that I got in the Caucasus. Maybe you should bring it but not in its box but loose in the valise lest they think it’s new. I’d like us to drink our tea from that service on Christmas. I’m sending you Sirens slightly corrected to add to the manuscript. Tell them that in the chapter where this goes to place the number X (10) above and the title “The Day, the giant Day!” in capitals. I won’t be able to come to Athens. I’ll wait for you here. Cold, storms; I wrote you about the garden. It rained a great deal. The earth had its fill. You know what we need. Remember: batteries because they don’t exist here, typewriter ribbons, newsprint, thirty domestic postcards, fifty regular envelopes because they don’t exist here, raisin wine, butter, etc. Mrs. Clara is thriving. The other day I dreamed of Elsa; I’m afraid that something may have happened to her. I saw that Düsseldorf was severely bombed the other day. Nothing else for now. Write me when you’re coming so that I can fetch you. Always, N

1  Tulpitsa:  Playful feminine version of “tulpa,” on which see the note to the letter to Eleni Samiou dated “[Aegina, 1938], Wednesday,” above.  1  Sirens . . . to add to the manuscript:  “The First Sirens,” to be added to England.

To Sir Sidney Waterlow —Original manuscript, in French, in my possession, gift of John Waterlow.

Aegina, 24 December 1940 Very dear Sir Sydney I haven’t received any response to my letters. Therefore, I am allowing myself, without having received your consent, to dedicate to you my book on England that is about to be published and that you will soon receive. I have also published about forty articles on England in newspapers and magazines. I believe that these articles have done some good. You in England, above all, should be proud concerning our victories in Albania that are so glorious. Quality has once again conquered incoherent, brutal quantity; mind has once again overwhelmed matter. We are now harvesting what you sowed with such faith and love during your sojourn in Athens. I think of you at every moment and am happy to feel that you are pleased: the Greeks have shown themselves to be worthy of your love and trust.

536  •  1940 Letters

Dear Sir Sidney, please be so kind as to write me a word: if all is going well with you, if you are working somewhere or on something. For goodness’ sake, do not let me be without your news. As for me, I’m doing everything here that I can for the cause of freedom. Our people’s spiritual state is truly marvelous; one could say that the Hellenic race truly has a great mission to fulfill on this earth. May the New Year be favorable for you personally and for all those who are fighting and suffering for freedom. Be so kind as to extend my respects to Lady Waterlow and to tell her, after you have read my book, that I have not written too much nonsense, as she was sure I would not. And please extend my greetings to Charlotte and John. Always yours, very dear Sir Sydney, and with hopes that we will meet each other once again on this earth. N. Kazantzaki

1  about forty articles on England: In Nea Estia 26 (Christmas 1939): 22–26, and in Kathimerini from 26 July to 21 October 1940.

IX  •  Confined to Aegina during the German

Occupation; Writes Zorba and Many Plays; Begins to Translate Homer’s Iliad

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 469–70; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 396; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 409.

Aegina, Thursday, 15 May [1941] Dear Lenotschka! Last night I encountered Mrs. Persaki by chance and learned for the first time about Rounis’s accident. I felt terribly sad, because I am well aware of all the horror. Thus, I realized at last why you have remained so long in Athens, which exhausted and embittered me so much. After the failure of the three goals—(1) a job, (2) learning English, (3) Kardamyli—I was unable to understand why you continued to live away from your home. Never have I felt so tired because of your delay. I fervently beg of you, come here on Monday to calm down. You’ll find the house in perfect order. Katina is looking after it, because I terrorize her each day with the idea that you’ll be coming. I find fish regularly from the large nets that they spread in front of the house; yesterday I got an excellent one for boiling, half an oka, large, fifteen drachmas! But since I said to myself yesterday that you would be coming, I had collected a final stupendous menu in the feneri. Listen: (1) half an oka of excellent cheese, (2) halva, (3) boiled zucchini and refreshing broad beans, (4) Quaker Oats, (5) six eggs, (6) boiled fish with sauce, (7) yogurt, and (8) most astonishing of all: a large serving of rabbit stew! When I saw that you were not coming, I fell into despair. I’d be forced to eat the whole lot myself (except the cheese and eggs, of course). In the evening I went down to Aegina town and saw Mrs. Persaki. And now, very early in the morning, I’ll go down again to send this letter in the hope that it will give you a tiny bit of pleasure in the midst of your terrible family problems. On Monday I’ll be down in the harbor waiting for you. Please come. Please! You will give me great joy. I’m unable to carry on. And it’s now the 19th of May. Mrs. Persaki also told me something about Kathimerini. Won’t we get anything any

538  •  1941 Letters

more? She didn’t understand very well what you told her. Please don’t worry about the “future.” There may be no future at all. Here, in the last few wartime days, the area around our home has been a “danger zone.” Bombs near Marinis’s (Marinis narrowly escaped getting killed); machine gun fire a few meters away from the house. I saw the airplanes passing overhead and felt how much everything is hanging from a thread. I have the idea that I shall soon be leaving this earth and am calmly waiting; I am entirely ready. So, forget about “future” events and let’s try to experience, without agitation, the terrible moments through which the world is now passing and, necessarily, we too are passing. Much patience and love are needed if a person is to live with dignity through this crucial age in which we have been fated to live. I am certain that I have both of those necessary qualities. I beg you to have them as well. It is now, in moments such as these, that a person’s worth becomes evident. I’m eager to see you so that you can tell me lots about everyone: Marika, Hourmouzios, Prevelakis, etc. It would be good if you saw Minotis in order to learn the theatrical news. Maybe they’re finally producing Faust—something of utmost importance for us. Please tell Minotis that, if they are producing it, I have reworked it definitively (I finished it this month) and they’ll need to correct the text that I had deposited with them. You see how necessary it is for you to see Minotis. If you remember, bring the translation of Faust by Provelengios that you have at home. I’d like to see how he explains various controversial portions. (What became of Mr. Kolokotronis?) Also bring (1) the tin with salted raisins; there aren’t any here at all, and I need them a lot, (2) spaghetti from my sister’s. I also left my overcoat there (I was pleased to learn that you bought me English shirts). I hope that we can find a radio with batteries. Marinis can now charge them for us without cost; he secured a dynamo and thus Lefas charges them. I go to Lefas’s almost every evening and listen to the news. We have become great friends and he, in turn, comes to our house. When you come, we must give Mrs. Klara her coffee. I’ve learned that there is none in Athens. Here it’s better, so there’s no need for me to tell you to bring figs. (Eggs here are three and a half drachmas.) The “garden” is watered every Thursday. Katina, Sophia, and I carry water frantically. The post and telegraph are still not operating. The letters you write stay down below at Karayanis’s (even though you pay to have them delivered to me), and I get them by chance. This letter has grown very long. I miss you very much—very very much. I cannot feel you distant from me any longer. I am extremely exhausted. I beg you, come on Monday. I’ll be waiting for you at the harbor. Dear Lenotschka, I kiss your hands and shoulders. Come. N

1941 Letters  •  539

Bring me the German newspaper and Neoellinika Grammata and five regular and three deluxe copies of England from Pyrsos. And ask about Diamantaras. Get several needles that clean the Primus; we have only one. And three packets of “Amerikanikos” pipe tobacco. And one typewriter ribbon. I’m writing all this to you on a separate sheet of paper, so you can have it handy. The house is full of white lilies. I bought a lot and have been given some. They’re waiting for you, yet on the other hand they’re opening and wilting. Send or give the card to Eleni.

1  Kardamyli:  Village in the Mani with beautiful beaches, 35 kilometers (21.7 miles) from Kalamata.  1  half an oka:  = 1 lb. 6½ oz.  1  feneri:  A portable cupboard with space for storing food (Cretan dialect), sometimes hanging from the ceiling like a lantern (fanari) to prevent vermin from entering.  1  Faust:  Kazantzakis’s translation of Goethe’s Faust, Part 1.  1  Provelengios:  Aristomenis Provelengios (1850–1936), poet writing in katharevousa, dramatist, translator, member of the Academy of Athens, member of parliament.  1  needles that clean the Primus:  Primus stoves are camping stoves heated by kerosene, butane, or propane.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 498–99.

Aegina, 12 August 1941 Dear brother! Eleni had an idea that may have practical value: that we should have tried to give the famous Calandria of Bibbiena to some theater, perhaps to Miranda-Pappas. You have the Greek text. If it got mislaid, I still have the French one here. So, if you think this expedient, try. I very much doubt that anything of mine will be produced next year at the Theater (as you know, I am permanently excluded)—neither the translation of Faust, now in its definitive draft, nor original works: Julian or Melissa. It seems that there’s no regime that tolerates me, and very properly, since there is no regime that I tolerate. I have completed a long drama, Yangtze. I have retranslated Dante from the start into a definitive version, with many and very great changes. I’m working hard. I well know that there is no other salvation. Para siempre, N. Kazantzakis

540  •  1941 Letters

1  Miranda-Pappas:  Theatrical troupe formed in 1941 by Miranda Myrat (1905–94) and Yorgos Pappas (1909–58); it lasted only until the summer of 1942.  1  the Theater:  The Royal Theater.  1  Yangtze:  The play later named Buddha.

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscripts in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/22, D/23; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, pp. 31–32.

Aegina, 22 August 1941 Dear friend, I received the basket, etc. and was very sorry that you couldn’t come. I returned the books immediately because the fee they’ve proposed seemed to me shamefully humiliating. I don’t think it was correct for me to accept. Please write me if it is urgently necessary for me to come immediately or if I can put it off for a little while. If I come, I’ll be obliged to remain quite a few days in Athens waiting for the permit allowing me to return, a difficult thing now that I am up to my neck in a new work that I began after you left. So—if absolutely necessary, I’ll come immediately; if not, I’ll put it off for a while. In any case, when I do come, I’ll want clear and detailed instructions. Write me whether you spoke to dear Lekatsas about the books. I prefer to work with him and you rather than with that other brazen lot. I used to get fifteen thousand for each translation when the drachma was worth something. Mr. Ganiaris wrote to me, and I answered him, saying that he should consult you regarding everything. We said that we’d leave him the “Traveling” and several Dantes. Behave toward him as accommodatingly as you can, because it’s right for us to support him as much as possible. Eleni greets you warmly. Always, N Thanks also for the poems. I’ll read them this evening. I received the halva. What a miracle! What bliss! Write me how much I owe Mr. Anghelakis. Dear friend, The postcard is very small and not able to contain the pleasure afforded me by the huge box with its precious contents. Thus, I’m writing you to ask you to please give me Anghelakis’s address so that I can thank him, too, and send him whatever I owe him. I’ll be most appreciative.

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Together with this I’m sending you a card for Minotis because I’d prefer not to send it to the theater, and I don’t know where his home is. If you see him or find out where he lives and give it to him, I’ll appreciate it. If he gives you a book, please send it to me but not by post. Leave it at Karagianis’s “Pindos” café opposite the National Library, just a little before one reaches Gamvetas’s. The Aegina postmen go there; thus I’ll get it without fail, and quickly. Because I’m afraid that I might be forced to remain in Athens for many days, waiting for the permit, I’m expecting you to write me whether it’s absolutely necessary for me to come immediately. If it isn’t, allow me to finish The Saint’s Life of Zorba, which I started, am writing feverishly, and have already reached 150 pages. It’s going to be long. I repeat, however, that I’ll come at once if it’s absolutely necessary. My life here is the way you know it. I begin work before daybreak and stop as soon as night falls. I dive into the sea, eat lots of figs and grapes, and in the evening glue my ears to the radio. Anguish! But I try to tame it by working. Eleni greets you warmly. Always, N

1  Lekatsas:  Panagis Lekatsas (1911–70), a literary man best known for his editions of ancient Greek texts translated by him into modern Greek and published by Zacharopoulos.  1  Gamvetas’s:  A café.  1  waiting for the permit:  No one was allowed to travel from Aegina to Athens or from Athens to Aegina without a permit from the German occupying forces.  1  The Saint’s Life of Zorba:  The Greek is “Το συναξάρι του Ζορμπά.” This provisional title of the novel is worth noting.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 499–500.

Aegina, 22 August 1941 Dear brother! Thank you very much for intervening; however, although I still don’t have anything, Kathimerini cut my three thousand, I’m not given any work to do, no play of mine is produced, and my economic situation is absolutely critical—I am unable to accept the humiliating fee they offer for my work. In the past I used to get fifteen thousand, which equal fifty thousand of today’s;

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six thousand now is ridiculous. So I’m returning the books to you, and I thank you once again, most warmly, for remembering me. I would be most willing to send him Othello if we signed papers with the customary terms for classical translations and if they sent me an advance, because I need to give it its definitive form and to type it, and that cannot happen with vague promises. I might pop over to Athens for a short time; let’s hope that I’ll be able to see you. I think of you at every moment. I’m working hard. A few days ago I began The Saint’s Life of Zorba. A very fruitful year, because that’s the only way to conquer despair. I’m at peace outwardly; nothing has changed. The line of verse is by Góngora; for me, he has now become one of the great Ancestors. “God” be with you, always! N P.S. I think that the lowest tolerable fee is fifteen thousand. That’s what Eleni got me to add.

1  Kathimerini cut my three thousand:  He had been receiving three thousand drachmas a month for the novelistic biographies Columbus, Empress Elizabeth, Bernadotte, and Chateaubriand, all of which he had now submitted for publication (anonymously).

To Kimon Friar —Photograph of manuscript in Friar 1977, p. 23; not printed in Friar 1977.

Aegina, 25 August 1941 Dear friend! We enjoyed your letter very much and envy you for being amid green grass, by the sea, and amid plenty. Here, outward life grows continually more constricted; willy-nilly, therefore, the inner life must grow broader in order for balance to be maintained. Seldom in my life have I worked with such intensity. I rewrote Yangtze and began—and am close to finishing—a long novel, The Saint’s Life of Zorba. I work calmly, assiduously, carried away, transubstantiating all of the outward enslavement into inner freedom. I sense the value of all those “middle ages” during which various people—enclosed in their cells, all alone, without hope—toss all the sadness, hunger, and misery into the chemical laboratory of their brain and turn those deprivations into what we call “spirit”: that which, more suitably, would be called “the tiger’s melody.” Only in this way can we get even. Finally there’s Dante’s method of tossing his enemies

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into the everlasting inferno of his poetry. All things come and go, but poetry remains, assuming full responsibility. It simply needs to be perfect. I think of you often with love and confidence. Work as much as you can; you have time, yet time must not be lost. You should always say: “Tomorrow I may not exist. I must hurry!” Ἓν ἄγαν! I circle round and round various intellectual approaches but I always return with greater faith to those two ever-so-tiny words. If my heart is opened when I die, those two words will be found written there in red capitals. “God” be with you, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  Ἓν ἄγαν: Everything in excess! This motto is fully explicated in Kazantzakis’s travel book on the Peloponnesus (Kazantzakis 1965c, p. 197; translated in Kazantzakis 1965d, p. 14): “Bellerophon . . . forgot the prudent human commandment: Nothing in excess [Μηδὲν ἄγαν]. But a contemporary soul would extol this . . . transgressor, because our own age smolders with the same bellerophondian craving: Everything in excess! [ Ἓν ἄγαν!]”

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, p. 502.

Aegina, 24 December 1941 Dear brother! I have read and reread your letter, and it filled me with valor and sadness. My heart, too, has brimmed over. I no longer wish to continue the idle life I am pursuing. I have longed for action in concert with two or three companions, a positive action that intervenes directly in this Greek life that we have abandoned callously and cowardly to villains and idiots. I would like very much for us to see each other and talk a little—not simply “would like”: we must do this. But how and where? You decide. Let’s pray that in 1942 the two of us shall be yoked together in the same action! Always, N. Kazantzakis

To Angelos Sikelianos —Manuscript in University of Thessaloniki Library; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 477; English translation (incomplete) in Helen

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Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 402–3; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 416.

Aegina, 24 December 1941 Dear brother! I received the precious manuscript of your poem and have read and enjoyed your other poem in Nea Estia. Saint Demetrios is always next to Saint George, and more than ever in these crucial moments. When you sent word to me via Eleni, asking if I wished to go to Epirus, I wrote you immediately to say with what pleasure I accepted. I wrote also to Prevelakis; I have not received an answer. I stopped at your house in Athens in January to see you but did not find you in. You came to Aegina at some point, approached, did not enter my house. But now I think that it’s high time we met. Perhaps it’s essential in this fateful time for Greece. But how? Where? Decide. “God” grant that our 1942 may be filled with action and that the two steeds, the white and the iron red, may fight side by side! Always, N. Kazantzakis

1  your other poem in Nea Estia:  Probably the superb poem “Άγραφον,” printed in the Nea Estia issue of 1 October 1941.  1  Saint Demetrios:  Born in Thessaloniki, a.d. 270; typically depicted in Byzantine iconography in military dress, riding a red horse; executed in a.d. 306; patron saint of Thessaloniki because he was born and died there and also because he was believed to have saved the city during various attacks. Contemporary festivals in Thessaloniki are called the “Demetria.” Often depicted together with Saint George, both on horseback.  1  Saint George: One of the most prominent military saints (275/281–303), a Roman soldier under Diocletian, typically depicted on a white horse, slaying a dragon.  1  did not enter my house:  Apparently Sikelianos had come to Aegina, had been taken in a horse-drawn carriage to the Kazantzakises’ door, but then had changed his mind and had not entered (Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 394).  1  the two steeds:  Sikelianos’s poem presented himself and Kazantzakis as Saint George and Saint Demetrios. Saint George always mounts a white horse, whereas Saint Demetrios always mounts a reddish one.

To Emmanuel Kriaras —Printed in Kriaras 2007, p. 195.

Aegina, 31 December 1941

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Dear Mr. Kriaras! I regret that I am unable to send you the Odyssey because very few copies remain, and I am unable to allot any of them. I am sending you the glossary of the Odyssey together with a note for my friend Mr. Diamantaras, director of the literary department of the Zacharopoulos Publishing House, Arsakio Arcade. He hopes to be able to put a copy aside for you about two months from now. This work of yours is extraordinarily useful, and I am sure that its contribution, here too, will be valuable for modern Greek literature. What’s needed is patience and love—and you have both. With esteem, N. Kazantzakis

1  Emmanuel Kriaras:  Greek lexicographer (b. 1906) who taught medieval Greek literature at the University of Thessaloniki until dismissed in 1968 by the colonels’ junta. The publication of his multivolume Dictionary of Medieval Greek Demotic Literature (1100–1669) has been in progress since 1968 and his New Greek Dictionary of the Modern Demotic Language appeared in 1995.  1  glossary of the Odyssey:  Because readers complained that they could not understand Kazantzakis’s language in the Odyssey when it was published in 1938, he quickly compiled a glossary of about sixteen hundred “difficult” words, stressing in a preliminary note that they were gathered from various regions in Greece, whereas only five or six, which he lists, were invented by him.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 502–3.

[Aegina, 8 January 1942] Dear brother! Agreed. I’ll try to find a way to pop over to Athens for a few days so that we can see each other. I’ve made the definitive decision to forsake writing for a few years so that I may help our race as much as I can in this critical moment. This decision ripened slowly and by itself, without intervention from my reason—like fruit on a tree. I shall dedicate myself entirely to direct action as soon as I am given a good opportunity. Now I am putting my writings in order here as though I were about to leave on a long trip or to die. I don’t want to abandon what I have begun in the middle; the only thing that will remain is Akritas, the thirteenth Herculean labor. Will I be in time?

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I hope that a way will be found for us to work together. I predict that all the mediocrities will be organized against you. You are right in saying that the time has come for us to return from our exile. “Good Fatherland!” I like that cry. Perhaps I’ll be able to stay at my sister’s in Athens, but the whole time will be ours. I’ll write you as soon as I’m able to move. Always, N. Kazantzakis

1  the thirteenth Herculean labor: One extra, since the myth speaks of only twelve.  1  Good Fatherland:  A common wish addressed by a Greek abroad to another Greek abroad who is about to return to Greece.

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/25; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, pp. 33–35.

Aegina, Saturday, 7 February 1942 Dear friend, I greatly enjoyed your letter, which relieved me of a large burden. We agree: I should not hand over my books to anyone forever, only for a specific edition and a specific number of copies. To Zacharopoulos’s series, I’ll be happy to give the biographies I wrote for the general public, which were so widely read: Columbus, Empress Elizabeth, Bernadotte, Chateaubriand. These were written after I had studied many books for each and had drawn out from them a different book, adjusted for a very popular reading public. In addition, I’ll give my two children’s novels: Alexander the Great (whose publication in Neolaia was cut short) and In the Palaces of Knossos (none of which was published). I’m also going to translate books in various other series. When the director of the editions is appointed, send me the list of books that he will have chosen, and I’ll decide. Eleni will also decide on a few. She already has a children’s book ready for you, one adapted from English, a book that made a stupendous impression, a veritable children’s masterpiece. It’s going to be illustrated by Semertzidis. I’ve found still other books that would be excellent for the editions and, if the new director who is appointed is willing, I’ll be very happy to indicate them to him. I have a lively interest in this project even though I did not undertake its directorship. I want it to become as perfect as possible. The greatest difficulty is to mobilize good collaborators. Everything depends on them. Let there be an inviolable general rule: whoever undertakes a translation must do so from the book’s original language and

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not from a secondary translation, as our scholars do to make things easy, translating everything from French. I have always considered Hourmouzios a very appropriate director; let’s hope that they can agree. As soon as possible, please tell Mr. Zacharopoulos to give me a reliable mandate: (1) to prepare for him the four books for the broad public, (2) the two children’s novels, and (3) permission for me to choose which books I’ll translate. It’s lots of work, and I will devote my whole self to it. Regarding the Iliad, I would like as a start the translation of the Odyssey that you published, and Kordatos’s book. At the same time, ask Mr. Kakridis on my behalf which are the best commentaries and aids for a translation of the Iliad. He has concerned himself specifically with Homer and is the most appropriate person to give us an opinion. I will do some trial passages, as I promised. If they are successful—if my translation is superior to Pallis’s— then I’ll get started, devoting all my time and strength to it. Thank you for the books that Mr. Zacharopoulos is giving me. I hope to come there in a few days and get them—a great pleasure for me. Please tell Mr. Zacharopoulos that I’m writing you in relation to the various editions. Add that in the first series of works for the broad public it would be good for you to include only those biographies of great men that you ­already have ready: (1) Dimakos’s, which was printed in Eleftheron Vima, (2) L. Nakou’s in Akropolis, (3) several of my own in Kathimerini. All of these were avidly read and thousands will want to have them in book form. But Nakou and Dimakos should be advised to tighten up their texts a little, because they are often flabby. The director of the editions needs to come to terms with these authors carefully. I’m sure that the success of this series, if it’s done in this way, will be amazing. It’s just what is needed by our public, which desires to be educated and is thirsty. The same needs to be done for the first ten to fifteen of the philosophical books: biographies of each philosopher, whose works will be read in subsequent publications. Let the public be initiated in advance, and let them read afterwards; otherwise they won’t know and won’t be interested. A lot of pedagogical “discretion and daring” is required in such undertakings. I still have not decided anything concerning my creative books. I’m in no hurry to decide. I’m waiting for the two books on the Iliad that I have written you about. Ask Mr. Kakridis to indicate to us the most appropriate and up-to-date aids (chiefly German), so that when I come I’ll be able to avoid wasting time. We’re still hoping, Eleni and I, to have you here for Easter—a penurious Easter, but heartfelt. Greet Mr. Zacharopoulos for me and assure him that I am always at his disposal regarding whatever help is needed for the various editions. Tell him that each series needs to be complete, that none of the money designated for those manuscripts must go to waste, that the books’ quality must be first-rate,

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of permanent value, and that for any work of more general worth I am ready to contribute whatever I can and howsoever much that I can. Greetings to Semertzidis and his wife, also to Marabou and his sister. I hope to see you soon. Always, Nikos Kazantzakis P.S. I didn’t sign the children’s books or the books for the broad public because they are not creative works, nor are they mere translations. Naturally, works that are clearly just translations I shall publish under my name.

1  To Zacharopoulos editions I’ll be happy to give:  Besides the books listed in the letter, Kazantzakis included Melissa, Julian, Askitiki, Traveling: Egypt, Sinai, Jerusalem, Cyprus, and his translations of Dante (2nd edition), Faust, and Othello.  1  my two children’s novels:  Μέγας Αλέξανδρος (Alexander the Great) (serialized anonymously in Neolaía from 10 February 1940 to 28 September 1941, but never completed owing to the magazine’s demise); published in Greek in 1978; English translation issued by Ohio University Press in 1982. Στα παλάτια της Κνωσού, never published in 1940–41 owing to the war, issued in Greek in 1981, English translation: At the Palaces of Knossos (Athens: Ohio University Press, 1988).  1  the translation of the Odyssey that you published:  Perhaps Eftaliotis’s unfinished translation of the Odyssey into modern Greek verse (books 1–22), published in 1932, but by I. D. Kollaros.  1  Kordatos’s book:  Presumably his book on the “language question”— namely, demotic versus katharevousa: Δημοτικισμός και λογιωτατισμός: κοινωνιολογική μελέτη του γλωσσικού ζητήματος (1927), revised and republished as Ιστορία του γλωσσικού μας ζητήματος in 1943. Kordatos served as an editor for the Zacharopoulos publishing house.  1  Kakridis:  Yannis Kakridis (1901–92), distinguished Greek Homerist; the Kazantzakis-Kakridis translation of the Iliad was published in 1955, their joint translation of the Odyssey (only partly finished by Kazantzakis) in 1965. From November 1941 to July 1942 Kakridis was the defendant in the infamous “Accent Trial” (see note for 1 January 1943, below). Author of about forty books and more than two hundred articles on ancient Greek literature, chiefly Homer, Kakridis also wrote a study on The Problem of Translation (1936). He trained numerous students who served as enlightened teachers in the gymnasia of northern Greece and were known as “the children of Kakridis.”  1  Dimakos:  Andreas Dimakos (b. 1901), journalist working after 1930 for To Vima, which he edited after 1963.  1  L. Nakou:  Lilika Nakou (1903–89), Greek novelist living in France until 1930, originally a member of Galatea’s “troupe.”  1  Mr. Zacharopoulos: Ioannis Zacharopoulos (1898–1967), publisher.  1  Marabou:  Presumably the poet Nikos Kavvadias (1910–75) who published Μαραμπού, his first collection, in 1933.

1942 Letters  •  549

To Angelos Sikelianos —Manuscript in Benaki Museum envelope 25/239; copy in University of Thessaloniki Library; printed in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 478; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 403; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 417.

Aegina, 25 February 1942 Dear brother Angelos! I arrived home with Anna’s flowers and brought the good news: that this entire place will soon be resplendent owing to your presence. About ten days from now I’ll be returning to Athens for two days and will see you again. God is with us because we are with God; work, laughter, evening conversations by the sea, heaven above, earth at our feet—the transitory moment will assume its true essence: everlastingness. N

1  Anna’s flowers:  Anna Sikelianou (1904–2006), Sikelianos’s second wife; they married in 1940.  1  and will see you again: In February Kazantzakis had received permission from the Germans to travel to Athens, where he stayed in Prevelakis’s home. During this time, Prevelakis arranged for Sikelianos to visit and be reunited with Kazantzakis after two decades’ separation.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 258, misdated 23 March.

Aegina, [28] March 1942 Dear friend! It would be perfect if we did the Iliad translation together. It’s a lifetime project that, I am sure, suits us both. It might last for years; no one is rushing us. If you accept, please write to me so that I may begin to prepare and in this way not disgrace myself in front of you when the collaboration commences. Whatever you write reverberates so well inside me that I think that this collaboration will be conclusive. I don’t know when I’ll come to Athens again and will see you. Unfortunately, the hope that you’ll come here to my home is very uncertain. Would that some weekend, now that spring is beginning, you could manage. Write to me, and I’ll get you a German permit from here. In this way we would be

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able to have a preliminary conversation and draw up a schedule. I’ll be pleased to give you hospitality in my poor home. Think about it and decide. I’ve been yearning for a translation of the Iliad for years but have never dared. Together with you, I am ready. Yours, N. Kazantzakis

To Angelos Sikelianos —Manuscript in Benaki Museum envelope 25/242; copy in University of Thessaloniki Library.

Aegina, 12 April 1942 My dear, great Brother! It’s impossible to express the sweetness and joy that your presence left with us. This entire deserted shoreline acquired a different essence. I’m counting the minutes that divide us from your definitive arrival. Today I was informed that before you come you are required to submit an application to the garrison commander here (send it directly, by registered mail) in which you say you rented a house in Aegina to spend the summer and to work on your literary compositions, in absolute seclusion, undistracted by the noise of the city. Ask for a temporary residence permit. Write me as soon as you send it, and I’ll go then to ask Dr. Welter to intervene so that the permit may be granted as soon as possible. That way we’ll be sure. It was a lightning flash—those twenty years—that bound us as though with twenty turns of the tail of a Minos, but a paradisiacal one. Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis I kiss your wife’s hand. N

1  but a paradisiacal one:  The mythological Minos became judge of the dead in Hades, not in paradise.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 507–8.

Aegina, 16 May 1942

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My dear brother! The book that I love so much, Conversations with Goethe, was given me the other day by Angelos, on your behalf. Once again you have granted me a great benefit, and great joy. A new demon has fallen upon me again. I decided to write a book called Christ’s Memoirs. I’ve already begun the documentation, with the intention, naturally, of forgetting it in the creative process. If I’m able, I intend to do it well. As much as possible, I’m not going to hurry. Today I’m sending you forty-one verses from the Iliad. In the end I came to an agreement with Kakridis; we are going to do the entire translation together, that too without hurrying. Translating now, as a first try, I saw to what an extent Pallis—often superficial, and without becoming aware of the problems to which the text gives rise—touched up and bypassed the difficulties. The epithet that identifies Apollo, εκηβόλος, and is so indispensable in the verses that I am sending you, he omitted because it did not fit into his line. Σμινθεύς (god of the mice that bring cholera) he translated simply as Σμινθέας. And so on. I hope that our coexistence here with Sikelianos will be beneficial for us; after twenty years’ absence, the meeting takes on a deeper meaning. We’ll see! Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis Yesterday Angelos read Sibylla to me. I liked it very much.

1  Conversations with Goethe:  Gespräche mit Goethe (1836), a book by Johann Peter Eckermann in which he records his conversations with Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832) during the last nine years of the latter’s life.  1  a book called Christ’s Memoirs:  The first idea for what eventually became The Last Temptation (Kazantzakis 1960a), written in 1950–51.  1  εκηβόλος: Apollo’s identifying epithet means “far-shooting,” “striking from afar,” “farhitting”; it occurs in Iliad 1.96 and 1.110.  1  Σμινθεύς:  Another epithet of Apollo; it occurs in Iliad 1.39.  1  Sibylla:  A play finished in 1940, published in 1944 in Nea Estia 35 (1–15 January and 1–15 February).

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 259.

Saturday, 25 July 1942, I think Dear friend, I received LaRoche and Polylas and the note. Many thanks. All the same, the tempest has swept me along and I’ve been working fifteen hours day and

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night. Yesterday I finished the third book; tomorrow I begin the fourth. I’m eager for Eleni to come and copy them so that I may send them to you. Don’t do anything now; wait until you receive them; then correct them and return them to me—because the way I’m going you won’t keep up with me. If I don’t fall ill, I’ll finish the first draft in a few months. Then the protracted, systematic work begins on the manuscript. I’ve been overcome by a sort of intoxication (that always happens to me) and am unable to stop. But I hope that you’ll like the work. I find the Zervos translation despicable, Polylas’s insignificant. Pallis is a god compared to them. I found out about the two-month period and am pleased; they’ll be given all the more opportunity to be discredited. The Sikelianoses send warm greetings, as do the Androulidakises. So, tomorrow at dawn, book 4, with your blessing! Always, N

1  La Roche:  Homeri Ilias. Ad fidem librorum optimorum edidit Jacob La Roche. Lipsiae, 1873–76.  1  Polylas: Iakovos Polylas (1825–96); his Iliad translation was finally published in 1923 from a copy made by Lorentsos Mavilis.  1  the third book:  “Book” is the common term in English for each of the Odyssey’s twenty-four “chapters,” which are called “rhapsodies” in Greek.

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/32; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, pp. 40–41.

Aegina, Tuesday [28 July 1942] Dear friend, it’s been months since I received a letter from you, which means that there’s no news. As for me, in order to save myself from inner uneasiness and impatience here, I’ve been grappling with Homer. For two months now, from early dawn until night, I’ve been battling to bring him back to Greece. I think that I’ll manage. Each book that I finish I send to Kakridis to explore, according to his wisdom, seeing whether the rendition is good, whether ­recent research gives another meaning to a word—and other similar indispensable, holy quibbles. At the pace I’m going, the first draft will be finished quickly but the final one much later. The work must become as perfect as we can make it. And may someone else appear in the next generation to continue the struggle! Warm regards to Mr. Zacharopoulos. Now that the hope of a rapid peace is disappearing, I imagine that all of his plans will necessarily acquire an unhurried pace and will mark time slowly, sensibly, breathing freely.

1942 Letters  •  553

I think of you often. However, only “God” knows when we will see each other again. I’d like to delay a long time before viewing Athens once more. Always, N I’m sending you nine volumes, the latest. I don’t have any others.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 259–60.

Aegina, Thursday, maybe 30 July [1942] Dear friend! Eleni came and told me all the ins and outs. It seems to me that the praktische Frau is correct and that it wasn’t right for us to sell something representing so much work with such a shoddy document, the way we did. It would have more correct to have been somewhat patient, because I think that a generation will pass before a new attempt is made to render the Iliad. When the time comes, it would be good for you to emphasize the three milestones: (1) Polylas, (2) Pallis, (3) us. Polylas’s translation is άτονη (it would be better to say ατόνιστη when stress marks are missing, in order to distinguish), flabby, without personality; it doesn’t help me in anything. And the more I progress, Pallis helps me even less. Yesterday I began book 5; at this very moment I am at verse 250. Each day I normally do 150 lines. Afterwards I look them over and make a clear copy; thus, for each book I need a maximum of one week. It’s impossible for me to follow a different schedule, so please forgive me. The initial inspiration strikes me impetuously; it’s only when I finish the text that, doggedly and with great patience, I revise it. If my creative work had a totem, it would be an animalistic hybrid: tiger plus donkey! Consequently, for as long as each of us is far away from the other, I think it’s right for me to finish the entire Iliad and to send it to you as it is typed. Then you make corrections and send me all of your directions. I begin the second draft here. I send it to you again. You survey it, and we reach a definitive version. As I figure it, the principal drafts will be three; afterwards will come merely some repairs, few but laborious. I’ve urged Eleni to begin typing quickly for us. I hope that you’ll have five books in a few days. So do not send me preliminary work, only subsequent work, because you won’t keep up with me. Eleni warmly greets you and your wife. She asks her if Mr. Nomikos has shown any sign of life. If not, she requests that your wife inform her immediately.

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So we’re agreed: do not send me preliminary work. Write only your relevant thoughts: renderings, words, etc. And when you receive the translation, forge ahead. Yours truly, Nikos Kazantzakis

1  praktische Frau:  Practical-minded woman.  1  άτονη:  Literally “without stress marks,” but here the meaning is “dull, lifeless, lacking intensity”; thus Kazantzakis’s preference for ατόνιστη when the meaning is absence of stress marks.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 260.

Aegina, 2 August 1942 Dear Friend! Today I’m sending you book 1, which is typed. In verse 7 “δῖος” is explained by La Roche as “nicht göttlich sondern herrlich,” illustrious, noble, and Voss translates it as “der edle.” In verse 200, whose eyes are they: Achilles’? Athena’s? There are two opinions. But let your commentary come after you read and correct book 1. Today, with the aid of the Mouse Demon, I’m starting book 6. The intoxication continues: I hope it lasts until book 24 and beyond. I sent you a letter the other day; I hope you received it. If you have any aid for Homer in mind, see if it exists in the library and send it to me via Koulikourdi. Annotations, translations, aesthetic commentaries, etc. Also volumes 3 and 4 of Mazon’s translation, published by Budé, which the library has. I found only the first two volumes and also La Roche. I’m sending two copies of book 1 so that one day you can bring one of them personally to Mr. Papandreou. Tell him about the work we are doing, explain how our translation differs from Pallis’s, and leave him the manuscript. Eleni tells me that he might find a way for us to sell the first edition of the Iliad with terms much better than Zacharopoulos’s. It seems that Mr. Nomikos is part of the “class” of the bibliophiles. So leave the manuscript with Papandreou, and we’ll see what happens. Eleni is going to start typing on a regular basis, and I’ll send you each book that she finishes. I’ll bravely await the imperfections that you point out, so that we may attempt to conquer them. As you’ll see, I did not manage to find certain things: “ευκνήμιδες,” “φάλος,” etc. Perhaps “εκατόμβη” will remain “θυσία τρανή”—I couldn’t do better. Nothing more today. Let’s hope

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that you’ll be able to come to Aegina so that we can work together more completely. Yours truly, Nikos Kazantzakis P.S. 3 August Last night I received your note about book 3. I’ll put it with the other notes you send me, in order to view them all at once. Right now I can’t turn back. At the moment I’m at Hector’s meeting with Andromache. Schadewaldt’s essay is excellent—I wish we had many such. Eleni just brought me book 2. So, take it, and don’t forget Mazon’s translation, etc., via Koulikourdi.

1  nicht göttlich sondern herrlich . . .:  Not divine but magnificent.  1  Voss: Ilias. In der Übertragung von Johann Heinrich Voss. Hamburg, 1793.  1  der edle:  Noble.  1  Mazon’s translation:  Paul Mazon published his French translation of the Iliad in 1937.  1  ευκνήμιδες:  Well-greaved.  1  φάλος: Front part of the helmet worn by Homeric warriors.  1  εκατόμβη . . . θυσία τρανή:  Hecatomb (sacrificial offering of a hundred oxen) . . . super-important sacrifice.  1  Hector’s meeting with Andromache:  The famous, moving passage in Iliad 6.390–493.  1  Schadewaldt’s essay:  Wolfgang Schadewaldt (1900–74), German literary historian, Hellenist, translator. His monographs Ilias Studien (1938) and Legende von Homer dem fahrenden Sänger (1942) would presumably have been available to Kazantzakis.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 261.

Aegina, 17 August 1942 Dear Friend! I received the three volumes, your letter, and your lovely essay on Gryparis. Many thanks. My work always continues at the same pace: today I’m at book 10. But I repeat to you: do not worry, because the persistent, slow-moving work will occur when we finally have the entire text. Work patiently on the four books that you have received (I sent you books 3 and 4 with Mr. Hourmouzios); I’ll send you others as soon as they are typed (Eleni is drowning at the moment in August chores—jams, grape-juice syrup, trakhanas, noodles— and doesn’t have time). Do not send me corrected texts until I finish the Iliad, so that I won’t confuse the “tiger,” as we said, with the “donkey.” If you find

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some useful book, send it to me—perhaps the Χρονικό του Μωρέως and Akritas—via Koulikourdi. Greetings to you both from Eleni. Yours truly, Nikos Kazantzakis

1  Gryparis: Ioannis Gryparis (1870–1942), poet, translator, high school principal, director of National Theater.  1  Χρονικό του Μωρέως:  “Chronicle of the Morea,” anonymous fourteenth-century text, a significant source for the feudal organization of Achaia; survives in four versions, one in Greek (in verse), one in French, one in Italian, and one in Aragonian (all in prose). The events described begin with the First Crusade (1095–99), continue with the Fourth Crusade (1202–4) and its capture of Constantinople (April 1204), the conquest of the Peloponnese in 1205 by Guillaume de Champlitte (d. 1209), and the Peloponnesian government of the Villehardouins in the thirteenth century. Most important is the fact that the language of the Greek version is very close to the spoken tongue.  1  Akritas:  Διγενής Ακρίτης, The Epic of Diyenis Akritιs (eleventh–twelfth centuries) relates the exploits of this “Akritis” (border guard of the Byzantine Empire), the son of a Christian Byzantine mother and a Muslim Syrian father (therefore “di-yenis,” doubly born). The events described date chiefly from the ninth and tenth centuries. This text is sometimes considered the earliest surviving document of modern Greek literature. The character Diyenis Akritis is also the subject of various Greek folk ballads. Kazantzakis’s term “Akritas” occurs in Pontic folk songs, without the Diyenis. The hero is Akritis in the medieval epic.

To Angelos Sikelianos —Manuscript in Benaki Museum envelope 25/266.

Aegina, 28 October 1942 Dear Brother! It’s impossible to say how much this place misses you. It lives with the hope that you’ll return with the swallows. Our life here is exactly the way you know it and experienced it. I finished the Iliad on 23 October and was sorry that I had lost such a daily companion. Right now I have two or three roads ahead of me and don’t know which to choose—or, more accurately, which will choose me. We still have sunshine, a most tender humid light. One’s heart grows soft and is filled with seed, like the earth. I remember all the eternal moments we shared, and I fail to sense any difference between memory and experience. Everything is present—in other words, immortal. The fact that you lived here gave a new essence to my deserted shoreline. “Πᾶς δὲ ὁ χῶρος

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ἱερός καὶ οὐδέν ἐστιν ὅ ἄμοιρόν ἐστι ψυχῆς· καὶ μέχρι θαλάσσης ψυχῆς ἧκεν δύναμις.” I kiss Madame Anna’s hand and am sorry that I still have not found the photo of the “huge pipsqueak” in order to send it to her. I’ll keep looking. Eleni sends warm greetings to you both. Both of us seek this favor of you: there is an exceptional lyric poet in Iraklio, a former admirer of yours, who printed a collection of beautiful lyric poems and has been a schoolteacher for a long time in Athens. He produced a splendid translation of Aeschylus (still unpublished) and is among our most sensitive intellectuals. His name is Mihalis Anastasiou (54 Zaïmi Street, Athens). So please talk to Theotokas, Dimaras, etc. about him so that he, too, may receive some aid as a man of letters, because he is in danger of dying. We will be most grateful. Androulidakis and his “lady” both send warm greetings. This entire summer seems like a dream to them. Now they’ve gone to the “capital,” are “properly” dressed, pay visits, and are getting ready for Volos. God be with you, dear Brother! N. Kazantzakis

1  with the swallows:  That is, in summertime.  1  Πᾶς δὲ ὁ χῶρος ἱερός καὶ οὐδέν ἐστιν ὅ ἄμοιρόν ἐστι ψυχῆς:  This much of the quote is from Plotinus’s Ennead 8.14.36–37. The meaning is clearer when we know the preceding clause—“Matter importunes, raises disorders, seeks to force its way within.” Then comes Kazantzakis’s quoted passage: “But every place that soul occupies is sacred; nothing is there without part in soul.” The remainder of Kazantzakis quoted passage is presumably from somewhere else; it is not in this section of Plotinus. The translation of “καὶ μέχρι θαλάσσης ψυχῆς ἧκεν δύναμις” is “and the power of the soul reaches unto the sea.”

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 262–63.

[November 1942] Dear friend! As soon as possible, please send me via post the volumes that offer linguistic aid: Χρονικό του Μωρέως, Πτωχοπρόδρομος, Legrand’s Μεσαιωνικά, the essay on adjectives ending in “-ουσα”, Διγενής Ακρίτας, etc. When you have a moment, go to the French School, which perhaps has the following two books that are valuable for us: Helbig’s L’épopée homérique and Le Cycle épique by Albert Severyns. In Daremberg’s Dictionnaire des antiquités, you’ll find the word kekryphalos etc.—many useful things about clothing.

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If you know Poriotis, ask him if perhaps he knows a word for ευκνήμιδες. As I wrote you, I know only four words for the shin: τουσλούκι, ζάβα, χολέβα, καλτσούνι. But a “decent” compound adjective cannot be made from any of them. Yours, N. Kazantzakis

1  Πτωχοπρόδρομος:  Ptohoprodromos, pen name of a twelfth-century Byzantine poet or poets who composed satirical verse in the demotic language, often lamenting his (their) hunger and other vicissitudes; a rare example of the spoken language of that era, since literary texts were normally written in an approximation of ancient Greek.  1  Legrand’s Μεσαιωνικά:  Perhaps Émile Legrand’s Bibliothèque Grecque vulgaire, 2 vols. (Paris, 1880–81), or his Recueil de poèmes historique en grec vulgare (Paris, 1877).  1  Helbig’s L’épopée homérique:  Wolfgang Helbig, L’épopée homérique expliquée par les monuments (French translation, Paris, 1894).  1  Le Cycle épique by ­Albert Severyns:  Le cycle épique dans l’école d’Aristarque (Paris, 1928).  1  Daremberg’s Dictionnaire des antiquités: Charles Daremberg and Edmond Saglio, eds., Dictionnaire des antiquités grecques et romaines d’après les texts et les monuments, 6 vols. (Paris, 1877–1919).  1  the word kekryphalos:  Κεκρύφαλος, woman’s headdress, made of net, to confine the hair, especially within doors; Iliad 22.469.  1  ευκνήμιδες:  Well-greaved.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 263.

Aegina, 6 December 1942 Dear friend, I received your postcard but still no texts and am afraid that you sent them by post. I’m very worried. As soon as I receive them, I’ll write you again. Book 9 has been typed for some time already and I’ll send it to you on Wednesday with the postman, Mitsos Panghes, Miss Koulikourdi’s relative. You can pick it up whenever you wish at 92 Ermou Street, Andreas Martis’s mirror shop, where he will leave it. If we have time, write me the most blatant imperfections, and I’ll fix them so that the text may appear in the best provisional form that we can manage. Eleni has copied as far as book 16. As soon as she finishes the entire Iliad, I’ll send it to you. I’m eager to read the historical book about your name, but don’t send it by post—always with postman Panghes, 92 Ermou Street.

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Eleni sends you warm greetings as do I. With much love, N. Kazantzakis This moment (7 December), with great pleasure, I received the six volumes from Miss Koulikourdi. Thus the greater part of the postcard is now useless. May “God” give you patience and strength! And may Homer be with us! Do you think you might be able to send me the Yearbook of Byzantine Studies? I think I’ll find something in it. Eυκνήμιδες keeps me awake at night. As we said: ζάβες, τουσλούκια, χολέβα, σκουφούνια, καλτσούνια, γκέτες, τυλιχτάρια, but nothing works. Can you ask someone? Or should we put it in Nea Estia and ask? We’ve got to find something. I’d appreciate it if you could write a few lines and give them to Nea Estia. And mention the relevant words above that we do know.

1  the historical book about your name:  Η δίκη των τόνων (Athens, n.d.; The Accent Trial), which contains a transcript of the proceedings against Kakridis (see next letter).

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 263–64.

Aegina, 1 January 1943 Dear friend! I’m glad that I’m starting the year writing to you first. So, may “God” give you what you desire—and even more—in the new good year! I received “word-quiver” number one brimful with arrows and was most pleased. Only in this way will we be able to reach the maximum of excellence. I agree with most of them; others, however, I consider incurable, and concerning several I do not agree. I leafed through them quickly, because I didn’t want to start the second draft right away. For example, βουνοθεριά does not mean mountain-like wild beasts but wild beasts that inhabit mountains. Similarly we have βουνοκυρά: not a mountain-like fairy woman, but . . . Also βουνότσιχλα, βουνοπέρδικα. Βουνάνθρωπος does not mean a person resembling a mountain but someone who inhabits the mountains, someone who is uncouth. The awful first line also strikes me as incurable. After lots of effort trying to render Πηληιάδεω, I arrived at the following dreadful verse: Θεά, του γιου τραγούδα του Πηλέα τη μάνητα Αχιλ. Atrocious! Since we are dealing with poetry, not prose, we will often need to omit or shift something, or to add

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something as inoffensive as possible; otherwise the line won’t be technically accurate. I consider it impossible to make the first line successful without omitting a word from the Homeric text. And if we remove ξακουστού, as you say, what will we put in its place? In order to reduce the number of syllables we cannot use either θυμός for μάνητα or ψάλε for τραγούδα. So? Well, I await the continuation of the word-quivers. I’ll allow a little time to pass so that I can meet Homer as though freshly when I begin the second draft. Thanks for the “Accent Trial.” I cannot open it without blood rushing to my head. Calumny, idiocy, shamelessness, an insupportable burden. When will the day of salvation ever come? Thank you very much for the aids. I always find something useful in them. I’m returning several with Miss Koulikourdi and the rest with Eleni, who’ll be going to Athens in a few days. She’ll also give you what has been typed up to now—as far as book 16. In other words, lots of arrows for your quiver! Eleni sends greetings to you, your wife, and daughter. She says: “May you all have a very happy 1943.” Yours truly, always, N. Kazantzakis

1  βουνότσιχλα, βουνοπέρδικα:  Mountain thrush, mountain partridge.  1  Πηληιάδεω: Of Peleus’s son.  1  Θεά, του γιου τραγούδα του Πηλέα τη μάνητα Αχιλ:  Goddess, of the son sing of Peleus the wrath Achilles (translated word by word).  1  the Homeric text:  Μῆνιν ἄειδε, θεά, Πηληϊάδεω ΄Αχιλῆος, The wrath sing, goddess, of the son of Peleus Achilles.  1  θυμός for μάνητα or ψάλε for τραγούδα:  Anger for fury or chant for sing.  1  Accent Trial:  Account of the disciplinary procedure (not really a trial in a court of law) indicting Kakridis for publishing in the monotonic accent system and attempting to introduce this system (now standard) in schools and university. Prosecuted in 1941–42, he was suspended from his post in the University of Athens for two months; in 1946 he transferred to the University of Thessaloniki. For full details, see Mackridge 2009, pp. 306­–10.

To Angelos Sikelianos —Manuscript in Benaki Museum envelope 26/271; copy in University of Thessaloniki Library.

Aegina 7 January 1943 Dear Brother! We were expecting you so very much. What a shame that you failed to come! You do not leave my innards even for a split second. I yearn for the time when “ν’ ανθίσουν τα δεντρά, να πρασινίσου οι κάμποι”—and you will arrive.

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Eleni will tell you that life here goes along, as always, virtuously and diligently, like a honeybee’s. I kiss Madam’s hand. I received the envelope and placed it on the windowsill. Everyone here sends greetings to you and, like you, is waiting for springtime. God be with you, great Brother! N. Kazantzakis

1  ν’ ανθίσουν τα δεντρά, να πρασινίσου οι κάμποι:  “The trees will blossom, the plains turn green.” Kazantzakis slightly misquotes a line from one of the folk songs: “όσο ν’ανθίσουν τα βουνά, να πρασινίσου οι κάμποι” (until the mountains blossom, the plains turn green)—a lament for the death of a child just at the wrong time of year. The dead child is asked, “Why didn’t you stay until . . .”

To Vasileios Laourdas —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

Aegina, 14 January 1943 Dear friend! I received your letter just now and learned that you have started to give talks on the Odyssey to such a select audience. Please understand that this information has moved me intensely. I would very much like to have been able to hear you. Perhaps your talk would have afforded me some consolation and have enabled me to imagine that my life has not gone to waste. Thus, I would have satisfied my agonized curiosity about this Odyssey, which suckled in my innards for so many years—whether it has any worth. I am glad that you are so young, so wise, and that you sense and live the responsibility of intellectual individuals. Thus, it is proper for your voice to be the one that delights my inconsolable heart which—despising the realizable— seeks what cannot be realized. I shake your hand with appreciation, dear friend, N. Kazantzakis

1  Vasilios Laourdas: Classical scholar, Byzantinist, Neohellenist, humanist (1912–71); taught in various gymnasia; four years at Harvard and Dumbarton Oaks as a research fellow; appointed director in 1954 of the Institute for Balkan Studies in Thessaloniki. His Νeohellenic interests included the Orthodox Church, demotic ballads, Greek intellectuals during the Turkish occupation,

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and literary figures such as Papadiamantis, Palamas, Sikelianos, Cavafy, Venezis, Prevelakis, Anagnostakis, and, of course, Kazantzakis. His library and archive are housed in the Andersen Library of the University of Minnesota.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 265–66.

15 February 1943 Dear friend! I received the two aids and the two word-quivers, 3 and 4. Unable to hold myself back any longer, I plunged into Homer’s sea, did the second draft, and at this moment have finished books 1, 2, 3, and 4. (I correct two hundred lines each day, very comfortably.) The result: three-quarters are corrected and one-quarter remain, of which half will be corrected in the final draft. Regarding the remaining one-eighth, we must face the fact that it cannot turn out as we would wish. This oneeighth will consist of: 1.  Various omissions here and there: words without much importance, for example, instead of Ατρείδης Αγαμέμνων only the one; there’s no room for both words. 2.  Various wedged-in augmentations: the addition of one-syllable or twosyllable words (which, however, will illuminate the meaning) in order for the verse to turn out right. 3.  Proper names—the big nuisance: (a) η - Ελένη, ο - ΄Εχτορας, etc. are a torture; with that oh-eh; the verse becomes horrible no matter whether you leave the hiatus or create a synizesis. But all of this can be corrected. What cannot be corrected is that (b) the full version of all the names is impossible to be retained. Idomeneas, despite the fact that he’s Cretan and esteemed by both of us, needs to be decapitated by us and, in addition, to have not his feet cut off but the buskins, in order for him to become Domenias. This doesn’t bother me at all; I’m used to it and like it. The opposite in such a demotic text would make a bad impression on me, as though I were seeing poor Eva Sikelianou frequenting our villages. I am (and should be, I think) satisfied. The second draft has seen many successes, especially this one: how that terrible αερσίποδες will be conveyed. When I tripped over it, I declared: “impossible, cannot be translated” and I “skirted” it. But I allowed invisible powers to besiege it and, unable to sleep precisely last night (this problem was devouring me, unconsciously), eureka! You know our demotic expression for a horse: γοργοκυκλοπόδης (that it turns its legs quickly). That’s the basis. However, instead of γοργο-, which was

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not required here, I put αερο- (not ανεμο, which would mean γοργο again, but αερο, which is equivalent to ανάερο. And I emerged with αεροκυκλοπόδης, one that turns his legs, plays with them, in the air. But what about αρηίφιλος? I’ve not found anything better than πολεμόχαρος. I see that you don’t like it at all. Please help me. Write me exactly how you want it (the way people place orders with carpenters) so that I can try to “fix” it. Δῖα γυναικων? Provisionally: πάγκαλη κυρα. I prefer another: των γυναικων το θάμα. If I were alone, I would use that one. (I would do many stupid things if I were alone, but with you holding my reins, I restrict my choice of words as well as I can.) Write me if you like it. Once again, help! Write me also if for ψεφτόνειρο you prefer βλαβόνειρο. In Crete we say βλαβόριγος (ρίγος = fever causing harm, malaria). Or do you want πλανόνειρος? I feel that you want the verse very regular (“very” here means “excessively”). Sometimes it’s very fine for only the first and sixth syllables to be stressed. The verse acquires grace, flexibility, sweetness; sometimes it’s useful for the tenth and eleventh syllables to be stressed; then the verse acquires roughness, power, abrupt intensity. And sometimes stressing the third syllable makes sense. Nevertheless, in the second draft I’ve indulged you as much as I can, especially regarding the tenth and eleventh, which often truly did not make sense. The word λιθοπέτι (excellent for its shortness) is not Cretan but pure demotic (all the words I use in Homer are pure demotic, just a few compound forms are my own). It is also used by Karkavitsas. To be sure, in my Odyssey I fabricated the analogous word σαϊτοπέτι. (I did something else foolish in the Odyssey: from λιανoτούφεκο I drew out the word λιανοδόξαρο, which in pure demotic is called ανεμικό δοξάρι, in other words a skirmish with bows and arrows.) I’m anxious for us to see each other in order to read the second draft together so that new observations may be immediately made, discussed, and decisions made. Then I’ll begin to copy out the second draft and send it to you, so that you can apply what Buddha calls “the elephant’s glance”—that is, a slow, deep, and unruffled glance—and we can finally give to this work, which surely will not disgrace us, its definitive form (for the first printing!). We said that it’s good for us to give a certain old-fashioned flavor; thus, the words πάγκαλη, παγκαλόμορφος, αγριμολόγος, διώμα, διωματάρης, Κυρά κούρσος, etc. Generally: I thank you because in your observations you often knowingly ask me to do the impossible. But you also realize that this is the only method enabling us to reach the maximum possibility. I know this, too, and that’s why we are good collaborators. Θεοτικός, as you say, chiefly means “very great.” So δῖος, which means both “divine” and “great” (see La Roche, book 1.7), can be excellently and most craftily translated with θεοτικός, book 4.344: δαῖτα εφοπλίζωμεν excellently in the folk song: τις τάλβλες μαργελόνουν.

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I’m stopping because there is no end to everything that I need to say to you. Mr. Kintzios has arrived here at this very moment; he greets you and likes and honors you very much. I still have not received your letter, but I hope to receive it. I’m sending you this via Koulikourdi so that you’ll get it for certain, and quickly. “God” be with you and yours, always! Nikos Kazantzakis It seems that I’ll be doing a supplement to the Academy’s dictionary. It lacks αντράλα, αντικνήμη, ακριβοκάμαρα, αναζεβλίζω, αρχοντονήσι, αβλονιά (θηλυκό χταπόδι, και μελιδόνα ή αλιδόνα), ανεμάρπαστος (I found it in a folk song), απάλε.

1  Ατρείδης Αγαμέμνων:  Agamemnon, son of Atreus (Iliad 11.246, 14.29, 14.380).  1  hiatus:  When two immediately adjacent vowels in consecutive syllables are pronounced as belonging to two separate syllables, sometimes causing a slight pause in declamation.  1  synizesis:  The counting and pronouncing of two adjacent vowels as belonging to a single syllable.  1  Idomeneas: Idomeneus, king of Crete, who sailed to join the Greeks in the Trojan War.  1  poor Eva Sikelianou:  Angelos Sikelianos’s first wife, Eva Palmer, who campaigned for retention of authentic ancient Greek costumes, etc., in contemporary productions of ancient plays—so why not authentic ancient Greek names as well?  1  αερσίποδες:  Lifting up the feet, briskly trotting; Iliad 18.532, high-stepping [horses].  1  ανάερο:  Hovering.  1  αρηίφιλος: Dear to Ares (Iliad 3.21, 3.136, 3.232, 3.253, 4.150), an epithet applied to Menelaus.  1  πολεμόχαρος:  Warlike, bellicose.  1  δῖa γυναικων:  Fair among women (Iliad 2.714, 3.171, 3.228), an epithet applied to Helen.  1  πάγκαλη κυρα: Exquisite lady.  1  των γυναικων το θάμα:  The miracle among women.  1  ψεφτόνειροο [= ψευτόνειροο]:  False dream (Kazantzakis’s coinage).  1  βλαβόνειρο:  Harmful dream (Kazantzakis’s coinage).  1  πλανόνειρος:  Seductive dream (Kazantzakis’s coinage).  1  λιθοπέτι:  Throwing of a stone; the distance a thrown stone reaches (defined thus in Kazantzakis’s lexicon for his Odyssey); not found in any Greek dictionary.  1  Karkavitsas:  Andreas Karkavitsas (1866–1922), distinguished short story writer and novelist in the realistic mode; a fervent demoticist whose language was especially rich for his times.  1  σαϊτοπέτι:  Shooting an arrow; the distance reached by an arrow (defined thus in Kazantzakis’s lexicon for his Odyssey).  1  λιανοτούφεκο:  Gunfire with light rifles.  1  πάγκαλη:  Extremely beautiful, having every beauty (rare and “learned” in demotic).  1  παγκαλόμορφος: Extremely beautifully beautiful (!)  1  αγριμολόγος:  A hunter who hunts wild animals (rare equivalent for αγριμοκυνηγός).  1  διώμα:  Polite, courteous presence (define thus in Kazantzakis’s lexicon for his Odyssey).  1  διωματάρης: Elegant, stylish (defined thus in Kazantzakis’s lexicon for his Odyssey).  1  Κυρά:  Lady; madam; way of addressing

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(for instance) the Virgin Mary: κυρά Δέσποινα.  1  κούρσος:  Piracy, act of violent illegal seizure, looting, etc.  1  δαῖτα εφοπλίζωμεν: To make ready a feast (Iliad 4.344 has “make ready a feast for the elders”).  1  τις τάβλες μαργελόνουν:  They are arranging the tables (verb defined in Kazantzakis’s lexicon for his Odyssey).  1  Mr. Kintzios:  Vasilis Kintzios (b. 1910) was justice of the peace (magistrate) in Aegina from May 1939 until May 1945, thus during the German occupation. Afterwards he was promoted to a judgeship in a court of appeals. Twenty-one letters to him from Kazantzakis, dating from 1940 until 1956, were published in Nea Estia, 1 July 1986, pp. 864–68, with an appreciation and annotations by Thanasis Papathanasopoulos.  1  a supplement to the Academy’s dictionary: Of these words, only four of the ten are now listed in the Georgacas dictionary.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 484–85; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 409; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 422.

[Aegina,] Wednesday, 17 February 1943 Dear L! It’s impossible for us to communicate via post. It took your card two weeks to reach me. We can communicate only via an individual. Mr. Manglis is leaving tomorrow, and I’m sending you these letters and the two little bags so that you can bring them full, God willing. I put all the treasures in a yellow bag— bread, halva, olives, apples, and I was glad in both spirit and body. I’ve written you to stay in comfort as long as needed, without looking toward Aegina. I’m managing here. Friends make dinner for me, afraid lest I suffer from malnutrition. I eat regularly at Mr. Manglis’s, and every Sunday Euripides has me dine at Marinis’s on fish and fish soup. At home every other day I cook string beans, lima beans, etc. The olives are excellent and so is the halva, but the wrapping absorbed half of it, so don’t send it again. Sminthitsa is getting bigger, eating. I’m training her; she’s almost perfect. At night, when I go to bed, she has learned to withdraw to her private quarters, her little box, the doors open. She sleeps peacefully all night. But as soon as dawn comes, she runs and knocks for me—that is, she scratches at my door. If it’s still very early, I shout “Wait!” at her. At first she didn’t understand what “Wait” meant, and she persisted. But now she’s beginning to understand. I shout “Wait!” very loudly, and she withdraws. She comes back after a half hour, and I open up for her. She greets my feet first; afterwards, with a most youthful jump, she leaps up onto the bed and sits down on my chest, purring in my ear. I write and read

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in bed, she finds a place, chiefly on my shoulder or my knees, and waits for me to finish this mysterious, pointless work of mine (that’s what she thinks, and she’s right). Then I get up. She runs behind me, and her tail becomes a cypress tree. So much for matters Smintheic. At every moment I think of you with much love. Fortunately, you understand that I truly want you to stay for as long as is necessary; thus, you no longer have such a disagreeable worry. Giolman continues to come. I’ll go down now to meet her and learn something about you. As soon as I see her, I’ll write you again. Yesterday I had a letter from Westpfahl’s cousin, a Berlin publisher. He sent me Westpfahl’s greetings and asked if he could publish Le Jardin des rochers. I answered him immediately that I don’t have a German translation and that he should inquire at Grethlein’s in Leipzig or the Dutch publisher, for it to be translated there. But I have no hopes. We learn pretty regularly about Zizi’s illness. I’m afraid she’s done for. Mme Lela is sick, but yesterday she got up very early in the morning. A tray arrived early in the morning: warm milk, pastries, raisin bread, an egg—la ghirlo! I have lots of tobacco; don’t send any. But naturally I wouldn’t like to lose the Kavasila. I worked over the first four books of the Iliad, whose corrections were sent by Kakridis. Huge improvement. I think that this work will be significant. Laourdas writes that he’d like to come for Easter. Give him the postcard or send it to him. I feel that I’m obliged to extend him hospitality for a few days since it’s a question of our working together on the Odyssey so that it won’t sink into the stupidity, obstinacy, or fourberie of the modern Greeks. If you see him, you too tell him to come. I’m eager to go down for Giolman. So I’m interrupting this and going! Wednesday evening I’m back. Elli failed to come, but I feel emotion as I hold the new bag that you sent me. I opened it, full of gratitude. Bread, splendid olives, excellent halva, feta cheese. This concern of yours moves me, and I’m eager to fall gravely ill sometime or to be in danger, so that I might have the pleasure of you caring for me. What I lacked in order to make me attractive to those closest to me has been illness, the idea—the shudder—that I would give to those who love me that they would suddenly lose me, that I, too, am a human being, that my heart is not made of stone, and that in my case, too, the earth might open up and swallow me. Your letter was next to the halva and became all oily. I tried to make out a few words, managing to read: “Nikos . . . alone . . . City . . . hospital . . .” The whole page must have been about Giolman, but from that I couldn’t reach a conclusion because in despair I had left the letter on the table, to take a rest, and Sminthitsa jumped up, licked it, and did away with all the letters. In any

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case, I can imagine what you wrote, and indeed I imagine it better than its reality, and thus am grateful to the halva for this reason, too. Thursday Alone the whole day. In order to celebrate, I decided to turn on the machine in the morning and make tea—that is, marjoram. I ate halva also, with lots of bread. So keep it up next year, too! I had string beans left over from yesterday, so I didn’t cook. I hope that Giolman will come tomorrow—Friday. Then I’ll learn the details, which naturally I imagine are all sad. Manglis is not leaving tomorrow. The justice of the peace is leaving the day after, and he will bring you the letters and little bags and will see you. Don’t send me any more olives. (I have lots; once again they were fine.) No more halva, either. The feta cheese was awful, tasteless. Don’t buy it. I hope that you received the thirty thousand from Aetos. I have no expenses here, so don’t worry. Zaïris lost the olive oil; they also stole all the money he had. I spoke to Manglis with disgust about his protégé. He told me he’d be forced to pay for the olive oil, etc. Manglis and Nota send warm greetings. Everyone is worried that nobody wrote to Androulidakis. What’s going on with them? That’s all, dear suffering Lenotschka! If Elli comes tomorrow, I’ll see her late, of course. I’ll go down to the harbor and won’t have time to write you. I’ll give this letter to the justice of the peace before the boat leaves. When Manglis departs or if Elli has someone to send, I’ll write you again. I am with you each and every moment, more than you think or might desire. I kiss your hands. N

1  Sminthitsa:  Their cat, appropriately deemed a “mouse killer”; cf. ancient Greek σμίνθος (mouse) and/or Σμινθεύς, an epithet given to Apollo, the “sminthian” (mouse god), because he had delivered a community from a plague of mice (Iliad I.39). In the letter of 28 March 1945 to Kakridis, below, he calls the cat Smintheas.  1  Giolman: Elli Giolman-Papaflessa, Aegina neighbor.  1  la ghirlo:  The full garland.  1  fourberie: Deceit, imposture, cheating.  1  marjoram:  Hot drink made from marjoram leaves.  1  justice of the peace:  Vasilis Kintzios.  1  Androulidakis:  Thrasyvoulos Androulidakis, subwarden of the Aegina prison during the German occupation until 1943, a man described by Kazantzakis (Prevelakis 1965, p. 501) as “absolutely reliable,” who helped Kazantzakis avoid starvation during the 1941–42 famine.

568  •  1943 Letters

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift of Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 486; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 411; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 424.

[Aegina,] Monday, 15 March 1943 Dear L! I’ll go down again for benzene in case Elli comes at last, and I can learn something about you. Fortunately, Mr. Kintzios is leaving the day after tomorrow and will be taking these letters for you as well as the power of attorney for Hourmouzios. I asked him to please see you personally. Lots of rain these days. I’m not using any matches. It’s very cold, but I don’t light a fire any longer because there’s no more coal. You can imagine my life here. Every Sunday Kintzios treats me to a meal at Marinis’s, and yesterday he brought me lots of wonderful fried fish, which I ate today—maybe tomorrow, too. I’m writing you again about the “Newspaper Editors’ Society” because it’s very important. They say that they’ll give each member a loan of 600,000 drachmas, which would rescue us. Therefore, after you consult with Hourmouzios, if you see that it would be useful, please go personally to Papandreou. Leave the enclosed postcard at Milonas’s. I had promised him and had invited him for a weekend. Please telephone him and arrange for you to come here as well. Fortunately, Laourdas will come later, in April. I’ve been a little worried or tired these past few days. I’m having nightmares, but naturally it’s nothing. When you decide to come, telephone Kakridis in case he has manuscripts to give you. Nothing else. I’ll get dressed now to go down for the benzene. Always, N Please give Eleni the little package. She’d given me four quinine pills in exchange for figs, but the figs haven’t come now, and I’m returning the pills. She asked me for them because apparently she found an exchange. A few days ago I received Polly’s bread. But now I’ve had no bread for two or three days. I’m a little hungry, but surely you’ll send me some today or Wednesday.

1943 Letters  •  569

To Vasilis Kintzios —Printed in Nea Estia, 1 July 1986, p. 867.

[Aegina, 27 March 1943] Dear friend! Please certify that we spoke about the lack of bread being distributed on a daily basis in Aegina; we get just a bit of flour at infrequent intervals (don’t forget that last winter we didn’t eat bread for six months!). Give your declaration the tone of “famine” as much as you can because that will be needed. We hope to see you at our home tomorrow—Sunday—with the Manglises. Eleni is leaving for Athens on Monday the 29th. With love, N. Kazantzakis

To Emile Hourmouzios —Manuscript missing from Kazantzakis Museum Hourmouzios archive; printed in Kazantzakis 1977a, pp. 181–82.

Aegina, 23 May 1943 Dear Milio! Forgive me if I am sending you this “encyclical” to read. It’s the letter I sent to Laourdas. But I formulated my thoughts with the utmost brevity. If you don’t write an exhaustive, lucid study of the Odyssey, I will be forced, to my great shame, to write a self-critique myself because, so far as I can see, basic things are ignored and basic respect for the other’s soul is lacking, not out of an evil disposition but out of ignorance and haste. The reason I’m sending you this letter is because several things in it may interest you: what I say about the number three, about adjectives, about the verse, the language—you know all that superbly. But I wanted to ask you, please, to pay attention to what I write about “Crete” as I have experienced it inside me and what philosophical meaning I give it (union of Greece and the East). Neither Greece nor the East, but Crete, is the key enabling one to enter the Odyssey. If that is satisfactorily explained, the Odyssey becomes simple, totally illuminated. Minoan Crete expresses what I want to say—Minoan Crete with its frightful earthquakes symbolized by the bull, and the game that the Cretans played precisely with the bull. To regard the abyss without fear; on

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the contrary, to wrestle with it, play with it comfortably—that’s what I call the Cretan glance. It explains, I believe, how my soul was perfectly illuminated for the first time, continuing an age-old impetus that emerged originally in Crete and still exists. This is how Crete is perfectly distinguished from the East and from Greece, just as it is geographically. For me, Crete constitutes Synthesis. Write me if you think it proper for me to publish the letter to Laourdas (with a few changes). I am saddened to see even the most well-disposed individuals failing to understand. Perhaps a responsible elucidation will be useful. Write me your opinion, because I have decided as of now to come under your guardianship and to refrain from doing anything before asking you. I’ve started to become excessive; long bouts of solitude (or the repeated absences of Eleni) have made me wild. What’s happening with the “Newspaper Editors’ Association”? I’m beginning to worry—please set me at ease. Greetings to Marika. I would be truly happy if you both came to Aegina for a few days. Always, N

1  the letter to Laourdas:  For its publication, see the relevant note to the next letter to Hourmouzios, below.

To Emile Hourmouzios —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed in Kazantzakis 1997, pp. 242 and 244.

Aegina, July 1943 Dear Milio! I’m sending you the final draft of Christ, Odysseas, and Melissa so that you can have these drafts in mind. Keep the copies with utmost care because I do not have any other and these will be required for the final printing. I took especial care to improve the verse; I also improved the content here and there. I’ve done the same with Julian and Nikiforos Fokas. If you happen to quote extracts from these two, write me which, and I’ll send you the final drafts. Right now I’ve set to work on a large book in prose, Christ’s Memoirs, without forgetting for an instant the final work of my ephemeral life, Akritas. I have everything prepared in my head, the entire structure, every detail, but I do not want to begin it before taking a long journey to please my soul; however, I do hope to manage to transubstantiate this Outcry into a Word inside me, because Akritas will have surpassed anguish, worry, inquiry and will continually see everything as the dream of a dream. My Odyssey is hell and purgatory; Akritas will be paradise. But I wonder if I’ll manage it in time. I’ll need

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ten years of strength and serenity. Will I have them? But why ask? Zorba is correct. He often used to tell me, “I operate as though I were immortal!” At the last moment I decided to send you also the work you so love: Julian. For God’s sake, guard these plays well, for I do not have other copies. I’m concerned that my answer to Laourdas still has not been printed. Is Haris being sticky? If that’s the case, give it to Peiraïka Grammata. Such things have value only when they are published in a timely manner. I am so insistent because I speak there about the “Cretan glance” for the first time. That is the secret key that opens all my work. Without it, no comprehension. I urgently beg of you, please take care that my answer not be delayed. The moon is divine, the sea the supreme good; I go swimming twice a day. I’m sunburned, fattened. Summer here is a great miracle. Yesterday, as we were sitting on the verandah and the moon was “dripping” (as we say in Crete), Eleni asked me, “Who would you like to open the door now and enter?” Without hesitating, I replied, “Hourmouzios and Marika!” Who knows? Perhaps you’ll be able to come again during the fig harvest and the vintage. I believe in miracles. N Please give this tiny piece of paper to Kimon. I’m asking him to give you various books for you to keep at home. I’ll send someone to get them. I’ve completed an entirely new, incomparably superior, draft of Dante. And woe is me: I’m already preparing for my Collected Works!

1  Is Haris being sticky?:  Actually, Haris published Kazantzakis’s letter as “ Ένα σχόλιο στην Οδύσεια” in Nea Estia 34 (15 August 1943): 1028–34.  1  Haris:  Petros Haris (1902–98), longtime editor of Nea Estia (1933–87), short story writer, member of the Academy of Athens.  1  Kimon:  Presumably Kimon Theodoropoulos, former president of Pyrsos Publishing, currently owner and director of Aetos Publishing.

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/34; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, pp. 42–44.

Aegina, 25 July 1943 Dear friend! Thanks for your good letter, which I’m answering at once. I, too, am impatient for the time when the insanity that has overcome mankind will cease and we will settle into the positive, very difficult work of peace. New foun­ dations will be needed for Greek life; otherwise our nation will be vulnerable.

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I never felt this danger so much as in these terrible years. Each one of us has the duty to assume the position that suits him and to get to work as soon as peace returns to our soil. I am trying to keep my body as strong as possible so that I may reach that time and not die completely useless. I have done nothing in my life and am consoled by the feeling that there is still some time. I’m working passionately here in my absolute solitude in order not to have time to listen to my heart and have it scold me. I’ve written a novel, have given the drama Yangtse its final form, have corrected and given final form to the five dramas that I have printed, to Askitiki, to Traveling, to the Dante trans­ lation, and to Faust—with the hope of being able after the war to print my “Collected Works” up to now in order to escape the past evermore and to throw myself into Akritas, which I now have completely secure in my guts, having completed all the necessary terrible advance preparation. I finished the entire Iliad last year, but Kakridis has other jobs—has a different pace— and delays to look at my manuscript and write his comments, which would enable me then to complete the second draft. I hope that he’ll manage this summer; thus I’ll do the second draft immediately. After that there will be a third (final) draft. I believe—thanks to Kakridis’s wisdom—that it will be an excellent work incomparably superior to Pallis’s. These days I’ve begun to work on a large, interesting project in prose. I enjoy exceptional bodily health. Now that it’s summertime, I dive into the sea twice a day. The grapes have begun to ripen, and the figs will soon turn black. What a pleasure! I wish you could come to Aegina, if only for a few days, when the figs are strung up, like grape clusters, to dry. You would give great pleasure to both Eleni and me. I’m sorry that Mr. Zacharopoulos did not wish to do me the favor I requested. It would have been more in the interests of his publishing house not to have desired this proviso of his to alienate me, too. I might be useful to him in the future. Besides, he has two large manuscripts of mine in his hands—the children’s novels. Why doesn’t he assign the advance payment to them? And how wrong he is to think that Prevelakis influenced me! I haven’t seen him since I came to Athens last November, nor have we corresponded. Nor with “Aetos.” I am entirely alone; no one gives me advice. But now I find it spiritually impossible to translate. I feel that I’ll never be able to translate anything again. I am spiritually opposed. It’s as though I sense that I barely have time to write whatever of my own I still have inside me. I’m in a hurry. Perhaps the only thing I’ll translate will be the Odyssey, with Kakridis once again. But neither the Iliad nor the Odyssey will be given to a publisher. They will be printed with our own money on our own account. They are works that remain unpaid for no matter how much they earn. Tell that to Zacharopoulos, so he’ll know before he answers me. I’m enclosing a note for my sister, asking her to deliver to you a copy of the Odyssey. But go very early so that you’ll find her at home. This is a good opportunity because whatever money I had is no longer enough. No matter how

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simply we live here in Aegina, we need a half million a month. When I’m alone, one-fifth is enough for me, but Eleni is delicate and cannot endure my style. So I share her style willy-nilly and grow fat! That’s all for today. We hold you always in our minds and on our lips with much love. We keep hoping that we will be able to see you here this summer. Your friends, especially Eleni, send you warm greetings. “God” be with you, always! N

1  the drama “Yangtse”:  The preliminary title of the drama Buddha.  1  the favor requested: Explained in a letter of 20 June 1943 to Diamantaras: “As you know, I received seventy thousand drachmas from Mr. Zacharopoulos in order to translate Goethe’s Dialogues [Gespräche mit Goethe, The Conversations of Goethe with Johann Peter Eckermann]. I’ve been trying for months now to accomplish this task and cannot. I’m afraid that I will never be able to. I wonder if Mr. Zacharopoulos will allow me to return the seventy thousand to him and tear up the agreement. This would be a great relief for me.”  1  Aetos: Important publishing house established by Theodoropoulos in 1942.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 268–69.

Aegina, 29 July 1943 Dear friend! I’m sending you today, finally, the remaining Homer together with the remaining B. Eleni worked like a stalwart—she deserves a deluxe copy! I want to suggest the following: What would you say if I started the Odyssey at once? Various manuscripts that I needed to finish I have finished. One that I want to begin I think best to hold inside me for a little while, so that it may ripen still more. So I’m left with an interval. I can start the Odyssey, if you wish, while you can be preparing the remaining Iliad. Before I die, I would like to have written seven plays. Up to now I have written six of them; what remains is the Prometheus trilogy—Firebearer, Bound, Unbound—which has been greatly tormenting me for a long time. But I still don’t want to begin it. That’s why I’m suggesting that I start the Odyssey. I have an absolute organic need not to stop even for a moment. For me, working is an “instinct of self-preservation.” If I remain idle for a moment, inside me a soft voice is heard, so bitter, so sweet, so deathly enticing that I sense this whole world as unbearable and want to flee. However, my roots are so sensually buried in the soil that they object and do not allow me to flee.

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The two means I possess to save myself and not hear that soft voice inside me are traveling and creating. I am unable to travel now; consequently, it’s a necessity, a prime need, for me to work from before dawn each morning until nightfall. All night long I sleep marvelously well; thus, my liver is revived for the next day. So, if you agree, please send me helpful material for the Odyssey because I don’t have anything here except the text and a Homeric dictionary. I also have Sideris’s translation in the Zacharopoulos edition. Has Budé published a translation? I’d also like good commentaries, whatever you think useful. I’m longing to begin. This year I’d like to finish the Odyssey, too. I’ll be much obliged if you agree. Still another favor: Do you perhaps have any of the older studies—Welcker’s Aeschyliche Trilogie Prometheus, F. de Lasault’s Prometheus, die Sage und ihr Sinn—or anything else that relates to Prometheus? Parallel with the Odyssey, I’d like to study Prometheus some more and have him ripen, before I begin this titanic subject. If it’s successful, I’ll ask your permission for me to dedicate this play to you—so that you may remember me after I’m gone. We still hope to see you here this summer. We base our hopes on three Great Powers: Homer, Sea, Figs/Grapes. Eleni sends warm greetings to you, your wife, and your children. So do I. Always, N. Kazantzakis I’m sending these typed sheets to you by means of my friend, the lawyer I. Anghelakis, who will return to Aegina, where he spends his summers, in a few days. So, can you telephone him (he has a phone in his house) and, if you have any books for me, give them to him? Otherwise send them via Koulikourdi. Regarding Τριτογένεια, these days I’ve read in the Greek translation of Decharme’s Mythology (p. 76) that it means: born from water because the word Τρίτος (same root as Τρίτων) meant water and many rivers have this name (Boeotia, Thessaly, Arcadia). So: Νερογένητη. OK?

1  the remaining Homer together with the remaining B:  This would be books 21–24 plus whatever he had managed to finish beyond book 5 in the second draft.  1  Sideris:  Yannis Sideris (1898–1975), translator, theatrical historian, dramatist.  1  Budé:  The Association Guillaume Budé sponsored the Collection Budé, a series of Greek and Latin classics with the original and a translation on facing pages. Guillaume Budé was a French Hellenist (1467– 1540) who greatly enhanced the study of Greek during the Renaissance.  1  Welker’s Aeschyliche Trilogie Prometheus:  Friedrich Gottlieb Welcker, Der epische Cyclus oder die homerischen Dichter (Bonn, 1835).  1  F. de Lasault’s Prometheus, die Sage und ihr Sinn:  Ein Beitrag zur Religionsphiloso-

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phie (1843) by Peter Ernst von Lasaulx (1805–61).  1  Τριτογένεια: Epithet of Athena (Iliad 8.39), meaning perhaps born on the third day, or perhaps born near Lake Tritonis in Libya, or perhaps . . .  1  Decharme’s Mythology:  Paul Decharme (1839–1905), Mythologie de la Grèce antique (Paris, 1879).  1  Νερογένητη:  Water-born.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 512–14.

Aegina, 10 August 1943 Dear brother! One day I’ve got to ask Kondoglou to please paint me Saint August, the month. For me, each of this saint’s days is a non-setting sunny happiness, and I’m thinking to nominate him to be my patron. In the morning, before daybreak, I go to the fig tree and the vineyard, pick a basketful of figs and grapes, eat as many as I can (and I can eat a lot!), then pile the rest on my desk to look at, to gain joy and courage as I sit down (the sun still has not risen) and work. On 6 August I began a new work, a long play, the Prometheus trilogy— Firebearer, Bound, Unbound. I’m struggling now as much as I can to restrain myself so that I do not finish in a month. I work on the verse until midday; then I run down to the sea and go in— that, I believe, is the day’s greatest joy. The water is blue, green, totally clear, as you know. Now that Eleni is here and mealtime has become a pleasure, I eat. Then I smoke a pipeful and resume work. Before sunset I swim again and, in the evening, I sit for a long time on our flat roof and look at the stars. That’s what my day is like. I seek nothing, allow no concern to bother me, have an absolute need to keep my body and soul intact, have no time to lose. I know that the world is falling apart and I would like to help as much as I can to put it back together again, afterwards. But right now I think that the only way for me to collaborate with the totality is to execute well, tirelessly, the creative work that remains to me before I die. All other activity of mine strikes me now as superficiality or betrayal. I’ve been working a great deal these days. I’ve given final form to what I’ve written. I rewrote Dante twice, finished Yangtse, Zorba, and one of the travel books, and finally the Iliad. As soon as I complete the Prometheus trilogy, I’m going to start translating the Odyssey, which I’ll finish this year. My body is very strong, and my soul is completely delivered from human beings—that is, from every illness. I’ve remained all alone with myself. I like my company because now I know how good, honorable, industrious, and

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proud it is. As for human beings, I continually tolerate them less and less. They have been weighed by Time and found worthless. With you I still feel a deep bond—one of blood. Let’s hope that one day we may be fused together in a joint project. But, life being rough, when you are fully delivered from necessity, if I am still alive. Para siempre! N P.S. I’m glad that you liked the book. I had you in mind when I bought it in London. I liked its typography very much and felt pleasure in the tips of my fingers when I touched its binding.

1  weighed by Time and found worthless:  Kazantzakis is thinking of the story of Belshazzar’s feast (Daniel 5:27): “Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.”  1  liked the book:  Kazantzakis’s gift to Prevelakis for the latter’s name day: Epicteti Enchiridion, Cebetis Tabula, Prodici Hercules, et Theophrasti Characteres Ethici. Graece et Latine (Oxford: Clarenden Press, 1804).

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/35; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, pp. 44–46.

[Aegina,] 28 August 1943 Dear friend! Thanks again for your good letter. The news you tell me about pleases me greatly. I’ll be with you, dedicated and eager. We once spoke here concerning which publications need to be issued, and we agreed so completely that I fear I have nothing new to say to you that you haven’t already thought of. When the blessed hour arrives, we’ll meet and by then I will have thought about what else can and must happen. If this plan is realized as broadly as you write to me, a new center of intellectual rebirth might be founded in Greece, a new Age of Enlightenment. I’ll be with you always. I just need to manage to relieve myself of my obligations to two publishing houses regarding their printing of my books. I would like to be free to grant you exclusive rights to my collected works. You, too, need to consider how this can happen. I’ve spent this time correcting all my printed works—plays, travel books, etc.—giving them their final form. This month I wrote a new play: the Prometheus trilogy—Firebearer, Bound, Unbound—and I think it is the best of the seven plays I’ve written so far. I also have the well-known Traveling ready, as well as Zorba and Yangtse. In a few days I’ll begin to translate the Odyssey so that it, too, may be ready this year. But I’ve also gathered together all the material and have drawn

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up the complete outline for my new mammoth Akritas. Will I be able to finish it before I die? I’m in rare good health, bodily and spiritually. I work with great pleasure and strength. Yet I’m pining now for a long, needed trip. Quickly, let’s hope! Naturally I haven’t seen Apostolopoulos’s critique. In Greece they lack the courtesy to send a copy that is of exceptional interest to the person whose work they are criticizing. Kallitechnika Nea does not come here, nor have I ever seen an issue. Thus, I’d be very much obliged to you if you told them to have the kindness to send me all the issues in which the critique appears, so that I might see what they say. I’ve written some answer to Laourdas but don’t know if it has been printed in Nea Estia. I wrote about the “Cretan glance” (the key to understanding the Odyssey), and I’m afraid that the censors will trim it on me. I would have written much more harshly, but I felt sorry for Laourdas. He is a well-meaning young man, but he understands nichts! I received the initial eighty thousand and hope to get the remainder soon. Thank you very much. I’d just like to know who the buyers were. I received the other eighty from Kintzios. “God” be with you! Eleni and I greet you with warm love together with sadness because you have not been able to come now to the figs and grapes. But no matter. Figs and grapes will sprout next year, too. Para siempre! N

1  collected works:  Sadly, the collected works were never issued. A start was made by Yannis Goudelis’s Difros publishing house, but only three volumes of plays were published (1955–56).  1  Apostolopoulos’s critique: Dimis Apostolopoulos (1909–62), wrote on Bergson, Spengler, and a history of modern Greek philosophy. The article in question was “Ο Δωδεκάλογος του Γύφτου και η νέα Οδύσεια,” Καλλιτεχνικά Νέα, 14 August 1943.  1  answer to Laourdas:  Laourdas, who originally praised Kazantzakis’s Odyssey, then suddenly turned against it in his sixteen-page pamphlet Η Οδύσεια του Καζαντζάκη (Athens, 1943). As we saw above, Kazantzakis answered in “ Ένα σχόλιο στην Οδύσεια,” Νέα Εστία 34 (15 August 1943): 1028–34. For a brief account of the entire controversy, see Bien 2007a, especially pp. 174–76. Mrs. Kazantzakis informed me in a letter dated 29 June 1976 that Laourdas had changed his mind about Kazantzakis’s epic and had criticized it in order to please Katsimbalis and that afterwards he apologized to Kazantzakis and begged his forgiveness.  1  Cretan glance:  Another indication of the importance given by Kazantzakis to the Cretan glance is the fact that he devotes the final chapter of Report to Greco (chapter 31) to this theme, following this chapter only with the epilogue devoted to his final “report” to El Greco.  1  he understands nichts:  Kazantzakis wrote “you understand nichts,” presumably by mistake.

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To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 269–70.

Aegina, 5 September 1943 Dear Friend! I received the books, the letter, and the corrections for Iliad 5. In the meantime, I had begun the Prometheus trilogy on 6 August and the day before yesterday, 3 September, I finished all three plays. I felt relieved. Beginning on the day after tomorrow—or tomorrow—I’ll start to correct book 5. But it’s only the first draft of Prometheus; hence, whatever books about Prometheus you find will be very valuable to me. I’ll do the second draft as soon as I finish all the corrections of the Iliad that you prepare for me and will do the third and final draft as soon as I complete the Odyssey (this winter, God willing). I’ll have it typed (the Odyssey) and will send it to you so that you will have it on your desk as a temptation. At some point you’ll glance at it, without fail. Forgive me for being in such a hurry; one justification is an incident that happened the day before yesterday. I was sitting with Eleni on the couch after supper and talking. Far in the distance the Germans were doing nighttime maneuvers when suddenly a bullet broke through the shutters, smashed the window pane, passed next to my right ear, went through the wardrobe opposite, shattered a pretty vase, and stopped at the other end of the wardrobe, near the kitchen. An inch closer and I would have dropped dead on the spot, because it would have struck me precisely in the brain. So, you see, I need to hurry. So far I’ve managed to say nothing; I shall die without having liberated my soul. Weigh anchor! If only I didn’t sleep and lose so many hours! If you have books and manuscripts for me, I will send you someone as soon as I find the opportunity. I’m glad that ahead of me I have the winter with so much work. The entire Odyssey needs to be ready. Eleni sends warm greetings to you and your wife. She received her letter, read it very carefully, and told me that it is excellent, clear, and level-headed. But she did not want to read it to me. She’ll answer her, she says, with thanks. Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis In Nea Estia, 1 November 1939, pp. 1516–17, P. Lekatsas has some sentences on Pallis’s Iliad and seventeen-syllable verse. It might be useful for you. If you know one of the editors of the Academy’s dictionary, ask him (if it’s convenient) why they omitted several words. Leafing through it at random, I discovered that the following are missing: αντράλα, αρχοντονήσι, αβλωνία,

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the female octopus, which is also called μελιδόνα or αλιδώνα, ακριβοκάμαρα (Ερωτόκριτος), απάλε, άραβδος (without ραβδί: χίλιους δέρνει άραβδος— demotic phrase).

1  suddenly a bullet broke through the shutters:  A German soldier had burglarized the Kazantzakis house and been identified by Mrs. Kazantzakis, which is why this soldier shot at Kazantzakis.  1  the following are missing:  Of these eight, only four are included in the Georgacas dictionary.

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/36; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, pp. 46–47.

Aegina, 17 September 1943 Dear friend! I’m going to cause you many troubles again. But the times are difficult and I have no means of communication other than overloading my friends. It’s more than ten days since mail has arrived here. Traveling has become extraordinarily difficult, permission is denied, not a single radio exists, we don’t know what’s happening in the world. I am ready to burst! My only salvation is excessive, happy work. I finished the Prometheus trilogy, and now I’ve begun to translate the Odyssey. I’m exceptionally fine, am producing much fertile work, swim every day in the sea, eat lots and lots of grapes. On the other hand, I yearn to see two or three people in Athens. But when? We’ll see. So, here are the troubles that I beg you to forgive me for piling on you, but whom else can I ask? My friend Anghelakis will give you a small package. I would be most appreciative if you could give it to my sister; it’s material for her to make me a jacket for wintertime in the house. And telephone Hourmouzios and also Kakridis to stop by in order to pick up these letters that I’m sending to them. Anghelakis (I. Anghelakis, lawyer, is how you’ll find his telephone number) will leave Athens for Aegina on Saturday, 23 September. I would be most appreciative if you gave him a large letter of yours so that I could see how you are doing and how the world is doing. I regret that I replied to Laourdas. It is impudent at such historical moments for us to deal with our personal problems even if they are intellectual. But I didn’t do it for him; I did it for Youth, the only people in the world I still respect. I’m writing you in haste. Eleni sends warm greetings, as do I. As always, with the same love

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To Yorgos Theotokas —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

Aegina, 28 September 1943 Dear Mr. Theotokas, I read your article in Nea Estia and was very pleased to find your standardized virtues once again: courtesy, honesty, clear-headed equilibrium, and what is so attractive in the midst of our so exceedingly Albanian colleagues: your Chian culture. I don’t know if all your good thoughts about me are correct, nor will I ever know—that’s one human pleasure that I enjoy. What the future fate of the Odyssey will be no one knows less than I do, not even you. However, no one knows better than I that the Odyssey was written with my blood and is the natural fruit of my entire life until now. I cannot imagine a work that is less “literary.” That is precisely what almost all of our “intellectuals” failed to understand because, not having lived a life similar to mine, they believe that all the agony, uplift, joy, and sorrow with which this Odyssean galley is loaded down are the juggling tricks of a person who, not having anything else to do in his solitude, allows his fancy to run wild and howl. There is absolutely no fancy in the Odyssey; there is not a single verse that does not represent a “lived experience.” A lot more fancy exists in a quatrain by any of our rhymesters. Only one thing in your article saddened me considerably. Surely it must be my fault. Once again I formulated my thought very poorly, and you imagined that we disagree precisely on the point where we entirely do agree: on the meaning of “Neohellenism.” I never intended to narrow this meaning—indeed, I emphasized exactly the opposite. When I opposed the “Greek glance” to the “Cretan glance,” I did not mean “modern Greek” but rather “ancient, classical Greek,” which is so pedantically and narrowly defended by our dear Keitoukeitos, Laourdas. On the contrary, I emphasized the degree to which the modern Greek soul acquired infinite new riches and that our aim, both consciously and unconsciously, can be only one: to discover the fact that our Neohellenic wealth is a synthesis. As I said, it so happens that I possess that which I call the “Cretan glance,” which is another of the sources of our new wealth; others have the Roumeliotic, the Macedonian, the Constantinopolitan, and so forth. All together they constitute the Eye of the modern Greek soul. I emphasized the Cretan glance simply because it is mine and because only when an individual is aware of it can he enjoy the Odyssey in the most comfortable manner. Doesn’t this emerge as clear as day in my “Epistle to Laourdas”? I thought it did. Nevertheless, seeing that this is a fundamental issue and that I would never wish to be burdened by your unjust criticism, hence you would greatly oblige

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me if you found or created an opportunity to emphasize this unanimity of ours. I am embarrassed (I’m very sensitive in such matters) to be considered so unexpectedly narrow-minded. I’m glad that the days are approaching when the seas will be opened, and I will come again to Athens for a moment in order to see a few friends, very few, whom I have missed. What I mean is You. With love, N. Kazantzakis

1  your article:  “Γύρω στη νέα Οδύσεια,” Νέα Εστία 34 (15 September 1943): 1125–28, responding to Laourdas’s pamphlet criticizing the Odyssey.  1  your Chian culture:  Although Yorgos Theotokas (1906–66) was born in Constantinople, his family heritage was from the island of Chios. He was a novelist, playwright, essayist, and twice director of the National Theater.  1  Keitoukeitos:  Name of a character in Athenaeus of Naucratis’s Deipnosophists (third century a.d. when there was a movement to “purify” the “common” [koine] Greek of the time). This work consists of imaginary dialogues by the various “banquet philosophers.” Keitoukeitos bore this nickname because his repeated inquiry regarding every subject or object in these dialogues is whether or not it is evidenced in a classical Greek text (i.e., one in fourth- or fifthcentury b.c. Attic Greek)—whether it “lies there or not”: “κείται ή ου κείται”; thus Keit-ou-keit-os.  1  Roumeliotic:  Pertaining to mainland Greece to the north of the Peloponnese and to the south of Thessaly and Epirus.

To Stamos Diamantaras —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Kaz. D/37; printed in Papathanasopoulos 1988, p. 38.

Aegina, 29 September 1943 Dear friend! Thanks again for your fine letter. Fortunately, Eleni will bring you this answer of mine and will tell you everything—how we’re faring here and what we have in mind. The day when she’s going to leave (approximately 20 October) you tell her what you want to transmit to me. Now I’ll answer everything that you wrote to me: 1.  Given the instability of the times in which we live, I too feel inside me that it would be more sensible for the publication undertaking to start off more modestly. In order to succeed in our intellectual or ethical aims, material success is essential. That’s why every instance of haste or superficiality is disastrous not only economically but also ideologically.

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Now, the most useful and steady profit will come if you buy more manuscripts and better ones, as best you can. That is a solidly ethical and economic basis. Despite the wretched condition of today’s drachma, even that investment will be excellent for those good writers whom you choose. There is no need for you to display any stinginess whatsoever. Give them as much as you can. That will benefit both you and them. Make this a brave and, at the same time, an economically intelligent beginning. 2. I don’t see anyone better than Hourmouzios to assume general supervision. I myself don’t dare to do so because I still don’t know how I will allocate my time when the war is over. If I’m given the opportunity, I would like to take part in some activity not connected with writing. If I’m not given the opportunity, I’ll need to be away from Greece for a while. It would not be honorable for me to promise you anything that I was unable to fulfill. 3.  The most appropriate and completely timely manuscript that I could give you now is Traveling: Russia. What I wrote on this subject I composed and reworked in book form. I think that it’s a good book and that your publishing house will benefit. 4. I feel that everything you say is correct about the books with which you are going to start. When the time comes, write me to begin thinking in my turn about which books you’ll publish first. Regarding the children’s periodical, don’t ever forget Anastasiou. He is the ideal editor. 5.  A good title needs to be found. I, too, will think about it. “Akritas,” the Greek hero who battles on the borders against “infidels and barbarians,” is splendid and will provide a lovely theme for the artist who designs your logo. Today we know who the infidels and barbarians are. 6.  Thanks for any copies of the Odyssey that you allocated (I received the 280,000 as well). But please let’s not allocate another copy while this depreciation of the drachma continues. Afterwards, we’ll see what happens. If the copy in the bookstore still exists unsold, give it to the young men of Sotiria. I’m glad that you liked my answer to Laourdas. Unfortunately, although I spoke with such clarity, Theotokas did not understand and says that I am parochial, although I explicitly state that our aim is to find the synthesis of all of our post-ancient-Greek wealth. The Cretan, Roumeliotic, Macedonian, Anatolian, etc. glance, all together, constitute the EYE of the modern Greek soul. How could our “intellectuals” have failed to understand such a simple text? I always regret answering. Thanks for the two issues of Nea Estia. I’ve been told that Apostolakis’s is an interesting study. When the printing is finished, please give it to Eleni so that she can hold on to it for me. 7.  Because I’d very much like us to see each other, I, too, hope that the seas will open very soon and that I’ll see you. I came to Athens for the last time on 8 November, a year ago. I wonder if I’ll be able to come this year as well.

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Eleni will tell you the rest. I squeeze your hand and am with you always. N

1  Traveling: Russia:  See Kazantzakis 1989 for an English translation.  1  the young men of Sotiria:  A group of tubercular men reading Kazantzakis’s work while convalescing at the Sotiria sanitarium—ironic because when Kazantzakis and Panaït Istrati were in Athens in 1928 Istrati was threatened with deportation for, among other things, denouncing the appalling conditions in the Sotiria sanitarium, and in January 1929 both he and Kazantzakis were subpoenaed (but never charged) to defend themselves for allegedly urging the Sotiria patients to install themselves by force in the fancy villas of Kifissia!  1  Apostolakis’s . . . study:  Yannis M. Apostolakis (1886–1947), professor of modern Greek literature at the University of Thessaloniki; critic, demoticist; wrote on demotic songs. His critical study of the collection of Kleftika songs assembled by Panayotis S. Aravandinos (1880) was published in 1941.

To Emile Hourmouzios —Manuscript missing from Kazantzakis Museum Hourmouzios archive; printed in Kazantzakis 1977a, pp. 182–84.

Aegina, 29 September 1943 Dear Milio! At last I received a substantial letter from you. Reading the opening pages, I felt embarrassed by the trouble I’ve given you: making you race hither and thither in order to save me from starvation. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to show you how ready I am to submit myself to trouble for your sake. Reading your final pages, I admired your diligence and intellectual fecundity. Good god, what projects and how you keep up with them! Reading what you write in Nea Estia and Grammata, admiring your patience and the conscientiousness and depth reached by your thought, I don’t know whether to wish for you to be given the opportunity to concentrate on our modern Greek intellectual problems and to write long critical studies, or for you to have your own newspaper and, abandoning the unbridled gang of the learned, to reach out to and uplift the Greek masses. As for me, however, I am certain that the second will be the more useful for several years—those first, crucial ones from which the fate and the worth of our race will be judged. It’s fortunate that this worldwide and Hellenic crisis has found you precisely in your perfect ripeness. Just one thing, since I’ve been told that you have lost weight: take care of your body. Give that donkey lots to eat, for we have no other donkey that our soul—that is, our spite, yearning, and passion—can mount, nor shall we ever acquire another.

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As Eleni will tell you, my own donkey barely escaped being killed the other day by an idiotic bullet, and precisely when I had begun to translate the Odyssey and was full of joy and intensity. The year before last I barely escaped dying from hunger, last year from the stove, this year from a bullet. We’ll see what happens next year. Eleni saved me two years ago, the cat last year, luck this year. Who will save me in the coming year? And how many more? That’s why I’m in a hurry, working so maniacally. I’ll finish the Odyssey by the end of the year and, having rescued myself from all past works, will be ready for a new life. Which? I don’t know. If luck aids me, I would like some nonpersonal activity. On your newspaper? In politics? Abroad? I don’t know. In any case, I definitely need a short trip of three months to view all of the ruins of Europe. After that, we’ll see. The Odyssey has caught on fire. But what a horror! Did you see how simple and clear my “Epistle to Laourdas” was? Yet Theotokas managed to misunderstand it and to say that I am parochial, whereas I stressed precisely that our duty is to find the Synthesis of this exaggerated ancient Greek wealth of ours and the Cretan / Roumeliotic / Macedonian / Constantinopolian / Cypriot, etc. glance. All together, they constitute the EYE of the modern Greek soul. But how, then, can someone speak to Greek intellectuals and make them understand? It’s as though they never graduated from the primary school of the spirit. I really am impatient for you to write your book on the Odyssey and my other works, so that I may exorcise this desolation. I’m glad that Eleni will see you and that in this way her H-eleni-c glance will become my own to some degree, because I, too, desired very much to see both of you. I was in Athens last year on 8 November. Will I manage to come this year, too? This letter of mine would be endless if it weren’t that Eleni will now tell you all the details. I received the 290,000 and the tobacco. The bank is overdue for July and August, since nothing has reached me here via post. (P.S. They just arrived after a two- and three-month delay! Everything was sent together on 20 September!) “God” be with you both. If I miss Athens, it’s because you exist. N

1  last year from the stove:  Sitting by the stove on a winter evening with the cat at his feet, suddenly he saw the cat lose consciousness. He opened the door and went into the hallway, where he, too, lost consciousness. The next morning he came to, with a severe headache.  1  this year from a bullet:  For what happened, see the letter to Kakridis of 5 September 1943, above.  1  your book on the Odyssey: Unfortunately, Hourmouzios never wrote this book.  1  the bank is overdue:  Kazantzakis’s monthly remuneration for his contributions to Kathimerini were meant to be paid by the bank.

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To Emile Hourmouzios —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977a, pp. 184–85.

[Aegina,] Friday [1 or 8 October 1943] Dear Milio! Now that Eleni is near you, my letters are unnecessary. However, Mr. Kintzios lent me Nea Estia the other day, and I read the article by Despotopoulos. I’m completely confused. Is it, then, that I write so obscurely that what I suppose to be completely evident is not understood by our most enlightened compatriots? The other day Theotokas called me “parochial,” whereas in my entire article I sought precisely to broaden the meaning of Greece and of the modern Greek individual in order not to restrict it to ancient, classical Greece. Now Despotopoulos criticizes me for two things for which I thought I could not be criticized: (1) that I forbid criticism of the Odyssey, whereas I’ve been saying precisely that it must be criticized if it is to be understood, (2) that I acquired the Cretan glance only now. But isn’t that the basis of all of my works and especially of the Odyssey? “To face the abyss and not be overcome by panic but, on the contrary, to elicit pride, strength, and a zest for action from this sight.” That is the entire intellectual basis of all my work. How many times have I said it! Sometimes at the most critical (or the most heroic or elevated) moments, the soul chokes with anger, yearns to be freed from its freedom, refuses to condescend to accept any hope. In an internal lightning flash, it sees that “this one does not exist”: Pindar’s σκιᾶς ὄναρ. In other ages, this black flash would constitute the secret teaching announced to initiates able to endure such violent brilliance without being blinded. But what about today? I was ashamed to curtail my thought owing to pedagogical aspiration, and I spoke as well about this climax of the struggle. I know that this would give rise to a multitude of misinterpretations, but I wrote it because intellectual honor demanded that I do so. Forgive me for dizzying you with all of this, but I am suffocating. They are destroying the one and only virtue that I thought I possessed: clarity. Please write to me via Kintzios. I had hoped to see you soon but the date has once more been shifted. I wonder if you’ll come here so that we can celebrate Christmas together—with turkey. God is generous! Don’t forget to send me paper if you can. I’m translating the Odyssey now (I’m at book 9), and where can I find paper? I’ll be forced to shut down my intellectual factory for lack of paper! Say hello to Marika for me! Always, N

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1  Despotopoulos:  Konstantinos I. Despotopoulos (b. 1913), lawyer concentrating on philosophy of law, professor of the philosophy of justice. The article in question was “Το πνευματικό βάθρο της Οδύσειας,” Νέα Εστία 34 (1 October 1943): 1193–96.  1  σκιᾶς ὄναρ:  “σκιᾶς ὄναρ ἄνθρωπος” (humankind is the dream of a shadow) in Pythian 8.95–96 by Pindar (ca. 522–443 b.c.).  1  God is generous:  Kazantzakis’s locution here is the Turkish expression Allah kerim! The literal meaning is “God is generous”; however, more loosely, the expression can mean something like “Aren’t we lucky!” or “How nice!” or “Never mind! It will come out all right!”

To Angelos Sikelianos —Manuscript in Benaki Museum envelope 26/306.

Aegina, 1 October 1943 Brother Angelos! I’m eager to read “Daedalus” in printed form—your child by Aegina that you gave me as a gift that delighted me exceedingly. I’m eager for the seas to open and for us to meet. Last year I went to Athens on your name day. Will I be able to do the same this year? The summer was excellent. Sea bathing, figs and grapes, ceaseless happy work. But you were not here. I’m advancing in the translation of the Odyssey; it will be finished quickly. I want to escape every manuscript in order to be ready for a new life when freedom returns to Greece. I read your words on Palamas with emotion. You know how foreign this poet is to me except for a few of his lyric poems. He is a small major poet, whereas a Malakasis, in his very few excellent poems, is a large minor poet. No matter how much the rhythm of my blood is the opposite of Malakasis’s, nevertheless I consider his best poem better than Palamas’s best. You, however, with your great spirit, were able to elevate him to the sixth heaven. According to all those who heard you, your words were truly a sublime initiation. I kiss your wife’s hand. Her beauty, her tone of voice, her sweetness are so very much missed on this deserted—ravaged—seashore. Para siempre! N Kazantzakis

1  your words on Palamas:  Palamas died on 27 February 1943. The funeral on the next day, a Sunday, was conducted by Archbishop Damaskinos, with huge crowds in attendance. Sikelianos, placing his hand on the coffin, recited a poem composed the night before, whereupon Marika Kotopouli declared,

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“Sikelianos is burying Palamas!” Then, bravely, the crowd broke out into the forbidden Greek national anthem, Solomos’s Hymn to Freedom, despite the presence of the Nazis, who were then occupying Greece.

To Elli Alexiou —Photograph of manuscript in Elli Alexiou 1981, hors-texte.

Aegina, 15 October 1943 Dear Eli! (forgive me for writing your name with one el, but this is my (non)orthographic system. Also that’s how I write Elada.) So, dear Eli, I warmly recommend to you my dear friend and fellow eremite of Aegina, Mr. Kintzios, justice of the peace here, and an intellectual person. He wanted to meet you because he admires you (as do I). I am glad because he is going to see you and will speak to me about you, whom I think of so often and with such love. So do speak together, and may “God” (you know which God) be with you, always. N. Kazantzakis

To Emile Hourmouzios —Manuscript missing from Kazantzakis Museum Hourmouzios archive; typewritten copy of the manuscript in my possession; printed in Kazantzakis 1977a, pp. 185–88; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 493–95; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 430–31.

Aegina, 23 October 1943 Dear Milio! I am very much puzzled by your letter in which you submit intellectual problems to me and ask me to respond in Odysseas’s name. Naturally I have thought about everything you ask. During the years when I was writing the Odyssey, I did find some answers. While I was creating the Odysseas type, however, this mental activity remained in my subconscious; it was not the head that labored while I was writing but the entire vital humansatanic complex—body, brain, soul—of which I am constituted. As I commenced each morning (morning for me began then at 2 a.m.), I never used to think “today Odysseas will do or say such-and-such or will provide suchand-such a solution to such-and-such a personal, social, or worldwide problem.” Odysseas emerged from inside me, settled in on a daily basis without

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dictatorial intellectual guidance, matured like a fruit or an embryo, almost unconsciously. And I myself—that is, my conscious self—was curious, and not only curious but eager, to see what he would do on that day and how he would behave in Ithaca, Sparta, Crete, Egypt, during the “Exodus from Egypt,” in his new city, with the great leaders of worldwide theories when he found himself with them, and later when he was confronted by death. Whom would he support—for example, his great friend the debilitated Menelaus or the “crude masses” that he sensed were rising and creating a new shape for life and a new substance still unknown by him? I never knew anything in advance. I needed to bend over the sheets of paper and, like a silkworm, watch the perfectly delicate, unbreakable thread unravel from inside me. What I felt was simply that Odysseas’s selfhood widened as he advanced, that it smashed each and every mold—individual self, family, nation, race, species, organic being, universe. I felt him continually identifying with the fearful, indestructible, and totally mysterious élan that appears on our planet in the form of Life. Odysseas, and I with him, sensed that élan acquiring consciousness, creating eyes with which to see, ears with which to hear, a heart with which to experience joy and pain. When you ask me, for example, what position Odysseas takes regarding the problem of individual versus totality, no matter what I answer strikes me as a narrowing of Odysseas’s intention because in this way I would confine Odysseas’s outcry to a specific—that is, restricted—formulation that today might satisfy the most advanced people but tomorrow or the day after tomorrow will seem conservative even to the most backward people. Although I can tell you what position I take, Odysseas passes beyond me. Above all, he is a general slogan that is interpreted by various epochs. For instance, consider the slogan “Down with tyranny!” Depending on the epoch, those who tyrannize are priests, kings, feudal lords, the bourgeoisie today, the day after tomorrow the contemporary proletariat. The slogan remains the same; what changes in each case is solely the interpretation. The former is immutable, humanly eternal; the latter—the interpretation—is relative and mutable. Odysseas strikes me similarly as a slogan that enables anyone who accepts it and experiences it to give to every problem the solution that may be reached thanks to that person’s supreme power. Someone else, someone higher, accepting and experiencing the same slogan, will on the other hand give his own solution, one that may be different from the previous one but that will be headed most profoundly in the same ascending direction, toward the same ascent, via different paths. This is the secret of every slogan that is an entire symphony and not just an individual melody. As you yourself say, that is why Odysseas, transcending nationalistic limitations, is a citizen of the future commonwealth (of each and every future commonwealth). The Cretan glance does not mean that we dispense with the Western/Eastern civilization of ancient Greece. It means that we synthesize

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all that and, primarily, the gushing new elements inside us, so that we may experience a fresh conception of life that is broader, nobler, and more responsible. Odysseas, as you say, strides over the entire earth, not just over Greece, but he necessarily sets out from Greece not because Greece represents what is highest but because he happens to have been born there and consequently must begin his journey from there. As you also say, Odysseas fashions a myth—rather, he does not fashion a myth, he lives one, he himself is the myth. But all the molds break, and everything vanishes at given moments of great intensity, at crises that last a lightning flash—a flash of “black lightning.” Do we not see the same thing in Pindar, the great worshiper and singer of the adolescent body, of the palpable exploit, of assurance that life is worthy? Nevertheless, that same Pindar must have been overcome by despair at some point when he uttered his ghastly nihilistic outcry: σκιᾶς ὄναρ ἄνθρωπος! Do not Sophocles and Homer, the most Greek of the Greeks, sometimes shout the same cry? This is what Odysseas shouts. Every great soul is sometimes overcome by despair. Such a person feels that even the supreme exploit, the supreme joy and sorrow, the most daring ideal are too small. Indeed, everything is too small for him—everything except Nothingness. And he utters a cry. Afterwards, however, he recovers, gains courage, muzzles the demon inside him, and resumes the ascent. Odysseas does the same. The nihilistic outcry “And this One does not exist!” is not the culmination of his struggle. It is a valve that he opens for a moment in order not to be overcome by despair. He finds relief, gains courage from the horror, and continues on the path he has chosen, the Ascent. Something curious is true about the Odyssey that even all those who know me cannot imagine: it is not at all a cerebral work. It may seem that the person who wrote it had been reading and thinking, had been concerned with philosophic problems. But I repeat that what guided me commandingly when I was writing it was an entirely anti-intellectual flame filled with rancor and light. Rancor and light—such antithetical things! Yet I felt these two forces united as one in my breast. It was from them that the entire Odyssey emerged. What I call “light” here is not at all identified with intellect but more with intuition mondiale. I can express it only by means of a picture: It is as though the élan vital on our planet acquired an Eye for the first time. This feeling, when I was writing the Odyssey, sometimes made my flesh creep mysteriously, in a way dangerous for human powers. I’ll stop here because I have truly arrived at a whirlpool, a turbulent point that, using words, I cannot go beyond. Your letter, with the problems it submitted to me, has given me great pleasure together with hopeful assurance. I see that your book will possess a definitive value and that it and the Odyssey will travel together, inseparably. I am very touched by this. Please write me at every point if you desire something relevant. Do not worry about the nature of my letters. When I write, even my

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manner of not answering your questions will furnish you with an answer— perhaps, for your project, the most useful kind. Always, N. Kazantzakis

1  élan:  Kazantzakis’s word is έφοδος (assault, onset), but I see him here translating Henri Bergson’s favorite term élan (impulse, dash, sally, impetus), as in his famous term l’élan vital (the vital impulse, the life impulse), which Kazantzakis translates perfectly as έφοδος ζωής below.  1  σκιᾶς ὄναρ ἄνθρωπος:  See note to the letter to Hourmouzios of Friday, 1 or 8 October 1943, above.  1  intuition mondiale:  Worldwide intuition.

To Karolos Koun —Photograph of manuscript in Vima tis Kyriakis, 19 April 1987, p. 40.

Aegina, 17 November 1943 Dear Mr. Koun! I asked Mr. Hourmouzios to give you a theatrical work, Julian, to read because I have the idea that you are exceptionally well suited to play its hero, who is so internalized, restrained, and full of passion. If you agree in principle after you read it, we will confer together so that the necessary changes may take place in order to lighten the text for staging. However, you’ll consult with Mr. Hourmouzios about everything. Your acceptance would give me great pleasure. With exceptional honor and admiration, N. Kazantzakis

1  Karolos Koun:  Koun (1908–87), an important theater director in Athens, was well known for bawdy stagings of Aristophanes and for Greek premières of avant-garde playwrights in his Art Theater.

To Angelos Sikelianos —Manuscript in Benaki Museum envelope 26/344; copy in University of Thessaloniki Library.

Aegina, 12 February 1944 Dear brother, I’m writing you by means of a postcard because we no longer have postal service here since Piraeus was destroyed and I’m sending it to

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Hourmouzios to send to you. Just imagine our pleasure if you do come to stay with us again; the house is available, and if Mrs. Anna prefers to stay there (for the kitchen), then you can work in Kalmouchos’s. Kalmouchos keeps on saying that he’ll come (but he cannot endure isolation—I hope—and that’s why the house will remain available). In any case, telephone him when you decide and reach an agreement. It’s almost impossible right now to obtain a permit here. But by then . . . Eleni has told me how well you are, as is Mrs. Anna also. I kiss her hand. God grant that we may have both of you with us in the springtime this year. Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis

1  since Piraeus was destroyed:  Piraeus harbor was heavily bombed by the Germans in 1941 as they were invading Greece and bombed again by the Allies in January 1944. Finally, on 12 October 1944, the Germans exploded the remaining facilities of the port prior to their departure.

To Emile Hourmouzios —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977a, pp. 188–89.

Aegina, 12 February 1944 Dear Milio! Thanks for the Palamas panegyric. I leafed through it but haven’t read it yet. I glanced at your critique and am eager to find enough time to read it. Good god, what patience, conscientiousness, wisdom! I really do admire you. You are surely much more of a diligent worker than I am, which is frightening. I’m sending you Eckermann. I’m not going to translate it (although I had assumed the obligation at Zacharopoulos’s). But I wrote him last year that I don’t have time and I returned other manuscripts to him. But he didn’t answer. In any case, I’m not going to translate Eckermann. I hope that you do. It’s an excellent, sensible, indispensable book. Yesterday I wrote the following three sentences and am sending them to you because the way you analyze them will throw much light on my inner life in your essay and will dispel the stupid fairy-tale about the mystic: 1. My anxiety consists of this: I can never think of something or desire something without simultaneously and with the same intensity thinking and desiring its opposite as well. 2. My struggle consists of this: Ceaselessly to endeavor to find the synthesis of this thesis and antithesis. 3. I call this synthesis Deliverance. (For me, these are: anxiety, struggle, deliverance.)

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Ever since Piraeus was destroyed, we no longer have any mail in Aegina. So please oblige me by tossing these things in the postbox. Warm greetings to Marika. Always, N Please telephone Kakridis about where you should leave the book for him, because he wants it. And I beg you eagerly to attend to Sbarounis’s letter.

1  Palamas panegyric:  Hourmouzios had sent Kazantzakis the first volume of his three-volume study Palamas and His Era (1944).  1  I’m sending you Eckermann: Eckermann’s Gespräche mit Goethe. The copy belonged to Kakridis.  1  these things:  Additional letters that Kazantzakis was unable to mail in Aegina.  1  Sbarounis:  Athanasios Sbarounis (1892–1987), economist; represented Greece at the United Nations.

To Nikos Hatzikyriakos-Ghikas —Manuscript published in Νίκος Χατζηκυριάκου-Γκίκας, Σχέδια για την Οδύσσεια του Καζαντζάκη (Athens: Adam Press, 1990). Photograph of the manuscript displayed at the Historical Museum of Crete’s exhibit “Nikos Kazantzakis, Travelling by Light and Darkness,” July 2007–October 2008. Translation of first two paragraphs by Ben Petre.

Aegina, 15 February 1944 Dear friend! The photographs you sent me gave me great joy and moved me deeply; once again, this work of yours is rich and ripe in magical understanding. I can’t wait for you to set foot in Egypt with its wonderful art, and then to enter the tropical countries, and to emerge once more into the classic snow-covered landscapes at the world’s edge. I can see that with this work of yours you better understand the Odyssey. May “God” watch over you! Today I’m sending you in translation the parts of the Odyssey you need. Very roughly done, hoping that Levesque will be able to correct them and give them that certain saveur âpre they need: to separate each line and, if he can, introduce a certain irregularity to his language and syntax, as Claudel would have done, for example. It must be apparent from the translation that the original is rough and violent and moves forward by leaps and bounds. If you now need still other passages, I’ll translate them for you with great pleasure, so that you won’t waste time. But we don’t have any mail service now; thus, give them to Hourmouzios (Omirou 6, c/o Papaïoannou), and he will see to it.

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I’m eager for the seas to open so that I may come to Athens to see you. Should I hope for this spring? Both Eleni and I greet you and your wife with much love. Nikos Kazantzakis

1  Nikos Hatzikyriakos-Ghikas:  Well-known painter from Hydra (1906– 1994) who did the sketches published in Kimon Friar’s translation of Kazantzakis’s Odyssey (1958).  1  saveur âpre: Rough flavor.

To Angelos Sikelianos —Manuscript in Benaki Museum, envelope 26/343.

Aegina, 7 March 1944 Dear Brother! Kintzios will come to see you and tell you all the details. Eleni wrote Mrs. Anna a letter filled with useful information. Nevertheless, I hope that you have seen Kalmouchos. The house where you had your desk remains at your disposal and awaits you. Let’s hope that our “God” will arrange everything conveniently and that we will live together this summer, too. I’ve written three plays, the Prometheus trilogy, and I’ll read them to you when you come. Now I’m arranging all my preparation for Akritas. If you do come, it will be a great, fertile summer. Harnessed to the same yoke, to its very core, we will plow this sacred earth in parallel fashion. Come! We will have a double springtime! Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis

To Yorgos Theotokas —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift of Mrs. Nikos Alivizatos, Theotokas’s sister; printed (incomplete) in Theotokas 1987, p. 570.

Aegina, Easter [16 April] 1944 Dear Mr. Theotokas! Thank you very much for your valuable new book. I was delighted and surprised when I saw that you had dedicated The Bridge of Arta to me. I, too, was attracted by that subject when I was twenty years old and now, reading you, I see how the modern Greek spirit has ripened since then and with what knowledge, skill, and depth it can now convert tradition into art. This entire

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work of yours is a significant contribution to the creation of modern Greek drama. It has attracted me to such an extent that if I had here in the wilderness all the necessary aids enabling me to study Kapodistrias’s life, I would be overcome by the temptation to write a play on that theme. And I would dedicate it to you. It pleases me to have different generations exchange in this way greetings that at the same time are provocative. Kakridis and I, now that we are translating the Iliad, are dedicating ourselves in the same manner to Pallis, in order to show him the extent of our respect and at the same time how much the Greek language and understanding have advanced since his era. Let him be glad—because it’s certain that he will be glad. Thank you once again, dear friend! Christ is massively risen! N. Kazantzakis

1  when I was twenty years old:  Kazantzakis remembers writing The Master Builder, based on the folk song “The Bridge of Arta”; it was in 1909, when he was a bit older than twenty—namely, twenty-six.  1  Kapodistrias’s life:  Kazantzakis, of course, did write his play on the life—and assassination—of independent Greece’s first head of state, Ioannis Kapodistrias (1776–1831). See Bien 2007a or 2007b, chap. 15, for the whole sad story not just of the play’s protagonist but also of its fateful production at the National Theater in 1946.  1  Christ is massively risen:  Kazantzakis repeats a shout that he once heard, “Χριστός ανέστακας!” which adds an augmentative suffix to the usual Χριστός ανέστη! (Christ is risen!).

To Emile Hourmouzios —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed in Kazantzakis 1997, pp. 244–46.

Tuesday [18 or 25 July 1944] Dear Milio! I finally received a letter from you. I’ve written you numerous times, a few days ago that I completed Kapodistrias on 15 July—and precisely today you ask where it’s at! I’ll write another play now, one that came to life in me a few days before Kapodistrias reached completion. I’ll write on the fall of Constantinople with Constantine Palaiologos as hero. This subject has begun to agitate me extraordinarily. I observe a posteriori that the heroes I have chosen— Chang in Yangtze, Julian, Kapodistrias, Palaiologos—are all desperados (the Spanish word is totally untranslatable-it’s certainly anything but désespéré). Stefan Zweig defines desperado in his study of Nietzsche: “He does not achieve anything for himself, or for anyone else, or for a God or a king or a

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faith; he struggles for the joy of struggling; he does not desire to possess anything, to earn anything. He does not make treaties, does not build houses. . . .” He is all of that and also something else, something deeper, wilder, and at the same time more serene. I will attempt to create a Constantine Palaiologos with the supreme ethos of a desperado, a person who attained the summit of gallantry and serenity precisely when he felt that God had abandoned him. If all goes well, this play will be ready at the beginning of September, because I still have not started it. What I’ll write after that I will discover, I hope, a few days before Palaiologos is completed. Alas, if a work of mine had been performed in the theater from the start, I would have taken an entirely different route, because I feel that my essence is dramatic. However, thanks to the “Smellenes” I have been driven out of the theater for so many decades. The fact that I insist on writing plays indicates that this is my essence. The third Prometheus has been greatly improved, the second not at all for two reasons: (1) because I find that it expresses my emotion accurately in its present form; (2) because the improvement I had in mind would turn the whole work upside down. On the other hand, in the third Prometheus the improvement was excellent, without disturbing the meaning, and in such a way that the new form, I believe, is much better. Take a look yourself and let me know. Let’s hope that Myrivilis will want to take the other two Prometheus plays as well. I’d like them to be printed so that I might relieve myself of manuscripts, and right now I prefer this to happen in a periodical so that I’ll have the possibility to improve them some more before they come out in book form. I’d like Julian to be printed with the same spelling that is used in the Odyssey, with the enclitic pronouns μου, σου, etc. attached to the preceding word without any hyphen, the way it’s done in the Italian and Spanish languages. On p. 93: “ολόρθη στάσου στο πλεβρό του αφορεσμένου / βάστα καλά μην προδοθείς, τον Αντάρτη / σπρώχνε γοργά . . .” On p. 99, OK, “να πολεμάς, να πολεμάς, χωρίς ελπίδα!” I, too, hope that we shall meet here in front of a large bowl filled with figs. We’ll talk then about your periodical; on that subject I have various ideas that I will submit to you. Keep for the periodical whatever interests you in my work. I imagine it a sort of monthly Europe, also with political articles, a sort of Observer that is scholarly, literary, and sociological. Europe of the years 1930–39 was excellent. I have an extensive series and read it constantly with continually renewed pleasure. I’ll ask Eleni to make a copy of Askitiki in its new form and send it to you. In addition, you’ll have the two Prometheus plays as soon as possible. I cannot entrust them to the post; I need to find someone. Together with this you’ll have Kasomoulis’s book. I know that you don’t need it now, but I am discomfited holding on to someone else’s book for a long time. I’m eager to see the new exploits of that brat, Laourdas. I’m among those who imagine that what he needs is a good spanking. I wrote to Angeloglou

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(whose pamphlet has a marvelous style) to give the manuscript to Monachos, because I promised it to him. If Angeloglou brings out his own periodical, I’ll send him other manuscripts. Theotokas’s Όνειρο του Δωδεκάμερου is all brio, humor, freshness. I think the time has finally come when the monopoly of golden mediocrity—Terzakis!—should end. Eleni will write you about economic matters. As for me, my role is now restricted while she handles everything without asking, and I’m happy that she is kind enough to give me a plate of food morning, midday, and evening, and not to scold me. I feel lots of strength and appetite for work. I’m eager to begin the new play. The only reference material I have is Paparrigopoulos, but I don’t need any because the play won’t be at all historical. I’ll take various historical figures: Constantine, Giustiniani, Phrantzis, Gennadios, Notaras, and a Cretan desperado, K. Harkoutsis, who, when he learned that the city was doomed and salvation impossible, loaded a caïque with wine and forty-two other Cretans, and went to fight; his was the final bastion that resisted the Turks. I am in a state of total musical excitement, but I’m delaying when to begin as much as possible; I need the patience to allow the melody to ripen into a symphony. Oh god, what troubles I am giving you! How can I ever pay off my debts? But let’s hope that your difficulties will soon be over. It seems to me that I will be obliged to you for my entire life. It has been extremely harsh and rough, my life, and people have seldom afforded it the opportunity to justify the use of the keen, embittered tenderness hidden so deeply within it. It seems to me that Kapodistrias turned out well. I’m not sending it to you quite yet because it needs to rest a little, to “cool off,” and to be looked over again. I think that the thirteen-syllable verse turned out very fine; I’ll write Constantine Palaiologos also in thirteen-syllable verse. It’s well suited to a drama somewhat closer to our own times, where one has no need to emphasize emotion’s melodic element. On the other hand, in the Prometheus trilogy I feel that eleven-syllable verse is fitting, in order for the subject’s legendary tradition to lend a certain folkloric musicality to its hero. Yangtze (an immense drama on two levels, like El Greco’s The Burial of the Count of Orgaz) is written in rhythmic prose, as are Claudel’s plays. I’m not sending you Yangtze, nor is it required in your study of my plays. Whether it is indeed a theatrical work is debatable. It is a free, fierce form of dramatic clashing, a work that itself is a supreme desperado. (It is dedicated to the word “desperado,” the most excellent word created by mankind’s Pride and Derring-do. That is the dedication.) I’ll stop here in the hope that we shall soon see each other. Don’t forget that we shall continue here—by the sea, eating figs. “God” be with you! N

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1  Yangtze:  The play that was renamed Buddha.  1  totally untranslatable:  Actually, Kazantzakis translated the untranslatable term “desperado” in Spain (Kazantzakis 1963, p. 174) as “the man who knows perfectly well that he has nothing to hold on to; who believes in nothing; and since he does not believe, is governed by wild rage.”  1  désespéré:  Person in despair.  1  Smellenes:  My (admittedly weak) attempt to render the derogatory aspect of Kazantzakis’s Ελληνάδες (or Εληνάδες as he preferred to write the word). The term refers especially to the sort of Greeks who claim constantly that the Greeks are superior to all other people and can do no wrong.  1  the third Prometheus:  Part three of his Prometheus trilogy. (1) Προμηθέας Πυρφόρος, (2) Προμηθέας Δεσμώτης, (3) Προμηθέας Λυόμενος, printed in Kazantzakis 1955, pp. 11–265. Usual English titles: Prometheus the Fire-Bearer, Prometheus Bound, Prometheus Unbound.  1  Myrivilis:  Stratis Myrivilis (1890–1969), novelist whose best-known work, Life in the Tomb, about the First World War, has been translated into fifteen languages. Was program director of Greek national radio starting in 1936. Finally elected to the Academy of Athens after six unsuccessful tries. Perhaps Kazantzakis hoped to have his plays broadcast.  1  enclitic pronouns:  An enclitic word is one having no independent accent and forming an accentual and sometimes a graphemic unit with the preceding word. In Greek, the unemphatic possessive pronouns—μου, σου, του, της, μας, σας, τους (my, your, his, her, our, your, their)—are enclitic (unaccented), but are always separated from the preceding noun according to the normal writing system, thus: το βιβλίο μου (my book). Kazantzakis would write this as το βιβλίομου owing to his program of spelling reform, which was rejected by almost everyone else and almost always “corrected” for publication.  1  Europe:  Published in Paris, a “revue littéraire mensuelle . . . sous l’égide de Romain Rolland” (a monthly literary review . . . under the aegis of Romain Rolland).  1  Observer:  The Observer, British newspaper. It is clear from this and other evidence that Kazantzakis could read English along with French, Italian, German, and Spanish.  1  Kasomoulis:  Nikolaos Kasomoulis (1785–1872), participant in the Greek Revolution, author of Ενθυμήματα στρατιωτικά της επαναστάσεως των Ελλήνων 1821–1833. (Military Remembrances of the Greeks’ Revolution, 1821–1833), 3 volumes. Apparently a play about Kasomoulis starring Alekos Petsos played in the National Theater in 1944.  1  Angeloglou:  Alkis Angeloglou (1915–90), author, journalist, editor of the periodical Philologika Grammata during the Occupation years.  1  Όνειρο του Δωδεκάμερου:  “The Dream of the Twelve Days of Christmas,” a play by Theotokas printed in his first volume of plays, published in 1944.  1  Terzakis:  Angelos Terzakis (1907–79), novelist, dramatist, member of the Academy of Athens; director of the dramatic school of the National Theater.  1  Paparrigopoulos:  Konstantinos Paparrigopoulos (1815– 91), founder of modern Greek historiography, author of a six-volume History of the Hellenic Nation (1860–77) that treated ancient, medieval, and modern Hellenism. He emphasized the accomplishments of Byzantium, refused to

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view the medieval period as a dark age, and led Greeks to believe that their history had been continuous since ancient times.  1  Constantine: Emperor Constantine XI Palaiologos (1405–29 May 1453), ruled the Byzantine Empire from 1449 until his death on the battlements, defending Constantinople. A legend tells that an angel rescued him, turned him into marble, and placed the statue near the Golden Gate, where it waits to be brought back to life when the Greeks recapture Constantinople.  1  Giustiniani:  Giovanni Giustiniani Longo (died 1453), Italian soldier of fortune who arrived in January 1453 with seven hundred men; was placed in charge of the land forces and of repairing the land walls after Ottoman cannons had shot holes in them; wounded on 29 May 1453, withdrew, exited through a locked gate, enabling panicked troops to flee; escaped, but died from his wound in early June 1453.  1  Phrantzis:  Yeoryios Phrantzis (1401–80), in Constantine’s service before the fall; captured as a hostage, purchased his freedom; settled in Corfu; wrote a Chronicle of the Fall.  1  Gennadios:  Gennadius II Scholarios (1405–73), first patriarch of Constantinople (1454–64) under Turkish rule; a scholarly expert on Aristotle and Plato.  1  Notaras:  Loukas Notaras (executed 3 or 4 June 1453), the last Lord High Admiral of the Byzantine Empire, in effect prime minister. Infamous for declaring “I would rather see a Muslim turban in the midst of the City than the Latin mitre.” However, he cooperated in attempting to obtain aid from the West. During the siege he defended the northwestern sea wall successfully for a time. Sultan Mehmed II had him beheaded afterwards, together with his sons.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, p. 517.

Aegina, 27 July 1944 Dear Brother! On this, your name day, my wish for you and for intellectual Greece is that obstinacy, strength, and a healthy body will follow you and serve you until extreme old age, so that you may complete your work and accomplish the Myth—the Tulpa—that you have created by congealing the air and that you have put in front of you to take the lead. “Γένοιο οἶός ἐσσι!” Always remember Ortega y Gasset’s proud words: “Qué deleite dejar pasar delante a todos: al guerrero, al sacerdote al capitán de indústria, al futbolista, y de tiempo en tiempo disparar sobre ellos una idea magnífica, exacta, bien madurecida, llena toda de luz!” That is our work!

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I, too, am doing my duty as much as I can, accompanied only by my solitude. Ten days ago I finished Kapodistrias, two thousand lines of verse. But, of course, I don’t know if it is any good. We’ll see. I hope that the seas will open quickly and that we will see each other. Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis

1  Γένοιο οἶός ἐσσι:  “γένοι’ οἷος ἐσσὶ μαθών,” Pindar, Pythian 2, line 72. “I wish that you may be [in the future] just as you are [now].”  1  Ortega y Gasset’s proud words:  From his Goethe desde dentro: (Goethe from Within, 1932): “What a relief it is to allow everybody—the warrior, clergyman, industrialist, soccer player—to pass you by, and from time to time to spread out above them a magnificent idea that is clear, well made, and entirely filled with light!”

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 275.

Aegina, 17 October 1944 Dear friend! I hope that I’ll be seeing you in a few days and that you are all well in your dear home. Greece’s great trial is over. Now it is entering another trial that is greater and more dangerous. I am very worried. I hope that you’ve gotten the Iliad ready for me. I’m afraid that something might happen—my death or exile—leaving us in the middle, a great sin. I can’t wait to see you. In a few days, I hope. May “God” be with you and your entire household. Eleni, the great martyr of the wilderness, greets all of you warmly. N. Kazantzakis

1  Greece’s great trial is over:  The German army retreated from Athens on 12 October 1944. The Papandreou government-in-exile returned to Athens on 18 October. Kazantzakis arrived soon afterwards, but we do not know the exact date.

X  •  In Athens during Round Two of the Civil

War; Resolves to Help Liberated Greece via Political Action; Briefly a Cabinet Minister; Marries Eleni Samiou

To Angelos Sikelianos —Manuscript in Benaki Museum envelope 31/820.

[Athens, December 1944] Dear Brother, It’s impossible to convey in writing all that is happening. One of these days I’ll come to see you so that we may speak together. I, too, am experiencing the pain of our entire race, but I hope that the tragedy—its first act—will stop in a few days. I have no fear as long as you are well. Always, N. Kazantzakis

1  the tragedy—its first act:  The Greek communists attempted to occupy Athens in December 1944, constituting what is called “the second round” of the Greek civil war (the “first round” had taken place in the winter of 1943–44, during the German occupation, between the opposing Greek resistance factions ELAS and EDES). Churchill flew to Athens on 24 December 1944 to try to negotiate a settlement but failed. Hostilities continued until 11 January 1945, when a cease-fire was negotiated.

To Mr. Marinis —Printed in Kainouria Epohi, Autumn 1958, p. 406.

Athens, 20 January 1945 Dear Mr. Marinis, We’re fine. We have escaped the cannons, mortar shells, and bullets, and we remember you often with love. I yearn for the quiet and solitude of Aegina,

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but I must work a little for our country and perhaps leave for America to contribute in my turn to Greece’s well-being, as much as I can. I asked Mr. Lefas to hand over to you the 11 okas of wheat that we got (thus, with the 13½ okas that we had left with you and the 4 okas of barley, we’ll have bread when we’re fortunate enough to return again to our dear Aegina). Eleni and I greet you and your family with much love. God be with you always! N. Kazantzakis

1  Mr. Marinis:  Well-known grocer and café owner in Aegina.  1  Athens, 20 January 1945:  Kazantzakis had been living through the “Dekemvriana” phase of the civil war.  1  11 okas:  1 oka (the unit of weight used until 31 March 1959) = 1.282 kilos. Thus, 11 okas = 14.102 kilos = 31 lb. 1½ oz.; 13½ okas = 17.307 kilos = 38 lb. 2½ oz.; and 4 okas = 5.128 kilos = 11 lb. 5 oz.

To Angelos Sikelianos —Manuscript in Benaki Museum envelope 31/819.

[Athens, February 1945] Dear brother! I came to tell you that our friend Papandreou is again raising the question of the Academy for us. He summoned me to tell me this and hopes that we, in our turn, will be able to take action in parallel fashion. I think that you should ask Dimaras and Theotokas to intervene: independent class of letters and for the cabinet minister to appoint directly the initial core of the first members of the Academy. I came to announce this new action of Papandreou’s to you and for you to speak to the two above-mentioned Chians. The first evening I’m free I’ll try to stop by and see you. Always, N

1  [February 1945]:  Although the letter is undated, we can surmise February 1945 for its date. Earlier, it had been announced at the end of October 1944 that Kazantzakis, Sikelianos, G. Vlachoyannis, and K. Parthenis had become Academicians “by honorary decree” (Katsimbalis 1958, p. 50, no. 971). This extraordinary action was effected by Prime Minister George Papandreou, Kazantzakis’s very good friend. But it naturally backfired, with members of the Academy objecting strenuously and also assuring Papandreou that they would elect Kazantzakis by their normal procedure. Thus, after the

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December–January civil war, Papandreou seems to have raised the question again, since a place had fallen vacant. Kazantzakis submitted his candidature on 5 March 1945. Voting took place on 15 June. He received 15 votes, but 18 were required.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 275–76.

[Aegina,] 28 March 1945 Dear friend, I received the grain you sent me. The mill began immediately to grind, and we’ve already made groats. You’ll view them and then, at the third milling, they’ll become flour—with, as we said, just a little (the required amount) of bran. This method of collaboration is marvelous. As you see, the translation of the entire text in first draft was indispensable in order to provide you grounds on which to base your comments and give advice. Almost all the verses have been changed. We’ve come very close to the text; the third draft will be almost perfect, as far as this is humanly possible in our generation. I envy the unknown person of the future who assuredly will surpass us, and I rejoice because, willy-nilly, he will build upon our shoulders. I’m not writing you details because that would be an endless task. You find surprising a few words that I find simple; you employ φίνο γούστο more than I do, which, since I am borracho de palabras (the Spanish called Columbus “borracho de estrellas” = intoxicated by the stars), I am driven crazy by every alive word in our demotic language. Pitying it, I wish to place it in a text to keep it from being lost. (As you know better than I, this intoxication was natural—and perhaps also useful—in every epoch linguistically equivalent to the epoch through which our demotic is passing. Did not Rabelais do the same? And Luther? And Dante above all?) But we will discuss each and every word when we meet for the third draft. However, I’d like to establish just one basis regarding a previous problem: can we sometimes utilize words that are not known to everyone (it would be a shame if we limited ourselves to the lexical richness of even the most educated Greek reader). For example, for the word επιβήτορας, which we encounter in book 5, there is a splendid word, λατάρης (which is not just Cretan). Why shouldn’t we use it? And there are quite a few more of this nature. I am speaking here only about the principle. I reread Makriyannis and also Tertsetis’s transcription of Kolokotronis’s Memoirs in order to discover how they say ευτείχεος. They don’t say anything. Somewhere, however, Kolokotronis says τειχογυρισμένη. But καλοτειχογυρισμένη is a very long word. I thought of καλοτείχιστη, γεροδεμένη, γεροτείχιστη, etc. And more.

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Αεροκυκλοπόδης finally became αναεροκυκλοπόδης, thus no more ambiguity. It was one of the most difficult words. I think that we finally lucked out. Μύτη κονταριού = χαλός, μύτη σαγίτας = χωνί. That’s how Erotokritos says it. Xanthoudidis has a relevant essay in one of the Linguistic Lexicographical Archives that you sent me, correcting his erroneous explanation in the glossary for Erotokritos. How can I specify in which demotic song I found ανεμάρπαστος so many years ago? How could I have known that I’d ever be working with a learned scholar? I learned ρήχνω—that is, I was taught years ago by “learned scholars” to write it with η because apparently it is a blend of ρίπτω and ρήγνυμι. These scholars also taught me πηλαλώ, χλομός, σβήνω, and others that are similar. It doesn’t matter if the fashion has changed. The only thing they did not make me do is write ξέρω as ξαίρω! That’s just as well. When you see Eleni, give her whatever other manuscripts or books you have. And ask her, please, to type the remaining text. A horrible nuisance, but she’ll do it. Thanks again for your gift, the translation from German. Very beautiful (a shame not to have his entire Iliad), large, wide-reaching, his verse perfectly epic, like the dactylic hexameter—which one begins and then plays on one’s fingers. Almost everything that you did, they did exactly the same. I’m finishing, since otherwise this letter will be endless. Give my warm greetings to your wife. I think it’s certain that I’ll see you as soon as I “go down again” to Athens. However, if the two of you—or the four—come to Aegina now in this divine weather, how very much better that would be! By the sea here one speaks differently, laughs differently, thinks differently. Since I met your marvelously intelligent daughter, I am eager also to meet your son—the young Theofanis. But: patience! All that will assuredly happen when the right time comes. As always, N P.S. Do you know that we now have a cat at home that we call Smintheas?

1  borracho de palabras: Intoxicated by words.  1  επιβήτορας:  Stallion.  1  λατάρης:  Stallion.  1  Tertsetis:  Yeoryios Tersetis (1800–1880), lawyer and judge, initiated into the Friendly Society; fought in the War of Inde­ pendence; one of the judges in Kolokotronis’s trial in 1834 but refused to sign the decision of guilt; poet, dramatist, translator; best known for Kolokotronis’s Memoirs, which he recorded from dictation.  1  Kolokotronis’s Memoirs:  Theodoros Kolokotronis (1770–1843), a general in the Greek War of Independence. Already fifty years old, he organized a band of irregulars into

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a sort of army. In 1823 he was appointed commander in chief of all the Greek forces in the Peloponnese. After the war he supported Count Kapodistrias, Greece’s president and then, after Kapodistrias’s assassination, he formed his own administration (all this is depicted in Kazantzakis’s play ­Kapodistrias) and supported Otto of Bavaria to be appointed king. When he opposed the regency during the king’s early rule, he was tried for treason, sentenced to death in 1834, but pardoned in 1835.  1  ευτείχεος:  Well-walled, well-fortified.  1  τειχογυρισμένη:  Surrounded by walls.  1  καλοτειχογυρισμένη:  Wellsurrounded by walls.  1  καλοτείχιστη, γεροδεμένη, γεροτείχιστη:  Wellwalled, strongly bound, strongly walled.  1  Αεροκυκλοπόδης . . . αναεροκυκλοπόδης:  See Kazantzakis’s struggles over how to render a “high-stepping horse” in the letter to Kakridis of 15 February 1943, above.  1  Μύτη κονταριού = χαλός, μύτη σαγίτας = χωνί: Tip of a spear = tip of an arrow = funnel (but see next annotation). Χαλός does not seem to be recorded in any dictionary of Cretan dialect; however, the Babiniotis dictionary (1998, p. 1953) under the etymological note for χαλώ (ruin, spoil, destroy, go bad, go sour, wear out, cash money) cites a hypothetical *χαλός never attested. Where Kazantzakis found this word remains a mystery.  1  Xanthoudidis:  Stefanos Xanthoudidis (1864–1928), Cretan archaeologist and historian; wrote a history of Crete and published an edition of Erotokritos. Alfred Vincent explains that Xanthoudidis, in his Erotokritos glossary, p. 737, glosses χωνί as the funnel-shaped part of the bow into which the arrow is placed when about to be shot. Later, however, he found that χωνί (literally “cone”) is more properly the arrowhead because behind the arrowhead’s point there is a conical shape.  1  ανεμάρπαστος:  That which is swept away by the wind.  1  πηλαλώ: Instead of πιλαλώ.  1  χλομός: Instead of χλωμός.  1  σβήνω: Instead of σβύνω.  1  fingers: Dactylic comes from the Greek word for “finger.”  1  the young Theofanis:  Fanis Kakridis (b. 1933), professor of ancient Greek at the University of Ioannina from 1964 until his retirement in 2000. Author of scholarly works on Homer, Quintus Smyrnaeus, Aristophanes, etc.

To Alexandros (Alekos) Delmouzos —Fair copy of the manuscript in my possession.

[Athens, 12 May 1945] Dear Alekos! I’m sending you a draft to read and to make as many changes on as you think useful. A similar draft was given to Mr. 30fylopoulos. I think that this is the way to establish a united democratic socialist front in Greece. I hope that you and 30fylopoulos will see each other and both take

1945 Letters  •  605

on this nonparty initiative that is so indispensable for our land. I am sure that both of you will render great service to our nation. Yours truly, as always, with great honor and love. N. Kazantzakis 12-5-45 Mavromataion 2

1  Mr. 30fylopoulos:  Konstantinos Triandafyllopoulos (1881–1966), who helped revise the legal code after the Germans left in 1944 (30 = trianda in Greek).

To Eleni Samiou —Photograph of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 503; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 428; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 439–40.

Hania, 11 July 1945 Dear L! Still in Hania! Our car broke down. We’re struggling to find tires or to be given another car by the English. Every automobile has fled Crete; thus the difficulties are immense. Yesterday we borrowed the bishop’s and toured several villages. Crete’s suffering is great. In one village we were received only by women, all dressed in black, because their husbands had been shot by the Germans. Villages entirely burned. Ruins. The people have neither a fork, nor a glass, nor clothing, nor wine, and they weep because they have nothing to offer us. One’s heart breaks. I hope that that we’ll find a car today or tomorrow and leave for Rethymno. I figure that in ten days I’ll be in Iraklio, where I’ll have a letter from you. Warm greetings to everyone! I remember you at every moment, day and night. God be with you! I just received your postcard. I suddenly saw Tea. They still haven’t given us a car. We’re suffering. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll leave for Rethymno. N

1  Hania: In June 1945, Admiral Petros Voulgaris (1884–1957, briefly prime minister, April–October 1945) had appointed Kazantzakis to serve on a fourman committee representing Crete’s four provinces in order to ascertain and verify German atrocities in Crete. The others were Yannis Kakridis, Professor of Political Economics Demetrius Emmanouil Kalitsounakis (1888–1982),

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and the photographer Koutoulakis. The men landed in Souda Bay on 29 June. Kazantzakis departed Crete on 6 August.

To Eleni Samiou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 504; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 428; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 440.

Iraklio, 19 July 1945 Dear L! I’m in Iraklio. The car broke down; it’s being repaired, and consequently today we won’t go touring. We’ll stay five or six days in this prefecture, then go to Eastern Crete. Kastro is unrecognizable. Ruins. Old houses, new people, my acquaintances dead or ruined. I still haven’t managed to see Tea; I come and go among bitter memories, and I possess not a single joy. It will be very difficult to write a book about Crete because I am so dejected. I saw Lefteris. He’s bearing up well. You’ll see him soon because he’s leaving for Athens tomorrow. Tonight I’ll eat at Andonis Anemoyannis’s. I’m seeing relatives. I don’t feel a single pleasure. This journey has been tragic, very harsh. I received the letters you sent me. That was a pleasure. God be with you. See you soon! Always, N

1  Kastro: Iraklio, traditionally called Megalo Kastro (the great fortress).

To Eleni Kazantzaki —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 509; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 433–34; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 445.

Athens, Tuesday [4, 11, 18, or 25 December 1945] Dear L! Impossible to say how tired I am and how much I suffer! Everyone has fallen on me to get an appointment (this very moment I just got off the telephone—I’m at Hourmouzios’s where Mary Pantou permitted me to find her

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a job). I speak to the president, race around, struggle. I can’t leave because I’m waiting for the Αcademy law to be published, so the nomination will take place and I’ll be appointed. At the same time I’m collecting material for America: essays, articles, photos, films of the famine, etc. I leave the apartment at seven thirty (often without eating anything because Eleni happens to be late), and I return sometimes at midnight. All my friends are hanging over me, and I’m doing what I can. The remaining members of the mission are still unknown. Thousands of mondains are seeking to go; I’m afraid that the makeup will be lousy if the president fails to intervene. I see him often, but there’s very little money; he keeps promising to give me an hour. I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it this Saturday either. I need to stay in Aegina at least one week in order to prepare specific things. I hope that I’ll remain here in Athens only fifteen to twenty days. We need to bring a month’s supply of indispensable food to Athens because it’s impossible to buy anything, and I don’t know when the Αcademy stipend will begin. Please don’t get excited and don’t leave urgent messages for me at Marinis’s. The things arrived in better condition than you ever imagined—exactly what we dreamed of. I believe that it’s time for your lips to smile and for you to say (not to me, but to the unknown Power that has stood by me since birth) that the time has come to say “Thank you.” I beg of you very much: serenity, equilibrium, quiet joy, no grumbling—­ because I’m very tired and I need a kind word. Concerning the book you are writing, I spoke to the organization that has undertaken to translate Greek works. They told me that you should give it to them to be translated into English. They—or we—will place it with a publisher in America. Thus it needs to be typed in three copies, without fail. We’ll hold on to Gandhi and Panaït. I eat frequently at Zizis’s, where I met Aleka, very charming, and Miss ­Papadaki (nearly Theotokas’s financée), very smart. She gave me an electric pocket-flashlight, permanent. I saw Roïs (he seems better but isn’t) and intervened with the president for him to be given some economic support. I intervened for Trousa, asking the under-minister of war (a good friend of mine) to come. He promised me that it would happen immediately. Still nothing concerning the theater. But I speak continually about Milio. I’m fed up. If it wasn’t necessary to stay, I would return to paradise. I telephoned Hatzis (who spoke to the minister about Kintzios). As soon as it’s necessary (if it is necessary, because Hatzis tells me that the minister is continually willing), he’ll intervene with the president so that I may intervene. In any case, I’ll talk to the president again tomorrow, so that he’ll keep it in mind. Many want to become members of the Αcademy. (We have two vacant places now.) They want medals, remuneration, positions, missions, and they

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run to confide in me their desires and hopes. I am extremely tired because, as is my habit, I fulfill their desires as well as my own, and when I’m not successful I consider it a personal mishap. I have so very much to write you, but I’m tired. And Angelos, his wife tells me, is debilitated. It’s hard to live with human beings. Always with love, yours, N

1  Eleni Kazantzaki: Eleni Samiou now becomes Eleni Kazantzaki since Nikos and Eleni were married on 11 November 1945.  1  the president:  Themistocles Sofoulis (1860–1949), who became prime minister at the end of 1945 at the age of eighty-five, held elections on 31 March 1946, resigned 4 April 1946; prime minister again September 1947 until 30 June 1949. Kazantzakis uses the term “president” because Greek prime ministers were addressed as Κύριε Πρόεδρε (Mr. President).  1  material for America:  There were various schemes to send Kazantzakis to the United States to gain support for Greek reconstruction. The first of these was conceived by George Papandreou in November 1944, before the “second round” of the civil war. The idea was renewed under the Sofoulis government, as indicated by this letter, but never came to fruition.  1  the famine: Especially during the first winter after the German invasion—the winter of 1941–42—hundreds of thousands died of starvation, especially in Athens and other cities, to which the reduced amounts of available food (owing to its use by the Germans) could not be delivered because of destruction of roads and the shipping blockade imposed by the Allies.  1  Eleni happens to be late:  His sister Eleni.  1  mondains:  Socialites.  1  Milio:  Hourmouzios.  1  Roïs:  Probably the actor Yeoryios Roïs, who played minor parts in the National Theater.  1  Hatzis: Dimitris Hatzis (1913–81), journalist, novelist.  1  Angelos:  Sikelianos. Among other things, his sister-in-law had been killed on an Athens street.

To Angelos Sikelianos —Manuscript in Benaki Museum, envelope 31/821.

[Athens, no date] Brother Angelos! I’d do what I can. I’ll try to see the president and, if that’s impossible, will write him an extremely fervent letter, because I know how unjust and disgraceful slander is. We are undergoing black days. I am struggling constantly—I, too, now—to save innocent people but still don’t know what results my interventions are having.

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May God keep you in his care! I have you in my thoughts at every moment. We must work hard. Greece is in danger. I kiss your wife’s hand. Always, N. Kazantzakis

To Themistocles Sofoulis —Photograph of manuscript in Le Regard Crétois, no. 26 (December 2002): 3; printed in Le Regard Crétois, no. 26 (December 2002): 2, also in Nea Estia 39 (1 January 1946): 46–47.

Athens, 11 January 1946 My honorable Mr. President! Last year I participated in the political affairs of our land for one and only one reason: to help the principal socialist parties of Greece to form a single, closely united party. I did this because I had and have the unshakable conviction that the historical moment of the socialist idea has arrived and that this historic moment found the socialist idea in Greece excessively fragmented into many mutually disjointed political organizations. This goal was realized during the past few days. The most significant organizations of socialist forces in our country have united by founding the united “Socialist Party–ELD.” In this way the sole purpose of my participation in political affairs has been fulfilled, and I have disengaged myself henceforth from every political group. Therefore, for reasons of ethical rectitude, so that it will not be thought that I, taking advantage of my previous political status, continue to occupy the ministerial office, I ask you, please, honorable Mr. President, to accept my resignation from that office. And at the same time I express my profoundest esteem, N. Kazantzakis

To Emmanouil Tsouderos —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Α. ΤΣ. φ. 7/28.

ΣΟΣΙΑΛΙΣΤΙΚΗ ΕΡΓΑΤΙΚΗ ΕΝΩΣΗ SOCIALIST LABOUR PARTY LIGUE SOCIALISTE OUVRIÈRE [8 March 1946]

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My dear Mr. President! Mr. Rendis reported to me yesterday that, “although the government is under an ethically binding obligation to me,” my mission has been definitively canceled because the government is about to hold elections and does not wish to undertake any initiatives. After having worked for months, following the government’s directive, to collect every indispensable element for the mission entrusted to me by the government, after I waited for weeks in the corridors of the Foreign Ministry, now the government has notified me that the mission will not take place! Is it necessary for me to tell you, Mr. President, how much this behavior by the government deeply wounds my human dignity? And worse: how much it damages our national interests? The Bulgarians dispatched 152 “intellectuals” to America seven months ago, and we do not want to send even the one person to whom we gave an express command. Forgive me for writing this to you, my dear Mr. President, but I wanted you to know how much I have been wounded. With extraordinary esteem and love, yours, N. Kazantzakis Mavromataion 2 [Athens] (telephone 63-455) 8 March 1946

1  dear Mr. President: Tsouderos was then vice–prime minister, under Sofoulis, but apparently was also addressed as “Mr. President.”  1  Rendis:  Konstantinos Rendis (1884–1958), lawyer, politician, diplomat; cabinet minister in 1945 and 1946.  1  my mission:  The trip to America.

To Yannis Hatzinis —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift of Yannis Petrikakis.

Athens, 26 March 1946 Dear Mr. Hatzinis! Thank you for your ardent, lucid critical note on England in Nea Estia. So filled with intuition, it poses once again the “Kazantzakis problem,” which for me is so nonexistent. This problem seems so complex because it is astonishingly simple. My entire struggle is this: each and every time I reach a synthesis, to transform it lickety-split into a thesis. This thesis naturally gives immediate, lawful birth to the antithesis, and from their collision and reconciliation comes a new synthesis. Then, once again, this new synthesis, the very instant it is born, descends immediately again to the level of the thesis, and the struggle begins anew.

1946 Letters  •  611

The anguish would be incurable and the struggle sterile if the synthesis did not come each and every time as a consequence. In my own case, the synthesis is the creation of a poetic work. How long does this struggle last? Until one dies, let’s hope. The reason, as you say, is because it can cease before death if the bow breaks from being stretched too tight. But I have my faith in Cretan soil. Personally, I cannot know what value my work enjoys at present. I possess no consolation because I possess no certainty. Nothing of what I write gives me any satisfaction, any pleasure, nor is it possible for a work to do so since, as I told you, it is degraded instantaneously inside me, becoming a thesis instead of a synthesis and prodding me mercilessly into undertaking a new ascent. Is this, however, a “problem”? Does not the Spirit always ascend in this fashion on this rugged earth? Also, is it not natural for an intellectual person to regulate his walking pace in this manner? With much love, yours, N. Kazantzakis

1  your . . . note:  “Τα Βιβλία. Νίκου Καζαντζάκη Αγγλία,” Νέα Εστία 39 (1 February 1946): 175–78.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, p. 527.

[Aegina,] Paradise, 28 April 1946 Dear brother! Eleni writes me that Kazantzis told her that I should get ready to leave around 15 May. This trip will acquire value for me if we leave together; thus it would be advisable for you to see Kazantzis so that he can try to synchronize our departures. (Do not tell him that I said anything to you.) At the same time, I’ll write to him as well. Here it’s paradise. How could I have left, and for what purpose? I began to work the moment I arrived: Constantine Palaiologos. Very difficult. I’m rewriting it, entirely differently. Sunshine, the sea, solitude. Can’t you pop over here some weekend? It would be a great pleasure for me. I’ll write Eleni to send me around ten copies of Askitiki so that I can send them to friends. “God” be with you! Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis

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1  Kazantzis:  Vasilis Kazantzis, employee of the Athens branch of the British Council, which had invited Kazantzakis to visit Great Britain.

To Emile Hourmouzios —Unable to locate the manuscript; printed in Kazantzakis 1997, p. 247.

Aegina, 15 May 1946 My dear Milio! I was very moved to learn that you agreed to play a leading part in the celebration of my forty years of struggle for modern Greek letters. In the fall of 1906, when I was still a university student, my first book, ΄Οφις και κρίνο, was published, and you know better than anyone how much I have struggled, suffered, and worked since then for what is termed “modern Greek culture” and generally for mankind’s intellectual liberation. Your intervention in this commemoration guarantees that it will be done systematically, dependably, and with fully enlightened love. That is why I am writing you today, in order to express my emotion and gratitude. Please try to see that a serious committee is constituted and that specific individuals undertake to speak about the various aspects of my oeuvre—­ poetry, prose, theater, travel, philosophical worldview, etc. Communicate with Panayotopoulos. It would be very useful if he agreed to take part in the committee together with Apostolopoulos, Despotopoulos, Tea, Meranaios, Prevelakis, Kakridis, Haris, Veïs, and as many others as you choose. If you think it necessary, write to me (since you don’t write very often, get Marika to write to me) in case it’s necessary for me personally to ask them to participate. In addition, please write an ardent article in Kathimerini (which I prefer instead of Nea Estia) owing to the occasion of the issuing of Askitiki because this work is the nucleus of my entire life and the intellectual, spiritual, and corporeal key to it. Nothing else annotates my existence with greater accuracy and passion. My entire oeuvre is simply the application and analysis of this central Outcry. (Announce at the same time that it is being translated by Merlier and is about to be published in French because it is con­ sidered a prophetic precursor of the contemporary philosophic theory of existentialism.) Do me the favor of coming to Aegina on some weekend. You’ll enjoy this very much. The landscape’s beauty, serenity, and restrained joy are amazing. And at long last we’ll have the spiritual and temporal ease to converse. So I’m awaiting a letter from you, to establish the groundwork before I leave for England and France, where I hope I’ll be able to work.

1946 Letters  •  613

I’m delighted that your “Theater” is prospering. Shall we thus see Melissa brought back to life? God grant! Yours, always! N

  1  ΄Οφις και κρίνο:  Serpent and Lily, translated into English by Theodora Vasils, with an introduction and notes (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980).  1  intellectual liberation:  Kazantzakis’s adjective, πνευματική, can also mean “spiritual.”  1  Tea: Tea Anemoyanni (1906–87, full name Christothea Anemoyanni), an important friend who offered hospitality to Kazantzakis in her apartment at Mavromataion 2 during most of his stay in Athens, from the beginning of 1945 until 2 June 1946, when he traveled to England. She was the wife of Yannis Anemoyannis, uncle of Yorgos Anemoyannis and brother of Andonis Anemoyannis, who grew up in Varvari in the family mansion occupied by the family since 1831 and now the Kazantzakis Museum. He was related to the Kazantzakis family; thus Tea was Nikos Kazantzakis’s remote “cousin” by marriage.  1  Meranaios:  Kostis Meranaios (1913–86), journalist, critic; editor of various periodicals; translator of Freud, Nietzsche, Jung, Zweig, Schopenhauer, etc.  1  Veïs:  Nikos Veïs (1883–1958), professor of Byzantine studies, demoticist; in 1950 elected to parliament representing the socialist party ELD.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 276­–77.

Athens, 25 May 1946 My dear friend! I am sorry, very sorry, that I did not manage to see you. May God be with you, and Saint Demetrios, too, in the new region of your struggle. Let’s hope that we’ll meet soon under better conditions. I’m writing you today in order to announce to you that I have decided to submit, as has Sikelianos, candidacy for the Nobel Prize. Only a few months remain for me to work on the submission, but I’ll do what I can. Help me! Of greatest importance is that I be recommended to that academy by a person of high intellectual repute. You know the famous Nilsson, so please write to him immediately, via air mail, and explain to him what I am, what work I’ve done, etc.: Travel books (Russia, Japan-China, Spain, England), plays (Odysseas, N. Fokas, Christos, Julian, ­Melissa, Buddha, Prometheus trilogy, Kapodistrias, Palaiologos), philosophy (Bergson, Nietzsche, Askitiki), novels (Broken Souls, Serpent and Lily, Zorba), translations (Dante, Faust, Homer), etc. Poetry: Odyssey.

614  •  1946 Letters

Write him a long, ardent letter stressing how right it is for these two intellectual representatives of Greece to be recognized—because there is no reason whatsoever for there to be any contention between Sikelianos and me. Naturally, Sikelianos is supporting only himself (and he concealed from me most diligently that he was going to apply). Nevertheless, I believe that two submissions are correct. I hope to leave for England in a few days. Everything is ready; only the Italian visa is lacking. I’ll stay there for a month and a half. I hope to manage to have you come there afterwards to unwind a little and enjoy. I think of you with ardent love at every moment. May God be with you and yours. Always! N

1  in the new region of your struggle:  Kakridis, after his difficulties at the University of Athens because of his liberal linguistic view regarding accents, etc., transferred to the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, founded in 1925 as the second university then in Greece. Saint Demetrius is Thessaloniki’s patron saint. I’ll stay there for a month and a half:  He actually stayed a little more than four months, before going to France. But he never returned to Greece, except as a corpse.  1  the famous Nilsson:  Martin P. Nilsson (1874– 1967), Swedish archaeologist, professor of Greek and classical archaeology; rector of the University of Lund starting 1936; member of the Stockholm Academy of Science and Letters.

XI  •  Final Exile: Resides Briefly in England,

Then in France; Writes Final Novels and Plays; Travels to China

To Eleni Kazantzaki —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift of Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 518–20; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 439–41; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 453–54.

London, Hotel St. James Court, Buckingham Gate, Minster House, Room number 296 9 June 1946 Dear Lenotschka! I arrived last night. It was raining, no one at the station, millions of visitors in London for the holidays, impossible to find a hotel. I clutched my baggage in the darkness and cursed the hour I had left Aegina. Finally I went up to a policeman and explained my situation to him. He took me along. The telephone calls began. He was drunk but dignified; his hand trembled and he got the numbers wrong on the telephone. We went to a post office, found a higher employee, but he too was drunk because today was the great victory celebration. He banged on the telephone, changed numbers, swore because he was certain that they were to blame. Other people came, less “happy,” and finally we managed to come in contact with the British Council. They had booked a room for me in an excellent hotel and were waiting for me! I took the policeman, we got into a taxi, and we finally arrived at midnight. Princely apartment: five rooms all mine, small study, large office, bedroom, etc. A miracle of luxury, silk everywhere, gold, sumptuous tableware. This morning two breakfasts in my room, etc. But no pleasure. I went out into the street, wandered for hours. It’s Sunday today, everything is closed, I didn’t find a soul. Tomorrow is another holiday. I’ll start my program on Tuesday. I got the Times, spread it out over my knees and remembered the days we spent in Stratford next to the hearth. The weather is dark, cold, sullen. I’m anxious to see if I finally feel any pleasure. I don’t expect that human beings will tell me anything that will excite my heart.

616  •  1946 Letters

I’ll send you this letter tomorrow. Maybe I’ll have something better to add, but I doubt it. I went out for a walk in the afternoon. Drizzling. Crowds in the street with brass bands, flags, and medals (the victory celebrations continuing). Beautiful flowers (mainly begonias on the balconies). I went to the National Gallery and felt great pleasure seeing beloved paintings again, but such pleasure is no longer sufficient, and I returned to my luxurious apartment, once more dejected. At lunchtime they brought me a meal on an enormous silver tray; they’ll do the same now, and I’m thinking what great pleasure it would have been if we were together and sharing this futile luxury, which then would have acquired purpose and taste. If I obtain sufficient documentation, I intend to write a book called “Postwar Conversations with English Intellectual Personalities.” I’ll start the contacts on Tuesday. What tires me are the distances and my difficulty in using trams or the Underground. I go for hours and become exhausted. I’ll find Lambridi, and she’ll help me, I hope. It’s Monday today: cloudy sky, no pleasant vista. We’ll see. At eleven o’clock a woman from the British Council came. We went and picked up a Chinese, a Chilean, and a Belgian, all guests, and another En­ glishwoman from the British Council, and went far out into the countryside to a medieval inn. We drank cider and ate. Cheerful, superficial companions; no pleasure. Only the English countryside: damp, tender, totally feminine. It was raining gently, the air misty, smelling like a newly opened grave. I remembered Eleni Sgourdeli again, and my heart contracted. Tomorrow, Tuesday, I’ll begin to work at last. I’ll see various people, will do my program, perhaps will exorcise the boredom. I wonder when I’ll have a letter from you. What a shame that I didn’t tell you to address me c/o Greek Embassy, Upper Brook Street 51. Then England would perhaps strike me as less dreary. But fortunately the days go by, and I’ll return by air. It’s finally evening. I returned to my apartment, lighted the chandeliers. They came and closed the curtains for me, and I’m writing to you. Where are you? How are you? Have you returned to Aegina? Courage, beloved Mitkämpferin! As long as we are together, the world is bearable, and often excellent. I would have died a thousand times if you had been missing, because I’m sick of human beings. I sent the books to Sweden. You send the rest that I wrote you about. Tomorrow I’m going to see Johnstone and will speak to him about all this. May God be with you, dearest. May God place his hand upon us! N

1  Eleni Sgourdeli:  A beautiful, intelligent woman who had died suddenly in Greece.  1  Mitkämpferin: Comrade-in-arms.  1  Johnstone:  Kenneth Johnstone (1902–78), a diplomat and an official in the British Council who

1946 Letters  •  617

had spent some time in Athens and had met Kazantzakis there. He later translated Prevelakis’s Χρονικό μιας πολιτειας as The Tale of a Town (London, 1976).

To Tea Anemoyanni —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Dimakis 1979, pp. 75–76.

London St. James Court Buckingham Gate Minster House, Room 296 14 June 1946 Dear Mitkämpferin! London has not given me any pleasure so far. I continually have my eyes turned toward Aegina’s dry, blue seashore. I’ll see all the authors and poets here, but I know that they have nothing to tell me that will make my heart leap for joy. The only things I saw and enjoyed were some familiar paintings, but today such pleasures are no longer sufficient. I have no time to lose; the time for sowing has passed, and I am in a hurry to finish reaping, to lay my scythe down on the ground and depart. Just a few great spectacles would still give me pleasure—Africa, rivers, ants in the jungle, schools of fish in Iceland, Benares, Baghdad. But western Europe can no longer deceive my heart. I think of you with emotion and indissoluble love at every moment. How can I ever forget—O Promachos Athena, who descends in Homeric poetry with invisible helmet and double spear, to stand suddenly beside the endangered hero, whose heart senses her presence, and he jumps forward and no longer fears decline and death—how can I ever forget with what love, gallantry, and faith you have stood by my right side and fought? How are you? What are you doing now in Athens? Will you go to Crete? Distance has come between us, and I have lost you. When will humanity’s soul be able to conquer distance and acquire second sight? This deficiency fills me with sadness. The intellectuals here cannot give anything to a person who has experienced pain and has thought and struggled a lot. They seem very naïve, selfassured, unperturbed even by their despair. Their eyes, mouths, hearts have not caught fire, and if they do catch fire, they burn serenely, always with a certain guileless certainty of reward. I am going to see all of them and do not expect anything from them. I sent them various questions to answer but have no hope of receiving a single galling reply. What can I do? I’m counting the days and hours until I leave. Holy solitude, eternal sea, creativity’s exquisite torture—no other pleasures exist for me any longer. I hope that you can come as soon as I return, but can stay long so that we may find time to talk, as though we were preparing to bid each other farewell forever.

618  •  1946 Letters

What’s happening with the concerns we had the past few days? Do you see Veïs? Is there any chance that he is going to travel? Write me. I’m doing various things here. I’m going to speak on the BBC. Tonight I’ll go to a party where, so they say, an important Argentine poet will be present, a candidate for the Nobel. Write me a long letter in tiny script. I’ll enjoy that greatly. Say hello from me to the entire Saturday crowd. I’m eager to see you. I’ll stay in Athens a few hours on purpose—in order to see you—before I take refuge on Aegina. May “God” be with you always and may you understand that I know what I owe you. Always, N

1  Promachos:  Homeric epithet meaning one who fights in front—that is, one who is among the foremost fighters.  1  the entire Saturday crowd:  Those who gathered each Saturday at Tea Anemoyannis’s apartment to discuss chiefly the Odyssey but also Kazantzakis’s other works. Those who recited the poem and discussed it “officially” included K. I. Despotopoulos and Dimis Apostolopoulos. Other regular attenders were Dimitris Doukaris, Minas Dimakis, and Marika Papaïoannou-Hourmouziou. Among those who came less regularly: Aris Diktaios, Angelos Prokopiou, Yannis Sfakianakis, and the poet Rita Boumi-Papa (1906–84) and her husband the poet Nikos Papas (1906–96).

To Eleni Kazantzaki —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 525; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 445–46; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 459.

London St. James Court 20 June 1946 Dear L! I received your letter the moment I posted mine. I hope that by now you have all of my letters—four, I think. I’ve seen your new concerns: fountain pen, wallet, etc. May God grant that you’ll find a certain peace on Aegina. I think of you at every moment with indissoluble love. I had never felt so intensely how very tasteless the world is without that pinch of salt named Lenotschka. May God support you! I’m leaving for Cambridge tomorrow. We see a bit of tonsured sun today but the clouds are already starting to gather. It’s impossible to describe the

1946 Letters  •  619

misery of rain, mud, cold, etc. I keep thinking of Aegina. The grapes will have begun to glisten, the figs to swell, the sea will be cool, clear, not like this Thames. I no longer like Europe at all. Paris will be good because we’ll be together. 25 June. Last night I went to a poetic soirée where three old bags, like Harpies, with enormous jaws made in England, sprang up out of their torpor and began passionately to declaim verses, then fell back into torpor. I don’t believe that there is anything more ridiculous than mediocre poetry. The sun is shining today. I’ll go out now to find you the Brontë. Morgan is in Switzerland. I hope he’ll come before I leave. What’s happening with Zorba? Has it been printed? That book, especially, offers hopes for publication in English. I think of you always, always. My eyes, too, have become hands as they gaze at the shop windows. Always, N

1  Morgan: Charles Morgan (1894–1958), English novelist, critic, essayist, playwright, journalist. Eleni Kazantzaki was engaged then in translating Morgan’s prize-winning novel The Fountain (1932).  1  hopes for publication in English:  For example, Kazantzakis wrote to Chrysanthi Cleridou from Cambridge, asking if she would be able to translate Zorba into English (see letter of 15 August 1946, below).

To Tea Anemoyanni —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Dimakis 1979, pp. 77–79.

London, S.W.1 St. James Court 25 June 1946 Dear Mitkämpferin! I hope you received my first letter. Yesterday I returned from Cambridge, where I met three fine, erudite men. There was sunshine finally, and I felt pleasure in England for the first time. On 1 July I leave for Oxford, where I’ll see Krinio and will try to get her term of stay renewed, since it’s in danger of being cut in half. I am seeing many scholars, poets, and men of learning and am expecting our friend Charles Morgan to return from Switzerland, to see him immediately. Also Eliot, from America. I’m sending you the questionnaire that I am submitting to them; very few will answer me, I imagine. They find it very difficult and very bold. I don’t think that the level of thought here has reached the heights that we would have expected; our benefit will be very

620  •  1946 Letters

little. Our own uneasiness has a different quality and a different momentum. Our soul is much more insatiable than the English soul and also much nearer the abyss. There is a certain fatigue here and a lot of self-restraint that is not the result of great power that restrains itself but rather of weakness that is easily controlled. There are no great, repulsive demons here to be bridled. They find it easy to maintain their tranquillity. Everything that touches the abyss disturbs them; they would like everything to maintain the serene facade of a civilization that is afraid to dig up the leaping flame beneath the established crust of habit, the flame that yearns to crack open the crust and burn down the world. They hope that everything will fall into place, that today’s uneasiness will settle, become crust in its turn, and cover, with a thicker and more secure cap, the flame that has grown wild in humanity’s bowels. You’ll understand how contrary to my nature all of this is and how I suffer when I converse with the intellectuals here. That’s why my heart has never leaped for joy here, has never became agitated on account of their thought, has never even encountered a brotherly thought, one that is a comrade-inarms with mine—with ours. I think of the figs and grapes ripening on Aegina and am impatient to leave—perhaps by the end of July, I hope. At the same time I think as well about our new concern. I hope that my things will soon be printed in English periodicals even though my way of thinking and writing bothers the English, just as a bull suddenly entering a proper, serene English club would bother them. I have often desired to have you here to keep me company because various things in the National Gallery would have given you much pleasure, as would the Javanese dances that I saw the other day; they bring a distant, much desired thrill from remote, spice-filled islands. But where are you now? Perhaps in Crete? Where and how will this letter of mine find you? I hope that you’re in Athens so that, when I return, I can bring you to Aegina for a few days. Has Zorba been printed? If not, will you do me the favor of going to Dimitrakos’s and telling him how much that infuriates me? There would be a chance for it to be translated here. If it has been printed, will you send me a copy immediately? Also, please tell Mihalis to tell Barlas that I expect the typewritten translation of Melissa by the end of June without fail, as we agreed. Otherwise, tell him, our contract is nullified. Only now that I’m here is there any chance of success. If this letter finds you in Crete, please write to Mihalis, because it’s necessary. God be with you, dear fellow practitioner of exploits! I always think of you with love, admiration, and gratitude. May the star shining above us be blessed! N P.S. This very moment I received your astonishing letter. You found the money for Stockholm! The soul is truly great, able to conquer every-

1946 Letters  •  621

thing, even death. Now, how shall we use it? It’s not right for me to go; indeed, that would be harmful. The best would be Veïs, supposedly to give general lectures on modern Greek literature. But he’s ill. Have you seen him? Try to convince him; he’s the only one who is qualified. I don’t know who else should go. Act howsoever God enlightens you, always also asking Prevelakis. Thanks you for everything! N Tell Yannis that I’ll do what I can—and today, immediately. He should stay calm.

1  Krinio:  Krinio Papastavrou, composer, studying at the time at Oxford with a bursary from the British Council.  1  Eliot: T. S. Eliot (1888–1965), American poet and critic living in England, awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1948.

To Angelos Sikelianos —Manuscript in Benaki Museum envelope 27/472.

London British Council Hanover Street 3 15 July 1946 Dear Angelos! I’m receiving disturbing letters from Athens and America telling me that our “friends” have entered the fray and are fighting to lower our names to a level to which it’s not possible for us to descend. We’re in danger—and not only both of us but also the friends who oppose each other—in danger of suffering what Palamas and Psiharis suffered in the same situation and owing to which they were humiliated. I’ve written to my supporters how shameful all this is and telling them that by no means should they fight to separate two names that have always stood united in the face of both insults and praise. That’s why I’m writing you directly, assured that you will hear my voice, because I know your supreme noblesse. Please, let’s unify our efforts, let’s not separate at this moment, and let’s advance our names inseparably united before the Swedish Academy. Only we two can do this because we know what our friends do not know—namely, that, in love, something shared doubles. If we are successful, the honor for Greece will be double—double as well for each of us since each will share it with the other.

622  •  1946 Letters

Brother Angelos, listen to my voice. I feel that we have entered the intellectual history of Greece and possess a responsibility. Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 543–45. “Questionnaire” from Life and Letters 50, no. 109 (September 1946): 25–126; cf. Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 445, where the wording (but not the sense) is somewhat different.

London, S.W.1 St. James’ Court 18 July 1946 Dear brother! The weeks go by in the cold and rain. I’ve had you continually in mind but still have not been able to write you. I have not felt a single pleasure here. I had to come, and I’m eager to leave. I’ve met all the intellectuals of England, I dine with one or two of them every day, and they are unable to give me anything. The day after tomorrow—it was considered a great triumph—I will see Bernard Shaw. From him, too, I’ll leave with empty hands. Supreme disquiet, spiritual yearning, intellectual madness—nowhere. They’re all stuck in the same mold, settled and comfortable. The other day I was with Charles Morgan for four hours—very cultured, refined, engaging, mystical, violent, but a Tory, fanatical conservative, jingoist. My life is heavy, I’m tired. The souls here are full of small certainties. They see the seven questions I addressed to all of them and are frightened. No one answered. As our great brother, El Greco, declared, “I’m fed up!” As soon as I arrived, I spoke about you coming at once, but it turned out to be impossible. I don’t know what program they’re following, but they continually reply: “In the autumn.” Thus, we won’t meet outside of Greece. That joy is being postponed—for how long? Another sadness: From the letters I’ve been receiving, I conjecture that a fierce, vile battle has broken out regarding the Nobel. At the start I declared myself the first to sign for Sikelianos. But when I learned that it can be given to two people together and that there is no deadline for applying, I felt that it would be equitable, in order that the demands of our entire intellectual world might be integrated, for the two of us to share the prize, as we have always shared insults and praise. Here, too, when I speak in relation to this, I always refer first to Sikelianos’s name, from pride, which you can well understand because you, too, are from the same soil, the Cretan. Would that Lefkada had given rise to such fierce, disdainful flowers! I wrote Sikelianos the other day

1946 Letters  •  623

telling him that he should want to unite our names inseparably because in love, when something is shared, it doubles. How profoundly I feel this, once again you alone will be able to understand. When one shares something with the person he loves, how it does multiply! (The miracle of the five loaves.) Greece’s honor would be double. Success is almost certain. There’s still time. But will he want to do it? Did you speak to him? Did Kakridis? It’s a crucial time in his life, a splendid opportunity to demonstrate the noblesse of his soul. Perhaps he would have done it, I say to myself, if he weren’t surrounded by those lower than him who are greedy, evil, or blind. I don’t know exactly when I’ll leave. I’ve seen all the intellectuals. I see them each day and each day I grow sick of them. I take refuge in the National Gallery and am consoled. How terrible and unjust it is that we are not seeing all those human miracles together! I often talk about you with Hero and with Diamantopoulos. This gives me great pleasure. I’ve given Melissa to the famous actor Gielgud. Many people consider him better than Olivier. He played Raskolnikov marvelously in Crime and Punishment. I’ll have an answer quickly. Also, I hope that the Iliad (original and translation) will be published by the celebrated Oxford University Press. There, too, I’m awaiting an answer. Patience and conformity are required here, camouflage of your soul, hypothermia. I remember Aegina like Paradise Lost. That’s what Truth and Life are. If it weren’t for Eleni, I would not have left, because I don’t have time now. I’m in a hurry to continue spelling things out in the hope that I might elicit some meaning from the world’s phantasmagoria or bequeath some sort of meaning to it. The fact that you exist is a great consolation. I have never been able to thank you enough. I continually do not tolerate human beings—“man likes not me.” Those who remain are precious. How can I thank them sufficiently for remaining? God be with you, always! N

Questionnaire 1. Do you think we are living at the end of a historical period or at the beginning of a new one? And if so, what do you think are its distinctive characteristics? 2. Can literature and art or theoretical thinking influence the present movement of history? Or do they simply mirror existing conditions? 3. If you believe that thought and art do influence reality, in which direction do you think [they] ought to guide the spiritual development of your country? 4.  What do you think is the positive contribution that thought and art can offer the world? 5.  How much contact is there between intellectuals and the great masses of the people? And what could be done to broaden the basis of that contact?

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6.  What is to-day the primary duty of an intellectual? Of an artist? How could he contribute to the peaceful co-operation of all peoples? 7.  Would it be practical to establish an Internationale of the spirit? And if so, would you be willing to collaborate?

1  regarding the Nobel:  The sad story of the double candidacy (Kazantzakis and Sikelianos) for the Nobel Prize for Literature is presented in Bien 2007a, especially pp. 261–62. For relevant newspaper articles, see Katsimbalis 1958, p. 52, nos. 1012–17.  1  Lefkada: Island where Sikelianos was born.  1  the five loaves:  Luke 9:10–17 describes how Jesus fed five thousand people with just five loaves and two fish (also Mark 6:30–44, Matthew 14:13–21, John 6:1–13— this being the only miracle described in all four gospels).  1  Hero:  Hero Pezopoulou-Lambrou. Her husband, Dimitris Lambros, was Greek ambassador to Norway.  1  Diamantopoulos:  Alexis Diamantopoulos (1913–89), critic; wrote on theatrical subjects; taught history of ancient theater; worked for BBC from 1945 to 1951; biographer of Papadiamantis.  1  Gielgud:  Sir Arthur John Gielgud (1904–2000), famous English actor.  1  Olivier:  Laurence Kerr Olivier, Baron Olivier (1907–89), famous English actor, director, producer.  1  Raskolnikov:  The student murderer in Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821–81).  1  Paradise Lost:  The reference is, of course, to the epic Paradise Lost (1667) by the English poet John Milton (1608–74). The poem ostensibly recounts the loss of paradise by the biblical Adam and Eve but also treats Milton’s own lost paradise owing to the ultimate failure of his side in the English Civil War.  1  Man likes not me: In English in the letter; from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, more correctly “Man delights not me” (act 2, scene 2, 308–9).  1  Questionnaire: Enclosed in this letter in the original English.  1  an Internationale of the spirit:  The idea derives originally, of course, from the Communist Internationale, founded by Lenin in 1919 owing to his belief that, if communism were to be successful, it would require socialist revolutions throughout the world. But there were also other precursors. In 1930 Kazantzakis was interested in gaining an appointment to the Institute of Intellectual Collaboration (see his letter to Papandreou dated 4 January 1930, above). In Paris in 1935, André Malraux (1901–76) and Louis Aragon (1897–82) had been among the founders of an “Association Internationale des Écrivains pour la Défense de la Culture” (International Association of Writers for the Defense of Culture), and in 1920 Romain Rolland, Georges Duhamel (1884–1966), and Henri Barbusse had assembled the first convocation of an Internationale Intellectuelle.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 277.

Cambridge, 31 July 1946

1946 Letters  •  625

Dear friend, comrade, and fellow doer of exploits! Not a day goes by when I fail to think of you with great love. I kept saying that I would be seeing you quickly, but my repatriation has now been postponed and I’m writing you. I’ve withdrawn to Cambridge, where I’m going to write a book; afterwards I’ll come to the beloved soil that is bleeding once more. Eleni has written me how much you have been a friend and supporter of mine in the vile humiliation they’ve made of the Nobel. There are very few upright people in Greece, and certainly you are one of the first, and I’m glad. I felt that it was right for me to accept the candidacy for three reasons: (1) because I would not harm Sikelianos at all, seeing that the Nobel can be awarded to two people; (2) because Greece’s honor would be doubled if two of her worthy sons were presented for the Nobel; (3) because it was perhaps right for me to stand parallel and equal to Sikelianos and thus to complete the demands of our entire intellectual world. I’ve written as well to Sikelianos, but I very much doubt whether his friends will allow him to judge in a way equal to his worth and superiority. In any case, here I continually praise him. The other day I spoke about our intellectual life on the BBC, and he was the only one of all of us to whom I referred, speaking of “Sikelianos’s elevated poetic form.” Owing to pride and also to justice, I like speaking in this manner about someone whom they want, with obstinate insistence, to set up as my opponent, whereas we could have and should have always advanced together. It would have been a marvelous moment for us to display noblesse, which is so rare in our times. Representing both you and me, I have applied to Oxford University Press to print the Iliad (original text and translation) at their famous printer’s. I have several friends at Oxford, professors, etc., and have asked them please to intervene. Every day I await an answer. I’ll write you immediately. It’s difficult because they are obliged to publish many books that were delayed by the war. However, they willingly received the application. Let’s hope. I can well imagine what’s happening in Greece. How are all of you doing— your saintly family? Please write me. I asked for you to be invited, and they promised me. I spoke about you with many professors at Oxford and Cambridge, and all of them knew you. Perhaps you’ll find unknown friends and admirers here. Here in Cambridge it’s quiet, green lawns everywhere, but rainstorms and cold. I don’t feel any pleasure. I’m impatient to see Aegina again. When? This drudgery might last another two months. Please write me how things are at home, and if there is any hope for us to emerge from this black tunnel. Warm greetings to your wife, to Eleni, and to Captain Haritos. I’m with you always! N. Kazantzakis

1  Captain Haritos:  The thirteen-year-old Theofanis Kakridis, known now as Fanis Kakridis.

626  •  1946 Letters

To Chrysanthi (Beba) Cleridou —Manuscript in Clerides subarchive of Kay Cicellis archive, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library.

15 August 1946 Cambridge, c/o Mrs Laurie Castle Bray, Chesterton Lane Dear Miss Cleridou, Yesterday I received my novel, which was printed this month and about which I was talking to you regarding the possibility of its being translated and our finding a publisher in England. I believe that it will be very popular. Thus, if you have time and appetite to undertake this task, I beg you to write me, and I’ll send the book to you. At the same time, send me a document in which you determine your percentage when the book is printed, and I will sign it. I will be very pleased if you are the one to translate it because I know that you have what is needed to understand and to render a text: strength, poetic comprehension, freshness, and a daring mind. Thus, I’ll be awaiting your letter. “God” be with you! N. Kazantzakis

1  Chrysanthi (Beba) Cleridou:  Sister of Glafkos Clerides (b. 1919), who served as president of Cyprus from 1993 until 2003; she was working in the Greek Service of the BBC in London.  1  my novel:  Zorba.  1  if you’re the one to translate it:  Zorba was finally translated into English from the French by Carl Wildman, who did not know Greek.

To Eleni Kazantzaki —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Anemoyannis; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 533; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 454; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 467.

Cambridge, 12 September 1946 Dear olive-oiled, grape-vined, kittenish L! You will receive my letter with the enclosed one from Merlier, and at that moment you will have decided, and soon afterward I will have your telephone call. Whatever you decide, that’s what I want. I wrote you that Knös

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has written me that they received Dante and the Odyssey. So don’t worry. I still haven’t received the second Zorba, but I’ll get it and will send it to Knös to translate. I wrote you about the letters I sent to all the friends, asking if they can get important personalities to sign on my behalf. That is the only certain method, and we’ve thought of it rather late. I hope that Paxinou will be successful with O’Neill, etc. However, I ask you only this: please do not say a word to anyone about this activity. It needs to remain entirely secret if we’re to avoid a large reaction. I don’t know if we’ll accomplish anything, but this activity is the only one possible. At the end of September I’ll be in Paris, and I’ll continue from there (Pierre, the zany madcap, has given me a rendezvous in Paris at that time). If you come, fine. If you don’t come, I’ll stay a short while and return. I want nothing else now except to see you and touch you. The situation in Greece and the whole world disturbs me terribly. I’m beginning to be afraid that a new world war could possibly break out (and the prophecy in Ossendowski’s book will come true). Many disturbing symptoms are visible from here and are invisible in Greece. Perhaps the new war will be brief, but it will be terrible. Certainly few will survive, and many will be driven insane. Maybe at the last moment it will not take place, but disturbing pretexts are beginning to exist. Greece frightens me. I can no longer feel at ease. Right now there is no solution. I have done what I could, have spoken to whomever I could. Greece is a detail for these forces, a screw in that enormous worldwide machine of theirs that they utilize for their terribly urgent temporary needs whether or not Greece is destroyed. The two great blocs stand threateningly one opposite the other, with Greece in the middle like a grain of wheat between two millstones. Let’s hope that now, too, a miracle will save Greece. If you come to Paris, you’ve got to get an airplane seat immediately in Athens. You won’t be able to carry many things, but what can we do? In any case—my overcoat. Leave books behind. I, too, wrote to Herbert, asking if he can find me a place in some university. We’ll see. Maybe something will turn up. Miracles come in the most crucial moments of our lives. We will not be destroyed. I am corresponding with my nephew (Rue Mayet 14, Paris VI) to see about rooms, etc. I’m waiting for his answer. I’ll make do temporarily perhaps, while I wait for you. Your next letter should be sent to: R. Waller, British Council, Brook Street 74, London, W.1. He has taken me under his care. The moment I arrive in Paris, I’ll write you. I estimate that by 20 September I’ll receive a telephone call from you. I’ll depart at once to London to get ready and around 25 September, just about, I’ll be in Paris. I’m fine, since you asked. My left cheek continues to be slightly swollen. Nothing else. My health is stable. Regarding the book, it’s got to be this way. Askitiki needs to be printed, but by itself this is impossible, despite all my efforts. This book will not be published in Greek. The Greek text will be entirely different, and I’ll write it as soon as I get settled somewhere. Right now I’m up in the air.

628  •  1946 Letters

Rain here, rain, rain. The wheat harvest is rotting. The prayers have begun, as have services in all the churches of England, but the rain continues as does the cold and the destruction of the crops. Apparently they haven’t seen such a summer for centuries. “God” be with you, dear olive-oiled, grape-vined, kitten-plump L! Always, N Please send the postcard to Prevelakis or leave it for him.

1  Merlier: Octave Merlier (1897–1976), Frenchman who came to Greece in 1925, taught in the Institut Français, Athens, until 1945, and served as its director.  1  Paxinou:  Katina Paxinou (1900–1973), Greek stage and film actress, active in both the United Sates and Greece; the first non-American to win an Oscar. She married the actor Alexis Minotis in 1940.  1  Ossendowski’s book: In Beasts, Men and Gods (1922) by the chemist Ferdynand Antoni Ossendowski (1878–1945), there is a prophecy describing world conditions in the period 1890–1940, as follows: More and more people will forget their souls and care about their bodies; great sin and corruption will prevail; kings will fall; whole peoples will die; the world will be filled with refugees; but then an unknown people will appear to found a new, purified life.  1  Perhaps the new war will be brief, but it will be terrible:  What Kazantzakis mostly feared was a war using atomic bombs.  1  Herbert:  Jean Herbert (1897– 1980), French orientalist who taught Hindu mythology and spirituality in the University of Geneva and wrote on Ramakrishna, etc.  1  my nephew:  Nikos Saklambanis (1913–77), elected president of the Iraklio lawyers’ association in 1964; reelected in 1967 but removed by the colonels’ junta.  1  R. Waller:  British Council official looking after Kazantzakis.  1  The prayers have begun:  Concerning the weather.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript (in French) in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 470–71; Greek translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 537; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 459.

Paris, 4 October 1946 Dear Mr. Knös, I’m in Paris, the true city of light, and remember my youthful student days when, full of admiration, I attended the classes of my revered professor, Henri

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Bergson. I will continue here the effort that I began in England to unite “servants of the spirit”—writers, painters, scholars—in an Internationale of the Spirit that is above every political allegiance and whose only aim is to rescue the endangered spirit. All intellectuals well understand this danger, but most of them have become too passive, too skeptical, and they allow themselves to be carried away by events without resisting them. But there are also some people who are ready to take part in this supreme crusade. These past few days I’ve had a profound discussion with the distinguished scholar Gaston Dupouis, dean of the Faculty of Science at Toulouse. He, too, sees the great danger, possesses a tragic vision of our epoch, and is ready to react with full force. Another great scholar, the Duc de Broglie, clearly sees the chasm that has suddenly opened in front of humanity. He says that the forces revealed to humanity are so terrible that they could blow our planet into the air. Only a strong Internationale of the Spirit could react against blind folly and fratricide. That is why these recent months I have dedicated all of my feeble strength to the realization of such a defense of the Spirit. I have sent you the English review Life and Letters that includes the appeal to intellectuals that I launched in England. Couldn’t it be translated into Swedish? The difficulty of traveling is unfortunately so great that it is not possible for me to go to your country where, I am sure, people of good will are more numerous and more pure than one could wish in any other country. Could you, dear Mr. Knös, take the initiative in launching a similar effort in Sweden? The time is truly too critical, the responsibility of those who understand too great. We must do everything to ward off disaster. I intend to remain here until the end of November. After that, I need finally to return to my solitude in Aegina and to resume my solitary work. I don’t have any more time to lose. The “god of the black helmet” is approaching. I am in a hurry to save my entire soul by expressing it in order not to leave death any booty save my lifeless body. Yours always, dear Mr. Knös, with profound friendship. N. Kazantzaki

1  Börje Knös:  Knös (1883–1970) was Sweden’s deputy minister of education; translator into Swedish not only of Kazantzakis’s works but also of works by Theotokas, Terzakis (Η πριγκιπέσσα Ιζαμπώ), and Prevelakis (Χρονικό μιας πολιτείας).  1  Gaston Dupouis: Or, with more usual spelling, Gaston Dupouy (1900–1985); in 1944 he built the first electronic microscope in France.  1  Duc de Broglie:  Prince Louis-Victor de Broglie (1892–1987), professor at the Faculty of Sciences, Paris University; Nobel laureate in physics, 1929, for his discovery of the wave nature of electrons.  1  Life and Letters:  ‘’The Immortal Free Spirit of Man,’’ Life and Letters 50, no. 109 (September 1946): 123–26.

630  •  1946 Letters

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 550–52.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 chez Mme Puaux 15 October 1946 Dear brother! I received your letter. It swelled my disappointment that luck came so ­upside-down and we did not meet in England. But I always keep hoping that you will be able to come here and stay a few days. Paris is truly excellent, full of grace and a slightly quaint delicacy—the only one that still remains in the world. Give Minotis my warm greetings, also Katina. Perhaps they might be able to do a lot for their friends, but their art is such that it keeps them enslaved to their strong individuality (which will disappear after they die); they are unable to think, while alive, of anything else except their soon-to-die greedy egos. On the other hand, since Minotis has a good heart and also is from Crete, perhaps if you spoke to him he could be useful to me in a small detail: to write to Mrs. Ralli in Athens to send a letter to Panas in Stockholm (Mrs. Ralli says that he does whatever she wants) and to recommend that he make propaganda for both of us, emphasizing to him that the honor for Greece would thus be double. (I’ve learned that a significant opponent this year will be Duhamel.) However, if you have time, go to see Alekos Fotiadis and speak to him (Mount Street 3, Berkeley Square, London W.1; he also has a telephone, you’ll find it). (Don’t go with the “Bitter Glass.”) He is Greece’s representative at UNESCO, knows lots of people, and is an ardent supporter for the Nobel. I’ll be most appreciative. In the journal Life and Letters (Strand 430), September 1946, I published an appeal for an Internationale of the Spirit and I’m beginning here as well to work for the same idea. Knös, who read the article, wrote me an ardent letter saying how much he agrees. If you had time, perhaps it would be good for you to see and speak to R. Herring, the editor of the journal; he’s very agreeable. I’ve given the English translation of Melissa to Waller to show to English theater people. Please ask him what happened and tell Minotis to take it with him and try to see if there is any hope that it might be produced in America. Will he do it, however? I like him very much but have no faith in the consistency or persistence of his concern for others. You see, I’m overloading you with jobs for me, but I truly find myself at a critical moment. To return to Greece would be terrible—I won’t be able to do anything and will be suffocated—and if I remain abroad there is no way I can

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earn a living. Sofianopoulos promised me he’d see about UNESCO. If you want, tell Fotiadis; he might be able. (Sofianopoulos, now that he’s going to London, will speak to him.) The “Bitter Glass” is really extraordinarily bitter, but useful. There’s an excellent exhibition of French tapestries here. I hope that you’re in time to see it. And paintings in the autumn Salon, mediocre. Divine books, horribly expensive. There’s some possibility that I’ll leave for America. I don’t know yet. Eleni came yesterday and sends you warm greetings. She described the horror down below. It’s impossible to say how much I yearn for Aegina, but how can I earn a living there? How shameful, utterly shameful, for me to be writing such words! Shameful—but not concerning me. Please write to me regularly and extensively. With you, I breathe. Always, N

1  Katina:  Paxinou.  1  Duhamel:  Georges Duhamel (1884–1966), French novelist best known for two novel cycles, Vie et adventures de Salavin, 5 volumes, and Chronique des Pasquier, 10 volumes.  1  Bitter Glass: Elli Lambridi.  1  Herring: Robert Herring, poet, film critic, editor of Life and Letters Today beginning in 1935 (= volume 13 of Life and Letters), until 1950.  1  Sofianopoulos: Ioannis Sofianopoulos (1887–1951), minister of foreign affairs January 1945, again from 22 November 1945 to 29 January 1946; present at meetings to found the United Nations; socialist, Russophile.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript (in French) in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 471–72; Greek translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 538; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 460.

Paris, Rue de l’Echelle 4 chez Segrédaki 14 November 1946 Dear Mr. Knös! Φασκόμηλο (= sauge) is an aromatic plant that one brews and drinks like tea, especially on cold days or when one is ill. That’s why drinking sage is humiliating for a stalwart like Zorba. Instead of the word φασκόμηλο, you could employ the word chamomile. When you will have read the entire book, I expect to receive the list of difficult words.

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I am always seeking to bring about an “Internationale of the Spirit” and am hoping to be able to announce the happy result to you at some time. Here, too, in France, people are becoming increasingly skeptical; confusion is everywhere, especially these past few days, after the elections. Greece, on the other hand, is groaning under a fascist yoke. Everything most pure, most remarkable from the intellectual or moral point of view, is relentlessly persecuted; many of my friends—university professors, high-ranking civil servants, writers, scholars—have been dismissed from their positions and are in dire straits. The purest flame of modern Greece is in danger. How can we save her? I have developed a project whose general outline I am enclosing for you herewith: the founding, outside of Greece, of an Institute of Modern Greek Culture, a hearth where the flame may be safeguarded. I have already established contact with American universities that could sponsor and realize this project. In Greece, not just the political and economic situation but also the intellectual and moral one is very grave. All beneficial activity is threatened with collapse. This institute will become a field of action for several extremely pure Greeks—writers, artists, scholars—who, on foreign soil, will fan the intellectual flame of today’s Greece. Please excuse me, dear Mr. Knös, for conversing with you so long about my country, but I know that you love Greece and that you clearly realize that, if this flame is extinguished, the world will plunge a little more into darkness. To you, cordially, N. Kazantzaki

1  sauge:  Sage, a culinary herb.  1  after the elections:  Legislative elections were held in France on 10 November 1946. The result established a threeparty alliance (including socialists and communists) that proposed the establishment of a parliamentary system, whereas Charles de Gaulle, who campaigned for a “no” vote, advocated a presidential government. Maurice Thorez was denied the right to lead the government by his allies, and Léon Blum took this position. The three-party alliance lasted only until 1947.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 277–78.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 5 January 1947 Dear comrade and friend! Happy New Year! May God grant health and happiness to you, your wife, your son and daughter, and whatever else all of you desire in 1947! I think that this year will be better than the horrendous one that just passed—better both

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for all of us, personally, and for Greece. The evil reached its zenith—that is, the place where, in accordance with a mysterious law, the good begins once again. Prevelakis writes me that you are going to leave for Sweden. What good luck! You’ll come in contact there with the dalai lamas and will be given the opportunity for lectures on modern Greece’s intellectual life. Thus you’ll also be given a chance to speak about the two candidates for the Nobel Prize, attempting to present them as inseparably united since they are the two who satisfy the demands of Greece’s entire intellectual world. I’ve been in ardent contact with Börje Knös for quite some time; we exchange many warm letters, and he is translating Zorba for me now. Thus you’ll find him willing to listen and be convinced. I consider the fact that you are going to Sweden to be a great benefit. This trip may give you the occasion to do me the greatest good that anyone could now do. I’m working on a new play and have many more in mind, but I lack the leisure time to write them. I long for nothing else except leisure time. My head is filled with seed. I’m fine in body, mind, and soul, yet I’m being devoured by economic uncertainty. How can I work? Where? I’m being besieged on all sides, from land, sea, and air. I think of our Iliad with unimaginable bitterness. When will it be finished? If I die, it will remain as it is, without my being in attendance to assist at its birth. When will we meet now for its third draft? And what about the Odyssey? And Pindar? And Aeschylus? Didn’t we say that all of these giants were going to pass through our hands—that we would measure ourselves against them? Dear comrade, it’s a great sadness to sense that we two collaborate so perfectly together and yet are so far apart. We must find a way. Life is departing; I don’t have time. Eleni and I will celebrate your name day the day after tomorrow. We’ll make a dessert and will invite friends to drink to your health. May God always stand you in good stead! Eleni and I send warm greetings to you and your entire household. God be with you, always! N. Kazantzakis

To Börje Knös —Manuscript (in French) in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of ­Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 472–73; Greek translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 540; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 463.

Paris, Rue de l’Échelle 4 chez Segrédaki 24 January 1947

634  •  1947 Letters

Dear Mr. Knös! I would be most appreciative if you kindly agreed to do me a favor. Would you send me the regulations for the Nobel Prize? I would like to know if my candidacy for the prize in literature must be renewed and in what fashion. And until what date? Or else, since the literary societies of Greece had sub­ mitted my candidacy last year, is there any further need to renew that step? I would be delighted, dear Mr. Knös, if you agreed to give me this information. Zorba seems to be a great success in Greece. The French translation is progressing, but I find myself obliged to intervene because the bitter flavor of the original is not perfectly rendered there. I love the modern Greek language so passionately that I did not want to sign a contract for a series of books with a large French publishing house in Paris that suggested that I write five novels for them like my novel Toda-Raba, composed directly in French. My place is in modern Greek literature. The evolution of our language is passing through a decisive, creative moment, and I do not wish to abandon my post, whatever the cost. The modern Greek language is as beautiful as Homer’s Helen, and “οὐ νέμεσις τοιῇδε ἀμφὶ γυναικὶ πολὺν χρόνον ἄλγεα πάσχειν.” As soon as it is typed out, I am going to send you the translation of Zorba; it might be of use to you in your work. I am pleased and moved to know that you have undertaken the translation of my book. I’m beginning to hope that you will be the first to have it published in a foreign language. I will try to learn Swedish in order to read your work. Since I know German well, I believe that it won’t be too difficult. Thank you for your postcard and your wishes for the new year. I am certain that this year will be better for poor Greece, which is horribly torn to pieces, and for humanity in general, which has gone mad. I find people of good will in France who are well aware of the critical situation through which humanity is passing and who eagerly welcome an “Internationale of the Spirit” that would attempt to fight for justice, love, and peace. I shake your hand, dear Monsieur Knös, and am yours ὁλόκαρδα. N. Kazantzakis

1  chez Segrédaki:  At the home of Nicolas Segrédakis, who became director of the art gallery in Rue de l’Échelle, Paris.  1  οὐ νέμεσις τοιῇδε ἀμφὶ γυναικὶ πολὺν χρόνον ἄλγεα πάσχειν:  “Small blame to long suffer woes for such a woman.” Kazantzakis quotes Iliad 3:156–57 in ancient Greek, offering himself, by implication, as suffering woes equivalent to those of Homer’s “Trojans and well-greaved Achaeans,” whom he omits from line 156 of the quotation.  1  ὁλόκαρδα:  Most cordially. The letter is in French except for this final word, in which Kazantzakis adds the rough breathing over the initial omicron (something he would never do in his own writing) owing to the fact that Knös was trained in ancient Greek.

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To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 559–61.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 25 January 1947 My dear Brother! A great favor, and very urgent: The appointment of advisers at UNESCO will take place around 10 February. I have strong recommendations here, but nothing can happen without intervention by the Greek government. The first thing I was asked was whether I had friends in the government and whether those friends could intervene by telegram, since the matter is urgent, and could recommend me to UNESCO’s director, Dr. Julian Huxley. I have three friends now: Kanellopoulos, Venizelos, and Papandreou. So there’s a great need for you to intervene, going first of all to Kanellopoulos. Tell him how needful it is for him to send, via telegram, his personal recommendation to Huxley, and at the same time to Greece’s representative on the executive council of UNESCO, Professor Alekos Fotiadis, Mount Street 3, London. If you’re able to see Papandreou and Venizelos personally, that would be best. Otherwise, ask Kanellopoulos to please do it. Thus, both Huxley and Fotiadis will receive recommendations for me via telegram. I’m enclosing for you a few words to Tea Anemoyanni, who is a close friend of mine and is related to Iraklio’s member of parliament, Yiamalakis, who influences Venizelos in a decisive manner. If this undertaking happens in time and via telegram, there are great hopes. Thus, I will be saved, because I’ve stopped having great hopes for America. I’m in a great hurry to send you this letter, and I have nothing else to add. There’s no need for me to tell you how much what I’m asking of you is a matter of life or death for me. Only one thing is needed: that not a moment be lost. Knowing that you will do it, I am at peace. Don’t leave Kanellopoulos before you get the telegrams, and have them sent. For all the expenses, Hourmouzios has some money of mine, and I’ll write him. P.S. In a separate letter, I’m writing Tea that not a moment must be lost. Only I beg of you to telephone her as soon as you receive my letter, so that the actions may be coordinated and you won’t find it necessary to go to Venizelos’s. However, there’s a need for action to take place concerning Papandreou. You’ll find a quick way. That’s all. I’m writing you, and you can imagine my anxiety. Please inform me as soon as the telegrams are sent, so that I may quiet down. Para siempre! N

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P.P.S. Get in touch with Tea if it happens that Yiamalakis is not in Athens, so that she can find another way to have Venizelos spoken to. I’ve written also to Sbarounis now, for him to see Papandreou. Therefore, please telephone him on my behalf to ask him what he has done and to spur him on. Sbarounis is a close friend and an excellent human being. Come in touch with him. Fotiadis is Greece’s representative on the executive council of UNESCO. The position I’m seeking is: Conseiller, Section Littérature, UNESCO, Avenue Kléber, Paris 4.

1  Venizelos:  Sophocles Venizelos (1894–1964), politician, founded a political party in 1946, collaborating with Papandreou and Kanellopoulos; served January–August in Maximos’s government; cabinet minister in Sofoulis’s 1949 government; prime minister, except for five months, from March 1950 to October 1951.  1  Conseiller: Counsellor, adviser.

To Tea Anemoyanni —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Dimakis 1979, pp. 83–85.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 8 February 1947 Dear Comrade! Thanks very much for taking the trouble and for the telegram you sent me. I didn’t telephone you, because I learned that we have some time. Whenever Venizelos is able to send a telegram and a letter to Fotiadis in London and to Huxley (UNESCO, Avenue Kléber, Paris), let him do so, just so long as it doesn’t take too long—in any case, sometime in the month of February. I have other letters of recommendation from various personalities (Blum, etc.), and I have hopes. But I asked you because the intervention by members of our government is decisive. I also wrote to Prevelakis to speak to Kanellopoulos and to Sbarounis. However, great secrecy is required, to avoid a reaction from our literary people. So please prod Yiamalakis as soon as you can to get the telegram and letter from Venizelos. I’m sending a chapter from the new book I wrote in Cambridge. I’d like permission to dedicate it to you. I hope you’ll like it, because it speaks about Crete—about our Soul in other words. Human beings totally worthy of us— fierce, tender, and without concessions—live and struggle on that island. I’m glad that your name will join with mine in this way. Thanks for sending me Varnalis’s critique. I have received many letters about Zorba. Apparently some people were pleased. I, too, was pleased, because Zorba was written with gusto, at one stroke. Maybe I’ll write others like

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that. Right now I’m buried in a new play: Sodom and Gomorrah. I hope you’ll like it. I suddenly found the Iliad verses here, so don’t go to the trouble. Thank you very very much. I’m writing you in a hurry in order to catch the plane. May God be with you! Get in touch with Prevelakis and tell him that you’ve taken responsibility for Venizelos. Maybe there’s a need to coordinate your efforts and his. I’m fine. As soon as I find a little leisure, I’ll start to work. My head is full again, and my heart is beginning anew to “gambol like a calf ” upon the green, springtime grass. I expect a letter from you. Give my greetings to the whole Saturday night crowd. Regarding the journal you’ve written me about, the one that will be dedicated to my work, I beg you fervently (if it actually is going to happen) to do nothing before coming in touch with Prevelakis and Hourmouzios. Those two and you should organize who should write and about what, in order for it to be complete, all-embracing, and by well-known names. And do not allow Dimis to rest until he finishes his book. All of that is useful. But without fail it must happen quickly. Health and happiness, and God be with you always! N. Kazantzakis

1  Varnalis’s critique:  “Τα Βιβλία. Νίκου Καζαντζάκη ‘Βίος και πολιτεία του Αλέξη Ζορμπά,’” Ο Ρίζος της Δευτέρας, 23 December 1946.  1  Dimis:  Presumably Dimis Apostolopoulos, who was writing on philosophy.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 563–65.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 15 February 1947 Dear brother! I’ve caused you lots of trouble, and I fully understand how difficult it is now for you to see Kanellopoulos, Papandreou, and Venizelos and to speak with them. Fortunately, we still have time—all of February. I was given a most ardent referral to Blum. I saw him; he seemed very warm, and he gave me his word that he’d intervene. In addition, I had a most ardent letter for Huxley from America—from a French friend who is a high official in the UN. It so happened, even, that Huxley went to New York those days and met with his friend and mine. They spoke very warmly to him; yesterday I received a telegram from New York apropos. You can tell this to Kanellopoulos to make it

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easier for him. I’ll see Huxley as soon as he returns. Important efforts, and I have hopes. It’s horribly difficult to get into UNESCO because all the favorites of the Great Ones from the whole world have gathered there; it’s like their private fief. However, if we obtain recommendations from our three politicians in time, that will have weight. Recommendations go to Huxley and also to Fotiadis (Mount Street 3, London, W.1.) Let’s do what we can. And may Luck contribute as well, if it wishes. Regarding the Nobel Prize, by no means would I like to be proposed alone. Either they recommend both of us or I don’t accept by myself. It’s not right. Both must be proposed indissolubly. I’d be happy if Angelos could see the nobility inherent in this path. Tell him if you see him; perhaps you’ll convince him. If he sends me a letter, as he told you he would, I’ll write to him in my turn. Let’s not separate at this critical time. Fellow exploit-doers, equivalent, not opposed—that’s what is right and has the most nobility. Last year I wasn’t a candidate; I didn’t make the deadline. So I’m not to blame for anything, which pleases me. This year the two of us must apply together. Only you can intervene to rescue both of us from the difficult impasse into which we’ve been pushed by Angelos’s friends. I received Varnalis’s critique of Zorba—the first time his envenomed lips ever said a good word. Hooray for Zorba! Knös writes me today that he finished the translation, and it’s being typed. Several Frenchmen who have read the translation I did of Melissa have reacted with enthusiasm and are working now to have it produced. And Prague is also asking me for it. In the meantime, I’ve sent a chapter from the book I wrote in Cambridge to Haris, via Theotokas, who left yesterday. I hope you like it. Once again, it’s about Crete. I’m glad that Kakridis went to Sweden; he may be of help there. God grant that you go as well! This spring I might go to Prague, where I’m been invited to give some lectures. I’m continuing to work on the new play, Sodom and Gomorrah. Everything is ready. Once I find a little leisure it will be written in a few weeks. But when will I find that leisure? My life is very hard; nevertheless, I pretend not to notice lest Fate get uppity. I think of you at every moment. My life passes by and is lost. What do I want? Free time, so that I might manage to save as much soul as I can—my old yearning: that death find nothing but body to take. Will I manage in time? “God” be with you, always! It’s a great consolation that you exist. N. Kazantzakis

1  Blum:  Léon Blum (1872–1950), prime minister of France, 1936–37, again for less than a month in 1938, lastly 16 December 1946 until 22 January 1947; active in the socialist party.  1  a chapter from the book I wrote in Cambridge:  “Ο θάνατος του παππού,” published in Nea Estia 41 (15 March 1947):327–34.

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To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 566–67.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 24 February 1947 My dear brother! Exactly on our birthday, 18 February, I received your telegram as a present. And today from London I received a letter from Fotiadis announcing that he received an ardent telegram from Kanellopoulos. At the same time I received additional letters of recommendation from America for Huxley and Blum. Still nothing from Venizelos and Papandreou. These days UNESCO’s executive council is meeting to examine the documents submitted by candidates. We’ve finished what we could; now, as we said, let blind Fate continue, if it so wishes. As soon as I learn anything definitive, I’ll write you, so that you can rejoice or grieve together with me. I received a letter today from Knös. He speaks to me enthusiastically about Kakridis, whom he saw. They talked for many hours about modern Greek literature. He has finished Zorba; now he’s going around to publishers. In the meantime, Melissa is being read by theater managers here. I have many French critics—first and foremost Gérard Bauer—who like this work and are supporting it. If I get into UNESCO, a lot can happen regarding social relations, because actual value plays a much smaller role. Not a word from Minotis. Nothing from Lambridi. Maybe she caught a bad cold in that vile hole where she spends the winter—and such a winter! Here, in our house, fortunately we have two sources of heat, radiator and stove. I’d be at peace if I were settled. Everything is still vague, the atmosphere filled with hopes, but so far none of them has acquired definitive form. Nebulosities! I am very much moved by your love and perseverance—at such a difficult time—that succeeded in obtaining the telegram from Kanellopoulos. If you happen to see him, tell him that I thank him very much. I’m planning to write him later. No letter from Sikelianos. Nor will he write. He’s a great peacock and cannot tolerate a golden eagle like me next to him. He likes neither my fingernails nor my gruff voice, whereas I admire and enjoy him because I know that he belongs to the class of peacocks, which I esteem because I know its charms. You can be sure that Sikelianos has already made sure of his candidacy for the Nobel Prize, because those who have the right to submit nominations are not only literary societies but also academics, either our own or foreign. He certainly will have foreigners; thus, he can be both gallant and generous, yet still reap profit. Veïs could submit my name (he has the right as professor of

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modern Greek literature), but I am tired of exerting effort. I find it disgusting. I don’t want to act just for myself. Various subjects for plays and books are taking on flesh inside me. I’m like the hen they slaughter and find filled with yolks that never had time to become eggs. What do I need? Just time, free time. And I don’t have it. The situation in Greece is horrible, as it is also in France. I’ve always had the idea that this transitional uncertainty from one civilization to another will last two hundred years beyond 1900. That is, in 2100 we’ll have a fixed, steady ground and a fixed equilibrium. Until then: wars, truces, wretchedness. You have very warm greetings from Eleni. God be with you, para siempre! N

1  Gérard Bauer:  French journalist (1888–1967), with a regular column in Figaro ca. 1937–48.  1  that vile hole where she [Lambridi] spends the winter: Elli Lambridi was living in England that winter, which had particularly heavy snowfalls and low temperatures.

To Emmanouil Tsouderos —Manuscript in Historical Museum of Crete, Α. ΤΣ. φ. 7/29.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine, 19 4 March 1947 My dear Mr. President! Please believe that I was very moved by your letter, which was so courteous and unasked for. I shall never forget that kindness of yours. Here, now, is the background: UNESCO has an executive council of eighteen members from various nations who are appointed not by governments but by UNESCO’s general assembly. Greece is represented by Professor Alexandros Fotiadis, who lives in London. Surely you must know him. I know him, too. We became friends and he suggested that I submit my candidacy for conseiller de lettres at UNESCO and said that he would ardently support me. Julian Huxley is the director general of UNESCO. I had extremely ardent recommendations addressed to him by mutual friends. In addition, Léon Blum intervened on behalf of France. Friends of mine have taken action regarding three members of our government: Kanellopoulos immediately sent most ardent telegrams to Fotiadis and Huxley; Papandreou refused to send; Venizelos answers, “If asked, I’m willing to support.” (How perfectly these three replies express the three “men”!)

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The appointments will be made in about two weeks. The positions are not governmental; they are international, and each government does not intervene at all. The jurisdiction belongs exclusively to the executive council. Your opinion will certainly have much weight and, since you have given me the right, I will ask you, please, to send a telegram to Professor Alexandros Fotiadis (Mount Street 3, London) and another to Julian Huxley (UNESCO, Avenue Kléber). If you know Fotiadis, send a letter in order to explain more broadly why you have shown such ardent interest. I hope that you receive my letter quickly, so that we may be in time. Once again, thank you most warmly. May God be with you always and with our unfortunate land! With extraordinary esteem and love, yours, N. Kazantzakis

1  Huxley:  Julian Huxley (1887–1975), English evolutionary biologist, the first director general of UNESCO (1946–48).

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 278– 79, also (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 540–41; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 446–47; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 474.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine, 19 23 March 1947 Dear friend! I had longed for your letter and received it finally. I’m glad that you escaped that sanguinary much-loved trap, Greece. I’m eager now to learn how you have settled down in the North and how you are working. Please write me regularly, because pleasures here are few. I still don’t know how long I will be able to remain here. I’m struggling to find a way to stay in Paris or to leave for America. In the meantime, my head fills with works that remain unborn because I lack the leisure time needed in order to concentrate on writing. Months go by while my heart shrivels and waits. One play above all, Sodom and Gomorrah, is ready. God sent you this year to Sweden, where you will be able to speak about my intellectual struggle and my life. I’ve written for some books to be sent to you. Help the Hellenist in Lund as much as you can to be aware of my work and to understand it. Knös has already softened; we correspond regularly. I think it right, since this is possible—that we be honored together, the two of us from

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Greece who are still creatively mature and fertile. No one knows which of the two will last the longest and how each will be regarded. But both worked hard, rose as much as they could, and represent two aspects of Greece. Do what you can to enlighten people out there, for they surely are honest and wise, but do not know. Askitiki has been translated into English. It will be useful for you. Shall I send it? The Swedish Zorba will, I hope, find a publisher; Knös has promised me. Write me what actions I can take that will make some impact upon the judgment of Swedes, because the months are going by and we must not find ourselves unprepared once again. In any case, God sent you to Sweden this year. You are my great hope now. As for what’s happening in Greece, you follow it with anguish in your own right. How is it possible for such an excellent people to have such idiotic, criminal, and dishonest leaders? Greece’s fate is tragic and the latest mishap might cast it into profound chaos—whereas it might have saved it. I’m glad that you have finished with the Iliad. If I manage to stay here, I’ll dash down to Greece for a few days to get books and manuscripts of the Iliad first and foremost, in order to look over the entire text once again, here. How fortunate it would be if I could come to Sweden and we could work on the final draft together! Couldn’t you possibly find a publisher for us in Sweden (a university press), to bring out both the text and translation of the Iliad? They gave me hopes in Oxford, but England is in such a mess now that no more hope exists. Perhaps in Sweden, under the auspices of some university? Surely you could speak about modern Greek literature, and then you would find the opportunity to speak about my work. You can do great things for me, and I’m glad that fate has placed me in your hands. It’s a good omen. I had spoken with our ambassador in Oslo, Lambros, about coming to the northern countries for lectures. But in which language? Not many know French. I’ve been invited to go to Prague in the spring for three lectures on modern Greek intellectual life. Eleni sends warm greetings. She’s inventing a thousand dreams about us meeting in Sweden. You know how much we love you and how pleased I am that I chanced to know you before I die. Warm greetings to your household. I imagine how much they miss you, but it’s necessary. Write me. I desire no other or greater pleasure. Always, N. Kazantzakis

1  what’s happening in Greece:  The Truman Doctrine had been proclaimed on 12 March, but Kazantzakis was convinced that “the Americans, in their turn, confusing the soul with the dollar, will commit huge mistakes in Greece” (see letter of 14 June to Knös, below). The period from February to July 1947

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witnessed increased suppression of the Left, leading eventually to a resumption of the civil war.

To Emmanuel Kriaras —Printed in Kriaras 2007, p. 195.

[Paris, April 1947] Many thanks! Christ is risen! Best wishes as well to the other one (which other one?). N. Kazantzakis

To Tea Anemoyanni —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Dimakis 1979, pp. 85–86.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine, 19 5 May 1947 Dear Comrade! I’ve been wanting to write you for many days but waited for the UNESCO business to finish. It did finish, and I have assumed a huge preparatory job: how to organize the translation into various languages of all exceptional works of all ages in literature, philosophy, physical sciences, sociology, etc. This work will be submitted in November to the general conference, which will take place in Mexico. If it’s approved, the realization will begin at once. Fearsome work and continual meetings with committees of excellent people, but they’re too bureaucratic. A big struggle in order for me to be able to impose some order, to consolidate the fuzzy cloud, giving it a firm form. People get lost in huge projects and big fat words and don’t sense to what a degree a firm stride over the ground possesses a divine rhythm. I’ll keep you informed about what’s happening and how my own stride is going. Meanwhile, Melissa has been accepted and will be mounted by the excellent Jacquemont, who has staged Aeschylus’s Persians, which also played in Athens. The entire translation of Zorba has been typed and right now is being shown to publishers. Several Frenchmen who read it were very pleased. I have Grandfather’s Death in English and am sending it to England and America. People write me from Athens, saying they “liked” it. What a poor, degrading expression that is! As though one’s frightful struggle were a necktie

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or a spoonful of jam—one’s struggle to enclose and solidify in words gigantic souls such as Grandfather and his captains. But no one can register anything greater than the maximum of his own soul. I know that I owe you a great deal for helping me to receive the opportunity to enter the immense international organization UNESCO and to be known there. To owe you this is very moving for me and gives me pleasure. May God be with you and you with Him, always! I would appreciate it greatly if you would open the valise with the manuscripts and find my translation into French of a comedy by Cardinal Bibbiena, Lidio-Lidia. Please send it to me via post, but not via airmail, since there’s no hurry. And your copy of Julian with it; I’ll give you another copy when I return. Or get Anastasiou’s, etc., and I’ll give them to him later. It’s slated to be translated into French, and I don’t have a copy. I very much want to see you. But when? how? God be with you, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  Jacquemont:  Maurice Jacquemont (1910–2004), actor and theater director, since 1945 head of the Studio des Champs-Élysées; produced the plays of Lorca, Ionesco, etc.  1  Lidio-Lidia:  The comedy by Cardinal Bibbiena— pseudonym of Bernardo Dovizi (1470–1520)—is actually entitled La Calandra (first produced ca. 1507). One of its characters is Lidio and another is Lidio Femina. Cf. the note to the letter of 11 October 1932 to Prevelakis.

To Edwige Levi —Manuscript (in French) in Historical Museum of Greece Kaz. Levi/49.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine, 19 15 May 1947 Dear lost and refound friend! Your letter entered a room together with springtime and brought me a sweet, distant perfume. Is it by Corazzini, this short line that is so simple and tenderly sad: “Oh! primavere di giardini lontani”? How much water, how much fire during these long, long years of our silence! Will we see each other again one day on this poor earth, this small clod of soil on which we still live, and will we ever resume our interrupted conversations? No one knows. “One must always have one’s boots on and be ready to leave,” old Montaigne, whom I love so much, used to say. I have my boots on and am ready to go, but I’m not at all in a hurry. I’m passionately in love with this horrible, fascinating world, and I take the longest road to return. I always gaze with the same eagerness on everything: water, stones, women,

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ideas. How can I get my fill of them? I resemble that aged Cretan centenarian whom I saw last year when I was traveling once again up and down Crete, my sacred soil. He could no longer see; his eyes were red, without lashes. He was warming himself voluptuously in the Cretan sun and listening avidly to muddled noises from the village. I went up to him. “Grandpa,” I asked him, “how has this long life of a hundred years seemed to you?” “Like a glass of cool water, my child,” he replied, smiling. “Are you still thirsty, grandpa?” And he, raising his bony arms, responded: “A curse on whoever no longer thirsts!” I loved this aged Cretan so much, and I resemble him so much! I ask for only one thing when I reach the age of one hundred years: that my eyes, my small round eyes, like those of a bird of prey, will remain intact. To hear is not at all sufficient for me; I want to see. To see is not at all sufficient for me; I want to touch! Dear friend, excuse me—you see the violence breaking out anew. I’ll stop. I’m happy to have found you again. N. Kazantzaki

1  Corazzini:  Sergio Corazzini (1886–1907), Italian poet identified with “crepuscular sensibility.”  1  Oh! primavere di giardini lontani: Oh! springtimes of distant gardens. This is indeed by Corazzini, from the poem “Dopo.”  1  Montaigne:  Michel de Montaigne (1533–92), French philosopher and essayist. The quote occurs in essay number 20 in book 1, entitled “Que philosopher, c’est apprendre à mourir” (To Philosophize Is to Learn How to Die). The full quote is: “Il faut estre tousjours boté et prest à partir, en tant qu’en nous est, et sur tout se garder qu’on n’aye lors affaire qu’a soy: Quid brevi fortes jaculamur avo / Multa?” (As far as we possibly can we must always have our boots on, ready to leave; above all we should take care to have no outstanding business with anyone else: Why, in a life that is so short, should we avidly form so many projects? [Horace, Odes, 2.16.17]).

To Börje Knös —Manuscript (in French) in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 477; Greek translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 544–45; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 468–69.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 14 June 1947 Dear Mr. Knös! I have hastily copied out Grandfather’s Death for you, and I hope that you will be able to read my Greek handwriting. I would truly be very grateful if

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you wished to translate these pages, which are so Cretan. Many features of this story relate to the death of my own grandfather; I am very fond of them. I believe I’ll need to explain some words to you that strike me as quite difficult, but you will already understand most of them thanks to our great friend Zorba. I would be truly distressed if Zorba appeared maimed before the Swedish public. Let’s hope that the publisher will agree to allow him all his limbs; he always has a great need for them. I feel happy at the idea that you have plunged valiantly into that blue sea, the Odyssey. From the points of view of poetic form and philosophical content, the Odyssey is the highest peak that I have been able to attain, after efforts of an entire lifetime devoted to serving the spirit. This seventeen-syllable verse greatly surprised Greek poets, accustomed as they were to the neoclassic line of fifteen syllables. But this venerable verse form seemed too worn out to me, very short of breath, no longer able to contain the ardent contemporary soul that suffers, fights, and yearns to smash the boundaries that are suffocating it, in order to create a more expansive, profounder rhythm. These additional two syllables give the epic an unexpected amplitude, a grandeur, and at the same time a disciplined ferocity. This is why Kakridis and I have adopted the seventeen-syllable line for our translation of Homer. The caesura is placed most often after the tenth syllable, sometimes after the eighth. It is indispensable that this line be correctly read if it is to convey its full effect. One of our best critics and essayists, Emile Hourmouzios, has written several articles on the Odyssey. I will try to send them to you. Unfortunately all of my manuscripts are located far from me; otherwise, I would have given you full documentation. When will I be able to see the smoke of my Ithaca again? Greece is plunging more and more into darkness. The Americans, in their turn, confusing the soul with the dollar, will commit huge mistakes in Greece. The Greek people clearly see the path to salvation and want to follow it, but are not allowed to. Their fate has always been tragic. Let us hope that suffering will strengthen their soul this time as well, To you, from a friendly heart, N. Kazantzaki

1  to see the smoke of my Ithaca again:  Kazantzakis echoes the famous passage in Homer’s Odyssey 1:57–59 where we learn that Odysseus, kept prisoner by Calypso, has “such desire . . . / merely to see the hearth-smoke leaping upward / from his own island, that he longs to die” (Fitzgerald translation). This is well known to Greeks owing to Seferis’s poem “Πάνω σ’ έναν ξένο στίχο” (Upon a Foreign Line of Verse), which quotes (more or less) the first

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line of Joachim Du Bellay’s Les Regrets (1558), “Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage,” which then echoes the Homeric verse, as does Seferis also: “the shade of Odysseus appears before me . . ., his eyes red from . . . / his ripe longing to see once more the smoke ascending from his warm hearth . . .”  1  Seferis:  George Seferis (1900–1971), distinguished Greek poet, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1963 “for his eminent lyrical writing, inspired by a deep feeling for the Hellenic world of culture.”  1  the Americans, in their turn:  After the Second World War, the British could no longer include Greece in their sphere of influence. They were replaced by the Americans, owing to the Truman Doctrine announced on 12 March 1947 by President Truman, who declared the United States “leader of the free world,” which meant that it would be dedicated to preventing communism from spreading to Greece. This was followed on 5 June 1947, nine days before Kazantzakis’s letter, by the Marshall Plan, which aimed to rebuild Greece and other European countries as an aid in repelling communism.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 573–74.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 28 June 1947 Dear Brother! I haven’t received a letter from you for a long time and I am worried. Lefteris wrote me that he made it to the first rank of the ten that are slated to stay a few more months in England, and he thinks that my letter to Johnstone was influential. I hope so. Since then I haven’t received a letter from him. What’s going on? I gave Zorba to three publishers, and all three accepted it. So, an embarrassing abundance of choice! Of necessity I’ll give it to the first who accepted, Éditions du Chêne. It will come out at the beginning of October. I sent another copy to America. In the meantime, Knös is translating Grandfather’s Death for a Swedish periodical. I even submitted our Calandra, and it seems that there is some hope for it to be produced, with certain alterations. Patience is needed here; everything moves in slow motion. Patience is a virtue that gives me shame to possess. Nevertheless: patience! UNESCO is going to bring out an anthology of worldwide resistance, and they asked me what I consider superior prose and poetry written in Greece about the Resistance. I said: poems by Sikelianos and one or two by Nikos Pappas that I once read and liked. Also some prose by Patatzis (?). Do you perhaps

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know other works to point out? And can you ask Sikelianos if he wants to send me copies (translated if possible) of his poems about the Resistance? I’ll be most grateful. (He never responded to my courtesy in sending him the book— not even a thank you!) I’m working terribly hard here, trying to tolerate the bitterness of wasting my time in noncreative work. But petit bourgeois Patience tells me to endure a little more and not throw everything away in order to return to paradise—Aegina. Eleni has been at the baths in the Pyrenees and is returning tonight. She is my great consolation. If she were missing, I imagine that I would have rid myself of Patience. My body is fine, thirsting for sea, swimming, coolness, shade. But let’s allow it to suffer too, just like its Rider. Please write to me more often. Each of your letters is a boon for me. The other day I saw Jouvenel. He gave me a photo of you that I’m sending to you. What a joy those years were! Fortunately we knew it. God be with you, para siempre! N

1  of the ten:  The ten scholars with bursaries from the British Council for study in England.  1  Calandra:  The translation referred to in the letter dated 5 May 1947, above.  1  Pappas:  More correctly, Nikos Papas.  1  Patatzis:  Sotiris Patatzis (1914–91), dramatist, translator, prose writer, journalist.  1  poems about the Resistance:  Sikelianos’s collection of poems about the Occupation and the Resistance, entitled Ακριτικά, circulated clandestinely in Greece in manuscript copies in 1942, and was then printed in Cairo in 1944 under the supervision of Seferis.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 578–79.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 7 August 1947 My dear brother! Many thanks for sending Lambrotasos’s tirade of abuse, the articles, and Nea Estia. Comic arguments, coarse provincialisms! How can anyone be interested? The one thing that impressed me was why Panayotopoulos’s article, which seemed correct and fair to me, caused so much indignation. He must have touched some hidden wound, hurting several people.

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But how far away all this is! Shadows! Ghosts! Not even figments of the imagination! The world is at the edge of the abyss, the planet might blow up at any instant, all birds and beasts destroyed, and they argue about such insignificant things! I’m waiting for you to write me whether Milliex agreed to do the translation. August is a dead month; everyone goes on vacation. I’ll establish an agreement and send you the contract for the Chronicle for your signature if you approve. Let’s hope that Milliex accepts, because I’m afraid that Gautier here would ruin it. Zorba is in Pearl Buck’s hands in New York. She writes me that she read it, likes it very much, and requests a week’s option for her to decide with her associates whether to publish it in the publishing house that she directs. Zorba has gone to Prague as well and is knocking on doors there. May God grant him strength, patience, and luck. He’s done well so far. Lots of work here. My salary has increased: six hundred dollars a month. Most of it I deposit in New York so that I’ll have something to lean on when I go—if the world is still alive. Diamantopoulos left yesterday for Switzerland, where his wife is. I very much liked his company and the love he has for you. I think that he is an exceptional human being. Nothing else for now. I keep hoping to see you in Paris. I feel such anguish for Greece that I cannot speak. Only a miracle can save us. And alas for whoever has no other hope besides a miracle. I’m devastated, and sometimes when I’m alone, I am overcome with tears. God be with you, dear Comrade! N. Kazantzakis

1  Lambrotasos’s tirade of abuse:  Η συμφιλίωση και οι πνευματικοί ηγέτες. Ν. Καζαντζάκης. Α. Σικελιανός (Athens: Eleftheros Kratos, 1947) by L. Tasolambros (not Lambrotasos!), pseudonym of Frixos Lambridis; a sixty-eight-page plea for reconciliation after round two of the Greek Civil War, arguing that the real culprits are the educated class; attacks Kazantzakis’s travelogue England, claiming that Kazantzakis believes in everything and consequently in nothing, etc.  1  figments of the imagination:  Kazantzakis’s word is δροσουλίτες: human figures in the sky supposedly seen at daybreak in May over the sea near Frangokastello in southern Crete, ­accompanied—so say the villagers—by the clanking of weapons and sound of horses’ hoofs.  1  such insignificant things:  Yes, truly insignificant, indeed embarrassing accusations and rebuttals beginning with I. M. Panayotopoulos’s essay “The Cliques,” Grammata 11 (June 1947): 125–26, in which he disparages the Katsimbalis clique in particular, considering Katsimbalis a literary “manager” (using the English word) for the entire “Generation of the 30s.” Nitpicking replies came from Seferis in Nea Estia

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42 (1 August): 907–13 and Nea Estia 42 (15 October): 1273, plus others from Karandonis.  1  Milliex: Roger Milliex. The book in question was Prevelakis’s Χρονικό μιας πολιτείας. However, it did not appear in French until 1960, translated by Jacques Lacarrière.  1  Pearl Buck:  American novelist (1892–1973), raised in China by missionary parents; became famous owing to her novel about Chinese peasant life, The Good Earth (1931); awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1938; returned definitively from China in 1934 and engaged thenceforth in many humanitarian activities, especially concerning children.

To Thrasos Kastanakis —Manuscript in ELIA; photocopy of manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1986, p. 4.

ORGANISATION DES NATIONS UNIES POUR L’ÉDUCATION, LA SCIENCE ET LA CULTURE Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 23 August 1947 My dear Kastanakis! The eminent Börje Knös, deputy minister of education in Stockholm, translator of Theotokas, Terzakis (Izambo), Zorba, etc., is in Paris and will go to the Côte d’Azur around 15–18 September. I gave him The Farce of Youth. He read it and liked it very much. I explained quite a few words that he didn’t understand. I spoke to him a lot about Your Excellency and he will try to dash over to your villa if he can, to see you. Let’s hope he does, because he is charming, good, full of splendid intentions but uninformed and severely poisoned by the well-known Katsimbalis clique. Imagine: they never mentioned either your name to him or Prevelakis’s, and mine only in order to revile it. Wretched people! I envy you your location. God grant quickly that I, too, may see freedom. Things in Greece are going so badly that I’m beginning to have some hope. My wife and I greet your wife and you with much love. Yours, N. Kazantzakis P.S. The Chinese have a great malediction: “I curse you to be born in an interesting age.” What, therefore, is our duty now? To transform the curse into a blessing. So, luff the helm!

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1  The Farce of Youth:  A story by Kastanakis that Knös did eventually translate.  1  Katsimbalis:  G. K. Katsimbalis (1899–1978), bibliographer, translator, published the important periodical Τα Νέα Γράμματα, 1935–40, 1944–45; subject of Henry Miller’s The Colossus of Marousi (1941); directed Άγγλοελληνική Επιθεώρηση, 1945–52; compiled an essential (but incomplete) bibliography of Kazantzakis’s work; he and his “clique” were despised by Kazantzakis.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 282–83.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 10 September 1947 Dear friend! I hope that you received my letters. I wrote yesterday to Sofoulis, giving an account of your scholarly and patriotic action up north and asking him to intervene. I don’t know what you decided, but Knös, whom I saw yesterday, was in despair because he hadn’t received any letters from you. The new government will not achieve anything because the rebels (a) don’t have any faith in it, (b) perhaps will not be benefited by a cessation of the civil war. This government is an interim one (we’re gaining a little time because the rightwing and the center will perish simultaneously); afterwards we’ll have either a right-wing dictatorship or violent bloodshed and a left-wing dictatorship. The right-wing dictatorship will be interim and then—if America does not wish to launch a war—we’ll have an inevitable left-wing dictatorship. That’s the conclusion of logic, which almost never rules human evolution. So, with hope or terror, let’s await the unpredictable. I think of you every day with indissoluble concern and love. When shall we return to calmer waters and be able to work together again? Aegina glows at the depths of the horizon like paradise. I wonder: Did it ever exist? I am impatiently waiting for a letter from you. Do what you can not to send it to me from Athens. Warm greetings to your household. Eleni also greets everyone with much love. God be with you and τὼ δ’ εὖ νικάτω. N. Kazantzakis

1  the new government:  Soufoulis had replaced Constantinos Tsaldaris as prime minister on 7 September.  1  τὼ δ’ εὖ νικάτω:  Let the good prevail (from Aeschylus’s Agamemnon 121).

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To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 548–49; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 471–72; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 480.

ORGANISATION DES NATIONS UNIES POUR L’EDUCATION, LA SCIENCE ET LA CULTURE Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 21 October 1947 Very dear friend! A Chinese proverb says, “I curse you to be born in an interesting age.” We have been born in an interesting age, beneath the Chinese curse. We live at a transitional time, a critical one in which one world is dissolving while another is struggling to be born, and we display all the symptoms of the end of every civilization: lack of any faith that subordinates the “hated self ” to a higher principle above the individual, everyone an individualist, materialist, idolizing matter and quantity, scorning quality and the spirit. Morality, love, and beauty, the thin crust that covered the primitive beast, have split apart; the human volcano is smoking, the eruption is certain. We are headed at a fast pace to a frightful collision from which everyone will emerge defeated. Hunger, nakedness, and wretchedness will overcome the human species, which once again, slowly, laboriously, will try to reestablish its ranks, to organize itself, to resume the journey. “Which is the correct road?” asks Indian wisdom. “God’s road.” “Which is God’s road?” “The ascent.” Humanity will take the ascending road again, like Sisyphus. One pleasure—and one duty—remains for us now: to desire the new Ascent, to prepare ourselves, to believe in it—in the new humanity that will emerge from ruin. We know that the future does not depend on us; nevertheless, we must act as though the future did depend on us. Only in this way have great works been accomplished so far; only in this way can the ­future be influenced by us. Thus: tragic optimism, not pessimism. Faith again, love, respect for the upright Worm that we call humanity—these can save us. Such are the thoughts, dear friend, that I have had once again these days that are so crucial for France and the world. The two camps, far Right and far Left, are organizing here. The middle road, the correct one, is forgotten. Here, too, they are preparing for a collision. A demon, the demon of the twentieth century, prods people toward catastrophe, which has always been the initial, preparatory, phase of creation.

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May “God” be with you, dear friend! My wife and I think of you always with ardent love. Do not forget us! I hope that we shall meet soon, happy and serene. With much love, always, N. Kazantzakis P.S. With the money from Grandfather, buy a toy for Christmas and present it on my behalf to a poor Swedish child.

To Rae Dalven —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

ORGANISATION DES NATIONS UNIES POUR L’ÉDUCATION, LA SCIENCE ET LA CULTURE Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 22 October 1947 Dear demonish Rahel! It’s with great pleasure and love that we have read your lively letters so filled with power, zest, and nobility. May God (if He exists, and if He has heart and mind, and is not, He too, a capitalist and pro-Truman) stretch out His arm and lift you up there where you belong! Because I have seldom seen a woman who immediately gave me so much joy and also so much assurance regarding her power and her indomitable soul. You are among those souls, I believe, that compel reality to subject itself to the form that they give it. I am sure that Victory stands at your journey’s consummation. Paxinou wrote a long letter to me as well, saying that now she is unable and is very sorry, but perhaps later. I detest people who have a dog and buy for it as much as could feed three human beings. Our life here is the same. We say that we’ll go to New York for three months in the spring. Afterwards: Aegina. That’s where my mind always is, with you next to me, a huge book in front of us, and verses tumbling from your tongue like pebbles from the sea. Always! N. Kazantzakis

1  Rae Dalven:  American writer (1905–92), who produced translations of the poet Giôseph Eliyia (1944; see letter to her of 17 November 1947, below), two anthologies of modern Greek poetry in English, an early translation of Cavafy’s oeuvre with an introduction by W. H. Auden (1961), and a volume of Ritsos in translation called The Fourth Dimension: Selected Poems of Yannis

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Ritsos (Boston: David R. Godine, 1977). She also specialized in the history of the Jews in Greece, especially those of her birthplace, Yannina.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 283–84.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 27 October 1947 Dear friend! I had written you, kept waiting, and today I received your letter, from which it seems that mine got lost. I regret this very much, because the need to speak with you is so great that I am eager to respond to you the instant that you write me. The work here is the same, monotonous and still not creative. When I resign, I’ll try to dash over to America for a few months. There’s now a difficult, frightening plan in 1948 for the Odyssey to be translated into English. I’ve found a young woman who knows Greek (she’s of Greek extraction), was raised in America and studied there (university, teacher, etc.), and is a poet—a woman with an astonishing vital power, passionate about the English language, who considers a word to be an organism full of blood, warmth, and vitality like a young goat, or a leopard, or sometimes like a fragrant peach, ripe and covered in fuzz. Well, this young woman visited Paris, came to know and love the Odyssey, translated about three hundred lines, succeeded, and now wants to translate the entire poem. But that will take six months, and we’ll need to be together. Will this occur in America? On Aegina? We’ll see. In any case, this needs to happen in 1948, God willing. We’ll see. Thanks for the information you’ve given me about the Nobel Prize. These days are critical; in two weeks we’ll know. I hope that I’ll be granted another deadline a year from now. Will I have that luck, I wonder? Knös has spoken to me enthusiastically about Mauriac. There are many great candidates here: Gódo, Duhamel, Mauriac, maybe Claudel as well. If you learn anything ahead of time, write me. Perhaps Knös knows, but he’s Swedish. If you go to Holland, Paris is just a stone’s throw away. My pleasure and Eleni’s would be indescribable. How many times do I need to tell you that I don’t believe I love and honor anyone in the world more than you. May “God” support you, giving you strength and endurance so that you may advance like a rhinoceros, as Buddha says. Write me a lot; do not forget. Greetings from us to your family. It’s better that you absent yourself a while longer from the bloody soil. May God intervene at last! My wife and I greet you and expect you. Bye now! N. Kazantzakis

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1  a young woman: Rae Dalven.  1  many great candidates: Of these, only François Mauriac (1885–1970) won the Nobel Prize in Literature (1952).  1  Bye now!:  Γεια χαρά! Literally “health and happiness,” but really just a way of saying goodbye at the end of a letter.

To Rae Dalven —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

ORGANISATION DES NATIONS UNIES POUR L’ÉDUCATION, LA SCIENCE ET LA CULTURE Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 17 November 1947 Dear Comrade! What advice can I give you from a distance? You’ve got a good square mind; when not overcome by some passion, it cannot go wrong. You unite two things that are often not united: enthusiasm and judgment. There’s one thing that we very much recommend to you: to pay attention now solely to literature—find a publisher, make a name for yourself, have your work performed in the theater. Everything else—political, etc.—leave for others who are unable to do anything else. Everyone should do battle in his own sector and not confuse things. I continually think about how we might be able to work together for six months in order to finish the Odyssey. I’ll do what I can to come to America. Not, however, to live in New York; no one can concentrate there. I’ve been told a lot about a village of fishermen, all Greek, in Florida. Also how beautiful it is in Louisiana and in New Mexico. Please look into where we could stay—an inexpensive place where we could find quiet and a good climate, so that we’ll know where we’re headed when springtime comes. Thank you very much for the Eliyia. The translation is superior to the original. It has several mistakes that I have noted for you. But the work is splendid (i.e., the translation, not the original text), and I thank you very much for sending it to me. N

1  Eliyia:  Poems by Giöseph Eliyia, translated by Rae Dalven (New York: Anatolia Press, 1944). Joseph Eliyia (Γιοσέφ Ελιγιά, 1901–31) was a Greek Jewish poet, schoolteacher, and socialist, born in Yannina, who died tragically young.

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To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 549–50; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 472–73; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 481.

ORGANISATION DES NATIONS UNIES POUR L’ÉDUCATION, LA SCIENCE ET LA CULTURE Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 12 December 1947 Very dear friend! First of all I wish you health, joy, and patience in the horrible year 1948 that is arriving. It is filled with lightning, thunder, and thunderclaps, and it hangs like a heavy cloud over poor, wretched mankind. I saw the Prince de Broglie the other day. He, too, is full of worry (but also of expectancy regarding man’s fate), and he hopes that the atomic bomb will not be used by humankind to commit suicide. He uttered a phrase that impressed me, because I’ve been saying it and writing it for so many years now, and everyone misinterprets it: “‘Neither fear nor hope.’ I believe that this could be a fine motto for a man of science today, and for everyone who wishes to be simultaneously useful and lucid.” “I fear nothing, I hope for nothing, I am free” is the phrase I have ordered to be engraved on my tomb. To conquer illusion and hope, without being overcome by fright—that has been my life’s entire effort for the past twenty years. To stare directly into the abyss without breaking into tears, without begging or threatening, but serenely, tranquilly maintaining human dignity. To look at the abyss and keep working as though I were immortal. I was very pleased to come to know de Broglie, the great savant, because he firmed up within me many of my own thoughts. I received your article on modern Greek literature but unfortunately have not been able to read it. I simply detected several beloved names. Kastanakis (rue Littré 5) sends you greetings; he is expecting your daughter one of these days. He intends to invite all of us to eat together one day, which means that I, too, will see her. Thus, your daughter will find good friends in Paris. I’m glad that Zorba has found a home; let’s hope he’s printed quickly. Right now I’m translating my play Julian. I’ll send you a copy. My wife sends you warm greetings. Both of us hope that you and yours will have joyful holidays and that the new year will bring you some large unexpected joy. With much love, yours, N. Kazantzakis

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To Anghelakis Family —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

ORGANISATION DES NATIONS UNIES POUR L’ÉDUCATION, LA SCIENCE ET LA CULTURE Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 5 January 1948 Dear friends and fellow Aeginites! First of all, may God grant that the New Year gives not happiness—let’s not seek the impossible—but a little respite from today’s wretched, frenzied world! The human mind has gone excessively ahead at a time when the human soul has remained excessively behind. This gulf between mind and soul is the deepest root of all of our wretchedness today. The planet’s luck hangs from a thin thread. May God take pity on Himself and save the human being who has dedicated to God so many exquisite works! Where else will He find such hymns, paintings, such architecture? If we are destroyed, He is, too. Long life to Anghelakis! We’ll drink to your health in a day or two, because we love you very much. When and where we will meet is still unknown. The entire globe spins around in front of me when I try to decide. Let’s see where it will stop. Right now the mountains and tropical plains of Mexico are passing in front of me. What is happening in Greece breaks our hearts. What will happen? How will the battle of Cain and Abel stop? The original solution, for one to be killed by the other—is that, I wonder, the eternal solution? My warm greetings to Katerina. One day she will become an important person, if luck obliges. Her godfather sends his blessings! Always, N. Kazantzakis

1  Long life to Anghelakis:  They will drink to his health on the name day for Ioannis, which falls on 7 January.  1  Katerina:  The future poet Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 551; English translation (incomplete)

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in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 474; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 482.

ORGANISATION DES NATIONS UNIES POUR L’ÉDUCATION, LA SCIENCE ET LA CULTURE Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 2 February 1948 Very dear friend, It’s a long time since I wrote you. Thank you for the translation of Grandfather’s Death, which I received. But I’ve had great worries. One of my dearest friends died suddenly, and I was inconsolable for many days. And the other day came the murder of Gandhi, filling my heart and mind with bitterness. A few days ago the world shrank; four bullets deeply wounded the whole world’s conscience. It was very natural in a world as materialistic, grasping, and immoral as is our contemporary world—natural for the hero of nonviolence to be killed by violence. Rivers of blood will be spilled on the grave of this great hero and witness for peace and love. One is led to believe that preaching peace and love, in such a wretched era, stimulates and organizes hatred. The dark forces, the blind Titans, have been let loose, and their rage is doubled by every noble effort. I’ve been struggling for the past few days to balance the sadness, indignation, and hope within me. It is very difficult; only creative work is capable of consoling heart and mind. I hope to free myself soon from UNESCO and to be able to devote myself once again to poetry and prose. This spring we may go to New York, where the American poet who will translate the Odyssey into English with my help is awaiting us. An immense task, but I hope that we’ll finish in six months if we work fifteen hours a day. Zorba will be distributed to bookstores this week. I hope that you received the copy that I immediately sent you. Today I’m sending you something else. Please give it to the Nobel committee. In addition, I’m translating other plays into French, and I hope to send them to you quickly. My wife sends you warm greetings and always remembers you with lots of love. I am delighted that I have found a “brother” in the midst of the mythic nation of Hyperborean Apollo and that I can write to him from time to time and bridge North and South. Yours always! N. Kazantzakis

1  the murder of Gandhi:  Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was assassinated on 30 January 1948.  1  blind Titans: In Greek mythology, the Titans were

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the ruling deities until replaced by the Olympians. The chief was Cronus, overthrown by Zeus. Other Titans included Prometheus, Atlas, Gaea, Uranus, Oceanus.  1  Hyperborean Apollo:  Greek myth posited a mythical people called the Hyperboreans who lived north of Thrace and venerated Apollo.

To Yeoryios Vlachos —Photograph of manuscript in my possession; manuscript in the collection of Angelos Tsakopoulos, Sacramento, California; printed in Πρωινή (New York), 28–29 November 1987, p. 22.

ORGANISATION DES NATIONS UNIES POUR L’ÉDUCATION, LA SCIENCE ET LA CULTURE Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 6 February 1948 My dear Mr. Vlachos! May I ask a favor of you? As an upper-level employee of UNESCO, I applied via the embassy here (at the beginning of January, number 304) to be granted a diplomatic passport for six months to enable me to travel to North America or South America. Since the answer has been delayed, I thought that perhaps you would like me to send you some manuscripts when I go to America, not political ones, but similar to those that I sent to Kathimerini from Spain. If this suggestion interests you, I would ask you please to intervene in the Foreign Ministry so that they’ll grant me, as a correspondent for Kathimerini in North and South America, the passport that I seek. I’ll do everything I can to make these new manuscripts of mine for Kathimerini interesting to you and to your readers. Please do this. With extraordinary esteem and love, N. Kazantzakis

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 585–86.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 6 February 1948

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Dear Brother! It seems to me that I haven’t written to you for a long time. You had asked me, I think, about two verses by Dante. If you speak to Panayotopoulos, he’ll go to Dimitrakos, where I have the new version, and will copy them for you. Life here follows the same rhythm—all day at UNESCO, theater in the evening, and music quite often. I feel that Paris no longer has new stimulations to give me and am eager to leave. Right now I’m struggling to obtain a Greek visa for America, where I will collaborate with someone who knows Greek and also knows English perfectly, and is a poet, in order to translate the entire Odyssey together. It’s a unique chance, and I wouldn’t like to lose it while I’m alive, because once I depart from the light, there will be no hope. In New York I have enough money for a year, which is how long the translation will take. But the Greek consulate is giving me trouble; they’ll telegraph Athens, so they say, to ask for permission. In other words, it’s practically impossible. I am very worried and don’t know how to accomplish this goal of mine for 1948. In the meantime, Zorba has appeared in a lovely edition, and a large English publisher has also applied to publish him. I have translated, aside from Melissa and Julian, also Odysseas and the first Prometheus, but I don’t know where the second and third Prometheuses are. I had left a valise filled with manuscripts with Tea, but it’s not there. I’m worried because I don’t have a copy, and I no longer know what they say. Camus is enthusiastic about Melissa and is struggling to give it to be produced. Very very hard, but he has hopes. I hope that the plays will also be published, so that I’ll be able to relieve myself of French manuscripts. My heart breaks when I think of Greece. When will the frightful bloodletting stop? How long will this marvelous people endure? I would like to return to Aegina to work there in solitude, but how? The atmosphere will be filled with poison. When will you send the translation of the Chronicle? I would like it while I’m still here—that is, in April. Are you working well on The Cretan? I hope you can and that you are not wasting such valuable time, as I am. Eleni sends you warm greetings. At one moment we skipped with joy because we learned that perhaps you were coming to Paris. But the joy has been postponed. God grant that we may meet quickly—and happily. I am sick and tired here; I’ve got to hide and work somewhere. A multitude of projects is capering in my breast—prose, verse, drama—and does not leave me in peace. God be with you, dear brother! I am always, indissolubly, with you! N. Kazantzakis

1  Camus:  Albert Camus (1913–60), author, philosopher, journalist, awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1957.  1  The Cretan:  The three volumes of Prevelakis’s trilogy, published in 1948, 1949, and 1950.

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To Rae Dalven —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

ORGANISATION DES NATIONS UNIES POUR L’ÉDUCATION, LA SCIENCE ET LA CULTURE Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 18 February 1948 Dear friend! Your telegram greatly disturbed us. In accord with everything we said here and with everything you had written to us from America until now, I declared my resignation on 1 April from UNESCO, where I’ve been earning seven hundred dollars a month. I acted to secure a visa for America and arranged all of my duties in accord with our decision to work together in order to translate the Odyssey. We said that you would live with us for the six months necessary and you asked for five hundred dollars. I wrote to you immediately that I accepted your conditions. Then you wrote to me again, saying that five hundred were not enough and you wanted more. I saw that you were right and was preparing to write you asking what precisely you wanted so that we could make a definitive agreement. And then suddenly the telegram! I have great faith in your honesty and your intellect. Therefore, I’m certain that we will reach an agreement. I don’t believe that it is right for you to take back your word, causing me to resign in vain. I resigned because to translate the Odyssey this year with you interested me, and I had already found a way for us to find a publisher in America. Also, I always had in mind to allot royalties to you. Please, dear Rae, think it over and write me precisely what realistic basis you desire us to have for our collaboration. Perhaps you have understood what sort of people we are, Eleni and myself. With us, you will always do well. We have never been interested in our own benefit and always perform more than we promise. I had thought that during this period we could also become involved together in other remunerative efforts. I figure that we’ll finish in six months if we work well. In the meantime, I’ll find a way for your translation to be printed. Do us the favor of answering quickly and definitively, because 1 April, when I resign from UNESCO, is coming close. Eleni sends her greetings. She loves you very much and she, too, says: “Please!” With love, yours, N. Kazantzakis

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Three conditions: 1. Six months together, food and lodging supplied by me. 2. How many dollars do you think it right for you to get? 3. What percentage from the English publication of the Odyssey?

To Rae Dalven —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

ORGANISATION DES NATIONS UNIES POUR L’ÉDUCATION, LA SCIENCE ET LA CULTURE Paris, Place de la Madeleine 19 4 March 1948 Dear friend! We received all your letters, and I answer you at once. I. First of all, I reply to a query of yours. As an upper-level employee of UNESCO, I have been receiving seven hundred dollars a month. However, I have always wanted to resign, even from the first day, because I wanted to work on my own books. On the other hand, I would not have decided to resign if the idea of translating the Odyssey had not been present. When we reached an agreement at the start, I considered it essential to finish this work together. I resigned, and now my aim in 1948 is for the Odyssey to be translated and printed. That is all. II. I reply now to your latest letter: 1.  We have a home in New York, a beautiful apartment. A friend of ours has granted it to us for as long as we desire. Thus, that problem has been solved. You’ll stay in your own home. 2.  Also, it will be good for the two of us to eat separately because Eleni is on a strict diet now on account of her liver and thus the cuisine would be very complex. So we agree as well in that matter. Each will eat at home as he or she wishes and what he or she wishes. That, too, is settled! 3.  Since you don’t want a percentage of the publication, fine! In any case, I will consider it my friendly duty to give you as a gift as much as I can from my own royalties. So that’s settled! 4.  Now, the remuneration: two thousand dollars. As you know, it would be impossible for you to translate the Odyssey by yourself. We will collaborate, and my contribution will be essential and considerable. I won’t give you the text and wait for you to send me the translation. Instead, I need to subject

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myself to a large expenditure in order to come to America, to stay in New York, and to devote all of my time to working with you. You know all that. But I also agree to the following condition. For the translation of the Odyssey I will give you two thousand dollars paid according to the conditions you specified. I desire just one thing: for you to devote as many additional hours as you can, so that we may finish quickly. I figure that we will finish in six months if we work well. We’ll have problems in the beginning, but afterwards we’ll proceed quickly. So we’re also agreed concerning that. Now I’m waiting for the visa. I’m hoping that we shall be able to leave in May. I cannot estimate it exactly, but surely April will be too soon. I’ll expect you to send me, for us to sign, a contract with those conditions on which we agree. I, too, agree completely that for us always to remain good friends and collaborators, we must always communicate not on a friendly basis but on a business basis. Thus, I await the contract and may “God” be of help! Yours sincerely, N. Kazantzakis P.S. I believe that it will be in the best interests of both of us to fix a maximum time of six to eight months, because neither for you nor for us is it beneficial to last a long time. Fix this, therefore, in the contract. Naturally, your name as translator will be specified in the publication. NK

To Thrasos Kastanakis —Manuscript in ELIA; photocopy of manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

[Paris,] 5 April 1948 My dear Thrasos! I’ve had you in mind all these days because I think that few people will be able to understand your sadness as well as I can, because I have suffered three times in my life as you are suffering now, and I know that no consolation exists. The only one that does exist, Time, is even worse, because it humiliates the human soul. We who say from great love that we will never condescend to see our suffering decrease, little by little see that Time begins to heal our wound. That horrible force reduces the soul to remembering the friend without breaking its heart, as it did at the first moment. The soul is completely unjustified in acquiring this “strength.” Never shall I forgive myself for forbearance of this kind.

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When Stavridakis died, I remember that I took to the Macedonian mountains and began to weep as soon as I remained alone. I waited for nightfall so that I might fall asleep and dream that his death was a lie and that my friend had come and we were talking together and laughing once again and making plans, and that nothing had changed. Then came Time, which humiliates even the proudest soul, and now I see that I am able to speak about Stavridakis without weeping. The Bedouin sheik whose army was defeated and whose most valuable companions were killed was right when he issued a command: No mourning!—so that the pain would remain unconsumed and never decrease. But the soul finds justifications, begins to weep, is relieved, and then Time comes along and places a crust over our flame. My dear Thrasos, if something still joins us together, it is this: we know the meaning of “friendship.” May “God” grant that you, at least, will be able to keep your suffering unconsumed so that Time does not humiliate it—that is, lessen it. Will you be able? When one loses a friend, no other consolation exists except this one: never to be consoled. My wife and I send greetings to you both. I don’t know if you’ll find us in Paris because we intend to leave on 15 April in order to get some rest for two weeks in France. Where? We still don’t know. Perhaps in Vichy or Savoie, while waiting for a visa from Athens to go to America. So far my government refuses to give me one. Yours, always, N. Kazantzakis

To Rae Dalven —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine, 19 10 April 1948 Dear Rahel! I haven’t written you for so long because I’m still waiting for the visa from Athens, and I’m still being denied it. They’re afraid that I might give lectures in America against the fascist government in Athens, and they don’t want to give me a visa. If I can’t get one, then with great regret I’ll need to postpone the collaboration until a better opportunity arises. I am in full agreement with the contract you have sent me; the only remaining difficulty is the visa. Thus, if we cannot come in May, we will necessarily postpone the translation. In that case, let’s hope that you’ll be able to come to Aegina, where you really will be happy. We think of you always with much love and are very worried that we won’t be able to see you quickly.

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A long while ago I returned the translation of the Odyssey that you sent me. I haven’t received any other poems. You wrote me about Seferis. That’s very difficult, but he can apply to UNESCO if he wishes. I resigned as of 1 April and now don’t know what we’re going to do. Perhaps we’ll go to some provincial town in France, to wait until God lends a helping hand in Greece. With much love, yours, N. Kazantzakis

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 551–52; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 474–75; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 483.

Paris, Place de la Madeleine, 19 23 April 1948 Very dear friend! It seems to me that I haven’t written to you for years. I finally liberated myself from UNESCO. Once again I’m a free man. I have buried myself again in pure, disinterested intellectual work. I had applied for a visa from Greece to enable me to go to America, where the translator of the Odyssey awaits me. Today’s fascist government of Greece denied me the visa because, it seems, they’re afraid that I might give political lectures. Thus, I’ll wait until God stretches out a helping hand over Greece’s head and shields it—because we are being destroyed. The Greek nation is in danger; brothers are killed every day, and the passion grows continually more blind and inhuman. Discord has always been one of the curses of our race. It has brought us frequently to the edge of the abyss; however, we have always been saved—and not just saved. Passion has churned up our blood; danger has mobilized all our powers; the mind has been sharpened; the soul, because it had lost for a moment the great, simple forms of happiness—peace, love, the leisure to be creative—has desired them with yearning. That’s why, after each bloodletting, our race has thrown itself into intellectual creativity with fiery zest. This is my great hidden hope today as well: that from this blood, these ashes and tears, great intellectual works will take wing, that the fire will be transferred from the hands of catastrophe to the hands of God. It’s said that God is a philhellene and wears the Greek soldiers’ kilt. Now we shall see! I always talk with you, dear friend, as though we were old friends. Emotionally, I relate all of my thoughts to you. Blessed be the day we first saw each other. Neither my wife nor I will forget the pleasure you gave us. Let’s hope that one day you will also come to Aegina. Then our joy would be even greater.

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(We have lost your daughter’s address; my wife asks you please to write it to us. We want to invite her home and now don’t know how to do this.) May God be with you, very dear friend! We intend to leave Paris in the summer and to go near Lac Léman. There I’ll work well on several plays that I have begun. I’m happy that I’m going to enter solitude once again. Heartily, N. Kazantzakis

1  Lac Léman:  Lake Léman, the large lake also known as Lake Geneva.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 589–91.

Antibes, Côte d’Azur Villa Rose, Allée des Palmiers, Bd du Cap 20 June 1948 Dear Brother! I rented this extremely charming villa for a year and settled here at the beginning of June. I believe that I am fortunate now. Excellent garden: lemon trees, tangerine trees, a fig tree, huge olive tree loaded down with fruit, medlar tree, apricot tree, three plum trees full of fruit, huge eucalyptus, cypresses, laurels, oleanders, herbs. I intend to remain here for a year in order to finish various things I’ve had in mind. Before even opening my valises, I started to write a play, Sodom and Gomorrah, and I finished it yesterday afternoon, thirteen days later. The day after tomorrow I’ll begin a novel that has taken possession of me. I’ve got to free myself. Afterwards I have other things in mind. I will finish them here in solitude, near the sea, amid fruit-bearing trees, God willing. After the seductive hell of Paris, I entered paradise here. Eleni is still in Évian, taking a cure for her liver. Finally, after so many years, the doctors at last saw where the enemy is. It’s just like Dürer in his self-portrait pointing to his liver with his finger. Julian was performed yesterday in Paris in a young theatrical troupes’ contest. The actor who played Julian is excellent. But I’m glad that I won’t be there because Julian is very far from me now—behind me. I’ve been reduced to being devoid of “problems”; the one god who truly remains upright inside me is the god of touch, Epaphus. Zorba is a triumph for the Parisians—how, I can’t understand. So far, he’s been taken in England, America, Sweden, and Czechoslovakia. An amazing

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man, to keep traveling and passing the time even after death. Zorba is still alive inside me because he had the same god: Epaphus. The hope you’ve given me that we might see each other soon fills me with joy and emotion. The thought that we’ll be conversing in this garden delights me. Your last letter was very short; that worried me. Write me all the details about yourself. You know that I have no other comrade. I brought The Cretan with me, and I’m rereading it. What soul, what language, what restrained power, what action! May “God” keep you well! Thus, looking forward to seeing you in Antibes! You’ll tell me then if Sodom and Gomorrah is worth anything. And you’ll bring me many of your own manuscripts. Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis P.S. Merlier wrote to me that Nikolareïzis wrote a study of the Odyssey in Nea Estia. Will you do me the favor of telephoning P. Haris to say that I’d like him please to send it to me, but not par avion, so he won’t have a big expense on my behalf? I’ll be grateful.

1  Nikolareïzis: Dimitrios Nikolareïzis (1908–81), critic. His study was of the presence of Homer in modern Greek poetry. It appeared in Nea Estia 42 (Christmas 1947): 153–64, especially pp. 158–60.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed in Kazantzakis 1977d, p. 301.

Antibes, Villa Rose Allée des Palmiers, Bd du Cap 24 August 1948 Very dear friend! Your letter in which you tell us that you’ll be coming to Antibes has given great pleasure to my wife and me. There’s no need for you to be concerned about a room. You’ll stay with us in our house; we have a room for you. We’ll eat together. I, too, am ascetic. We’ll share what we have. So, do not have any concerns. In the evening we’ll talk like two candles lighted in the darkness of today’s world. The ruler of our time is a terrible demon of destruction. I have no hope for the immediate future; all my hopes are for the distant future that will be enjoyed neither by us nor by our children. But no matter. To believe in it, to prepare for it in our hearts, to proclaim it in our writings is a great consolation. We must not expect any other. In all my work, I have done nothing

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else but this: to struggle to divine and to formulate the prototype of the future human being. He is Odysseas in the Odyssey, which I wrote with “generous sweat,” as Dante says. We are still not human; we are still in the post-monkey stage. In the Odyssey I attempted to formulate how I imagine the true human being will be—attempted to create a matrix, a womb for the coming human being. But we’ll talk about all this next month in Villa Rose. There is a direct longdistance bus from Grenoble to Antibes. You don’t need to go to Nice. Write us when you’ll be in Antibes. We’ll come to the station to get you, and from then on you’ll be our guest. That will bring us great pleasure. Thus: looking forward to seeing you. Write to us. God be with you, always! Nikos Kazantzakis P.S. A laurel leaf from our home.

1  “generous sweat,” as Dante says:  The quote is clearly not from Dante’s Divine Comedy. It comes from a well-known, often cited passage in book 1 of the twelve-thousand-line epic Punica by Silius Italicus (ca. a.d. 26–102), in a passage describing Hannibal’s dreams, which cause his slaves to be bathed in sweat.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 592–93.

Antibes, Villa Rose Allée des Palmiers, Bd du Cap 27 August 1948 Dear brother! Imagine my pleasure when I received your letter from England. You’ll breathe a little clear and free air. God grant that you may be able to come to Antibes so that we may see each other, because I no longer know when I’ll be able to go down to Greece. I work well here—it’s quiet, lovely, wonderful weather. These past few days I’ve been finishing the novel I started, Christ Recrucified, which will come to five hundred pages. It is contemporary, taking place in a village in Asia Minor. There is no “I.” Naturally I don’t know if it is any good, but I’m writing it with great gusto. The novelistic genre has become an outlet for me in which I am able to make use of certain “human” qualities I possess, qualities that do not find their way into poetry or drama, at least not in this manner. Good spirits, humor, ordinary “human” everyday

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talk, laughter, jokes with plenty of salt, difficult concepts formulated with peasant simplicity—all these were in me, and it’s only in the novel that I’ve been able to deposit them and find relief. These things too were a part of myself that needed to be given expression, lest I take them with me and they disappear in the soil. As you know, when I die, I’d like Death to find nothing important to take along. These days I had an invitation from Poland to represent Greece in a worldwide writers’ symposium. The Greek consulate naturally denied me a visa. They say that they’ll give me one only for Greece, and I’d like to stay in Italy next year. How long will this slavery last? If they don’t give me one for Italy, I’ll go to Morocco. We’ll see. That’s my “news.” Now I’ll expect a long letter from you in which you tell me what you are seeing and doing in England, how you’re getting along, what you are writing. I never tire of telling you (you’ll be tired of hearing it) that you are the only person I feel as a comrade, as one with me, similarly redeemed. You remember what the great mystic Bayazid al Bistami said: “Who is redeemed? He whose heart, when he buys and sells, is in the right place: the garden.” Our hearts, throughout all the bitternesses and dealings of life, are always in the garden. Eleni sends you warm greetings and hopes that you’ll be able to come. She planted new flowers in the garden today. “For Prevelakis to see when he comes,” she said. My warm greetings to Lefteris. Tell him that I always remember him with great love. Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis P.S. Enclosed is a laurel leaf from our garden.

1  Bayazid al Bistami:  Sufi mystic (777–874), usually known as Bayazid Bastami (i.e., Bayazid from the city of Bastam, Iran) but also as Abu Yazid Bistami; he emphasized the importance of ecstasy in the divine presence; his sayings are widely quoted.  1  Lefteris: Eleftherios Prevelakis (1919­–91), Oxford D. Phil.; historian, then in London doing research for his dissertation, British Policy towards the Change of Dynasty in Greece, 1862–1863, published in 1953; later, director of the Center for Study of the History of Modern Hellenism; member of the Academy of Athens.

To Katerina Anghelaki —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

Antibes, 10 September 1948

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My dear Katerinaki! I’m sending you my latest photograph so that you can see how living abroad reduces a person. I’m sure that you won’t recognize me. The hat I’m wearing is the latest fashion in Paris. I always remember you with great love and I pray that you won’t acquire any of your godfather’s faults. N. Kazantzakis

1  Katerinaki:  Little (or young) Katerina; she was then nine years old.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 596–98.

Antibes, Villa Rose Allée des Palmiers, Bd du Cap 6 November 1948 Dear Brother! I don’t believe that the pleasure you gave me coming to Antibes shall ever fade. Joy, sweetness, complete contact. I don’t know how I will be able to thank you one day for this benefit because, as time advances, I feel that I am completely alone in this world and cannot speak, or be silent, as I wish, with anyone. May “God” grant that Greece will be well next summer, so that we may meet in Aegina. Otherwise in Italy. I must see you—it’s a necessity for me— even if only once a year. I received the two books. Many thanks. The one by Jaeger I’ll read as soon as I find time. It’s a weighty, celebrated work and needs leisure. The other one I read at once; it impressed me greatly: elevated tone, luxuriant thought, ardent love for and understanding of Greece’s fate. I intend to write to Theodorakopoulos to thank him for writing it. Right now I’m finishing the second draft of my novel Christ Recrucified. I’ll print it when I return at last to Greece. I don’t know if it’s any good. I intend to write a series of novels like this with a short prologue that I am enclosing for you. These days I’m thinking of beginning my Memoirs, from the time of Knossos until today. The Greek mind struggling for freedom. A few thousand years concentrated in an ephemeral soul. Very difficult, but I’m going to try. Without my desiring it, this theme has displaced all the others inside me. It wants to assume form. Let’s indulge it! Eleni is typing the three Prometheus plays now. It’s difficult for me to find a publisher for them, which saddens me very much because they were written during the Occupation and are filled with the yearning for freedom.

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The radio I purchased is now my great companion. Excellent musical quality. I’m listening to music now at the same time that I’m writing. This does me a world of good. This machine is a unique, precious companion in this wilderness in which I have buried myself. I’ve known about Eliot for seven months. Certainly Sikelianos and Juan Ramón Jiménez are better than him. Eleni sends greetings. She, too, thanks you for the days you granted us in Antibes. Now she wants us to purchase a house here. But I cannot betray Aegina. I beg you heartily to write to me often. The other day, 8 November, I was happy to learn that your new work is in the shop windows of Athens. I shall never forget the pleasure and admiration I felt when you were reading it to us. May the “God” of Greece hold you always in good stead! Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis

Khozyain Piruet In Irkoutsk, Siberia, I once met a Greek baker who worked day and night like a dog, kneaded during the night, baked at dawn, and sold bread during the day. He lived like an uncivilized ascetic: didn’t have fun, didn’t laugh, never got married, didn’t father children—there was never any time. But every so often, abruptly, he was captured by high spirits. Suddenly fed up with loading the oven, emptying the oven, and selling, he would close the bakery and paste on the door a piece of paper having large red letters that announced KHOZYAIN PIRUET, “The proprietor is having fun.” He placed the keys in his pocket and really did himself proud. He went and found some disorderly friends of his, ate and drank with them, told jokes, danced, consorted with women, got violins to play for him, had a good time for ten or fifteen days and nights. His high spirits dispersed. He felt relieved. Then he tore up the sign, reopened the bakery, and threw himself again into the sweaty work. The same thing happened to me. Suddenly captured by high spirits, I ­devoted myself to having a good time: I began to write novels—Zorba, Christ Recrucified, and others that I am going to write, “God”-willing (i.e., time-permitting). That’s my “good times.” I found some old disorderly friends—gallowsbirds, fine people whom I love—and I’ve been enjoying myself with them. I, too, have been writing KHOZYAIN PIRUET in big red letters on my door, forgetting the bakery I opened and the bread I knead. I am doing as I please, laughing, using dirty language, spinning truths and falsehoods, resurrecting the beloved dead, both men and women, getting the inner violins and shepherd’s pipes to play—so that I, too, might unwind for a little, might manage to bring laughter to my lips, so that my mind, too, might turn its back on

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the abyss for a moment, gaze upon the verdant upper world with its embroidery of people, trees, insects, empires, and roll for a moment on the green grass like a donkey in springtime. Then, relieved, I shall open my bakery once again, light up the great fires, and turn my face anew toward the abyss.

1  Jaeger:  Werner Wilhelm Jaeger (1888–1961), Paideia: die Formung des griechischen Menschen (Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1934–).  1  the other one I read at once: Ioannis Theodorakopoulos (1900–1981), Το πνεύμα του νεοελληνισμού και η τροπή των καιρών (Athens, 1945; The Spirit of Neohellenism and the Twists and Turns of the Times). Theodorakopoulos was professor of philosophy at the University of Athens; minister of education in the Kanellopoulos government in 1945; became a member of the Academy of Athens in 1960.  1  the Occupation:  The period (April 1941–October 1944) when Greece was occupied by the Axis powers (Germany, Italy, Bulgaria).  1  I’ve known about Eliot: T. S. Eliot received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1948 for “his outstanding, pioneer contribution to present-day poetry.” The prize went to Jiménez in 1956.  1  your new work:  Ο Κρητικός—Η πρώτη λευτεριά.

To Minas Dimakis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; photograph of manuscript in Dimakis 1975, pp. 7–8; photograph of incomplete manuscript in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 658–59; printed in Dimakis 1975, pp. 18–19; also printed in Dimakis 1972, p. 301, and (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 557–58.

Antibes, Villa Rose Allée des Palmiers, Bd du Cap 27 November 1948 Dear friend, It was a pleasure to receive your letter. I thank you and the friends who still remember that I exist. I have posted to you the prologue to the play Sodom and Gomorrah. Please act as overseer yourself to prevent typographical errors, which I detest so much. The printers greatly mishandled the Odyssey recently, and I was overcome with disgust. Errors in verse are deadly. Eleni is now typing the novel Christ Recrucified, which has become very large (so it wished); I don’t know if I’ll find a publisher in Greece. It is completely contemporary—and good, I think. I’ve begun a new one now and also a new play about the present tragedy in Greece. I hope—and fear—that I will stay a long time here; yesterday I rented a villa for three years. I work splendidly here. The climate is excellent: sea, sunshine, tropical trees, nice people, solitude. The body is healthy; the mind functions; I don’t have any form of

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homesickness. I carry Greece in its entirety beneath my eyelids. I believe that I lack nothing. It’s just that I have an incurable concern for Greece, which they are attempting to destroy. But I know well that she is eternal and will emerge from this trial considerably augmented. I am sure that great souls and great works are being born and will be born from this blood and from the tears. Never have I possessed so much belief and confidence in our race as I do now. Christ is eternally crucified in order to be resurrected. We must really be proud regarding the coincidence of being born Greeks. At the same time, we must realize at every moment, in every one of our words, in every line and verse that we write, that we bear a great responsibility. These past few years— when I have come to know the worldwide intelligentsia at first hand and have seen its representatives, spoken with them, and experienced them—this thought has given me the Great Certainty that our race is incomparably worthy. We were born lords, a frightening pleasure and responsibility. Please give my warm greetings to all friends and comrades. I will write separately to Papas. Do not forget that I always remember Varelas and Kambanis with great love. “God” be with you, dear friend, and with Greece. If He is not with her, He had better know that He (not she) has been destroyed. N. Kazantzakis

1  I’ve begun a new one now:  Fratricides.  1  Varelas:  Panayotis Varelas (1916–73), author, editor.  1  Kambanis:  Aristos Kambanis (1883–1957), critic, journalist, translator.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 599–601.

Antibes, 2 December 1948 Dear Brother! The pace of life here continues the same. Divine days, glorious sunshine every day, like springtime. Yesterday I rented an excellent villa for three years: sun-drenched, high up, with a divine veranda, garden with thirteen olive trees, four fig trees, orange trees, etc. Very near Villa Rose. I’m afraid that I’ll be required to stay a long time abroad. I am working well. I began a new play, completely contemporary, its subject being today’s tragedy in Greece, but done like an ancient tragedy, frugal, devoid of rhetoric, strict, with few characters, plus the chorus: two mothers. Together with this I’m knitting a new novel in my mind. Christ Recrucified is being typed now by Eleni. Sodom and Gomorrah has reached its definitive form, and it, too, is being typed—I’ll

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send you a copy at once. The Prometheus plays have also been typed in definitive form. I would like to ask a favor of you: Are you willing to intervene with Kimon so that he’ll publish the Prometheus trilogy in one volume? You can tell him that I do not require any royalties but that I impose two conditions: that the publication be a quality one under your supervision (from which he’ll supply me with ten deluxe copies) and that it be printed and circulated during April and May. Also, could Nea Estia print Sodom and Gomorrah under the condition that fifty copies in book form be brought out for me, ten of which are deluxe? I greatly need to relieve myself of these manuscripts. I asked Kastanakis to please intervene with Moschos, who is now in Switzerland, to get him to print Christ Recrucified. Please take care of this for me; you’ll make me most grateful. I’d like Nea Estia, too, to print by the beginning of the summer of 1949. I eagerly await your book. We listen to divine music here on the new radio. I’ll hold on to this letter for a few days, hoping in the meantime to receive a letter from you. Eleni and I have you in mind at every moment with great love. 6 December 1948 I have just received your letter. Thank you for your kind wishes. God grant that we may celebrate together next year. I’ll expect your book as the greetings for 1949. God grant you the strength to complete your cycle. As I wrote you, I very much want to print my manuscripts, but nothing is happening with Merlier. For years he’s gone through the motions of printing his translation of Askitiki, and for years he has postponed it. I translated it for him this year (he had translated only one-third), and once again he’s silent. He’s an enemy, the wretch. I wish that Kimon would print the Divine Comedy. If he wants to, don’t ask me, do whatever you want. Won’t he be able to print the Prometheus trilogy for me? Moschos still has not answered. If he refuses, then perhaps Kimon. The Iliad would be beautifully published by Merlier. Kakridis would be able to be consulted; he would certainly be more bearable than me. I think “ελικόποδες” is στριφτοζάλης (Cretan). The “bird of prey” that you sent me is astonishing. When you read such “prehistoric” things, please do not forget me. Eleni sends you warm greetings. I always await your letters with pleasure. Para siempre! N Zorba is beginning to produce some income! I recently received two generous checks for advance payment from Sweden and Brazil, and from other

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countries soon. It’s strange that he is making an impression. By now Zorba has made up the money that he cost me in the overhead cableway. In a few days I’ll be sending you Sodom and Gomorrah for Nea Estia, if they want it. I’m hoping that Julian and Melissa will be printed in French.

1  a new play:  This seems to have been abandoned.  1  Kimon:  Kimon Theodoropoulos, president of Aetos publishing house.  1  Moschos:  S. Moschos, founder of Οι Φίλοι του Βιβλίου publishing house.  1  your cycle:  His trilogy, The Cretan, was indeed completed. The three volumes are Το δέντρο (1948), Η πρώτη λευτεριά (1949), and Η πολιτεία (1950).  1  ελικόποδες:  With twisted feet—that is, walking in a twisted, spiral fashion.  1  στριφτοζάλης:  This word does not seem to appear in any of the Cretan dialect dictionaries, but it is used in the Kazantzakis-Kakridis translation of the Iliad. In his lexicon for the Odyssey, Kazantzakis defines ζάλο as “step.” The adjective στριφτός means “twisted.” The compound adjective στριφτοζάλης would seem to describe an ox with “twisted step”—that is, one that does not advance in a straight line.  1  bird of prey:  A newspaper account of an eagle that attacked an airplane.

To Thrasos Kastanakis —Photocopy of manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1986, pp. 7–8.

Antibes etc. 27 December 1948 My dear Thrasos! I’ve delayed writing you because I was slightly ill, and now I am completely well and have resumed various correspondences. I hope that you will soon receive the contents of the Second Epistle of Markos. Please do your best with those of 9 October again and translate the one of 1 October into French for me and send it in Eleni’s name. I’ll be most grateful. I need them very much. The Black-mountain-woman came with her aide-de-camp Archbishop Damaskinos, but I didn’t see them and was very sorry. Eleni saw them. Glorious sunshine here every day, but quite cold; we have the heat on all day long. I’m eager to go to the Manolita, where there is no humidity at all. I’m working well. I’m sorry I didn’t see Paxinou with her aide-de-camp. Nothing new from Greece. By any chance do you know Markos’s new hours? He changed and I’ve lost him. I’m hoping that the Fatted Calf will come at Christmas, and please don’t forget about the book. Zorba is sold out. Kimon wants Christ and promises pie in the sky. But I prefer the Fatted Calf.

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Eleni and I greet both of you and are counting the months. Luckily they go by quickly. May God grant you unexpected good luck in the new year. Always, N. Kazantzakis

1  do your best with:  A guess at the meaning of Kazantzakis’s κοκοροποίησε (or perhaps κοκκοροποίησε).  1  Black-mountain-woman:  Paxinou.  1  Damaskinos:  (1890–1949), served as archbishop of Athens from 1941 to 1949, during the difficult years of the German occupation and the civil war, and as vice regent of Greece from 31 December 1944 to 27 September 1946.  1  the Manolita:  The Kazantzakises’ new house (see letter of 3 February, below).  1  Markos’s new hours:  Presumably refers to the times when Markos Vafiadis (1906–92), the communist leader of the Democratic Army from 1946 to 1949, during the civil war, was on the radio.  1  the Fatted Calf:  The publisher Moschos (the noun “moschos” in ancient Greek means “calf ”).  1  Christ:  Christ Recrucified (known as The Greek Passion in the American edition).

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 558–59; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 479; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 488.

Antibes, 29 January 1949 Very dear friend! I was ill and continually thought of you and wanted to write you but couldn’t. Now I’m well, and today I received your study on the tragedy of contemporary Greece and leafed through it with great emotion. I cannot read it, yet I know that that there is a brave and honest voice in it that is defending, in the North, the true, eternal Greece. Aeschylus’s verses enable me to feel the full essence of your voice. I wrote to Paris asking that you be sent various books that I hope will aid you if you wish to enlighten the Swedes by writing a series of articles. I hope that you received them. I’m working here. Even during my illness I kept working. My new novel is progressing well, and the older one, Christ Recrucified, has started to be translated. I’m enclosing for you a critique on Zorba. The Swedish publisher asked me to send him whatever critiques I had, even if they’re in Greek. I have a lot more, but I left them in Paris; even Varnalis wrote with enthusiasm. I wonder

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when Zorba will wander through the streets of Stockholm dressed in Swedish clothes. The manuscript of my play Constantine Palaiologos is in Aegina, and unfortunately I am not able to send it to you. Contemporary chroniclers— chiefly Phrantzes, Chalkokondyles, Critobulus, and Nicolo Barbaro—wrote a great deal about the fall of Constantinople. The book by the famous Frenchman Gustave Schlumberger, La prise de Constantinople, is very fine and well documented. Have you seen Permanence de la Grèce, published by Cahiers du Sud? It is generally good and useful, but very unjust. It does not mention our best prose writers—Prevelakis, Myrivilis, Kastanakis—nor the poets Varnalis, Nikos Papas, Rita Papa, etc. Levesque is a malevolent Frenchman who has fallen victim of a wretched clique in Athens. It’s a shame for intellectual Greece to become known by foreigners thanks to impassioned narrow-minded people. I felt very sorry. I hope the day will come when you will undertake this honorable task. My wife sends you warm greetings, and she thanks you for your study of our sanguinary fatherland. I tell you once again: if it chances to be convenient for you, we would be delighted to see you again in our home. May the God of Greece be with you, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  Phrantzes:  Georgios Phrantzes (1401–ca. 1477), author of a chronicle of the history of the house of the Palaiologi from 1258 to 1476.  1  Chalkokondyles:  Laonikos Chalkokondyles (ca. 1423–90), Byzantine historian, author of ten volumes covering the period 1298–1463 of Byzantine history. These were published in Latin translation in 1556 and in French translation in 1577.  1  Critobulus:  Michael Critobulus of Imbros (ca. 1410–ca. 1470), a Greek historian who wrote a biography of Constantinople’s conqueror, Sultan Mehmet II, published in English as History of Mehmed the Conqueror (Princeton University Press, 1954). Critobulus’s original manuscript is preserved in Istanbul.  1  Nicolo Barbaro (fifteenth century, precise dates unknown), a patrician Venetian, Venetian ambassador to Constantinople during the siege, whose diary describes the fall perhaps somewhat inaccurately, overemphasizing the activities of his fellow Venetians. Edited by Enrico Cornet, the diary is published as Giornale dell‘ Assedio di Costantinopoli 1453 di Nicolo Barbaro (Vienna, 1856). An English translation by J. R. Jones was published by Exposition Press, New York, in 1969.  1  Gustave Schlumberger:  French historian and numismatist (1844–1929). His book’s full title is La Siège, la prise et le sac de Constantinople par les Turks en 1453 (Paris, 1914).  1  a wretched clique:  Katsimbalis & Co.—naturally!  1  Permanence de la Grèce:  Anthology of contemporary Greek writing, published in Marseilles in 1948. On page 326, Levesque has a note on Kazantzakis.

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To Thrasos Kastanakis —Printed in Kazantzakis 1983, p. 203.

[Antibes,] Still paradise, 3 February 1949 My dear Thrasos, Thanks for your letter and forgive me for giving you so much trouble every so often. Well, let’s wait for Moschos; let’s also wait for that infantile divorcé who yearns so mightily for lost authority and wants to marry it again. It’s slightly cold here, but we have an entirely clear sky and a springtime sun—gorgeous weather. My health is back where it should be. An analysis took place; the enemy was discovered to be staphylococcus, which has irritated my face every so often and is now being killed off by means of special injections. So much for that! I’m working well; the novel is nearing completion. Its name so far is Fratricides. In a few days, five or six, we’re moving to Villa Manolita, Parc Saramartel. I’m bidding a sad farewell to the Maison Rose as though she were a human being: nine splendid months, nothing to complain about, yet I am abandoning her as though jilting a beloved woman. Nevertheless, I’m justified after a fashion—her husband, the owner, is about to arrive. I listen to Markos every day from 1:15 to 1:45 at 34 kHz and from 6:30 to 7:00 at 46 kHz. The reception is excellent. Eleni found paper here of the sort I wrote you about, 315 francs the ream. 4 February, early morning “Marcos limogé.” Eleni burst into tears. Let’s wait until 1:15 to see. I heard at noon: Zachariadis in Markos’s place, Markos a lemon rind squeezed dry and tossed—not even membership in the Central Committee as recompense. What a pack of doggish riff-raff around a great idea! What personal passions, jealousies, and hatreds! And what about our friend the brave Marathon fighter? No mention of his illustrious name. They are narrowing the struggle even further; instead of broadly democratic it is becoming narrow-mindedly and ineptly communistic. Not at all strange that the likes of a Foula and a Lilika have begun to curse Markos just as they cursed Tito and will curse Zachariadis tomorrow if such a command is given the red sheep. You saw with what malice and villainy they announced Markos’s dislodgment: “Chryso Papavasiliou and Markos Vafiadis . . .,” not “General,” not a word about his battles the past three years. If you receive a letter from Sir, please write me. Warm greetings to you both from Eleni and me. I’m sending you another enclosure. Once again, please go to the trouble of sending it to Eleni. Always, N. Kazantzakis

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1  infantile divorcé:  Sofianopoulos.  1  Marcos limogé:  Markos dismissed from command.  1  Zachariadis:  Nikos Zachariadis (1903–73), general secretary of the Greek Communist Party (KKE) from 1931 to 1956, appointed by order of Stalin. Sent to Dachau concentration camp by the Germans in 1941 but released in May 1945 and returned to Greece and leadership of the Party. Feuded with Markos over tactics, assuming command of the communist Democratic Army when he secured Markos’s dismissal. After defeat, he fled to the Soviet Union, where he fell out of favor following Stalin’s death in 1953. Apparently his own death in 1973, in Siberia, was via either suicide or assassination.  1  Foula:  Foula Hatzidaki, daughter of Elli Alexiou and wife of Miltiadis Porfyroyenis.  1  Miltiadis Porfyroyenis:  Marxist intellectual (1903–58), who supported Stalin and Zachariadis; member of the KKE since 1926.  1  Lilika: Elli Alexiou.  1  Chryso Papavasiliou:  Kazantzakis means Chrisa Hatzivasiliou (1900 or 1901–50), probably KKE’s most impressive female cadre; former member of the central committee of KKE; purged along with Markos. The announcement, which came via radio on 4 February 1949, stated that, “taking into consideration that for several months comrades Chrisa Hatzivasiliou and Markos Vafiadis were gravely ill and therefore could not fulfill the duties assigned to them by the Central Committee, it has decided unanimously to relieve them of all Party jobs.” Of course, neither Vafiadis nor Hatzivasiliou was ill.

To Thrasos Kastanakis —Printed in Kazantzakis 1983, p. 203.

Rainy paradise, Wednesday [February 1949] My dear Thrasos, I received your long-desired letter that has caused greater thirst in me than earlier. However, it’s good that you’ll be coming soon, which means that you say what you find wearisome to write. I am impatiently awaiting Elias’s documents and whether you, in your turn, have anything relating to KKE’s position on Macedonia. I beg you ardently to bring this with you, since I need it for my novel Fratricides. One of the chapters has remained half-finished; it deals with the Macedonian question. It’s probable that we shall rent the Manolita for ninety thousand for six weeks and be away from Antibes from 15 July to 21 August. But we still don’t know for sure. Let’s hope there’s some possibility that the infantile will go down to Athens. I had “prophesied” November. I’m sending you one hundred. Please send us something immediately because we have many debts. Also, when you get something from Markos, exchange another hundred for us just before you leave. I hope that M. will now send more than before.

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Warm rain here, delightful, the kind I love, smelling of lemon blossoms, roses, and honeysuckle. Extend my warm greetings to Sofianopoulos and Elias. Be sure to beg Elias to send me whatever documentation he has, because I have a great need to be up to date. I feel full confidence in Elias’s judgment, also Svolos’s, and would like to learn in detail why they made the decision they did. I wrote to charming Yvonne, telling her to get the manuscript. My health is splendid—“tail up,” as Vlastos telegraphed Athens a few days before he died. My respectful regards to Elpis—and to you. N. Kazantzakis

1  Elias: Elias Tsirimokos (1907–68), first elected to parliament in 1936; cofounded the democratic socialist party ELD with Svolos; in 1941 joined EAM’s central committee; prime minister for one month in 1965. Both he and Svolos decided to leave EAM in 1949.  1  EAM:  Εθνικό Απελευθερωτικό Μέτωπο (National Liberation Front), leftist-republican coalition led by the KKE; the principal resistance organization against the Axis.  1  Svolos:  Alexander Svolos (1892–1956), expert in constitutional law, president of the democratic socialist party ELD, university professor, president of the Political Committee of National Liberation (PEEA), shadow government formed by EAM in the Greek mountains in March 1944; elected to parliament in 1950. Both he and Tsirimokos decided to leave EAM in 1949.  1  KKE’s position on Macedonia:  KKE (the Greek Communist Party) decided in January 1949 to support the establishment of an autonomous Macedonia, thereby losing much support.  1  Yvonne:  Yvonne Gauthier-Gounelaki, translator of Zorba into French.  1  tail up:  An English expression meaning “be optimistic.” Kazantzakis writes it in English in his letter of 26 February 1957 to Kimon Friar, below.

To Thrasos Kastanakis —Printed in Kazantzakis 1983, pp. 203–4.

Villa “Manolita,” Parc Saramartel, 20 February 1949 My dear Thrasos, I received [your letter]; thanks. Please write me what you know about Markos. He is much beloved here in the Manolita. I’m sending you two clippings from Monde that you may not have read. These days are extremely bitter. I no longer listen to the radio from the mountains with the old confidence and yearning. Sir will know a lot. Has he written you? Decay, infighting, and Markos’s successor is a loathsome, poisonous sectaire. Freedom is extremely onerous, not allowing one to belong to a single camp. Onerous but precious.

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Here at the Manolita, paradise is at its height: sunshine, olives, my study isolated high up on the verandah, and I view the sea and the entire region of Antibes, Golfe-Juan, etc. Today I finished the new novel Fratricides (neither the Gospel according to Markos nor the Gospel according to Ioannis Ioannidis). First draft; there will be three. Eleni and I send greetings to Elpis and you and eagerly await your arrival. I’m glad that I feel the need for your presence; that unites me somehow with pleasure. Yours always, N. Kazantzakis I read Patatzis’s novel. Awful. Unworthy of him. Superficial, false, makeshift. It saddened me greatly. Did you get Tasos Athanasiadis’s novel Η χαρισάμενη εποχή? A roman-fleuve, alas. How is it possible for a river to flow from a medicine dropper?

1  sectaire:  Sectarian, bigoted adherent to a single viewpoint.  1  Ioannis Ioannidis: Ioannidis (1900–1967) was acting co-secretary of the Central Committee of KKE along with Yioryis Siantos (1890–1947) during Zachariadis’s incarceration in the Dauchau concentration camp (1941–45), then second secretary under Zachariadis after the latter’s return to Greece; dropped from the KKE Political Office in 1952 when Zachariadis was attacked for the conduct and outcome of the civil war.  1  Patatzis’s novel:  Η μεθυσμένη πολιτεία (1948).  1  Tasos Athanasiadis:  Prize-winning novelist (1913–2006), general director of National Theater, member of the Academy of Athens, president of the Ouranis Foundation.  1  roman-fleuve:  A long novel usually chronicling the history of several generations of a family and typically published is several successive volumes.

To Yannis Kakridis —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yannis Kakridis; missing from Kazantzakis Museum Kakridis archive; missing from Kazantzakis 1977b.

Antibes, Villa Manolita, Parc Saramartel 1 March 1949 Dear comrade and friend! I’m glad to see that you remember me. You can imagine with what pleasure I received the two books yesterday: your splendid one, and your wife’s. Yours, which is familiar to me, I rapidly leafed through, seeing that you have added a lot, and was pleased that you remembered me in your text. It is one of the books that I have come to love and esteem most deeply, and I will read it with

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renewed pleasure. I am also eager to read your wife’s work, for which I thank her very very much. When will the seas open up, or the air, so that we may meet each other? Not a day goes by when I fail to bring the Iliad to mind. I no longer know when we shall be able to bring it to completion. If you were able to come here, what a pleasure! The villa that we rented for three years is excellent: a large garden with olive trees, fig trees, orange trees, tangerine trees, almond trees. You’d have your own room, where the olive branches enter through the window. Quiet, sweetness, the sea—and two good people who love you very much. We would work well and would finish this large book. Perhaps, I thought, the Institut Français would be able to publish it together with the original text. The years are going by; we need to hurry. I also have the entire Odyssey ready in first draft. You’ve got to take it on as soon as the Iliad is published. We said that we must translate both works; otherwise we will enter immortality as cripples. How is the sacred family? And Captain Haritos? What a dream that was in Crete! What sadness, what joy! How much I would like us to undertake a similar expedition through the islands or Central Greece! I’m working well here. I’ve gotten involved now in novels. After Zorba, I wrote Christ Recrucified, which I hope will soon be printed, and I’ve just finished another, Fratricides, which can be printed only in translation, for now. Leo Frobenius’s Paideuma greatly impressed me in the past. How nice that the Literary Library is bringing it out! And don’t forget that you also need to write a Homeric dictionary, completely in demotic. When will I receive another letter from you? Please do not let so many months go by. This household experiences great pleasure on the day we receive word from you. May “God” be with you, dear friend! May “God” be with your household and with Greece! Yours, always, N. Kazantzakis

1  your splendid one:  Probably Kakridis’s book Το μεταφραστικό πρόβλημα (Athens: Ikaros, 1948).  1  your wife’s:  Kakridis’s wife was Olga Komninou.  1  Captain Haritos:  Kakridis’s son, Fanis Kakridis.  1  Fratricides: Could not be printed in Greece at this time because it deals openly with the civil war that was still taking place.  1  Leo Frobenius’s Paideuma:  Leo Frobenius (1873–1938), a German ethnologist much admired by Kazantzakis. The full title is Paideuma: umrisse einer Kultur- und Seelenlehre (Munich: Beck, 1921).

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 560; English translation (incomplete)

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in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 480; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 489.

Antibes, Villa Manolita, Parc Saramartel 3 April 1949 Very dear friend! Thank you for your letter. I am fine now and am working hard. The new novel, Fratricides, is finished, as I wrote you, and today I completed the second draft. There will be four or five, and it will be published only in French. A large French publishing house wants three books from me. I promised them my last two novels. Nea Estia is publishing Sodom and Gomorrah; you’ll receive it when it comes out separately as an offprint. Now I’m going to begin a play with four characters: Minos, Theseus, the Minotaur, and Ariadne. Minos: the final fruit of a great civilization. Theseus: the first blossom of a new civilization. The Minotaur: the dark subconscious in which the three large branches—animal, human, god (not yet separated)—are the primitive dark Substance that includes everything. Ariadne: love. I still don’t know if it will be good. We’ll see. I’m enclosing for you: (1) a review by Varnalis for the Swedish publisher of Zorba. It is especially important because Varnalis is very difficult and never says anything favorable except regarding communist books; (2) a summary of Christ Recrucified requested by the French publisher; I’ll translate it. I’m sending it to you so that you can see what the book’s subject is, more or less. If the Swedish publisher wants another of my books, give him this summary. I’m hoping that the book will be printed in Greek this year. Lots of work, day and night. By means of much work I’m struggling to forget Greece’s pain momentarily. My heart breaks when I remember the Mother, the Alma Mater. When will the agony stop? This year, I hope. But how? I have many fears. My wife sends warm greetings. We wrote to Athens to see if someone can find an old pamphlet about the popular legends of Constantinople, one that was printed many years ago. Let’s hope, but I have doubts. We’ll send it to you at once. The winter here was full of sunshine and flowers. Winter’s beard here is not gray; it is fuzzy black and smells of almond blossoms. Yours, always, N. Kazantzakis

1  a play with four characters:  Kouros.  1  a review by Varnalis:  Varnalis is extraordinarily positive. He begins by claiming that this work, “with its maturity, power, and wealth, delivers us from the flood of mediocre books of these days.” He continues by noting that the “entire book is written with zest—I say zest even in the candid pessimism. . . . feeling, humor, wisdom

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and above all a faultless style, personal, full of color and sparkle . . ., all of which is governed by the responsible anguish of the creator who seeks perfection in both ends and means . . .”

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 561; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 480–81; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 489–90.

Antibes, Villa Manolita, Parc Saramartel 26 August, 1949 Very dear friend, It’s been a long time since I have spoken with you because I’ve been working a lot all these months and at the same time was ill. I’ll be leaving in a few days for Vichy, where I’ll stay at the baths for three weeks. This always happens to me: when I am ill, I work twice as much, as though I wished to conquer the illness by means of the intensity of the creative drive. Thus, I finished Christopher Columbus and the final draft of Constantine Palaiologos in thirteensyllable verse. And a new subject has been besieging me persistently and urgently these days: Baudouin IV, king of Jerusalem, the Leper. What an astonishing personality! What a heroic, indomitable soul inside a body that was rotting away each day and that stank! What a terrifying symbol for the whole of mankind! I am unable to calm down. To find release, I need to express him in words. How those who have been dead for thousands of years—how they emerge from the grave suddenly, unexpectedly, and lay siege to the living, wishing to drink a little of their blood in order to be resurrected and to see sunlight once again! I suffered similarly with Odysseas, Helen, Julian the Apostate, Nikiforos Fokas, and last of all with Alexis Zorbas. I think of you often with much honor and love. We won’t see each other this year. Summer is over; let’s hope for next year in Greece. God grant that this tragic land may find peace at last. Thousands of brothers are still being killed these days. The bloodshed has increased; Greece is exhausted. Not a single honorable person in this world should remain unmoved, yet it’s seldom that one hears an honest voice shout to everyone that Greece—the Mother— is being destroyed! Very dear friend, I hope that you enjoyed your summer, with health and lots of work. Christ Recrucified is going to be published in Athens; the printing of Sodom and Gomorrah is almost finished. I’ll send a copy to you as soon as I receive one. Our friend Professor Lavagnini has translated portions of Odysseas and Kapodistrias into splendid Italian verse.

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My wife greets you warmly and says that our home is always yours. I shake your hand with exceptional honor and love. N. Kazantzakis

1  Baudouin IV:  Also known as Baldwin IV (1161–85), caught leprosy while a child; crowned in 1174 at age thirteen; at age sixteen led the army that defeated Saladin in the battle of Montgisard (November 1177), fighting on horseback with his sword in his left hand since his right hand and arm had already been disabled by leprosy; by 1183 could neither move without help nor sign his name.  1  Professor Lavagnini:  Bruno Lavagnini (1891–1992), who was professor of modern Greek literature at the University of Palermo.

To Rahel Lipstein —Manuscript (in French) in Historical Museum of Crete.

[October 1949] Dearest, I celebrated 2 October by reading your poems. Never before had I felt and experienced so profoundly their tragic, proud beauty. But I did not want to write you a word because I felt more profoundly than ever the uselessness— and the vain pretentiousness—of all words. I never forget; yet I think and suffer in my own manner, as you wrote me with such cruel perspicacity and tenderness. You understand me so well that I have no need to talk. Dearest Rahel, yours always Nikos

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 563–64; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 484; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 492.

Antibes, 16 October 1949 Very dear friend, I’ve returned to the paradise of Antibes. Springtime weather, sunshine, the sweetness of God. Various trees, like the mimosas, have been tricked, and are blossoming. I am unable to stay inside my study; all day long, half-naked, I sit

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in the sun and write. The ancient Romans were right—the sun is the certus deus. My wife and I think of you every day and say what a shame it is that you are not here with us to enjoy, you too, the sunshine and blossoming mimosas and the olives loaded down with fruit (we have thirteen huge olive trees in our garden). I have given final form to two plays that I had written, and now I’ve started another: Helen. I hope that you like Baudouin IV of Jerusalem; I’ll write it this winter. I’ve sent word to have my notes forwarded from Aegina so that I can write a novel about my father that will be the counterpart of Zorba. It’s impossible to say how pleased I was by the Swedish hardback publication of Zorba. Excellent! I thank you with all my heart. And I thank you again for your effort in translating for me the first review that was written. However, if you wish, write me the name of the newspaper where it was published and of the critic who wrote it. They say that there is an optimisme modéré at Lake Success that some solution will be found these days to the Greek situation. This solution will surely be inadequate, and life in Greece will be unbearable for quite a few years because, the civil war having ended, a collective vendetta will begin. The fate of the Greek nation is terrible and full of mystery, as though the spirit were unable to be watered on that soil except with blood and tears. I have in mind my race’s journey on earth: it is just a red line engraved with blood. Thus, the duty of every Greek, in order to be able to justify his existence, is to struggle to transubstantiate that blood and those tears, turning them into spirit. Very dear friend, may God grant that Greece may find peace, that you may come to see her with the eyes of your body, and that I may be with you to enjoy your joy! My wife sends you warm greetings and never forgets you— as do I, too, with great honor and love, N. Kazantzakis

1  certus deus: Indisputable god.  1  optimisme modéré:  Moderate optimism, reasonable optimism.  1  Lake Success:  Village in Nassau County, Long Island, New York; temporary home of the United Nations from 1946 to 1951 while the UN’s permanent home was being built in Manhattan.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 617–18.

[Antibes,] 3 December 1949

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My dear brother, I suspect that your letter got lost—the one in which you tell me that Kimon refused. (Or are we about to see you suddenly in the Manolita?) No matter. Keep the manuscript; maybe another publisher will be found who is less Kimon. In the meantime, this book has already begun to be translated by Knös, because the Swedish publisher has asked for it. Yesterday I signed a contract for the publication of Zorba in Hamburg. I have corrected Kouros and have translated it into French. I hope that it will be printed. Haris sent me one (one!) copy of Sodom. What to say to him? Where to begin with him? Guarda, or better: non guarda e passa! I’m buried in Kapetan Mihalis. l’m struggling to resurrect the Iraklio of my childhood years. What emotion, what pleasure, and at the same time what responsibility—because thousands of dead figures rise up into my memory and seek a tiny place in the sun, two or three lines, a good word. They know that no other resurrectional salvation exists for them. Who else will write about them? Even their children and grandchildren have forgotten them. Before beginning to write, I reread your three books on Crete with everincreasing pleasure and admiration. What language, what solid style, what construction without stuffing—like Apollo’s wall at Delphi! I sat in the sun (marvelous sunshine here) and read you, and it was as though you had come to the Manolita. My body is doing well, as though rejuvenated. I’ve never had such intensity and stamina. Before I finish one work, another two or three push themselves forward inside me, seeking a body, to be solidified, to walk on soil. I’m struggling to be in time. When will I return to Aegina? The desire never to return is beginning to increase inside me. What should I do? Who is waiting for me? Two or three people, no one else. I don’t feel at all homesick, not at all. I’m very well settled here: serenity, solitude, sunshine, sea. Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis I received your letter just now. I’m very sorry that I won’t see you. I wonder when. Greece continues to distance itself. A person’s heart truly breaks. It’s better that Kimon refused. It’s better to be printed later. I’ll write to Zizi not to give it to anyone. I’m moving forward on Kapetan Mihalis but will attempt not to finish it quickly. I received a single copy of Sodom. What is it about Haris that annoys one? I had written him to send me about ten copies to give to friends. Today I’m writing him again, to furnish you with the remaining copies. Distribute them to whomever you wish. Naturally the edition is miserable.

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This very moment I received your telegram. Thank you. You are the only person in Greece who remembered me. That gives me great pleasure. N

1  Kimon:  Theodoropoulos.  1  Guarda, or better:  non guarda e passa:  From Dante’s Inferno 3.51: “non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa” (let us not speak of them, but look and pass). Dante and his guide, Virgil, have just passed through the wide gates of hell and have begun to see the condemned.  1  Apollo’s wall at Delphi:  The great wall of polygonal stones built in the second half of the sixth century b.c. below the temple of Apollo, and later covered with inscriptions that indicated the release of slaves, who were under Apollo’s protection.  1  Zizi:  Zizi Argyropoulou, Eleni Kazantzaki’s cousin. Kimon Theodoropoulos had given her the manuscript of Christ Recrucified.  1  who remembered me:  For his name day, 6 December.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 564–65; English translation (incomplete, misdated 12 December) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 484–85; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 493.

Antibes, 17 December 1949 Very dear friend, The great Christmas holidays are approaching and, with emotion and love, my wife and I are thinking of you and your entire household up there in the North. We wish all of you health, joy, and peace. My wife is sending your daughter from the Côte d’Azur a petite necklace that is fashionable this year, as a small, friendly greeting. When will I return to Greece and be able to send you the eternal Greek gifts: honey, raisins, figs? When? Everything down there is entirely black. We have been crushed again by slavery—scientific slavery this time, well organized, well camouflaged— and we need a new 1821 to be liberated. That time will come, certainly, but in the meantime thousands of souls will be killed, or will wither away, or be sold. And here I sit, exiled in the paradise of Antibes, working the Greek language and the modern Greek spirit as well as I can. I have done nothing else for forty years now, without any recompense, but with great persecution by official Greeks. Nevertheless, I’m of good soil, made in Crete, and I endure. I hope to continue fighting in this way until I die. The new novel about Crete advances every day and will be ready very soon. I’m trying to resurrect my father as best I can, to fulfill my duty in this way, to engender the person who engendered me.

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I’m sending you Theseus. I’ve corrected it and have rewritten it directly in French so that it can be printed in France. I’m sending it to you, dear friend, for two reasons: (a) because it has important differences from the Greek text, and (b) because I would like to ask you please to try to find a Swedish translator to translate it under your supervision, so that it may be printed in some Swedish periodical. The translator can have the royalties. This work, my very latest, not published anywhere, pleases me very much; it’s one of the best and most characteristic works that I have written until now. Perhaps you won’t have time to translate it yourself. I wish you had! You would do me a very great favor if you saw about having this ancient hero of ours dressed in Swedish clothes. The lady who sent you the Psalms, which I like very much, is a Jewess from Poland, a wonderful woman, a soul full of fire, and she says that she knows only a single Greek word: eleftheria. So she sent me your brief letter and I translated it for her. God be with you, my very dear friend! I’m leaving a little space without writing, so that my wife can write you a few words. Yours, always! N. Kazantzakis I’d like you to grant me a New Year’s favor: Allow me to dedicate Theseus to you. I cannot give you any other present this year, my very dear friend. N. K.

1  Theseus:  Preliminary name for Kouros.  1  eleftheria:  Freedom.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 619–20.

[Antibes,] 28 February 1950 Dear brother, During the whole of the 18th of February there wasn’t a single moment when you failed to be in my mind. The day was gorgeous, full of sunshine and springtime aromas, and I went on a long excursion to a mountain full of blossoming mimosas, overlooking Cannes. How fortunate to be in good health, to have a tranquil and virtuous soul, to possess a goal whose realization depends solely on oneself, and every day to take a step forward and climb! For sixty-five years now I have been promenading back and forth in this dark dungeon with its two tiny windows that is called a human being, and I have looked out through those tiny windows at the world and have never had my

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fill of it. I do not know how long this good fortune, strength, and fecundity will last, but I act as though it were going to last eternally because I know what eternity means: it is quality, not quantity—that is the great, very simple secret. The two of us, born on the same day, understand this and I doubt that anyone can wound us any longer. Even our heel has entered the fire. Thank you for sending me Sodom. Nea Estia didn’t have the heart to go to the expense of sending it to me. I’ve not seen a more wretched, miserable group. As we said, when will a periodical be published that we won’t be ashamed to consider our own? Do what you want with the other copies. I would ask you only one thing: After you keep five deluxe copies for yourself, send me the remaining deluxe ones (if another five remain) and five regular ones. And telephone Tea to get ten and distribute them to her troupe. You should give them to whomever you think is interested. Scatter them. The typography is so miserable, the quicker they all disappear the better. I’m very thankful to Lefteris for his firstborn. I’ll find time to read it. God give him zest and power to continue into his extreme old age. Please tell him how thankful I am and that I’m thinking of him. I’m swimming continually in my new novel, and I feel lots of pleasure and relief. It will be ready in a month, about five hundred pages. I am reliving old moments of mine that are now mythic, as well as an antediluvian flock of humans—dinosaurs and mammoths—that have disappeared. It’s the first time that a piece of writing has given me such pleasure. Paradise continues here at this villa. Sunshine, sea, solitude, lots of trees, aromas from the blossoming citrus trees all around me—and I’m working like a beaver building in the water. In the summer I’ll go to Vichy again, even though my liver is completely healed, but to reinforce it. I have an absolute need for my donkey to stay healthy until the grave. Christ Recrucified has now been almost completely translated into Swedish by Knös. He translated Kouros as well and gave it to a periodical. I hope that Christ Recrucified will also be published afterwards in Greece. My dream is whether it might be possible to print my collected works on fine paper (as in the Pléiade editions here) in five or six volumes of more than a thousand pages each. I. Travel books. II. Novels. III. Plays. IV. Odyssey. V. Translations: Iliad, Odyssey. VI. Divine Comedy. I’ll do whatever I can for this to happen before I die. I have already prepared the definitive version of many works—much superior to what was printed, almost unrecognizable. Now, at long last, I know the language as well as its prosody and the meaning of responsibility. God be with you, dear unique Brother. May you live a thousand years! Eleni sends warm greetings, with love. Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis

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1  sixty-five years:  Kazantzakis thought, erroneously, that he was born in 1885. He was actually born on 18 February 1883 o.s. and was thus sixty-seven years old.  1  Even our heel has entered the fire:  The reference is of course to Achilles’ heel. The myth relates that his mother, Thetis, wishing to immortalize him, placed him in a fire at night to burn away his mortal parts but dropped the body with the result that one ankle bone (heel) was scorched but not burned, and therefore remained mortal.  1  thankful to Lefteris for his firstborn:  This Lefteris is not Lefteris Alexiou but, rather, Prevelakis’s younger brother, the historian Eleftherios Prevelakis, who had just published his first book. He eventually became director of the Research Center for the Study of Modern Greek History of the Academy of Athens.  1  my new novel:  Kapetan Mihalis.  1  my collected works:  There is still no uniform edition of Kazantzakis’s collected works.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 565–66.

Antibes, 3 March 1950 Very dear friend, I much enjoyed your letter and the information that you yourself have translated Kouros. That means that the rendering in the Hyperborean language will be splendid. I hope that you followed the French text, because that is the very best one and it contains significant differences from the Greek text—especially pages 1–2, 39, 46–48, 61–65 in the French text (on 61–65 the order of speeches has been completely changed). I beg of you very much: look it over if there is still time, because the differences are significant. I myself have corrected the Greek text in accordance with the French one. In the Odyssey that you possess, there is a separate glossary in which the most difficult words are explained. Do you have it? Look at it; I hope that you’ll find it useful. I’ve enclosed my explanations of the words you wanted. I’m waiting for you to write me others. Thomopoulos is good, and I thank him for the help he is giving us. I ask a favor of you: keep the manuscript that you are translating because I have only one more copy, and yours may be needed. I still don’t want to give Christ Recrucified to any Athenian publisher until we see how the situation there will turn out. We’re having elections next Sunday under the terrorist conditions of military rule, and I fear that these elections will only make the place even more embroiled. On top of this, spring has come and I’m afraid that we’ll have irregularities at the border. Fifteen thousand guerrilla fighters are waiting in Albania and Bulgaria. Where will Moscow send them—against

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Tito or against fascist Greece? The bloodletting has lasted too long; Greece is exhausted. And it’s certain that Daniilidis won’t save us if he becomes the minister; loving verbiage, he feels pleasure and admiration when he hears himself talk. The Institut Français in Athens is publishing my Askitiki now. Merlier himself translated it, and it’s accurate. Of course, he doesn’t render the rhythm or the flame of the Greek text, but what can be done? Merlier is a wise and good person, but he lacks the “demon” or, if you wish, the “demonic ability.” The blood flows through his veins as though it were benevolent, well-meaning milk; hence, he transubstantiated quite a lot of blood of the Askitiki, turning it into milk. His soul, you see, is a bit of a wet nurse! Thank you once again for taking the trouble to comment on my work. My birthday was a few days ago. I’ve been circulating for sixty-five years now, going back and forth inside this prison with the two tiny windows—the dark, mysterious prison that we call a “human being.” I look out at the world through these two tiny windows and never have my fill of seeing it. What a miracle this world is! How harmoniously commensurate it is with our hunger, our thirst, and our yearning for God! For forty-five years I’ve been fighting to transubstantiate this entire spectacle, all this hunger and thirst, to dress it in the twenty-four letters of our Greek alphabet before I die. To the best of my ability, I turn the greatest amount of matter I can into “spirit.” If it were possible for me to be born a second time, I would not take a different path. The ascent I chose is difficult and harsh, but I do not regret it. I am glad that I met you, my very dear hyperborean friend, and that I am able to tell you all my anguish, hope, and suffering in this free manner. My wife and I send you warm greetings and hope to meet you again soon! N. Kazantzakis

1  Thomopoulos: Ioannis A. Thomopoulos (1911–88), linguist; studied and taught in Sweden.  1  Daniilidis: Could this be Kazantzakis’s former friend Demosthenes Daniilidis? Doubtful.  1  elections next Sunday:  The elections of March 1950 were the first since March 1946. As a result, a centrist coalition was formed under Plastiras. But this collapsed in August owing to disagreement over how much leniency should be given to those convicted of assisting the Democratic (i.e., communist) Army, and Plastiras was replaced by Sophocles Venizelos.  1  sixty-five years:  More accurately sixty-seven.

To Emile Hourmouzios —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977a, pp. 189–90.

Antibes, 7 April 1950

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Dear Milio, I had forgotten your picturesque personality. Your letter will force me to rewrite some other play, as I did Theseus, so that I might have the pleasure of receiving another letter from you! Thanks for your kind words. What I suffer is tragic, never apprehending if what I write is splendid or awful. And this in addition: never feeling any pleasure when some people tell me that it is splendid, nor any sorrow when others, conversely, tell me that it is awful. Surely this is not insensitivity; nor is it arrogance or undervaluation of the opinion of others. It is the profoundest realization of the distance that exists in each of my writings between what I yearned to say and what I managed to express. It’s exactly the same as when we have a marvelous dream and, struggling to narrate it the next morning, realize that almost nothing of its magical splendor has remained. I’m working well here, peacefully, in the midst of a paradise. As you’ve learned from third parties, I’ve written a lot and am now buried in a new novel about Crete, Kapetan Mihalis. Another one, Christ Recrucified, is being translated now in Sweden because I have no publisher in Athens. I work so peacefully and well here in exile that I can say that I am happy, as happy as any Greek can be permitted to be today. I would have liked to see various friends again—that’s my only form of homesickness. But several of them promise that they’ll come. We’ll see. An acquaintance of mine will bring you a sum of money and ask you to keep it for me and to issue a receipt that you received it. I’ll explain when we see each other. I’ll appreciate this. I received your book. I’ll take it with me to Vichy to read. That’s the only time when I can. The subject interests me greatly, and I imagine that you treated it, as usual, with great depth. You cannot imagine how much I’d like to see the lecture on my work that you have prepared. It would be of great benefit to me because, contrary to my reputation, I work minimally with the brain and maximally with the breast and loins. The only intervention I allow my mind is this: clarity. I detest confusion, inconsistency of plan, vagueness. I used to say when I was younger that my heart was “geometry ignited.” That’s why your judgment would enlighten me so very much. How many things I’d love to discuss with you! Your prolonged silence hinders me. When will I “go down” to Greece to have an opportunity to see you? There is no prospect at all. No desire. For as long as I work well and peacefully here, and as long as I can, I’m not leaving. Warm greetings to Marika. Tell her how much her gifts—the ever so sweet sweets—have made us drool. God grant that we may see her, indeed see both of you. I close my letter with this hope. I am always with you, O rarely speaking Milio. N. Kazantzakis

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1  Theseus:  Later entitled Kouros.  1  your book:  Η δοκιμασία του πνεύματος (Athens: Aetos, 1950).  1  the lecture on my work:  Apparently such a lecture was never delivered.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 622–24.

Antibes, April 1950 [mailed 5 May 1950] Dear brother, Thank you for your letter, for the note on 1889, for the Turkish delight, and for the greetings you sent me via Zizi. The note was precisely what I wanted, because I don’t describe the revolution at all, but I would like to know its general features. Thank you very much. What man or woman copied it? What a miracle! I’ll be finishing Kapetan Mihalis in three days, about 450 pages, The theme of a new play has taken hold of me—like Theseus and also with a universally known subject, because it’s only those sorts of subjects that attract me, and I try to renew their eternal symbols as fully as I can. Isn’t that what the ancients did? And isn’t that what is most difficult? Well, the theme is Faust and the title is Faust, Part III. It will be completely changed, the roles of Faust, Mephistopheles, Helen, and the Student turned upside-down (it will have only four characters). The idea will be completely contemporary and, as much as possible, futuristic. In my mind I know perfectly what each character represents, but I still do not know if I’ll be able to give each a veritable warm body with human breath—because naked ideas are truly ridiculous in the theater. I don’t know if I’ll be able to manage. I don’t want to concentrate yet, not before I finish Kapetan Mihalis and escape from him. If I’m not able to fashion those four as true human beings, I’ll be extremely sorry. Sikelianos sent me via Zizi the two volumes of Thymeli, exquisitely deluxe, with the heavenly illustrations by Kefallinos. I’m eager to read Diyenis Akritis to see how he understood that theme and to what heights he raised it, but let me finish Kapetan Mihalis first, to have peace of mind. By comparison, how I detest the edition of Sodom and Gomorrah that Haris made for me! How shameful that I don’t have a publisher—that is, money to pay a publisher! (I don’t have institutes, and Merlier has been wrestling with Askitiki for four years now and doesn’t have the good heart to print it! His game is all too clear, but he thinks we don’t see it.) When Eleni read your letter, she burst into tears, she was so pleased with the idea that you might write a study of my work and me. “It will be better than Gundolf!” she cried. May “God” grant that I be worthy of such a pleasure

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before I die! I’d very much like to know, before I die, if I was worth the trouble of being born. Why do you need the story of my life? My life has been very quiet, simple, without outward vicissitudes, without dramatic surprises. Only my childhood years were full of a savage atmosphere because my father, who had the greatest possible influence on me, was not a human being. He was a wild beast, whereas my mother was an exceedingly gentle, saintly woman. I took after both of them, and my entire anguish has always been how to be able to achieve a synthesis without causing either of these roots of mine to atrophy. In my oeuvre very much may be explained by these two inherited strengths that are such opposites, such enemies: ferocity, obstinacy, harshness, the longing for solitude on the one hand; kindness, forbearance, understanding on the other. I hope that you’ll be able to come to Antibes so that we may see each other. I have no nostalgia. I don’t know when I’ll ever return to Greece or whether I’ll ever return. An alarming fever of creativity has taken hold of me. I’m hurrying, as though truly I were about to die. And I ask myself: “Will I manage to write Faust, Part III, before I die?” Nevertheless, I’m making plans how to achieve the feat of publishing my collected works. The other day I sat down and counted the titles. The number frightened me. Good god, how much I’ve worked, with what struggle, what largo sudore, and without any recompense! I must have my father inside me; otherwise, I would have been scared stiff. 4 May. I completed Kapetan Mihalis today. Together with this, I received a letter from Knös that he has finished translating Christ Recrucified and wants now to translate this one. The publisher insists. That’s the sorry state I’m in: to be in vogue in Sweden, while in Athens—and so forth. God be with you, dear Brother. Eleni sends warm greetings, as does Zizi. Para siempre, N. Kazantzakis P.S. Did you know that my mother was from the Rethymno prefecture, near Garazo?

1  note on 1889: Date of the Cretan rising that is the setting for the novel Kapetan Mihalis.  1  Turkish delight:  Greek sweets known as loukoumia.  1  Faust, Part III:  Prevelakis 1965, pp. 625–26, prints an extensive plan for this work found after Kazantzakis’s death in one of his notebooks.  1  the two volumes of Thymeli:  The collected edition of Sikelianos’s dramas, volumes 1 and 2 published in 1950 and volume 3 in 1952, by the Institut Français d’ Athènes.  1  Diyenis Akritis:  Sikelianos’s play Ο θάνατος του Διγενή was published in 1948 by the Institut Français d’ Athènes and was included in volume 2 of his collected plays that Kazantzakis had just received.  1  Kefallinos:  Yannis Kefallinos (1894–1957), an engraver and painter. For Kazantzakis’s anguish at Kefallinos’s untimely death, see the letter of 4 April 1957 to

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Prevelakis, below.  1  write a study of my work:  Prevelakis eventually published his Ο ποιητής και το ποίημα της Οδύσσειας in 1958. The translation by Philip Sherrard, Nikos Kazantzakis and His Odyssey, was published by Simon and Schuster in 1961.  1  better than Gundolf:  Presumably better than the literary studies by Friedrich Gundolf (1880–1931), who in studies of Shakespeare, Goethe, and Stefan George, for example, effected “the victory of the new literary scholarship over that of the nineteenth century: its factualism, its dependence on external biography, its accumulation of filiations, parallels, sources and analogues, in short, the antiquarianism dominating the German . . . universities” (Wellek 1968, p. 394).  1  largo sudore:  Generous sweat. The quote is from the twelve-thousand-line epic Punica by Silius Italicus (ca. A.D. 26–102), book 1, in a passage describing Hannibal’s dreams, which cause his slaves to be bathed in sweat.  1  Garazo:  slightly less than halfway between Rethymno and Iraklio.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 567.

Antibes, 9 May 1950 Very dear friend, I admire how you work: with such power, perseverance, and love. Bravo for having finished Christ Recrucified. I’m glad you liked it right to the end. That one is a true novel, because Zorba is chiefly a dialogue between a pen-pusher and a great man of the people, a dialogue between Mind, that attorney-at-law, and the great Soul of the common people. I have finished something in my own right: Kapetan Mihalis—very tragic, the struggle for freedom, the ageold yearning for the soul to be liberated, for matter to be redeemed in order to become spirit, for God to be released from all the human virtues that weigh Him down, so that He, too, may become Spirit. The story of Kapetan Mihalis is extremely dramatic; I experienced its gory reality when I was four years old and also later while I was growing up in the tragic atmosphere of Crete. The people in this book, the incidents, the speeches are all true even though they may seem unbelievable to people born in the light or twilight of Western civilization. I’ll allow it to rest a little on my desk for now and will begin a play that has been tormenting me for quite some time. I’m not sure whether I wrote you about it. It is Faust, Part III, completely different from Goethe’s Faust, the roles completely inverted—an extremely difficult work because I am forced to wrestle with formidable precedents. But I’ll try not to end up ashamed of myself. I very much like universally known themes, familiar fables. Didn’t the

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ancients as well? They took their subjects from predetermined cycles and attempted simply to renovate them, to give them new depth, wider meaning. I shall try to do the same with Faust now, if I can. “God” help me! As I wrote you, Greece has quieted down a little, very little. The present leaders are less iniquitous and stupid, but the common people are suffering unbelievably from injustice and hunger. The collective vendetta following the civil war has not subsided. Only if the world’s two great Gargantuas come to some agreement about how to divide up the world and devour it, only then will Greece see God’s face and rejoice. Only then! I’m sending you the words. Almost all that you ask about are difficult expressions and proverbs of the common people, but you’ll find corresponding popular expressions in Swedish. I hope that the same publisher will accept Christ Recrucified also and will produce another beautiful edition, like Zorba. When you get some rest, God willing, and when my wife types Kapetan Mihalis, I’ll send it to you in the hope that you will like it. My wife sends you warm greetings. On 1 June she’s leaving for Vichy, and I’ll be alone until 22 June. I hope that you’ll be able to come this summer. We have a lovely room for you; the branches of a huge olive tree planted in the garden enter the room. I was brought my translation of Dante. There are still two or three copies, and when you come I’ll give you one—it’s for you. If, however, you don’t come, I’ll send it to you. What’s happening with Theseus? I wonder if they’ll give it some music. Will the Minotaur’s growls in the labyrinth be audible? With great esteem and love, yours, N. Kazantzakis

1  The present leaders:  The prime minister in May 1950 was Nikolaos Plastiras, but Sophocles Venizelos had preceded him for two months and was destined to succeed him from August 1950 to October 1951.

To Minas Dimakis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Dimakis 1975, pp. 26–28, also (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 568–69.

Antibes, 29 May 1950 Dear Friend, As you know, I do not attach any importance whatsoever—and very justifiably so—to people the same age as me and older than me, whereas I attach great importance—and very justifiably so—to the opinion of those younger than me; therefore your essay in the Italian periodical gave me what is commonly called “solace.” For, as time passes, I feel that I am submerging myself

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in solitude—in a gallant, hopeless solitude, the kind I like. I’m sorry (I mean: I’m glad) that I don’t have any candies to suck, or any of the other delicious articles from the human candy store—fatherland, God, Karl Marx, and the rest of those delicious items in the human sweetshop—in order to sweeten my lips like everyone else. I clench my teeth and refuse even the most permitted chewing gum. I’m considered a man of letters, an intellectual, a writer, and I am none of those. When I write, my fingers do not become covered with ink, they become covered with blood. I believe that I am nothing but this: a soul that refuses to kowtow, that does not deign to suck candies. Forgive me for writing you all this, but you’re from Crete and you will understand what I mean. I think I saw in the newspaper you sent me that in Athens they’ve proclaimed that I am ill and that’s why I live here on the Côte d’Azur. They’re in a great hurry! I entered solitude in order not to disturb them. I work mar­ velously well here, and in peace, with a disquieting fecundity. I finished Kapetan Mihalis a while ago and began an extraordinarily difficult play and don’t know how many years it will torment me and I will torment it. I won’t tell you its title, lest I frighten you. I don’t want to hurry to finish it; therefore I’m planning to begin a new novel. I like that genre and move comfortably within it. I have quite a few novels in mind but don’t know which will emerge out of my entrails. What’s happening with the Prometheus trilogy? Is there any hope that it will be printed? I’m tired of keeping manuscripts in my bureau drawer. What should I do with them? I don’t know if Moschos has returned to Athens. I’d like to give him Christ Recrucified. Do me the favor of seeing him, talking to him, and, on your own, fixing the conditions. I’ll be most appreciative. I think that Tea has the manuscript. This book has already been translated in Sweden and has been given to the publisher of Zorba, who is now asking me to send him Kapetan Mihalis as well. I’ve been reduced to having a publisher in Stockholm and not in Athens. Thank you very much for everything, dear friend. Do not forget me. Eleni sends you warm greetings. Regards to our friends—you know which ones. God be with you! N. Kazantzakis

1  an extraordinarily difficult play:  Presumably Faust, Part III, which was never written.  1  I’m planning to begin a new novel, The Last Temptation.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 286.

Antibes, 15 July 1950

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Very dear friend, Your letter was a great pleasure. Blessings on the respected old maid that became the pretext. Not a day goes by when I fail to bring you to mind; I no longer know when we shall meet again. I don’t feel any homesickness. I work beautifully here—solitude, olives, figs, sea, good heart, clear conscience, lots of paper and ink, lots of love. But I keep thinking of the Iliad and am impatient for the time when we shall give it its final form so that it may be printed at last. It would be a great honor for the Institut Français of Athens to accept it for publication, but Merlier has been struggling for four years now to print a small pamphlet—Askitiki—for me and still has not managed. However, perhaps your presence will soften him and he’ll accept. I think that it’s time we published this work, which I consider significant. Afterwards, I have the entire Odyssey translated, and we should complete our duty. I’m glad you’re going to Sweden. Give my warm greetings to Knös. We correspond regularly; he has also translated a new novel of mine, Christ Recrucified, and the publisher of Zorba accepted it immediately. In addition, he has translated one of my plays, Theseus. We’ve become faithful friends, I believe, and now he wants to translate still another new novel of mine, Kapetan Mihalis. Many favorable reviews of Zorba have been written in Sweden. Knös has sent them to me in French translation. Not having the originals, I’m enclosing these for you. Thank you for imposing on Captain Katsimbalis the condition that he also publish the reviews of Zorba. If the Katsimbalises were able, they would wipe me off the face of the earth. I’ve learned that Dimaras published a History of Modern Greek Literature and classifies me among the “pedagogues”! Is it true? Is it possible? Such animosity? Yet Dimaras is a very cultivated and honorable man. I cannot understand anything. And no one protested— neither among the pedagogues nor among the literary people. How much I’d like to have seen you, to reestablish my faith in humanity! To have seen your wife also, and your daughter and son, Captain Haritos! But when? How? The years go by and Antibes has not become a boat able to cast anchor in Piraeus. The world is overcome by mass insanity. We’re sitting on top of the volcano, and we discuss and play with the enormous explosive force that the human mind has placed in unworthy and criminal human hands. We have acquired superhuman powers before becoming “human.” I am not at all optimistic. I have no faith in the demon that governs human history. It seems to me that reason exercises no influence whatsoever on human destiny, that we find ourselves now at the end of one civilization and that the new barbarians—armed this time, however, with the most modern weapons—are descending. We have entered a middle age. Frightful wars will break out with iniquity, hunger, and disease until, a few generations from now, Sisyphus will begin to climb his rock again at the top of his tragic mountain. There is only one salvation: for us to gaze at the abyss without being overcome by panic.

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My wife greets all of you with much love. I beg you, please do not leave me so many months without a letter from you. I need to feel that you exist and that you remember me. Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis

1  the respected old maid that became the pretext:  Kakridis’s letter, which Kazantzakis is now answering, likened their still unpublished Iliad translation to a woman unable to find a husband.  1  I have the entire Odyssey translated:  He means, of course, the Odyssey of Homer, not his own Odyssey.  1  Dimaras:  Konstantinos Dimaras (1904–92), critic, literary historian; his Ιστορία της νεοελληνικής λογοτεχνίας από τις πρώτες ρίζες ως την εποχή μας (1948–49) treats Kazantzakis briefly, and primarily as a pedagogue. The book’s third edition (Athens: Ikaros, 1964, p. 441) emphasizes Kazantzakis’s contact with western European culture, cites his translations, poems, Askitiki (just the title), plays, Odyssey, and novels (none of them named), commenting that “his world is made up of the most disparate materials: from the most primitive mysticism to the most up-to-date realistic manifestations. This world gains its unity not from the nonexistent organic homogeneity of the materials but rather from the throbbing pulsation of the creator himself.” Although calling Kazantzakis a “fertile” writer, Dimaras concludes that he belongs “more to the broader history of culture rather than to the narrow literary history of modern Greece.”

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 627–29.

Antibes, 24 July 1950 My dear Brother, Your name day comes in a few days, and I send you all my admiration and love. God grant that you may carry out what you have in mind, that you may be healthy and have patience and endurance on the difficult ascent you have chosen! I continue to work peacefully and well. I’m glad that I’ve thrown myself into a new genre, the novel, because thanks to it “I pass my time” and believe that I am becoming young again. I write novels with virgin zest like a novice who just now has begun to write. Before I come to grips with Faust, Part III, I plan to write a novel with a non-Greek theme, a broader one; in the meantime, however, I have rewritten Kapetan Mihalis because Eleni is going to start copying it on the typewriter while we are in the mountains. We plan to

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spend the whole of August in a village high up in the Alps, so that she can get a rest from the depressing climate of the seaside. (Write me in Antibes, because we still haven’t chosen exactly where.) I’ll start the new novel up there and am glad because that way I’ll pass the time. It’s as though I needed to read a new book and was in a hurry. Christ Recrucified is being printed now in Sweden and the publisher has asked me for Kapetan Mihalis as well. It’s a blessing that Knös and I have become bosom friends and that he is translating everything for me. Meanwhile I’ve learned that Dimaras wrote three lines on me in his book and that I’m a pedagogue! I don’t believe that anyone protested—neither a pedagogue nor a literary man. Dimaras strikes me as cultivated and honorable. Is it that he’s correct, and I don’t know what I write? Or is it that I don’t have a single friend in Greece to plead my case? I can imagine how miserable I would be if I lacked stamina. My loneliness is very great, very cruel. I’d noticed the postage stamp you wrote me about and have admired it for a long time. I’m glad that it’s yours. Kakridis has written me about the Iliad. My great worry concerns when we shall come together to give it its finished form. I’ve invited him to come to Antibes and stay in my house for a month or so, but he can’t; he’s going to Sweden again this year. I’d like to end it before the world ends lest, unfinished, it be reduced to ashes. If it weren’t for me, the French Institute would publish it, and it would be to their honor, but I’m in their way, their bête noire. I would have liked to go to Spain this year, just a few steps away from here, but the Greek government will not give me a visa. I’ve been fighting for two years now but they refuse. Why so much persecution? Sometimes I am astonished. What did I do to them? I learned that two young poets went to my house in Aegina a few days ago and wrote obscenities on my door. I read Dante often, chiefly every morning before I begin work, and find that I breathe in the atmosphere that I need. I’d like to look over the second translation again, but I don’t have the manuscript here. I have never been so ready for Dante. Eleni greets you with great love on your name day. I’m sending you a book via Zizi. I told her to send it to you on 27 July. Will she remember? God be with you, para siempre! N. Kazantzakis

1  your name day:  The name day for Pandelis (Pantelis, Panteleimon) is 27 July.  1  the postage stamp:  Prevelakis explains in a footnote that he was a member of the committee that authorized this stamp, designed by Kefallinos.  1  bête noire:  Pet aversion.  1  I read Dante often:  The edition of The Divine Comedy that Kazantzakis always carried with him, and that now is in the collection of the Kazantzakis Museum, bears the inscription “Servus diabolicus Dei”!

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To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 573–74; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 491; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 499–500.

Peira-Cava, Alpes Maritimes, altitude 1,450 meters 21 August 1950 Very dear friend, I’ve been here since 1 August in the high, clear air. My wife is relaxing at last, and that’s why I came, but how can I calm down? The new novel is stirring up my innards, devouring my flesh and drinking my blood like an embryo; it wants to grow and to emerge into the sun, free. I hope that the great pains and pleasures of childbirth will begin soon. At the same time, I have my mind also on Faust, Part III, which will be a fundamental work in my life, far-reaching, a counterpart to the Odyssey. It will be my final work, one that will mark my short-lived passage across earth’s beloved crust. In the meantime, my wife is typing Kapetan Mihalis here; I’ll send you the opening chapters in a few days. You’ll tell me if it is any good. I experienced this work personally. All the heroes were real people whose precise actions and words I remembered. I have attempted to rescue whatever I could of this former Cretan world that sank beneath the waves. I hope that a foreigner, reading this book, will sense the meaning of “Crete”—what tears and blood a people shed, generation after generation, for their freedom. Love of liberty, honor, derring-do, noble breeding: those are the virtues that I would like this work to display. I’m impatient for you to read it and tell me. I had planned to note down various difficult linguistic aspects for you to make things easier, but you’ll have with you now that excellent human being and scholar, Kakridis, who will be able to solve your every problem. The noise of the sinning world reaches even up here at this mountain summit. Surely we are at the end of a civilization and are observing the painful, bloody birth of a new world. I believe that I once wrote you the Chinese malediction: “I curse you to be born in an interesting age!” We are now living under this curse. Our duty is to gaze with dignity and faith at the abyss that is being engendered. Surely the immediate future will be horrible, like the present moment, and it will become continually more horrible. But the moment furthest away, out beyond, will be resplendent. In addition, I am certain that the human race has not revealed all of its rich internal possibilities. The earth’s belly is still full of eggs. Mr. Guillemeau thanks you very much for the kind words you wrote him after reading his lecture. He was very pleased. Mr. Merlier writes me that the

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translation of my Askitiki will circulate in a few weeks. You’ll receive it immediately. Please write me if Panayotopoulos replied. My wife sends warm greetings, with great love and esteem. Yours, always, N. Kazantzakis

1  Peira-Cava, Alpes Maritimes, altitude 1,450 meters:  = 4,757 feet.  1  The new novel:  The Last Temptation, published in America as The Last Temptation of Christ (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1960).

To Anghelakis Family —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

Peira Cava, 24 August 1950 What a shame that we are paying so dearly for the pleasure of seeing Spain! It would have been a wonderful opportunity to see you, and God knows when that will happen again, or how. But Eleni is in a hurry to see El Greco, the Alhambra, and the Escorial before the atomic bomb. The time has come for us to hasten to take one’s leave of all things: prendre congé de toutes choses. Things have never been so ephemeral. The world, today, is hanging by a single thread. It is within this tragic atmosphere that I have come to view all things and myself and my wife and the people I love. O sun, morituri te salutant! Greetings to my goddaughter. For her sake, may God prove me a liar! With love, always, N. Kazantzakis

1  morituri te salutant:  “Those who are about to die salute you,” addressed by gladiators to Emperor Claudius during his reign (10 b.c.–a.d. 54). Thus: “Ave Caesar! Morituri te salutant!”  1  my goddaughter:  Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 630–32.

Antibes, 11 November 1950 My dear brother, It’s nearly three months since I’ve received a letter from you, and I’ve been very worried. I wrote you from Spain and sent you the last copy there still was

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of Cossío; it sold out in a few days, and it was impossible for me to find a second copy. The weeks went by without my knowing how you were doing; fortunately the Minotises came and told me that you are well and that The Cretan is keeping you excessively busy. I’m eager now to receive that pleasure. You can imagine how eagerly I’m awaiting it. Right now I’m undergoing the “labor pains” of the new book, which needs lots of work because it departs from what I usually do. Other pains—the labor pains of Faust, Part III—have arisen behind these, but I don’t allow them to come very near me because I first want to make myself ready to withstand them. For 1951, however, I’ll be content with The Last Temptation, the probable title of the book I have begun. I’m exceedingly well. I have calm, balance, certitude, and lots of zest for work. My former antinomies have begun to organize themselves into an organic synthesis; it seems to me that I am reaching the summit of effort that is called Effortlessness, as the Byzantine mystics used to say. Perhaps I’ll express this organic submission to contradiction in the book I am writing. I’ve begun not to be bothered any more by any “problem,” any “anguish.” I’ve discovered the solution that lies outside of intellection and analysis—in other words, outside of the domain of “Satan.” Minotis was unable to tell me anything about your inner life. He’s so plunged in his own burning concerns—America, Greece, Rondiris, cinema, Katina—what can he manage to do first? Spyros Theodoropoulos wrote me that Aetos wants to reprint Zorba. In reply, I told him to send me the contract and that I would send him the revised copy of Zorba and that the reprint should be based on that text. I’m still waiting for his answer. In any case, I’ll send the revised Zorba to you in a few days; please give it to him when we sign the contract. This copy is precious because I lost days and days correcting and recorrecting it. If I’m ever worthy of bringing out my collected works, this will be the basis. Kouros was apparently extremely successful on Stockholm radio. I heard it here very clearly. The music was first-rate and unostentatious. They’re going to play it again. Eleni sends warm greetings. She wants us to move to Florence; that desire is sketching itself out in her mind. I neither act nor react. Everything strikes me as fine except Hellas, which Minotis very cleverly calls Mellas, because Melas & Co. are triumphant now, he says. Is it true that Bastias received the Academy’s award for excellence? Quiet here, sweetness, sunshine. Today it’s drizzling on the olive trees and the fruit-laden orange trees of my garden, and the ground is covered by the broad, yellowed leaves from the fig trees. Eleni has turned on the heat. She’s still typing Kapetan Mihalis. She’ll get up now to prepare tea. She says, “Ah, only Prevelakis is missing!” Thank you very much for the Anthology; it’s very valuable here, even with all its defects. For years I’ve wanted to bring out my own entirely personal

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anthology: the poems I like best, starting with the folk songs. But what becomes ever stronger in me as time goes by, first and foremost, is the desire for my collected works. “God” be with you, brother! N. Kazantzakis

1  Cossio:  Presumably José María de Cossío (1892–1977). The book in question may have been Rodrigo de Reinosa: selección y estudio de José M. de Cossío, published in 1950. Or: Antonio de Guevara, Libro primero de las Epístolas familiars, ed. y prólogo de José María de Cossío, also published in 1950.  1  Rondiris: Dimitrios Rondiris (1899–1981), theatrical director, actor, director of National Theater 1946–50, 1953–55.  1  Spyros Theodoropoulos:  Director of Aetos publishing house.  1  the Anthology:  The well-known poetic anthology edited by Iraklis Apostolidis.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 286–87.

Antibes, 27 November 1950 Dear friend! I received your letter this very moment. Eleni jumped for joy (I say nothing about myself). Our house is filled with flags, and we are expecting you. Try to arrange if you can to stay more than three days. What are three days? One week at least! Human misery has no end—but neither does human joy. So, then, more days! I am so happy that I’ll be seeing you that I am unable to write you anything. What can I write? We’ll say it, because god knows when I’ll ever come down to Greece now. What are we finally going to do with the Iliad? It’s time we “gave her away,” like a daughter. Talk with Sophia; maybe she’ll have some idea of how it can be published by a foreign institute. Talk with Mirambel in Paris—he knows what’s what, and might help. Talk with Merlier, too, in Athens; I wrote him asking if the French Institute could publish it—it would honor him. In any case this problem has got to be solved at last, so that it won’t hinder our younger daughter, the Odyssey, from being “given away” in her turn. Do you want her to remain an old maid? I’ve exchanged two letters with Sophia this year. She says that she has made an anthology of modern Greek literature and that she decided to include, from all of my work, a few lines from the Dante translation! In other words, she presents me as a translator, whereas she could have written me in time (since she says she didn’t have my books) asking for help.

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Eternal Smellenes! That’s all. I’m counting the days. Eleni is counting them along with me. We’re counting the hours until you come. But best come via Juan-les-Pins; the house is nearer Juan-les-Pins than Antibes. In any case, write us again from Paris the day, time, and place—so we’ll be at the station. God be with you always! Here’s to our meeting! N. Kazantzakis

1  Sophia:  Sophia Andoniadou (1895–1972), professor of modern Greek literature in Amsterdam, then Leyden; directed Greek Institute of Byzantine and Post-Byzantine Studies at Venice, 1955–66; originally a member of Galatea’s “troupe.”  1  Mirambel:  André Mirambel (1900–1970), taught in the Institut Français in Athens from 1925 to 1928; then succeeded Yannis Psiharis as professor of modern Greek at the École Nationale des Langues Orientales Vivantes in Paris; author of various textbooks for the study of modern Greek, a study on Seferis, a French-Greek/Greek-French dictionary, and a survey of modern Greek literature.

To Minas Dimakis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; photographed in Dimakis 1975, pp. 9–10; printed in Dimakis 1975, pp. 28–29,

Antibes, Manolita, 27 November 1950 Dear friend, Your new poetic collection gave me great, sincere pleasure: unquenchable lyrical inspiration, constrained passion, derring-do, tenderness. And, most difficult of all, you were able to find the mean between old-fashioned, passé poetic style and modern incoherence and formlessness. Your form—balance between those two chasms—is successful, I believe. Regarding content: the extremely difficult synthesis of grace and power. For all that, I thank you and am pleased. I regularly receive the newspapers you send me and learn what is happening down in Greece. I have also received Sachinis’s articles. Please give him the enclosed. I thought that I should write him without ever replying to what he says about me; yet it seemed to me that it’s worthwhile for someone to converse with Sachinis. He must be young, intelligent, and a lover of justice. That’s why I do speak to him about the Odyssey. I’m ashamed that Christ Recrucified is rambling from publisher to publisher in this way. Please return it to Tea, who’ll keep it for me. I’m neither in any hurry nor do I possess any desire for it to be printed. Let’s allow Kapetan Mihalis, as well, to remain in a Greek cupboard. It’s being translated now in

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Sweden and Christ Recrucified is circulating in Stockholm. I’ll send you a copy with the request that you give it to Prevelakis, so you can see it. I’m writing another one now: The Last Temptation—entirely different. I also intend to write a play like Kouros in a few days. I’m fine. Lots of sunshine here. The twelve immense olive trees in my garden are full of fruit; the figs and vines have shed and the garden is strewn with yellow leaves. However, the orange tree opposite my window is resplendently loaded down with oranges. I am serene, fortunate, a good human being, and am working. I wonder if you will ever be able to stop by here. In a few days I’ll be hosting Kakridis, who is coming from Sweden. A great pleasure! So, give the manuscript to Tea, and greet her for me. Tell her that I am now receiving Nea Estia regularly, thanks to her, and that I’ll write her. Greetings to friends—you know them better than I do. N. Kazantzakis

1  Sachinis:  Apostolos Sachinis (1919–99), professor of literature at the University of Thessaloniki, 1965–84; literary critic for the newspaper Ethnos, 1945–67; specialized in prose fiction; member of the Academy of Athens.

To Apostolos Sachinis [enclosed] Antibes, 20 November 1950 Dear Mr. Sachinis, I read with care the three noteworthy articles that you devoted to “Cretan Prose.” I think you penetrated the meaning of Zorba sufficiently, but not at all the meaning of the Odyssey. Odysseas, like Zorba, achieved freedom in fullness, but with this sole difference: recorded in the Odyssey are all the successive forms of service that Odysseas completes, no longer in memory as achieved exploits, as in Zorba, but instead in the fire of unfolding action— completes as he progresses from anguish to anguish and from exploit (in other words, the overcoming of anguish) to exploit, in order to reach the supreme reward that any human being may obtain: organic synthesis (organic, not juxtaposed; synthesis of all antinomies, not their obliteration)—in other words, absolute human freedom, the only human freedom, because all the other “freedoms,” the partial ones, are nothing but fraudulent forms of slavery and hope. From book 16 of the Odyssey to the end, Odysseas no longer possesses any problem, any anguish, any antinomy. He experiences the visible and invisible world directly and in fullness; he looks at everything—good and evil, the blossoming tree and the abyss—with a “Cretan glance.” Judging from your three articles, I assume that if you are able to read the Odyssey with open mind and vigilant heart, you will “see” it.

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I look forward with pleasure to the day when I shall meet you and speak with you. If the atmosphere that arises between us on that day is comfortable, perhaps I will explain to you how, from the time when I set out to write Odyssey 16 and beyond, this synthesis also began (simultaneously, or possibly a little later than the writing) to organize itself inside me, with Odysseas’s help. Thus today I have finally surpassed the stages of energetic discipline that I describe in many of my works. I am the son of the Odyssey, not its father. N. Kazantzakis

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 576; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 492; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 500–501.

Antibes, 20 December 1950 Very dear friend, The New Year is descending upon us full of terror. These days humanity finds itself at the brim of the abyss. Writing to you, my heart is full of anguish, bitterness, and indignation. What, then, is this destiny that governs human beings? Does it or does it not have eyes? Does it have a brain? Does it obey some Mind that is superior to it? Are idiocy, injustice, and blood indispensable for humanity’s progress on earth? I am overcome by immense sorrow; nevertheless, I sit here all day and write because that’s the way it must be: human beings must act as though they were immortal. To you, your wife, your children, and to the whole of Sweden and the entire world, my wife and I send our wishes for peace, happiness, and freedom. Great virtues, which are continually disappearing, hide and take refuge in several hearts—very few, very lonely ones. Tomorrow I am going to send you a small jar of Attic honey to put beneath your mattress on New Year’s Day, as we do in Crete, so that you may have “sweet-smelling breath” the entire year. May God bless you and protect all those you love! With much esteem and love, always! N. Kazantzakis

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 576–77; English translation

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(incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 493; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 502.

[Antibes,] Villa Manolita, 1 January 1951 Very dear Friend, We couldn’t have had a New Year’s gift better than the two critiques you sent us. My wife read them, wept from joy, and blessed your name because we owe all these pleasures to you, dear friend. I am glad that this book, too, was so well liked, even more than Zorba. But I’ve got great hopes for Freedom or Death. I’ve experienced it deeply. This one is my father, he was like that, he fought the Turks like that. That one is my grandfather. That’s the way I, too, the pen-pusher, Kosmas, would have liked to die—for a great Idea. And, above all, Crete is like that; her passion is like that, fighting for freedom for centuries. I’d like foreigners to learn this, to see what we suffered, what bloodstained ascents we climbed and are climbing, how oppressive is Greece’s fate, and which endless ascent, covered with blood, she climbs eternally. Thinking of all this, my eyes brim with tears. Crete and Greece are covered with wounds, overcome with weeping. In Freedom or Death I did what I could to reveal their struggle. I am certain that all those who read it will sense how much its author suffered and how much his nation suffered. God give you strength to translate it without becoming overly fatigued. Let’s hope that we succeed in getting the publisher to accept it and bring it out soon, by September 1951. Perhaps that will influence the decision of the academy. If the remaining reviews of Christ Recrucified are just as positive, perhaps publishers will accept the third novel very quickly. May God help us! We talk, make plans, and entertain hopes without thinking of evil: the horrible chaos that mankind has reached these days that is bringing us close to bodily and spiritual disintegration. We earth-dwellers are still pithecanthropi, alas, and we call ourselves “human” owing to megalomania. Perhaps that’s where we’re headed: to become human one day. But we still have not arrived. When we do arrive, wars will cease. Not sooner. Woe to all those who have become human ahead of time! God be with you, your wife, your children in the New Year, and with Sweden! May the sweetness of Attic honey remain always in your mouths! My wife and I greet both of you with great love. N. Kazantzakis P.S. My wife is sending you the enclosed Greek soldier in order to thank you for the joy you gave her by means of the two critiques that you sent us for New Year’s. She thanks you exceedingly!

1  this book, too:  Christ Recrucified.  1  Freedom or Death:  Another title for Kapetan Mihalis.  1  decision of the academy:  For the Nobel Prize.

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To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 632–35.

Antibes, 25 January 1951 Dear Brother, I’ve read the Politeia three times so far, and I admire how you were able to overcome the exceptionally huge difficulties that this volume presented. I understand perfectly the degree to which this work, more than the ones preceding it, was an exploit. There are scenes that make me shudder with emotion— when Manasis goes to the bishop; when, in chapter 9, Kostandis returns home; the passionate love between Kostandis and the widow; and chapter 14. Manasis has ascended to an atmosphere of immortal myth, and my heart jumps with ferocity because I remember what you once wrote me. I still have a bit of life ahead of me; I’ll do what I can for as long as I am alive, but I shall never be sufficiently worthy to touch Manasis. Only one thing consoles me: when I die, my heart will not be burdened because I failed to work. It’s so good that The Cretan is finished, and absolutely victoriously. Thank you for all the manly pleasures it has given me. No other text, and not just Greek ones, could have provided me with pleasure of such quality. Not a single defect in meaning, style, or language! Now I’m eager to see what you’ll tackle next. I’m glad you viewed the miracles of the Nile. How fortunate for you to see human feats of this kind at this crucial moment in your life! How I would have liked to have seen them again! How many remain that I shall not live long enough to see! I am struggling the best I can to conquer my sorrow. I’m writing a new novel now: The Last Temptation. I had five or six prepared in my mind, but this one stepped out in front in order to be born first. After Eleni has a rest, I’ll ask her to type the first chapter for you, so that you may get some idea of it. But I’m already in a hurry to finish in order to start another. The reason I’m in such a hurry for the novels is that I am still not ready for my final work, Faust, Part III. How much I wish we could come together so that I could speak to you about this project and get some help! I have the outline in all its details but I still don’t dare lift a finger. This work has got to mark the outer boundaries of my strength. I’m sending you the first critiques of Christ Recrucified, written in Sweden. As you know, Greece lost the Nobel by a hair’s breadth. Up to the last moment I kept writing to Sweden that it was right for Sikelianos’s name to be added; that’s the tactic I followed from the start. While the Katsimbalis gang was insulting me on the streets of Athens and in newspaper offices, I was speaking on the BBC in London about our contemporary literature and referring solely to Sikelianos. A notable English friend of mine wrote me that I was doing an

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injustice to my own candidacy because nobleness of heart is forgotten today and misunderstood. I answered him that two is better for Greece than one. I didn’t tell him everything that I was thinking. It wasn’t out of a sense of patriotism, or from modesty, friendship, or justice that I had made propaganda in Sikelianos’s favor. I had done so out of a sort of pride that I call “Cretan,” something altogether different from arrogance and “almost” identical with nobleness of heart. (Cretan pride has a sufficiently large proportion of craziness—what El Greco must have possessed.) A perfect example is what you have written somewhere about old Patakos: He didn’t want to empty out his house; he wanted the Turks to find it full, so that he would not be put to shame. This feeling can be felt only by Cretans; yet, on the other hand, by how many of them? No matter even if there are only two. I’m writing you all this because I am unable to write it to anyone else. No one else can understand it. How marvelous if Sikelianos, too, had been a “Cretan”! Tomorrow I’ll post Kapetan Mihalis to you and also the final draft of Kouros. I don’t know if KM is good, but I like Kouros a lot. Hold on to these manuscripts; I’ll ask you for them when the need arises. Dimakis will attempt to get KM printed by Ikaros. I sent Dimakis the Swedish edition of Christ Recrucified so that he can show it to Ikaros. Theodoropoulos still hasn’t written me about Zorba! Mirambel suggests that I write a French-Greek dictionary with him, handing over to him the half that I’ve already written. I replied to him that when he goes to Greece in the summer he should ask you for the box with the file cards. This letter has become very long, but it’s been a long time since I spoke with you, and I was thirsty. I’m well, working hard, feeling no nostalgia whatsoever. The only thing I’d like is to see you regularly. Eleni says the same, and greets you warmly. Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis

1  Politeia:  The third and last volume (1950) of Prevelakis’s The Cretan trilogy.  1  lost the Nobel:  The Nobel Prize in Literature for 1950 went to Bertrand Russell.  1  old Patakos:  Kazantzakis remembers the story told in Prevelakis’s novel Το δέντρο, volume 1 of Ο Κρητικός, p. 98. Old Patakos is informed that the Turks want to pillage his home because his sons are away. He commands that nothing be removed except old clothes because if no olive oil or wine is found in the house people will doubt that he is an important figure. His friends cite a neighbor with the same problem, but Patakos screams that this neighbor is a miserable wretch and will never change “even if all the olives in his orchard became as large as watermelons.” So, he does not

712  •  1951 Letters

remove anything from his mansion, and the Turks pillage hampers-full and trunks-full of goods.

To Ioannis Anghelakis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

[Antibes, 18 February 1951] Dear friend, Thank you very much for the trouble you took to run back and forth and climb up and down the stairs of the mighty and powerful. They don’t want to hear our voice; they are sunk in their inferno; an honorable human being cannot get near them. Feeling extremely bitter and angry, I immediately drew back into my shell, which is called solitude and freedom. This is the day on which I was born—in time immemorial, it seems to me. Yet now I’m beginning to feel what’s called youthfulness: la jeunesse ne vient qu’avec l’âge. This must have been said by an old man, but he was right. You know him, too—the youngest of all the idiotic harebrained inexperienced deck-boys of our time and place. Life here continues its monotonous course, as in paradise. My life is a wellset clock; it has a divine exactitude and routine. I get up at the same time, prepare the first light tea for Eleni and myself—then straightway pen and ink, and I’m writing. I have thrown myself into novel-writing in order to pass the time zestfully. I am writing another one now that I hope will interest you if and when it’s published in Greece. I have still another that is being translated into Swedish. By a devilish coincidence, I have an immense vogue in the countries of the far North—Zorba is being translated now into Norwegian and Danish. In Greece I still have not found a willing publisher. No matter— caviar, too, is good. I confess that I do not feel at all homesick. A few days ago when I dreamed I was in Greece, I jumped up in fright. Nevertheless, I do miss Aegina a lot and also several friends. It would be fun to find Katerina married when I return to Aegina and you a grandfather! Life, old boy! You do have your pleasures; let grumblers say what they will. Warm greetings to your wife. When I saw that smile of hers in the photo, I enjoyed it again—her happy, optimistic face full of health and intelligence. If you open up her heart, you’ll find brains; if you open up her brains, you’ll find heart. The perfect spouse! I greet Katerina with the fear of God and with love. May God give her not only whatever she wants but also whatever we want. Yours, always! N. Kazantzakis

1951 Letters  •  713

1  la jeunesse ne vient qu’avec l’âge:  Youth comes only with age. Compare: “La jeunesse est une acquisition de l’âge mûr”—Jean Cocteau.  1  I greet Katerina:  Her birthday was 22 February; she was about to become twelve years old.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 579; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 495; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 503.

Antibes, 20 March 1951 Very dear friend, I’m enclosing two Cretan captains for you today in this letter. They were friends of my father’s (my father never wanted to be photographed—only once, after much entreating). I met them myself when I was a child. One of them (number 1) will be good, I think, to portray the Grandfather on the dust jacket of Freedom or Death. So, if there’s a need, give him to the publisher. If you go to Athens, you’ll stay in the home of an extremely nice cousin of mine, an exceptionally educated woman, where you’ll be received and loved like a great friend of old. They’ll give you hospitality with much pleasure and you won’t need to stay in a hotel. Her home is next to the Archaeological Museum, 2 Mavromataion Street, Athens. The lady’s name is Tea Anemoyanni. She has written me that she’ll be very happy to receive you. Thus when you’ve decided, write to her and she’ll go to meet you at the station. You’ll be subjected to many pleasures and sorrows if you go to Greece now. Pleasures from soil, mountains, air, sea; from ancient ruins and statues; from old, thrice-reverential memories. Sorrows from today’s people and today’s national, political, and economic wretchedness. There are a few people who are still honorable and upright. If you go, I’ll send you complete documentation with many curricula animae, so that you may meet them. They are very fine people. I’m working well here: that is my sole consolation. I feel no nostalgia about returning to Greece. The true Greece is here with me. Precisely last night I dreamed that Crete came and dropped anchor, like a boat, outside of Antibes. I took a step and boarded her. And I was able to see all of her, from one end to the other. I felt immense pleasure. God grant that we may meet in June. We have lots to say. My wife’s joy and my own at seeing you again will be exceptional. Truly, you are one of the few human beings whom we love and honor with fullness of heart and soul.

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Gallimard wants Christ Recrucified. I’ll be very pleased to have it published in French. Gide is no more. As a stylist he was great. He was a master writer, not a great writer. His moral influence on French youth was devastating. In form his writing is impeccable; yet I want nothing of the content. In France, now, there’s only Claudel, a great old man. When he dies, there will be “descendants”—all the rest. It’s sunny and warm here now; the sea is blue-green, the Alps snow-­ covered. The lemon trees, peach trees, and apple trees are in bloom; the orange trees in our garden are loaded down with fruit. Warm greetings from my wife. Yours, always N. Kazantzakis

1  many curricula animae:  Many spiritual CVs.  1  Gide is no more:  The French novelist, winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature for 1947, died on 19 February 1951.

To Leah Dunkelblum —Manuscript (in French) in Kazantzakis Museum; photograph of manuscript in Le Regard Crétois, no. 30 (December 2004): 3; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 504; Greek translation in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 579– 80; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 495–96.

[Antibes, 23 March 1951] My dear Leah! Thanks for not having forgotten us! I, too, dear Leah, think of you very often, and always keep hoping to see you again some day, not in Paris, that accursed and seductive Babylon, but in Jerusalem, in Tel Aviv, in the Promised Land that I love so much. There’s a large drop of Hebrew blood in my blood, and that drop makes all my Greek and Cretan blood boil with agitation. I am obsessed and haunted by the destiny of the Jews. When I was ten years old, I begged my father to let me go to the home of Iraklio’s rabbi to learn Hebrew. I was there three times and took three lessons, but my uncles and especially my aunts were afraid and shocked, fearing that the Jews would drink my blood. Thus, my father withdrew me from the rabbinical school. I work very much and very well here in solitude. Right now I’m writing a book on a Jewish subject; it takes place in Palestine and you’ll understand how interested I am in seeing the holy places again. But that appears to be impossible. Nichevo! Are things going well with you, dearest? Are you working well, are you happy, is the general situation where you are any better? Everything is terrible where we are. One needs to be a hero, or become one, in order to be able to

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stand this ignoble, rotten world. However, at the bottom of this rot there is a virgin soul that is sprouting, lifting up its head again, feeding on this rot. One day, several centuries after us, it is going to triumph: a Messiah is always on the march. Dearest Leah, be happy, and believe that I love you well and very much. Nikos Kazan

1  nichevo: It doesn’t matter; never mind (in Russian).

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 580; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 496; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 504–5.

Antibes, 1 June 1951 Very dear Friend, It seems years since I last wrote you. I am so plunged in the joy and anguish of The Last Temptation that I cannot raise my head. Time goes by; the moons light up and go dark again like lightning flashes. My wife is away at the baths in Vichy and, since I am entirely alone, I have entered savage solitude again, my true climate, without any hindrances. It’s my wife who keeps me in human society still and does not allow me to turn savage. Once, when I went to Mount Sinai, the monks wanted to assign me a “skete” in the desert, with a tiny chapel, three cells, a courtyard, and in the courtyard two olive trees, an orange tree, and a tiny well for water. Saint Catherine’s Monastery has lots of manuscripts, and I was supposed to read them so that the most significant could be published. That’s what the monks offered me, and ever since then this “skiti” has stood before me in the air. If it weren’t for my wife, I would have left for the desert long ago. Nothing in my life has ever seemed so enticing to me, so seductive, as the Arabian desert. But fortunately you are arriving in three weeks and you will reconcile me with humanity; my wife will be here as well, and I will once again become a good, sociable citizen. The Swedish publisher is slow to respond about Freedom or Death. Here, Gallimard wants to publish all of my novels and is looking for good translators. Meanwhile, I’m finishing The Last Temptation and am sketching out a play that I’ll work on after touring Italy for two months. When exactly are you coming? Where will you stay? Please write me all that because it will be a great pleasure for me to see you again. And when are you headed for Greece? N. Papas, about whom you have written me, is one of the most impetuous, visionary, inspired of our younger poets. The Seferis-Dimaras clique doesn’t

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want anything to do with him because he isn’t dainty, smartly dressed, a medicine-dropper poet. Yet I consider him and his wife, Rita Boumi-Papa, and Minas Dimakis and Aris Diktaios to be splendid poets of the younger generation. When good luck brings you to Athens, you must meet them. Nothing else for today. We will talk about everything—serenely, leisurely, truly—when we meet. I am very happy, because such an opportunity is rare in today’s times. May God be with you always! N. Kazantzakis

1  skete:  An isolated dwelling for monks not living in the home monastery.  1  three cells: Each kellion is a small cottage; sketes were limited to three cells.

To Rahel Lipstein —Unable to locate the manuscript; letter originally in French; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 486; Greek translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 555–56; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 477.

[June 1951] Dear Rahel, Oh how I’ve jostled, ill-treated, and manhandled Abraham and his beard! And how I’ve elevated and sanctified Judas Iscariot next to Jesus in the book that I am writing at present! For a creative person, all these saintly or diabolic “creatures” are nothing more than pawns for his supreme game. I needed a “bleating-lamb-Abraham.” In the Bible I found another Abraham and, like a shrewd photographer, I retouched him to make him serve my purposes. It’s simple. And it’s so good, so just, to jostle that old shrew Tradition a little. Everything you write is correct, but so is the opposite. Just and unjust, good and malicious, God and devil do not exist any longer for a creative person; there is nothing but a famished flame devouring all those delicious foods. And the devil’s flesh is always more nourishing than God’s. I love it, provided that it be devoured, digested, and assimilated. . . .

1  Abraham: In his play Sodom and Gomorrah.  1  the book that I am writing at present:  The Last Temptation.

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript (damaged by water, partially unreadable) in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University

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­ ibrary; printed (always incomplete) in Friar 1977, p. 6; Friar 1979, p. 33; Friar L 1983, pp. 63–64.

Antibes, Villa Manolita, 1 July 1951 Dear friend, Forgive me very much for not being able for so many months to find time to answer your letter; I was writing a book during the whole of that time and was unable to raise my head and think of anything, especially not of my previous writings. I finished the book yesterday, and the day after tomorrow I am leaving for the mountains and later for Florence. I’ll return at the end of September. Thus, I was not able to look at your manuscript with care, and I am returning it to you by post. Do as you think best; you have complete responsibility and credit. I hope that you’ll find a publisher in America to print it soon. Then you’ll do me the favor of translating the prose into free versets, line by line. I’m sending you a brief curriculum vitae. Merlier, the director of the In­ stitut Français, translated into French my work Ascèse, which is my Credo. You’ll find there what I believe and what stages my spiritual and mental evolution has passed through. Regarding anything at all pertaining to me, there is a person in Athens who knows, much better than I do, how to inform you: Pandelis Prevelakis (8 M. Asteriou Street), also a friend of Ghikas’s. He’ll enlighten you perfectly regarding whatever you want to know concerning me. In the Αγγλοελληνική Επιθεώρηση (May–June 1951), he published an article about the travel books I’ve written. What did I want to express in the Odyssey? The sole answer is: what I expressed in Askitiki, my “Credo.” But Prevelakis can explain this as well to you, better than I can because, as you know, the poet knows less about his work than does the attentive reader. Ghikas, too, knows the Odyssey well; what he says has weight. The best thing would be for us to meet, if possible. I would be very happy to welcome you here in my home to stay as many days as you can, since it seems to me extremely difficult now for me to make a quick journey to Greece. I would like very much to help you and to speak to you about the Odyssey, into which I put all my sorrows and joys, all my anguish, and my salvation. But I find it very difficult to speak very much about myself. Perhaps if we meet and a “confessional atmosphere” is created between us, I will be able to speak. I am glad that you have the Odyssey, are reading it, and want to translate a few of its lines. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to realize my acute desire that the whole epic may be translated into free verse in English. That’s the only language that can render it with succinctness and brilliance. Yours, N. Kazantzakis

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1  Kimon Friar:  Greek American poet and translator (1911–93), who worked first in the United States but then in the 1960s moved permanently to Greece, where he translated almost every modern Greek poet of note. His major achievement was the translation of Kazantzakis’s epic Odyssey; this translation was published in 1958 by Simon and Schuster as The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel, with illustrations by Ghikas. Friar also translated Kazantzakis’s Askitiki, issued in 1960 by Simon and Schuster as The Saviors of God: Spiritual Exercises. In each of these volumes Friar added an extensive introduction and notes.  1  damaged by water:  My translation incorporates some guesswork.  1  I was writing a book:  The Last Temptation.  1  your manuscript:  Presumably the typescript of Friar’s translation of an excerpt from Kazantzakis’s Odyssey, done in prose, not verse. See the letter to Friar of 5 August 1951, below, for Kazantzakis’s negative reaction when this was published—still in prose—in the magazine Poetry.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; photograph of incomplete manuscript in Prevelakis 1965, p. 793; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 636–39.

Antibes, 5 July 1951 My dear Brother, Angelos was never so close to me, so inside me, as in all these days. For some people, death is unacceptable. It never even occurred to me that he could die, and what I felt at the terrible blow was indignation and astonishment. I cannot endure the fact that so many nonentities are alive while such an “entelechy” is gone. Never have I detested Fate so much and those who believe in “God”; never have I felt so infuriated with such Satanic certainty. When I think now of Greece and the people who inhabit it and the apes that degrade the Spirit, my head catches fire. I feel like opening the black door and departing. My mind, like Job’s, sits on the dunghill of this world and shouts: “It is unjust! Unjust! I will not accept it!” You are right: we must not let a moment go by without considering that tomorrow we die, that the more we pile up virtue, disinterestedness, and struggle, the more we enrage the dark powers—human and natural—all of which conspire together to fill our eyes with dust so that we will not see their shameful acts. All these days I have been going up and down following what’s happening in the soil of a grave in Athens. Hour by hour, with horror, I’ve been following the decomposition. I say nothing, but I hold the beloved remains in my outstretched arms like a pietà, and sleep, wake, and walk without releasing them.

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I know that this epitaphios procession will last for years, and that, the more time that passes, the more enraged the pain, wrath, and blasphemy will become. In my case, time has never been able to coat my wounds with balm; I have never deigned to grant time the right to do this, because I know that my soul is composed not of sand but of bronze, and the more time that passes, the more incensed the wounds become—and this wound is the biggest of all. Dear Brother, I am trying to find your hand amid the darkness of this world. Perhaps it will calm me a little. N. Kazantzakis P.S. Never have I wanted so much for us to meet. But how? Everything was ready for me to go to Florence (pension where I would stay, French permission, Italian visa), and the Greek government refused to renew my passport! I have a consular passport—and I am refused the right to cross the French border. That’s the sorry state we’re in. They persecute me, do me whatever harm they can, and regret that they cannot destroy me utterly. I asked Tea to take steps. She’s doing whatever she can; they make her promises, but I know that nothing will come of it. They will not renew my passport. We’ve committed the villa from 15 July to 15 September; thus we’ll take refuge for two months somewhere in the French mountains. But write to me, if you wish, at the Manolita, and I’ll keep receiving your letters without fail. Mirambel is coming to Athens and will see you; he wants you to hand over to him the box with the dictionary because, as I wrote to you, we’re planning to do a French-Greek dictionary together. So, if you happen to leave Athens, please leave directions at the French School, where Mirambel will be sojourning. Someone told me that you might go to America, where the two great bastards of modern Greece are. Knös was at the Manolita a few days ago. I’ve finished a new book: The Last Temptation, about Christ. I wanted to get rid of that theme, whose sovereignty had lasted so long in me. I did get rid of it. Now, perhaps in the mountains, I shall start Faust, Part III. If Tea is successful, I’ll spend the second month in Florence. Perhaps we shall see each other there; it’s halfway in between. Telephone Tea and learn where the matter stands. It’s impossible to express my disgust and anger regarding the degree with which they are persecuting me. If possible, I shall never set foot again in Athens. Always, N Eleni sends you very warm greetings.

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1  entelechy:  A term in Aristotelian philosophy meaning the condition of a thing whose essence is completely realized.  1  a pietà:  A statue of the Virgin Mary holding the dead Jesus and mourning over him.  1  epitaphios procession: On Good Friday in Greek Orthodox churches, a flower-strewn bier with an icon of Christ lying upon it (the word epitaphios means “upon the tomb”) is carried in procession outside the church and around the village or city streets, with the entire congregation following it, before it is returned to the church.  1  ready for me to go to Florence:  Actually, he did go, arriving on 3 August (see the first paragraph of the next letter).

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 585–86; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 500–501; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 509–10.

Sigale, Estéron, Hôtel Gorda, 22 July 1951 Very dear friend, We are high up in the Alps in a little village where we’ll stay until 3 August, when we leave for Florence, where we’ll stay until 5 September. Our address in Florence will be Villa Fabbricotti, Via V. Emanuele, 64. Here in the solitude of the mountains, I’m trying to calm down from the terrible blow. Forty years of indissoluble friendship tied me to Sikelianos. He was the only person together with whom I could breathe, talk, laugh, and remain silent. Now, for me, Greece has been emptied. His final days were extremely bitter and unfair. By mistake he was given Lysol, a poison, instead of a medicine; he drank it and it scalded his digestive tract. He fought like a stalwart. As soon as he drank the poison, he was brought by car from Kifissia to the great “Annunciation” hospital in Athens. They refused to admit him because he didn’t have the money to pay for two weeks in advance! He was brought back to Kifissia and taken later to a clinic run by the Catholics, the “Most Blessed.” There he was admitted, but it was too late. His mind was clear until the last moment; you’ll find ample details in the Nea Estia that you’ll be receiving. It was suggested that the funeral be at public expense, but the government refused at first, saying that Sikelianos was antinational, a communist, an enemy of the fatherland! That’s the sorry state we’ve reached! That shows what sorts of people—what Androulides— govern Greece today. The poet who was the most Greek of them all, the greatest worshiper of eternal Greece, one of the souls that constructs this miracle that bears the name “Greece,” is considered a traitor by our contemporary politicians!

1951 Letters  •  721

As I write you, I cannot hold back my tears. Tears of pain, rage, and disgust. I’d like to die to avoid experiencing the shame that my homeland is enduring. My friend died on Tuesday, 19 June, toward evening, and ever since that day I have been holding his corpse in my arms—as I walk, sleep, and wake— without finding peace. Only when I am alone do I bend over him and weep. The eternal unanswerable questions come again, tearing apart my mind, and I can no longer tolerate life and injustice. A pile of mental apes are living and living well and polluting Greece, while Sikelianos is dead! If God exists, one day He’ll need to justify this to us. Dear friend, I cannot go any further. How many people remain to me in this world? You are one of them. We met because of a blessed coincidence. “God” keep you well! My wife and I have nostalgic memories of the few hours we spent together with the three of you. Our warm greetings to your wife and daughter. I’ll write again from Florence. My mail coming to the Manolita will be sent to me wherever I am. It’s sunny here, lots of cicadas, olives, walnut trees, and figs. My wife asks when we shall see you again. God grant that it may be soon! I’m sending you Dr. Max Tau’s review. Perhaps it will impel the publisher to come to a decision. Yours, always, N. Kazantzakis

1  what Androulides:  Pindaros Androulis (b. 1891), then the Greek ambassador to Sweden, continually disparaged Sikelianos and Kazantzakis.  1  Max Tau: Tau (1897–1976), a German Jewish writer, editor, and Ph.D. in literature; worked as editor in chief at the Bruno-Cassirer Verlag in Berlin, then settled in Norway as a refugee from Hitler; founded there in 1956 a publishing house called Friedensbücherei (Library of Peace); published Kazantzakis and Prevelakis; acted as Kazantzakis’s literary agent. In 1950 he received the Peace Prize of the German Book Trade.

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library.

Florence, Villa Fabbricotti Via V. Emanuele, 64 5 August 1951 Dear friend, I received your letter and Poetry the day I was leaving for Italy. Thank you for both. Leafing through Poetry I realized once again how ugly I considered

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the fragment of the Odyssey jammed together as prose. It’s absolutely necessary to be able to distinguish where each line of verse begins and ends; therefore, I ask you once again not to publish anything else by me in this form. The Nobel Prize would have been given to both and not just to one of us. It was Sikelianos and I together who got the six votes. This omission that you made is not important, but I like accuracy. I’ll be very happy to see you in Florence. Until the middle of September we’ll be in the villa from which I’m writing you, so there’s hope that we’ll see each other here. I’ll be very pleased. The director of the Institut Français in Athens, Mr. Merlier, has published Ascèse in French translation. It would be useful for you to read it since it is my inner biography, the inner struggle I undertook in order to save myself from gods and devils and to become a free human being. Ascèse is the key to my soul. Only in this way will you be able to enter. Hoping that we shall see each other here in August, Yours sincerely, N. Kazantzakis

1  Poetry:  Poetry (Chicago) 78 (June 1951). Friar’s article and translation, entitled “Voyage with Charon,” appear on pages 162–64. The translation, entirely in prose, presents the material of book 13, lines 120–83, of Friar’s (much altered) definitive rendering in verse.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 640–42.

[Antibes,] 22 October 1951 Dear Brother, Your letter found me the day I was leaving Florence and going to Venice and Padua on the way back to the Villa Manolita. I returned home loaded down with booty—joys and sorrows. In Italy I saw again much that I used to love, but other things that I shall never see again because they have been destroyed: the Mantegna in the Eremitani church in Padua, and the Campo Santo in Pisa. We need to hurry not only because we are departing but because immortal things are departing, too. The world has reached the abyss now and has already begun to collapse. If it had been convenient, I would have abandoned everything—pen, ink, and paper—and have gone to say goodbye to paintings, statues, mosques, and cathedrals, everything that human beings—the “tragic miracle”—managed to create before they were overcome by madness.

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All this time, my heart was filled with such joys and sorrows, and so many, that it found difficulty in containing them all. Even the beloved ones that boarded the boat to pass to the other bank, they have come back and disembarked inside me, as though my heart were the Other Bank. Perhaps that’s why I never in my life worked with such “serene anguish” and with so much ease and such visible and invisible companionship. The moment is proper for me to start Faust, Part III, at last—the “Καταθύρα,” the very last words one says before one dies. Meanwhile, however, I need to get rid of the nuisance of other piles of paper. I’m completing the final draft of The Last Temptation, correcting the French translation of Christ Recrucified that Gallimard is going to bring out, and now I’m being forced to check the German translations of Zorba, Christ Recrucified, and Kapetan Mihalis in the galley proofs they’re sending me. Oh, to clear my writing desk of all this paper and to install there the blank, unwritten pages of the future Faust! It’s with great emotion that I’ve been looking during the past few days at the photograph on my desk, the photograph that you sent me of the mask. When I return to Greece, I’ll buy one of the masks and never part from it as long as I live. Thank you very much for the emotion you’ve given me. It seems to me that among my papers in Aegina I have an unpublished poem, “Annunciation,” about thirty lines long. But it’s impossible to be found amid the chaos in which I left my study. I was leaving for one month! When, I wonder, will I see you? I pose this question thousands of times in my mind and do not find any answer. My yearning not to return to Greece grows continually stronger. When I think of educated Greeks, I continually shudder. When I read their periodicals and sometimes their letters, my disgust increases. Nothing of what interests them interests me; none of their intellectual problems engages my attention. I say to myself: If they are human beings, I am a rhinoceros. “God” be with you, dear brother! May you have strength! Today, whoever wishes to remain virtuous must grow furious to the point of sanctity, to the point of lunacy. Today, the camel’s way is for camels only. Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis Haikai: The nightingale chirps: Do not look at me dressed in rags. I, too, had large, bright wings, but I turned them into song.

1  Καταθύρα:  Kazantzakis lists this word in his special lexicon for the Odyssey, defining it, just as he does in this letter, as the final words uttered by one about to die.  1  that Gallimard is going to bring out:  Actually Kazantzakis’s

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French publisher was Plon, not Gallimard.  1  the mask:  The photograph was of Sikelianos’s death mask.  1  an unpublished poem, “Annunciation”:  This poem by Sikelianos was eventually found and was published in Καινούρια Εποχή, Summer 1956, p. 3. The title in Greek, with sad irony, is “Ευαγγελισμός,” the name of the hospital that refused to treat Sikelianos after he had swallowed poison.

To Anghelakis Family —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

[Antibes,] 30 October 1951 Just a word, dear Trinity, to tell you how much, and with what love, I have all of you constantly in mind. Here, as always: quiet, solitude, great joy. I’m working hard; body, soul, and mind are doing well and are headed toward the same goal—death. Mais par le plus long chemin, as the famous Abbé Mugnier once told me: “I want to go to heaven, but by the longest route.” Write to us sometime. Life is stupid, or pretends to be: people who love one another should not be separated for so long. God (encore un qui se croit immortel!) ought to put things in order. In any case, let’s meet! May God make it soon, and far away from Greece! My greetings to all three of you. Don’t forget us! N. Kazantzakis

1  encore un qui se croit immortel:  Another one who believes he’s immortal.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Uppsala University Library; missing from the Kazantzakis Museum Knös archive; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 591; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 505–6; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 514–15.

[Antibes,] 13 November 1951 Very dear friend, Today I mailed you the first 312 pages of The Last Temptation. I hope that you’ll get the rest by the end of November. I’m sending you this work with great emotion. If you have the patience to read it, I am sure that little by little you will be overcome by the same emotion that I felt deep in my bowels while

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I was writing it. I wanted to renew and replenish the sacred story on which the great Christian civilization of the West is based. It is not simply “a life of Christ”; it is a persistent, holy, creative effort to flesh out Christ’s essence anew, setting aside the corrosion, lies, and pettiness loaded upon him and overloaded upon him by all the churches and all the priests of Christendom. While I was writing, my manuscript was often smudged, because I was unable to hold back my tears. I completed parables that could not have been left by Jesus the way they are related in the Gospels, giving them the sublime and compassionate ending suitable for Jesus’s heart. I put words in his mouth that we do not know he spoke, because he surely would have said them if his disciples had possessed the same strength of soul and purity that he did. And everywhere poetry, love for animals, vegetables, humans, faith in the soul, certainty that the light will be victorious. You’ll see in the book’s final chapters what the last temptation is. For a whole year I borrowed from the Cannes library all the books written on Christ, the Judeans, chronicles of those times, the Talmud, etc.; thus all the details are historically accurate even though I recognize the poet’s right not to follow history slavishly: “ποίησις φιλοσοφώτερον ιστορίας.” Thank you very much for everything you wrote me about T. I agree completely that I would be extremely wary until the true person becomes evident. However, he’s making every effort to help Christ Recrucified, and I hope that he’ll turn out very useful for us regarding Liberté. He is extremely enthusiastic and assiduous. God grant that he may stay at this high level until the end! The Swedish Academy’s decision to give the prize to a member of the Swedish Academy (judge and judged the same person) has made a very deplorable impression here. In Greece we have a saying: “Yannis stands the drinks and Yannis drinks.” My wife was very disturbed, for she was hoping, and she wept. As for me, I felt sorry because the years are going by, and I think I would be able to give much more if I had some recognition. My struggle is very hard now, and I don’t know how long my body will be able to hold up. I think it has already begun to give way. That’s all for today. I had very much to write you, but silence speaks even better. God be with you, my very dear friend and with your wife. My wife and I send you warm greetings. N. Kazantzakis

1  ποίησις φιλοσοφώτερον ιστορίας:  “Poetry is more philosophical than history.” The quote, from Aristotle’s Poetics 9, is actually “. . . φιλοσοφώτερον καὶ σπουδαιότερον ποίησις ἱστορίας ἐστίν . . .” The fuller passage reads: “The poet and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose. The work of Herodotus might be put into verse, and it would still be a species of history, with meter no less than without it. The true difference is that one relates what

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has happened, the other what may happen. Poetry, therefore, is a more philosophical and a higher thing than history: for poetry tends to express the universal, history the particular.”  1  about T.:  Presumably “about Max Tau.”  1  Liberté:  Freedom or Death.  1  The Swedish Academy’s decision:  The Nobel Prize in Literature for 1951 was given to Pär Lagerkvist (1891–1974), Swedish poet, playwright, and novelist.

To Max Tau —Unable to locate the manuscript; missing from Kazantzakis Museum Tau archive; German original printed in Rakette 1977, pp. 126–27; Greek translation printed in Kazantzakis 1977c, pp. 308–9, and (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 592; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 506; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 515–16.

Antibes, 16 November 1951 I hope that you are reading Kapetan Mihalis this very minute. I wanted to concentrate all my childhood memories in this book and to bring back to life the strong, blunt personality of my father, Kapetan Mihalis. Everything in this book is true to the last detail. I knew all the heroes, both the young and old. I wanted to resurrect them because they were beloved, they suffered greatly and struggled throughout their lives. Above all I wanted to show how an entire people that struggles for its liberty is possessed by insistent ideas, how the most insignificant people become heroes, carried away by this fearsome impetus that is so inhuman and so human. Crete is a heroic, blood-soaked island. In my young, childish breast I, too, experienced all the fear and exorbitant heroism of the Cretan people. I came to know freedom very deeply—no, I did not come to know it, I lived it. Freedom: that flame that consumes human beings and turns them into ashes. But before it burns them up completely and reduces them to ashes, it converts them into the brightest possible torch that dispels the darkness. I experienced the rising of 1889 so intensely that even today I can describe it profoundly and with lots of blood as though it were still the memory of a four-year-old boy. Sky and sea, woman, flowers, thoughts of death, life’s wild beauty: I know them all only through this enflamed childhood heart. I came to know all these secrets then, I still guard them today, and I shudder and flame up all the more because I did know them. If I had lost the childhood memories that made my hair stand on end, whatever remained would have been worthless: a few shadows from the sunset, and some poor, petty thoughts made all the more shabby.

1  a four-year-old-boy:  Actually, Kazantzakis was six years old in 1889.

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To Anghelakis Family —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

[Antibes,] 7 December 1951 A word from me, too, to send wishes to you that 1952 may come with features that are less miserable, iniquitous, and savage. And that Greece may see the face of God. I say it but I do not believe it. Human affairs are governed by a power that is not human and is even less “divine,” resembling more, as it does, the medieval ogre called the devil. Every age has its “guardian demon.” Ours is the demon of destruction. I have not the slightest doubt that we are heading quickly for ruin. What the young generation and future generations will suffer is beyond imagination. I regret that I won’t live to observe all the horror and to see with my own eyes the eternal blind laws in action. I have always calculated that this Kingdom of Ruin would last two hundred years (1900–2100). Afterwards there will be an equilibrium, what is called civilization, unimaginably rich. This will last for a while in its turn and will then begin to decompose until—whack!—all over again! I’m a pessimist regarding the immediate future, an optimist regarding the distant future. And I’m absolutely calm. You know the adage that I have ordered to be engraved on my tomb: “I hope for nothing, I fear nothing, I am free.” New Year’s “wishes” like these are suitable only among free human beings. That’s why I am writing them to you. To other friends I say, “Long life and happy New Year!” which is O.K. To you, I open my mind. And also my heart—to tell you that I love you very much and always keep hoping that Aegina may detach itself from Greece and drop anchor one morning along the Côte d’Azur. “God” be with you, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  a word from me, too:  The first part of the letter was written by Eleni.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed in Kazantzakis 1977d, pp. 301–2.

[Antibes,] Villa Manolita, 4 January 1952 Very dear friend, The days are approaching when you’ll see the light of Greece and will tread the sacred soil. I well understand how moved you are to live for a short time

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beneath the celebrated sky, to see the blissful Greek sea, and to breathe in the sacred air. Do not look at the contemporary Athenians, who pollute the divine name. Say to yourself that all of them are temporary, degraded beings who will die, and that surely a new generation will be born that will not debase the ancestors. The common people of Greece in the mountains and on the islands are wonderful. They have great virtues and a very human profundity, but their current leaders dishonor them. Among the intellectuals you’ll find several young men full of yearning, intellectual curiosity, and disinterested love; all the old ones are done for: guarda e passa. Your Virgil in this inferno and in purgatory will be Mrs. Anemoyanni—rigorous, just, enlightened. I am at ease sensing you in her presence; thus, I am somewhat consoled although I won’t be with you. I forgot an interesting chap in the list of men of letters I sent you: Fotis Kondoglou. Please add him—frenzied Byzantine-stricken author with his own, personal style, painter employing Byzantine models, hater of the Renaissance, a strong, obtuse personality. He chants ecclesiastical hymns beautifully. You’ll enjoy knowing him. I’m sending you the few difficult words. I’m waiting for others. You are finding very few unknown ones, and I’m glad that you will finish the translation so quickly, because many other translations will be completed using your Swedish one as a basis. I lack confidence in other translators from Greek; for the past two months I’ve been struggling to correct the French translation of Christ Recrucified. All these books will have no effect in Greece because they wrestle with spiritual problems that do not interest contemporary Greeks. The principal and practically unique subject of my entire oeuvre is the war between humanity and “God”: the resolute, never-ending battle between the naked worm that is called “humanity” and the terrifying, dark, very powerful forces within it and around it; the determination, struggle, persistence of the tiny Spark that is battling to penetrate and defeat eternal, boundless night; the struggle and anguish to transubstantiate darkness into light, slavery into freedom. Alas, all of these struggles are foreign and incomprehensible to contemporary Greek intellectuals. That is why I am so alien in Greece, so deserted. Very dear friend, may “God” be with you and your wife and children during the whole of the new year. My wife and I have you in our mind and heart, always! Nikos Kazantzakis

1  guarda e passa:  From Dante’s Inferno 3.51: “Non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa” (Let us not speak of them, but look, and pass).

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 595–96; English translation

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(incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 509; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 519.

Antibes, Villa Manolita, 30 January 1952 Very dear friend, I still haven’t received a letter from you, and I would be worried if Mrs. Anemoyanni hadn’t written me that you arrived satisfactorily and have begun to work and sometimes to receive visitors. I fear that you did send a letter but not par avion, which means that it will take fifteen to twenty days to arrive. Whatever letters you send to or from Greece must always go par avion; otherwise they take a long time. I’m writing you this so that you will keep sending your letters in this way to your own home and thus keep your wife from worrying on account of a delay. We are eager here to see your initial impressions. What interests me especially is how the weather is. Sunshine? Light? Some warmth? I plan to leave for the Austrian Tyrol in a few days, to spend three weeks in the mountains. I’m very tired and need to be careful. The effort to begin my new book has worn me out very much. Max Tau is full of plans, perpetually moving, enthusiastic, indefatigable. Herbig accepted The Last Temptation without even reading it and is going to send me a contract now. I think that they’ll translate it from your Swedish text, and I hope that you left whatever you have already translated. If not, send me as quickly as possible whatever is revised and ready. Please write me in time when you plan to go down to Crete, so that I may inform my family to expect you. I’ve done much thinking these past two months while struggling to begin the new book. I am no longer entirely free, as I was before, to avoid making promises to anyone; now, after the road taken by Christ Recrucified, I am obliged to make each of my books take a higher step forward. The Last Temptation took that step; the new book must take yet another step. This responsibility is very heavy. My body has grown tired of following the spirit, and I am going to the mountains now to regain strength. My wife sends warm greetings and says that she is thinking of you now that you find yourself, like the prophet Daniel, in the “lions’ den.” I, too, am with you day and night, with much love. N. Kazantzakis I wrote this letter before I received, today, your first letter from Athens.

1  Herbig:  F. A. Herbig, Berlin.  1  the “lions’ den”: Daniel 6:16–25. Daniel was cast unjustly into the lions’ den but emerged unharmed, whereas those who had accused him were then thrown into the den “and before they reached the bottom of the den the lions overpowered them and broke all their bones in pieces.”

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To Max Tau —Unable to locate the manuscript; missing from Kazantzakis Museum Tau archive; German original printed in Rakette 1977, p. 128; Greek translation printed in Kazantzakis 1977c, p. 309.

Antibes, Villa Manolita, 3 February 1952 I received your good news this morning. With this letter, I’m returning the signed contract to you. I’ll send Christ Recrucified to Thomas Mann. You’ll be receiving several photos of me one of these days; I’m waiting to take some that are still better. How can I thank you, dear, very dear friend and helper for all the good you have done me? Without you I would be lost in this distant, vehement, blasphemous world that has neither the disposition nor the time to hear a “human” voice. My heart brims over when I think of you. My entire oeuvre is just a single, unique struggle: the unceasing revolt of a human being against blind fate—or, more accurately, humanity’s effort to give eyes, ears, and a heart to blind fate. I have been struggling alone; no one has helped me. And suddenly you appeared, dear friend, and gave me your hand.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 644–45.

Lofer, Salzburg, 6 March 1952 Dear brother, I didn’t receive your good letter until today, here in the snow-covered mountains of Austria. I, too, on the 18th of February, spent the day here in divine solitude, remembering you. God grant that the blind forces do what we wish them to do! The more years that pass, the more I believe in the omnipotence of the human soul—the soul of the true human being. Whoever cannot fashion his own fate is not a true human being. I do not believe that there is any obstacle that cannot be transubstantiated into an instrument of victory. I had grown tired, not in the body but in my soul, which had been struggling for months with a difficult subject, the Third Faust, and which exhausted the body. I’ve done five or six outlines—attempts to discover the up-to-date myth and how to handle it—because I knew everything else. My soul persisted without pity, tyrannizing over the flesh with an unexpected harshness

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and malice. I could not sleep or eat any longer. My heart had turned to stone and could not accept—disdained to accept—any quotidian pleasure. Finally, the body protested in its customary unmanly fashion, by falling ill. Still the same illness: herpes on the lips. Not a dangerous illness, and painless, but annoying. I was enriched by the shame I always feel when I see my body faltering. It lasted two weeks, but the shame did not dissipate, and I was unable to endure anything or anyone. Then Eleni, who was suffering more than me, urged me to take a trip, to go up to the mountains, to breathe fresh air. So I came and breathed in these divine, totally snow-covered mountains, and in three days I’m returning to the Manolita, completely rested. But I’m avoiding coming to grips again with the frightening subject and am writing something in prose, because I promised it to a German publisher, and he is putting pressure on me. In writing it, I am relaxing. I won’t go looking for the Third Faust any more unless it comes looking for me—that is the only infallible sign that “the hour has come.” May God enable you to realize your desire to see my collected works published under your supervision while I am still on this earth. That, I believe, would be one of the greatest joys of my life: to give my soul its final form, to clean out from it everything that is superfluous, to chase away the fripperies, and to hand it over to Time unashamed. I have no hopes for the Nobel this year. But if I do want it, the reason is to help such a publication. Will it ever happen? Will I still be alive? It’s a question not of luck but of endurance. God be with you always, dear brother; I no longer have any other companion in this world. N. Kazantzakis

1  no hopes for the Nobel this year:  The Nobel Prize in Literature for 1952 was awarded to François Mauriac.

To Max Tau —Unable to locate the manuscript; missing from Kazantzakis Museum Tau archive; German original printed in Rakette 1977, p. 129; Greek translation printed in Kazantzakis 1977c, pp. 309–10.

Vidry, Hôtel de Provence, 25 May 1952 I have to be grateful to you for all that you have done for me and for the pleasure that your letters have given me. Each of them is truly a little magical box for me that I open with trembling fingers. The other day my wife said to me as soon as she awakened: “I had superb dreams last night. You’ll see: today we’ll receive a letter from Max Tau.”

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And that’s what happened. Your letter came around noontime. My wife snatched it from my hands so that she could read it aloud, and I listened with indescribable emotion. So you like The Last Temptation. You say that to me with such deep words that you entrust to me a great and supreme responsibility. From now on, dear friend, I cannot write anything lacking value, anything that you will not like. I assume the responsibility and thank you for it. Whenever I write in the future, I will always be thinking that I have a friend and reader like you, that whatever I write must be worthy of you. This is a frightening and sweet help for someone who creates. In your letter of 19 May you write me about your plans for a “Peace Library.” I would be pleased if Christ Recrucified could be published in it. I gladly concede to you all my royalties for such a noble purpose. There are moments when I believe that for you nothing is impossible. Eleni, my wife, greets both of you cordially and gratefully for everything you’ve done for us. And for you, dear master and friend, “para siempre,” as Saint Teresa used to say.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 602–3; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 514; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 524–25.

Antibes, Villa Manolita, 9 September 1952 Very dear friend, It’s a long time since I wrote you, but I have you in mind every day. I returned at last to my green hermitage, and I’m sitting once again in front of the table of my torment and pleasure, holding the pen and writing. I saw many beautiful things once again in Italy, enjoyed myself a lot, did lots of thinking, and in Assisi experienced anew the great martyr and hero whom I love so much, Saint Francis. Now I am overcome by a longing to write a book about him. Will I write it? I don’t know yet. I’m waiting for a sign; then I’ll begin it. As you know, the battle inside us between the human being and God, between matter and spirit, has always been the steadfast leitmotif of my life and work. I’m sending you a copy of a page I wrote to Dr. Max Tau in order to explain to you how I confront this battle. Returning here, I found the manuscript of the Iliad translation that I’ve done with Kakridis. A great temptation! I threw myself immediately into the Homeric verses the way we enter the refreshing sea on a very hot day. I’m looking over the translation again, correcting it, and I feel great joy in seeing the wealth, harmony, and plasticity of our demotic tongue. In my whole life I

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don’t think I have ever felt a greater pleasure. What a language! What sweetness! What power! Truly, “οὐ νέμεσις τοιῇδε ἀμφί γλώσσῃ πολὺν χρόνον ἄλγεα πάσχειν.” In Assisi I received a telegram from my German publisher: “Traduction de Tentation finie; profonde émotion. Faut avoir grand succès. Merci. Herbig Verlag.” Dr. Max Tau is on a long journey now. He saw Schweitzer, and he’s about to see Thomas Mann also, and he talks enthusiastically about my work. I am very touched by his love and fire. Yesterday, at Cannes, I met the American publisher Schuster. We talked at length, I gave him the English translation of Zorba, which I had just received a few days before, and today I received an enthusiastic telegram from him, and he has agreed to publish Zorba. I’m pleased because, as you know, I love this book very much since I loved Zorba, the man, very much. I’m sure that you must be working well on the little Baltic island and that now you must have found once again in your home the sacred tempo of silent, disinterested labor. In Crete, everyone remembers you with lots of love. I’m sending you a clipping from an Iraklio newspaper so that you may see that they will never forget you. In any case, I’m delighted that you loved the majestic island so much and sensed it so deeply. One day we must see it together. My wife sends warm greetings and love to you and your wife. She keeps asking me when we’ll be able to see you again. The Manolita will vibrate with joy from the threshold to the roof when you enter. I greet you with the Franciscan blessing: Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis

1  οὐ νέμεσις τοιῇδε ἀμφί γλώσσῃ πολὺν χρόνον ἄλγεα πάσχειν:  “Small blame to long suffer woes for such a language.” The actual quote, from Iliad 3.156–57, is οὐ νέμεσις Τρῶας καὶ ἐϋκνήμιδας Ἀχαιοὺς / τοιῇδ’ ἀμφὶ γυναικὶ πολὺν χρόνον ἄλγεα πάσχειν (small blame that Trojans and well-greaved Achaeans should long suffer woes for such a woman). Compare how Kazantzakis uses the same quotation in his letter to Knös of 24 January 1947, above.  1  Traduction de Tentation finie; profonde émotion. Faut avoir grand succès. Merci. Herbig Verlag: Translation of Temptation finished; profoundly moving. Bound to have great success. Thank you. Herbig Publishers.

To Emile Hourmouzios —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977a, pp. 190–91.

Antibes, 1 October 1952

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My dear Milio, I felt great joy—joy and emotion—reading your good letter that was so confidential. God grant that you may realize the hope you gave me that we shall see you in the Manolita next March. You’ll stay in my home; we have a room for friends, and Manolita will vibrate with joy from her threshold to her roof. We have lots to say that cannot be written. It’s so many years since we saw each other, our hearts and minds are filled with the need to speak and be silent together. So, let’s await the happy spring. What can I tell you, using letters, about my work here? I work intensively and am glad that my writings have made such a stir abroad, whereas in Greece I’m not even considered a literary man. That’s very natural. As you know, the fundamental problem of all my life and all my creativity does not interest the Greeks at all, except a very few. This problem is: the battle between God and humanity, between matter and spirit, the anguished effort of the ephemeral human being to transubstantiate, for as long as he is alive, and as much as he can, matter (that which we call matter) into spirit (that which we call spirit). From my first work to the latest one, that has been the red, unifying line that gives indissoluble oneness to whatever I write: how we can create something immortal out of the mortal elements given us by nature and thus collaborate with the immortal élan that the Spirit has created on our planet. This battle is inhuman—that is, superhuman—full of anguish and joy, sadness and sweetness, and an unimaginable momentum beyond happiness and unhappiness, the whole battle formulated not with abstract, anemic signifiers but with human material lacerated by joy and sorrow. In order to communicate with a broader, worldwide public, I needed to leave Greece during my sixtieth year and begin to write novels. It is impossible for my work to produce any impact in Greece because the problem, alas, is not a modern Greek one. When you come, I’ll give you the entire series of publications that have appeared abroad so that you may have them in your library. The manuscripts that Eleni types in Greek are sent immediately to publishers; thus, even I do not have any copies any longer. Yet my ardent desire is to succeed one day in publishing my collected works in Greek, because the demotic tongue is the great passion of my life, and with time that passion flares up more and more. Nevertheless, I do not have a publisher in Greece; thus, the Greek manuscripts are in danger of disappearing, unpublished. Don’t worry about the Iliad. These days I’ve been looking again at the translation that Kakridis sent me. I’m correcting it. I am certain that it is a great national gift. Never has the demotic tongue achieved such richness and harmony. In other countries, the academy would be proud to publish such a monument; in Greece, we have Kokkinos, Melas, and Skipis. I’m eager for you to read Constantine Palaiologos and to tell me what you think. Would that it could be produced on the five hundredth anniversary! Might that be possible? Or will my hated name deter them?

1952 Letters  •  735

Later Eleni will type another play, and I’ll send it to you—one that I wrote here: Christopher Columbus. Afterwards, another as well. I just wrote a novel: He says he wants to be free. Kill him! A German publisher has taken it. I just began another with the strange title 2 + 2 = 22. That’s all for today. I’m receiving Kathimerini. Many thanks. In this way I learn what’s going on in my homeland and I see whatever you write in Athinaios. Once again, many thanks. Give my warm greetings to Marika. And may God grant: Let’s meet soon! N. Kazantzakis

1  Kokkinos: Dionysios A. Kokkinos (1883–1967), dramatist, prose writer.  1  Skipis:  After the German occupation, when Kazantzakis failed to be accepted by the Academy of Athens, the vacant place was awarded by the academy to the minor poet Sotiris Skipis.  1  a novel:  “He says he wants to be free. Kill him”: subtitle of Fratricides.  1  five hundredth anniversary: On 29 May 1453, Emperor Constantine Palaiologos died on the battlements defending Constantinople from capture by the Turks. The five hundredth anniversary, 29 May 1953, was approaching.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 284.

Antibes, 6 November 1952 Dear friend, Your letter found me bent over the Iliad. I’ve gone over it twice because I, too, when I open it, do not have the heart to close it. Because many of our old lines were really unbearable, I’ve made quite a few corrections. We’re leaving in a few days for Holland, where we’ll stay for a month. On my return I’ll finally start the memorandum so that you can look at it before we meet here, as you allow me to hope we shall. But I would like to know definitely which months you can come (1) so that we won’t go away on a trip in the summer, as is our custom, and (2) so that we may search ahead of time to find you a room, which is quite difficult during the summer. However, this would be the ideal solution; we would give the Iliad its definitive form. And if Merlier wants to publish it, that would be a great happiness. In Aegina I have the whole of the Odyssey translated among a pile of manuscripts and I don’t know if anyone will be able to extricate it. I’ll try. I remember you at every instant. Your name has now been tied to Homer and the Iliad—that is, to immortal factors. I’m working well here. I’ve started a new book, and I’ll begin to keep sending manuscripts to Knös. As you well know, the passion of my life is our demotic tongue. I write for its sake, but I

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don’t have a publisher in Greece. All the novels I wrote abroad have been translated into ten languages, and foreign publishers continually beg me for new manuscripts, whereas in Greece, where I am not even considered a literary person, it’s natural that I should not have a publisher. I am not complaining. I consider the situation completely in accord with the contemporary wretchedness of the social, political, and intellectual leadership of Greece. Give my warm greetings to your entire household. I’m glad that your son has decided to continue the work of grandfather and father; that’s the way it should be. Surely he will turn out to be worthy of them. But that’s not sufficient. His duty—and yours—is for him to surpass you. Eleni greets all of you with much love. She rejoiced when she read that you all might come—indeed, together with Prevelakis, the ideal “umpire.” So, then: after Holland I’ll compose the memorandum; in the summer we’ll work together decisively. May God, too, finally lend a hand! Always, N. Kazantzakis

1  the work of grandfather and father:  The grandfather was Theofanis Kakridis (1869–1929), professor of Latin at the University of Athens.

To Max Schuster —Original typescript (in English) in Columbia University Rare Book and Manuscript Library.

Nikos Kazantzakis Villa Manolita Parc Saramartel Antibes A.M. 8 November 1952 Dear Mister Schuster, Many thanks for your kind letter from 20th Oct. and your “Home Thoughts from Abroad, which I have read with great interest. I was greatly admiring the depth and epigrammatic conciseness of your style and I must thank you both, Mrs Schuster and you for the lignes you consacrated to my person; I am very touched. I shall be very happy if Simon and Schuster publish my books. I immediately wrote to Dr. Max Tau, my litterary agent, asking him to contact you directly and I hope he has done it already. You shall receive the English translation of “Christ Recrucifié” about at the end of December, so that you may begin to print it and have it published before Zorba. Zorba will follow; Mr. Lehmann has only the rights for the English translation. Do, please, send

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every contractual arrangement to Dr. Max Tau, that saves me much time and trouble, and lets me indisturbed for my work. Mr. Tau promised me to send you all the copies of the excerpts from any reviews, critiques, advertisements etc. and the tributes Th. Mann has payed my work in one of his letters adressed to me. (Mr. Tau wrote me that he has already sent copies of the Swedish and German translation of Christ Recrucifié to Mr. Goodman.) The English translator is Mr. Jonathan Griffin, 14, rue Lincoln, Paris 8. I am writing now a novel; my hero is St. Francis of Assisi. I think it will be finished next year. I shall send you the Greek manuscript of the LAST TEMPTATION (the life of Christ) I hope Mr. Friar shall be able to assume the translation. He knows Greek perfectly and is an American poet. My publishers are: JOHAN GRUNDT TANUM FORLAG, Oslo, (Christ Recrucifié, Norvège Dernière Tentation) (Zorba, Christ A/B LJUS FORLAG, Stockholm Suède Recurcifié) HUGO GEBERS FORLAG, Stockholm Suède (Dernière Tentation) (Christ Recrucifié) JESPERSEN OG PIOS FORLAG, Copenhage Danemark (Christ Recrucifié) WERNER SODERSTROM, Helsinki Finlande SARAIVA S/A LIVREIROS EDITORES, Sao Paolo (Zorba) (Zorba) LEHMANN, Londres BRUNO CASSIRER, London (Christ Recrucifié) (Christ Recrucifié) GALLIMARD, Paris EDITIONS DU CHENE, Paris (Zorba) (Christ Recrucifié) HERBIG, Berlin (Dernière Tentation) (Zorba) VIEWEG UND SOHN, Berlin MONDADORI, Milan (Christ Recrucifié) (Christ Recrucifié) FONTEIN, Utrecht, Hollande My epos ODYSSEY is a long poem of 33.000 verses; it is the main work of my life and took me more than ten years of work. It begins where Homer’s Odyssey finish, that is with the return of Ulysses to Ithaka, and follows the hero until his death. Mr. Friar has translated some fragments but in prose. It’s an American lady, Miss Josephine Mac Leod, who gave me the money for the publication (a wonderful edition in 300 copies only). It was published at 1939.

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In this work I put all the ardor of my sooul, all the love I feel for the earth— humans, beasts, plants, the sea and the sun, and all the ardent aspirations towards God. I thank you very much for your proposal about Georges Duplaix. But I have already a very kind friend, a dear elderly lady, Miss Marie-Louise Bataille, 155, Bd. Hausmann, Paris, who helps me a lot for the French rights. By now you certainly have heard everything about the Nobel. Here, some good French newspapers (Figaro etc.) wrote that I was the man I had the most chances to get the prize. And some English papers must have written the same thing because I saw the translation in the Greek newspapers of this week. But Greece is too small and nobody cares to honor her. . . . . . Let us hope for next year! I know that the Norwegians hommes de lettres shall propose me again for this new year. Toujours dans l’espoir de vous revoir tous les deux, vous et Madame Schuster, ma femme et moi nous vous envoyons nos salutations cordiales. avec le salut franciscain: Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis I apologize for my bad english.

1  Max Schuster:  Max Lincoln Schuster (1897–1970), cofounder in 1924, with Richard L. Simon, of the publishers Simon and Schuster (New York). His personal enthusiasm for Kazantzakis’s work accounts for the firm’s publication not only of the novels but also of the Odyssey, Saviors of God, and Prevelakis’s Nikos Kazantzakis and His Odyssey.  1  Original typescript (in English): Reproduced here exactly, without corrections.  1  Mr. Lehmann:  John Lehmann (1907–87), publisher; biographer; editor of New Writing (1936–40); founder and editor of The London Magazine (1954–61).  1  Georges Duplaix:  French publisher and author (1895­–1985), especially of children’s books, including Tintin. Some English translations of his work were published by Simon and Schuster.  1  Bataille:  Marie-Louise Bataille, an elderly lady in Paris who helped Kazantzakis regarding his contracts with French publishers.  1  hommes de letters:  Men of letters, literary people.  1  Toujours . . . salutations cordials:  Always hoping to see both of you again, you and Mrs. Schuster, my wife and I send you our cordial greetings.  1  avec le salut franciscain:  Pax et bonum: with the Franciscan greeting: Peace and goodwill.

To Tea Anemoyanni —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Dimakis 1979, pp. 92–94.

Utrecht, 27 November 1952

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Dear Comrade! I was greatly moved to read your last letter, and I’m glad that you liked The Last Temptation. I, too, when I was writing it, felt great agitation and tenderness, and my eyes often brimmed over. Here in Holland I had interesting discussions with ministers about the work’s theological shape. Some were scandalized that Christ experienced temptations; but I, writing this book, felt what Christ felt, became Christ, and I knew positively that great and very graceful and often legitimate temptations came and stood in the way of his path to Golgotha. But how can theologians know all that? We are going to stay another three days in Utrecht, after which the tour of cities and museums will begin. Tomorrow the doctor will tell Eleni what diet to pursue. He didn’t find anything seriously wrong with her, just general weakness, and yesterday he gave her a transfusion of a half liter of Dutch blood. This hospital is famous in Europe. I’m glad that I’ll be seeing so many paintings—and such works! This will doubtlessly benefit Saint Francis, whom I left half-finished on my desk in the Manolita. All the arts have the same root; sometimes a piece of music or a painting does more good for me and influences me more than a literary work. That’s why I am so impatient to see Rembrandt, Hals, Brueghel, and Van Gogh. It’s snowing while I’m writing you; the trees are covered with icicles; a flock of seagulls is flying outside the window. I had longed very much for this northern landscape and the northern silence. This very moment I received an express letter from Oslo asking me to whom the head of Oslo’s central theater may apply regarding costumes for the theatrical version of Christ Recrucified. I answered them that they should apply to you and that you would come to an agreement with Tsarouchis or Engonopoulos or whomever you want to prepare the costumes for them and send them— peasants, priests, aghas, a notable’s caftan (Patriarcheas and his son), widow, etc. To Tsarouchis or to whomsoever else you chose, explain which characters this novel has—Asia Minor around 1920, etc. So, when you receive a letter from my friend Dr. Max Tau (Bygdo Allé 20, Oslo), please do what you can. The other day I wrote as well to Nanakos asking him to send Dr. Tau the music for “Από τα κόκαλα βγαλμένη . . .” and “Σώσον, Κύριε, τον λαόν σου . . .” Please don’t let him neglect this. If he doesn’t have time, you send the two tunes. Please forgive me for involving you in new troubles, but I have no one else in Greece. The photograph I sent you is now in lots of Dutch newspapers and in the vitrines of the bookstores. Eleni is happy. I, unfortunately, cannot be happy— all my yearning, now, is directed toward Saint Francis. Extend my greetings to your Marika. Yours always, N. Kazantzakis

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1  half liter:  Just over one pint.  1  Tsarouchis:  Yannis Tsarouchis (1910– 89), famous painter.  1  caftan:  Full-length garment with long sleeves (also kaftan).  1  aghas:  Agha (or aga) is a Turkish title for a civil or military leader.  1  Από τα κόκαλα βγαλμένη:  Start of the second stanza of Dionysios Solomos’s “Hymn to Freedom,” the Greek national anthem. The poet greets freedom, emerging as it is from the sacred bones of Greeks.  1  Σώσον, Κύριε, τον λαόν σου:  Lord, save Thy people—start of a beloved hymn in the Greek Orthodox Church sung each year on 14 September for the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, which celebrates the reputed discovery in the year 326 by Saint Eleni, mother of Constantine the Great, of the true cross.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 648–50.

Amsterdam, 18 December 1952 Dear brother, I’m happy that my name day takes place, even though only once a year, so that I may receive a letter from you. I don’t think it’s right for you to take me to task. I am older than you; donnant donnant is not fitting for us. So, write to me in this way, gratuitously, not expecting any commitment from me. Your letters will then be doubly valuable. Moreover, do not forget how the Smellenes have embittered me: 1.  Five years ago, I think, when everyone was certain that Sikelianos would get the Nobel Prize, I was giving lectures on the British BBC in London about Sikelianos’s unique poetic worth. At the same time, a blackjack and a French pederast were going round the newspaper offices and the streets of Athens accusing me of being a swindler! 2.  When the academy is about to elect a new member, there’s talk of Papachristodoulou, Ouranis, and I don’t know which other good-for-nothings, and no one dares utter my name, not even the friendly and honorable members of the academy: Amandos, Veïs, Kalitsounakis, Kalomoiris, etc. Yet at precisely that time, all the newspapers and magazines of Europe have been proclaiming the “greatest contemporary writer” in ornamental language that I’m ashamed to mention to you. Yet no “friend” dared refer to this. And only recently—what a miracle!—the blackjack stood up for me and published several reviews. Let’s see if he’ll dare print the English reviews as well, and above all the Norwegian ones and the Dutch. The whole month I’ve been here the newspapers have been filled with interviews, pictures, reviews. But who in Greece dares mention them? Am I not the EAM-Bulgarian and the traitor?

1952 Letters  •  741

3.  When a History of Literature was written and I was considered a “pedagogue,” what friend stood up to protest? Apparently Dimaras is insignificant and malicious, but this is not known throughout Greece, and they gobble down whatever he writes as true. Only Kakridis wrote a personal letter to Dimaras, faintheartedly, and eased his conscience! 4.  When “the greatest scoundrel of modern Greece” (that’s the way an honorable scholar of Greek culture characterized him) departed and went to the Swedish Academy, supposedly as an official representative of the Greek Academy, what member of the Academy protested? And the president then was Maridakis, an honorable man. What he said against me to the members of the Swedish Academy and to the king of Sweden I know at first hand: I am a communist and I corrupt Greek youth, and Greece will be humiliated if it is honored through me. 5. Every year letters against me rain down upon the Swedish Academy (I have copies), and no Greek friend risked sending a letter to say that I am an honorable human being and that my work cannot be compared with any other. 6.  The Norwegian Society of Authors proposed me unanimously for the Nobel and will propose me again in the spring of 1953. What did our society do? What bothers me is not the enemies; it’s the friends. I believe that I shall remain an intellectual disgrace for the modern Greeks for many years. I’m eager to receive your play; perhaps it will be waiting for me in Antibes, because I left an order for them to send only the letters. It’s a great relief for me to sense your significant inspiration. As for me, I’m writing Saint Francis now, and I think it will be good. The battle between humanity and God is what interests me; all the rest is just precious social chaff. A tempest has arisen over The Last Temptation. The German Catholics don’t want it, whereas in Norway the archbishop and the pastors elucidate it and praise it from the pulpit—a second printing was issued barely a month after publication. And twenty-five thousand copies have been sold in Holland so far, which means royalties of two and a half million French francs. But the great hope is America. Since my books are having such a success, just imagine what other authors’ books must have had. Ten days from now we’ll be returning to the Manolita, where I’ll finish Saint Francis so that I can send it to the five or six publishers who are asking for it and want me to give them an option. I’m delighted that in this way I have escaped the Smellenes. Para siempre, N. Kazantzakis I hope that you’ve got Kapetan Mihalis in hand. Please send it to Verlag A. Bloemsma, Mgs Weteringstraat 130, Utrecht, Holland. They’re in a hurry

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to publish it, and I’ll be very grateful to you. Send it surface mail but registered. Thank you very much. Always, N

1  donnant donnant:  Giving to me so I give to you; fifty-fifty.  1  Smellenes:  Kazantzakis’s “Ελληνάδες” instead of “Έλληνες” is deprecatory. I have tried to render this with “Smellenes” instead of “Hellenes.”  1  blackjack:  Clearly Katsimbalis, as identified in Kazantzakis’s letter to Prevelakis of 25 January 1951.  1  Papachristodoulou:  Polydoros Papachristodoulou (1886– 1967), historian and folklorist of Thrace.  1  Amandos:  Konstantinos Amandos (1870–1960), professor of Byzantine studies; helped introduce demotic to schools.  1  Kalitsounakis: Ioannis Kalitsounakis (1878–1966), professor of modern Greek literature.  1  EAM-Bulgarian:  A double curse against suspected leftists during the Greek civil war and the right-wing oppression immediately afterwards, accusing a person of being a part of the leftist resistance movement EAM (Εθνικό Απελευθερωτικό Μέτωπό, National Liberation Front) and at the same time one of the traditional Bulgarian enemy.  1  Maridakis:  Yeoryios Maridakis (1890–1979), widely honored professor of law; member of the Academy of Athens.  1  A tempest has risen over The Last Temptation:  Prevelakis notes that Kazantzakis was confused; the “tempest” concerned Christ Recrucified.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum (in Eleni’s handwriting, dictated by Kazantzakis); archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 607; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 518–19; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 530.

N. Kazantzakis chez Métral, 41, rue J. Jaurès L’ Haÿ-les-Roses, Seine 8 June 1953 Very dear Friend, I was glad to learn that your translator’s royalties were arranged equitably, and I beg you very much to write me if you are truly satisfied. Dr. Max Tau is a valuable co-worker; so far he has appeared entirely disinterested in his relation to me. He does his utmost, and with personal sacrifice, to promulgate and establish my oeuvre. So please do not bear him any malice. He always has good intensions.

1953 Letters  •  743

He is asking me now to have you send him the translations of Christopher Columbus and of the first chapter of Saint Francis. He hopes to find a way for the former to be produced quickly and for the latter to be published in a good Swedish periodical—extraordinarily important things for me at this moment because I’m still in a nursing home and have run out of money. The wound is beginning to close and I hope to be in Antibes at the end of the month. I’ll meet Kakridis there so that we can give the Iliad translation its final form. My wife and I think of you and your wife every day with extraordinary love. Write to us even though you don’t receive letters from us with regularity. I’ll soon be more regular, I hope. During my illness I wrote several Franciscan haikus and I think they are good—brief, full of feeling and sense, full of Franciscan intimacy with God. I hope that as soon as I return to Antibes I’ll be able to send you several of them so that you, too, can see them. My life has been dark and despairing for so many months inside the walls of the nursing home and hospital. If it weren’t for Eleni and Francis, I don’t think I could have endured it. I would have opened the door and fled. But I think of you and various others among the few friends I have in the world, and I wouldn’t ever want to displease them. I’m enduring, fighting, mobilizing all of my luminous forces to conquer the darkness, and I think I have already begun to win. I am very much better; nothing remains except for the wound to close. So don’t worry, very dear friend. Soon I’ll be on my feet fighting at your side because both of us are brave combatants and we have devoted our lives and our happiness to the great purpose of Spirit conquering matter.

1  I’m still in a nursing home:  The nature of Kazantzakis’s very severe illness is described in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 606–7. Apparently, he almost died.

To Mario Vitti —Manuscript in Princeton University Library.

Antibes, Villa Manolita, 20 September 1953 Dear Mr. Vitti, I’m very happy that the translation is finished. Judging from the pages you sent me, it is excellent, and I thank you very much. It was a difficult feat. I am pleased that you were the one who undertook it and completed it. For the title I would prefer “Cristo sempre in croce.” Please tell the publisher not to change the title without informing me. I’m sorry that I no longer have time now, as I had in the past, to follow Italian intellectual life, which interests me so profoundly. That is why I was unable to be aware of your literary activity.

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Hoping that we shall meet one day, please accept this expression of my gratitude for your translation of Christ Recrucified. Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis

1  Mario Vitti:, Italian scholar (b. 1926), critic, translator, professor at the University of Palermo.

To Mario Vitti —Manuscript in Princeton University Library.

Antibes, Villa Manolita, 27 October 1953 Dear Mr. Vitti, Thank you very much for your letter. I am eager to enjoy the Italian edition of Christ Recrucified. I am enclosing for you a brief “Biography and Bibliography.” Many individuals have written articles, but I think no one about the entire oeuvre. You’ll get more accurate information from Mr. Prevelakis (8 M. Asteriou Street), Hourmouzios (Kathimerini), and I. Panayotopoulos. These days I am about to finish Saint Francis. God grant that one day you may wish to translate it! I hope that it will interest Italy very much. Please keep me informed about the title of the book that you translated. It’s a difficult task, full of thorns, to undertake to write about contemporary Greek literary figures, that pack of champing mongrels. Yours, N. Kazantzakis

1  keep me informed about the title of the book that you translated:  For the title in Italian of Vitti’s translation of Christ Recrucified, Kazantzakis had suggested Cristo sempre in croce (see preceding letter). The book was actually published under a somewhat similar title: Cristo di nuovo in croce (Milan: Mondadori, 1955).

To Yannis Kakridis —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift of Yannis Kakridis; missing from Kazantzakis Museum Kakridis archive; not printed in Kazantzakis 1977b.

Antibes, 22 November 1953

1953 Letters  •  745

Very dear friend, Our opinions are so identical that I think it totally superfluous for you to ask my view and both of us to waste time. I read all the proposals; my judgment regarding them is exactly the same as yours. Certainly the best is Haris’s, but what shortcomings it, too, has! The translation is completely deflowered, and the financial repercussions are serious for us. Z’s kiosk isn’t worth discussing (what a disgrace he is!). Of course it would be good if we produced a deluxe edition for the wealthy, but where can we find the wealthy who’ll give us the money? On the other hand, it would be better if Merlier were willing to publish us in two installments—but is he willing? Therefore, please make any decision you wish. I’m sure that I would end up there as well, and that way we won’t lose time. But on the other hand, it’s better for us to lose time than to get mixed up in a bad solution. I wrote to Prevelakis that the books should be given to Sbarounis; there’s no safety in the National Library. Have you seen the editorials against me in Estia? With my name and yours also; may they never be separated! I immediately directed Mavridis, the publisher, to send you a copy of Kapetan Mihalis. Have you still not received it? Please write him to remind him about it. The days that you were near us gleam inside us. God grant that they may dawn again when we correct the Odyssey, too. I’ll leave the other page for Eleni. All my love to your family. Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis P.S. I finished Saint Francis the other day. It’s being typed now by Eleni, the great martyr.

1  the books should be given to Sbarounis:  Apparently Kazantzakis wanted the foreign editions of his works deposited with Sbarounis for safekeeping.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 659–60.

Antibes, 6 December 1953 Dear brother, I finished Saint Francis two weeks ago, and right now I’m enduring the pains of conception. Three subjects parade in front of me and I don’t know which to select. Paris’s torment. I hope to make a decision quickly, because this inaction is tiring me out. My body is very well. The wound is going to close

746  •  1953 Letters

entirely in two days, so you must not have the slightest concern. I feel that my entire organism is working well and that my mind is always in command. Eleni is typing Saint Francis. The moment she finishes it, I’ll find a way to send it to you. It’s among the works that you will not like, and I, too, am astonished that I wrote it. Do I have, therefore, a religious mystic inside me? For I was extremely moved as I wrote it. I’m eager for the shop window to be set up; it’s the only answer to Estia that is allowed us. Tomorrow I’ll be sending you a German Askitiki. Also, in a few days, the English edition of Christ Recrucified; the American one in January. Dimitrakos’s conditions are splendid, but he himself is a bastard. I refused. God grant that the Iliad may be published in 1954! Have you seen the most recent corrections? I have you in mind every minute of every day. It was a great joy that you came to the Manolita if only for a few hours. When will the next time be? Eleni will continue this letter. The house repairs start tomorrow. God be with you, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  Paris’s torment:  The myth of Paris, son of Priam, the king of Troy, describes how Paris was selected to judge a contest among three goddesses— Athena, Aphrodite, and Hera—for the prize of a golden apple. Hera promised that he would become the ruler of Asia if he chose her; Athena promised him victory in all his battles, plus wisdom and beauty; Aphrodite promised him the fairest woman in the world as his wife. He chose Aphrodite, thereby winning the hatred of Athena and Hera for himself and also for all Trojans. The fulfillment of Aphrodite’s promise—his marriage to the beautiful Helen, whom he abducts from the palace of her husband, King Menelaos—of course leads to the Trojan War and the total destruction of Troy.

To Emile Hourmouzios —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977a, p. 192.

Antibes, 14 December 1953 My dear Milio, Your article on Kapetan Mihalis was immensely pleasing and moving. You guessed right: when I started to write it, I was not thinking at all of creating the epic novel of Crete. I simply wanted to resurrect the sunken Iraklio of my childhood years and to lift out of the soil several of the people I had known when I was a child. Little by little, without my having this consciously in mind, my blood began to be kindled as I wrote, Crete loomed up before me covered with blood, and the yearning for liberty set me on fire as well. The

1954 Letters  •  747

grandfathers, several of whom were killed beneath the plane tree outside the Pasha’s Gate, awoke inside me; my frightening father, buried within me, whom with relief I’d thought dead, rose up once again fully alive. And the paper on which I was writing became smudged with my tears as I proceeded. “What I am writing is not a novel,” I kept saying to myself, “it is not fiction. Some grandfather inside me, the whole of Crete, rose up and is shouting.” And I did nothing else but bend over my breast and listen intently to what it was shouting. When I finished, I did not know whether this manuscript would interest anyone else beside myself. That’s why your article moved me so. Hence, it wasn’t only the Cretan who was shouting; it was humankind, poor wretched humanity full of wounds and determination. I thank you for the good you have done me and the assurance you have given me. God bless you, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  your article:  There were actually two articles, published in Kathimerini on 15 November 1953 and 10 December 1953.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 663–64.

Antibes, 4 January 1954 My dear brother, Thank you for your valuable letter. I’ll write to Agni to come and reach an agreement with you regarding how we should safeguard ourselves, as though we had to do with a bandit chief. I think that we should specify which paper (uniform for all the volumes) and which font (I very much like the one used in Kapetan Mihalis). Or should it be different for the theatrical works? I doubt if he’ll be able to publish the Odyssey in one volume, with thin paper; if not, then in four volumes, one volume each year. The print run he wants (10,000, 8,000, 5,000) seems excessive to me; perhaps, if you think so, we should propose 6,000, 4,000, 3,000 (novels, travel books, plays). If the volumes must be uniform in size (let’s say five hundred pages each), we’ll need to apportion the plays accordingly in four installments (there are twelve of them). Thus, I calculate that sixteen volumes will be issued, four each year, more or less as follows: 1st year: (1) Christ Recrucified, (2) three plays, (3) two travel books, (4) 1/4 Odyssey.

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2nd year: (1) The Last Temptation, (2) three plays, (3) two travel books, (4) 1/4 Odyssey. 3rd year: (1) Saint Francis, (2) three plays, (3) travel book, (4) 1/4 Odyssey. 4th year: (1) Kapetan Mihalis (second printing), (2) three plays, (3) Dante, (4) 1/4 Odyssey, (5) Zorba (3rd edition). I don’t know where to place Askitiki. If Dimitrakos accepts our conditions and Agni manages to secure him, I’ll be delighted to see my collected works before I die. I’ve already begun to correct the plays, to enable them to take on their definitive form. Help me at this difficult moment. I had instructed Marika to hand the opening chapters of Saint Francis over to you immediately. I hope you have them by now. I’ll send you what follows at the first opportunity. Knös has already translated many chapters. I wrote to Tea to get Christopher Columbus from Tsitseli, and she’ll give it to you right away. Let’s hope that Minotis won’t forget us. Timeo . . . Christ Recrucified will appear in the bookstores of England and America in three days. I’m curious to see its fate. My life here is the same; I’m revising old works now and making notes for the new novel; I don’t want to rush into beginning it. Out of four possible subjects, one prevailed; I’m keeping the others for later. I think that you have the corrected Dante (vol. 1); if you find a chance, send it to me. I’m afraid it might get lost by post (a lot does get lost); if someone is leaving for Paris, it’s safer to have it sent to me from there. God be with you, my dear brother! Forgive me for the troubles I give you every now and then. It would be terrible if you failed me. Eleni sends warm greetings. May the new year be as you wish it, and better. Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis

1  Agni:  Agni Rousopoulou-Stouditou (1901–77), educator; author of Τι πρέπει να γνωρίζη ο πολίτης (1934), for high school students, and pedagogical works; acted as Kazantzakis’s lawyer and agent in Greece.  1  Tsitseli:  The Greek author Kay Cicellis (1926–2001), who wrote novels and short stories in English and translated Greek literature into English.  1  Timeo . . .: In Latin characters and followed by three dots. Timeo is the first word of a famous line in Virgil’s Aeneid (2.49), “Timeo Danaos et[iam] dona ferentes,” which means “I fear the Greeks even when they are bearing gifts.” The context is of course the well known story of the Greeks’ “gift” of the Trojan Horse, which the credulous Trojans admitted to their city, enabling the Greek soldiers hidden inside the horse to capture the city and to end the Trojan War with victory.  1  and America: In America, Christ Recrucified was published under the title The Greek Passion (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1954).

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To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 610; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 521; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 532–33.

Antibes, 8 January 1954 Very dear friend, I’ve just received your letter and am answering it immediately, enclosing a note with the difficult words. I had sent you the manuscript up to page 225; now that the strike is over, I hope that you received it. If not, please write me immediately, and I’ll send it again so that we may avoid any delay. Dr. Tau has written me that the Norwegian publisher is in a hurry to receive your translation because he wants to print Saint Francis immediately. Please do not forget the dedication on the first page: “Dedicated to the saint of our time, Dr. Albert Schweitzer.” A Greek publisher has offered to publish my collected works; I think I wrote you about that. It will be a great pleasure for me to bring my oeuvre together so that my friends might have it. Christ Recrucified is coming out today, 8 January, in the bookstores of England and America. Let’s hope that it receives the same reviews as Zorba did. Right now I’m working my new book out in my mind (and keeping notes). I still don’t know what name I’ll give it; first it must acquire a steady face so that I may see it and give it a suitable name. My wife sends you warm greetings; she is busy all day long with the new house. The carpenters are working; my office is being made ready; in April we hope to move in. It’s a shame that you won’t be with us to celebrate! Seeing the little house being constructed, sometimes I think of the words of a Muslim ascetic of the tenth century: “Why don’t you, too, build a house?” he was asked. “Because,” he replied, “an oracle told me that I will live only seven hundred years. So, is it worth the trouble to build a house for such a short period?” As for me, an oracle told me that I’ll live eighty-three years; yet I have the naïveté and impudence to build a house! Nothing else for today, very dear friend, except that I beg of you to write me as soon as you receive the manuscript up to page 225, so that I may stop worrying. Tomorrow I’ll mail you the issue of Nea Estia that has Constantine Palaiologos. My wife and I send heartfelt greetings to your wife and you. Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis

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1  I’ll live eighty-three years:  Alas, Kazantzakis died at age seventy-four at the height of his powers.

To Yannis Kakridis —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift of Yannis Kakridis; not printed in Kazantzakis 1977b.

Antibes, 28 January 1954 My dear friend, I very much enjoyed your long-awaited letter. You are well, you are leaving for America this year, you have decided about the Iliad—everything is fine. I agree that we should publish the Iliad ourselves at our own expense. I wrote immediately to Agni Rousopoulou that she should hand over to your wife, if you’re in Thessaloniki, the first money that she takes in from Dimitrakos. I hope that I’ll manage by means of installments to pay my share. I’m glad, because this way we escape the bandit chiefs. Here, as you know, I completed Saint Francis and Knös is finally finishing up the translation. I’ve begun a new work. I had to choose among four subjects, but I needed lots of documentation for three of them and didn’t have it here, so I began the fourth, but won’t be in a hurry to finish it. I feel sorry for Knös, who’ll start translating again. How miserable and shameless is the editorial about Kapetan Mihalis in Estia (23 January 1954)! Please read it. Do you know who wrote it? Laourdas! A sick, wretched organism. How fortunate that I live far away from Greece! I’m glad you have the Odyssey. It’s a rough first draft, entirely impromptu. I should have been able to work better now, after our exploit doing the Iliad. No matter. I’ll live long enough to collaborate with you again, God knows, on whatever seashore. This hope makes me extremely happy. Last August will be always resplendent in my mind, with a halo: Saint August! God be with you and yours, always! Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis

1  we escape the bandit chiefs:  For example, the publisher Dimitrakos (see next letter).  1  the Odyssey: Obviously not Kazantzakis’s epic but rather the beginning of his translation (with Kakridis) of Homer’s Odyssey, which he completed only in first draft. Kakridis, finishing the translation, published it in 1965.

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To Agni Rousopoulou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

Antibes, 28 January 1954 Dear Agni, 1. I’m relieved that Dimitrakos changed his mind and won’t accept; we’ve escaped a bandit chief. Tea writes me that Mavridis is interested and will write me his conditions. He’s better, but I don’t know if he can bear it financially, because he’s got to figure a minimum of ten or twelve volumes of four to five hundred pages each. I enclose a list of works for you together with a note about how I think it would be good for them to be issued. Kapetan Mihalis should be considered the basis for paper, font, and size. But let’s have him make us a proposal first. The ideal would be for Kolaros to accept. Sarandopoulos told a friend of mine that he’d like to publish several of my works, but we want collected works, once and for all. The ones in red pencil are unpublished; those in red with a + have been printed in Nea Estia. 2.  Kakridis writes me that he decided that we should print the Iliad at our own expense: fifty to sixty million. Half and half. So, when you get new money from Dimitrakos, please give it to Mrs. Kakridi (if Kakridis is away in Thessaloniki). (Only a first installment for the present, Agni, because our other expenses are huge.) 3.  What a miserable, brazen article in Estia! I’ve learned that it was written by poor Laourdas. I felt sorry for his sorry state, also for Estia’s, and happy that I’m outside of Greece. Thanks for the first typographic signature of Zorba and for your indecipherable one! The paper and font are fine. I’ll leave you now, dear Agni, so that another nightingale, Eleni, can twitter. Hold firm, poor Mesolonghi! N. Kazantzakis

1  Kolaros:  Kazantzakis’s spelling for I. D. Kollaros, owner of the well-known Estia bookshop and publishing house; also publisher of the important literary magazine Nea Estia (which must not be confused with the right-wing newspaper Estia).  1  Sarandopoulos:  Kostas Sarandopoulos, managing director of the publishing house I. D. Kollaros & Co.  1  (Only a first installment for the present, Agni, because our other expenses are huge.):  Added in Eleni Kazantzaki’s hand.  1  typographic signature: In printing, a signature is a

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large sheet printed with 4, 8, or 16 pages that when folded becomes a section of the book.  1  your indecipherable one:  Presumably her signed (and unreadable) name.  1  Hold firm, poor Mesolonghi:  A proverbial expression in Greek appropriate for any difficult situation in which courage, patience, and fortitude are required. It derives from the second siege of Mesolonghi from April 1825 to April 1826 (Byron had died there in April 1824) by thirty thousand Turks under Resid Mehmed Pasha plus ten thousand Egyptians under Ibrahim Pasha. It is said that the Greek poet Dionysius Solomos, hearing the distant cannon fire from his island of Zakynthos, sighed “Hold firm, poor Mesolonghi.” After resisting for a year, the starving population of Mesolonghi decided to leave the city, whereupon most were slaughtered. Solomos’s uncompleted poem, “The Free Besieged,” commemorates their sacrifice.

To Agni Rousopoulou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

Antibes, 22 February 1954 Dear Agni, Thank you very much for your letter and for the troubles I’m causing you. It’s a shame that Kolaros, as conservative as always, won’t accept the entire oeuvre; it’s a shame that Mavridis can’t bear up financially; it’s a blessing that Dimitrakos refuses—thanks to my “friend” Melas! What do we do now? As you know, I am under a legal arrangement and cannot make any decisions without Prevelakis’s approval. You sent him Mavridis’s proposal; let’s see what he says. I would very much like to see my collected works printed while I’m still alive; I have already begun to give quite a few of them their definitive form. If we close with Mavridis, we need to be very careful about the order in which he brings out the books—not the easily salable ones first and the rest afterwards. But, after Prevelakis’s decision, we’ll have time to arrange the conditions. I don’t care whether the royalties I’ll be getting are 30 or 35 percent. What a pack of dogs is the modern Greek intelligentsia! What barking and nipping! Fortunately my hide is so thick that I don’t feel anything—only Mitleid. I’m sending you the reviews of the drama from the Norwegian press; show them to Mamakis (tell him that I am really greatly moved by his friendly disposition); afterwards give them to Hourmouzios. We shouldn’t give the dogs any other answer. Now a German theater has requested Sodom and Gomorrah, which has been translated into German. Eleni can write you the details. In addition, she’ll write you that the medicine still has not arrived and that the old illness is beginning to make its appearance again. I fear that it’s incurable. Thanks also for Fteris’s article. Loyal!

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Dear Agni, may “God” be with you, and a thousand thousand thousand thank-yous. Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis P.S. Whatever you get now from Dimitrakos, please give it to Mrs. Kakridi. Health & happiness!

1  Mitleid:  Pity.  1  Mamakis:  Achilleas Mamakis (1906–66), journalist, wrote literary criticism in the conservative newspaper Ethnos.  1  Fteris:  Yeoryios Fteris (1894–1967), poet, journalist; in 1933 began directing Athinaïka Nea. Perhaps Kazantzakis saw a preliminary draft of the article published in To Vima on 16 May 1954 that examined the church’s involvement in “the Kazantzakis question.”

To Katerina Anghelaki —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke.

Antibes, 1 March 1954 My dear Katerina, Your letter is brilliant, wise, full of understanding and fire; I’m beginning to be proud of the drop of olive oil that I placed on your chest one day when you were being bathed in the font. I’m pleased that you have sensed the atmosphere of Crete so correctly and ardently. A different kind of wind blows out there, and small breaths cannot stand it. How fine that they cannot! We shall breathe in that air until we die— if we die. For the Cretan’s soul is very deep (when I say Cretan, I mean every large Breath); it is deep and cannot be dislodged. May the Cretan God with his baggy trousers be with you, my dear godchild, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  My dear Katerina:  Born in 1939, Katerina was then fifteen years old.  1  the drop of olive oil that I placed on your chest:  When he acted as her godfather.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 665–66.

Antibes, 1 March 1954

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My dear Brother, God grant you health, many years, and productive ones. You were with us the whole day on 18 February. A critic from Norway had come to celebrate with me, and we drank to your health. It really is a great shame that life is so short and that people who should never separate are separated. Very few insults reach here, and I feel nothing but pity for the unfortunate insulters. They cannot understand—they will never be able to understand— the degree to which they cannot touch me. They expend their soul and rancor to no avail. I agree fully about Dimitrakos and Mavridis. I’m relieved that Dimitrakos refuses, but certainly Mavridis, too, won’t be able to bring it off. Yet I’d like to see the collected works at last, before I die; let’s be patient—that humble virtue is sometimes useful. Please give Agni instructions, and let’s see what develops. I sent Agni, translated into English, the reviews that were written in the Norwegian papers. I told her to show them to Hourmouzios, but it would be better for you to take them. Apparently the success was astonishing; the Norwegian who came here told me that the Norwegian theater had never seen such a success and that the Norwegian public had never been so moved. The aftereffect of this success was immediate: the sum that Ferrer was giving for the option was increased fivefold! Saint Francis has been translated into Swedish; the printing will begin immediately. Now it’s being translated into Norwegian. Kapetan Mihalis will be published immediately now in England, America, Germany, and Holland; then Saint Francis’s turn will come. I’ll send you the rest of the manuscript as soon as I find an opportunity. Spyros Theodoropoulos has Dante, most likely. I’m well. I’m preparing the new book, but am not going to hurry. (I always say that, and suddenly the Cretan squall catches hold of me.) I’m happy to have you talk to me about the Iliad. I love it very much and consider it to be a feat—God bless Kakridis! So that he can buy the paper for it, I told Agni to hand over to him the money she gets from Dimitrakos. Kakridis now also has the manuscript of the translation of the Odyssey. We must translate both of these epics; otherwise we will be limping and onelegged when we enter . . . immortality! When will I see you again? I think of that endlessly. Eleni greets you and loves you very much. Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis

1  a critic from Norway:  Presumably Max Tau.  1  the success was astonishing:  The work in question was a theatrical adaptation of Christ Recrucified.  1  Ferrer:  Jose Ferrer (1912–92), Oscar-winning actor and film director born in Puerto Rico. Ferrer sought an option on this same theatrical adapta-

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tion of Christ Recrucified.  1  we enter . . . immortality:  The three dots are Kazantzakis’s, indicating not something missing but rather simply a pause preceding an unexpected word or sentiment.

To Yannis Kakridis —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift of Yannis Kakridis; not printed in Kazantzakis 1977b.

15 March 1954 Dear friend, Once more, how long it is since I’ve received a letter from you! But you must be well, you won’t have forgotten us, and that is a consolation. Every time I bring you to mind, I calm down and am happy, telling myself that I am not alone. I am working peacefully, all by myself with my wife as companion, and am fighting to prepare the new book that is devouring me. It will be written in the new house that we have named the “Cocoon” because it is extremely small, extremely charming—white and yellow—and because we will enter it as caterpillars and will emerge as . . . souls. I admire you for going to America to see that astonishing world, and I’m glad that you’ll escape the Smellenes for a few months. I, too, had an invitation from an American university to give three lectures, but I said no. Maybe next year. I asked Agni Rousopoulou to take the money she gets from Dimitrakos for Zorba and to hand it over to your wife as my contribution to our publication. I’ll try to pay my full share in time. This is the best solution. It’s a sorry state of affairs when our nation and the Academy do not support the publication of this national work. No matter. All power to us, to our perseverance, purity, love, and devotion to the bleeding bird called Spirit! I don’t know if the publisher has sent you Kapetan Mihalis. In three-­ columned articles, Estia, with the state or the church rallying behind it, calls the book immoral, irreligious, unpatriotic, and Mihalis an alcoholic! Poor poor Greece! My heart splits in two when I think of the people who govern that holy, greatly martyred place. If you stay well, and five or six other people in Greece do the same, Greece will not die. How much I wish we could sit together again in the evening and talk! What eternal, peaceful, simple moments! Greet your household for me. Steal a few moments from death and write to me. All is well because all is well inside us—because we work, fight, believe, and do not fear the ascent! God be with you, always, N. Kazantzakis

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1  will emerge as . . . souls:  Again, Kazantzakis’s three dots indicate not any omission but simply a pause owing to the surprise that follows.

To Petros Haris —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Petros Haris.

Antibes, 16 March 1954 Dear friend, What can I write about “that great elephant” of the Greek soil? Everything has been said; he opened the way, and we followed. Of course he had his faults, both as author and as human being, but what do they matter? He opened the way, I’m telling you, and we followed. He will live and flourish as long as Greek literature exists. We are his children and grandchildren. We shall die. But the grandfather, the root, is immortal. I thank Mr. Hatzinis for the generous and honorable review of Kapetan Mihalis. I also thank Nea Estia for publishing it. It’s a sorry state when it’s considered heroic if someone says something nice about me. Poor poor Greece, undying! I’ve finished a new novel, Pax et bonum!, about Saint Francis of Assisi. It’s being translated now into various languages and I’ll send you a chapter later, if you’d like. God be with you and with Greece, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  that great elephant:  Yannis Psiharis. Presumably Haris was asking Kazantzakis to write something on Psiharis for a special issue of Nea Estia commemorating the centenary of Psiharis’s birth.

To Panos-Nikolis Tzelepis —Photo of manuscript in Elli Alexiou 1981, hors-texte.

Antibes, Villa Manolita, 1 April 1954 Dear friend, What a delightful surprise! You’ve shown me great kindness and given me pleasure. What a miracle our architectural civilization is! What organic unity with the Greek landscape and light! How glad I am that you give such honor to our Greek name abroad!

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May the God of Greece hold you in good stead and give you strength to continue your excellent work. You truly have given me great pleasure and your courtesy is great. God be with you, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  Panos-Nikolis Tzelepis:  Also transliterated as Panos N. Tzelepes (1894– 1976); was a distinguished architect; author of Λαϊκή ελληνική αρχιτεχτονική (Athens: Themelio, 1999).

To Emmanuel Papastefanou —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift of S. E. Stephanou, Papastefanou’s son; photograph of manuscript (incomplete) in Mitsotakis 1972, p. 23; not printed in Mitsotakis 1972.

Antibes, Villa Manolita, 25 April 1954 Very dear, unforgettable, age-old friend and fellow doer of exploits! Our consulate general in Paris has just sent me all of your letters. What a joy that was! What a resurrection! Nothing has died. All of our youthful experience has risen up inside me, armed to the teeth, as has all of the flame that for so many years has been struggling to turn into light. What an ascent this has been for me since the time we separated, what a struggle, what an agony to transubstantiate matter into spirit! The reason is that the human being—and not only the human being but also the universe— has a single purpose: to transubstantiate matter into spirit. That is God’s struggle. God’s path is a red line that ascends. We must follow that red line; it is the great duty. All my life, sacrificing everything, I have toiled for this great pearl. My particular path has been to formulate and save my soul by means of words—by writing. I have done that throughout my life and am doing it now by working day and night without becoming discouraged, and with the unshakeable faith that in this way I am collaborating with God. I have passed through three great theological stages: 1. O God, you shall save me. 2. O God, I shall save you. 3. O God, working together we shall be saved together. I have written many books, but all are out of print. My collected works are going to be issued. If this happens, I’ll tell the publisher to send you everything. So far, two of my novels have been translated and published in America: Zorba the Greek and The Greek Passion (Simon and Schuster publisher, New York).

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I have been away from Greece for many years. I bought a small house in Antibes on the Côte d’Azur and have settled there. I will not return again to Greece. I have found serene solitude here. I work undisturbed and desire nothing except time—enough to enable me to save my entire soul so that death will find only a few bones to take along. I will be extremely pleased if you write me on occasion. Never, never have you departed from my mind or heart. You are the burning bush that is not consumed. I admire you when I compare you with quenched fires and with the ashes of Gomorrah. God bless you! May He keep you always vigilant, upright, and resolute! God grant that we may see each other one day and say final words! Farewell. Do not forget that I am with you always. N. Kazantzakis

1  The Greek Passion: Only in the United States does the English translation bear this title. In the United Kingdom the title is as it should be: Christ Recrucified.  1  the burning bush that is not consumed: Exodus 3:2 describes a bush that is on fire but is not consumed by the flames. It is the location at which God appointed Moses to lead the Israelites out of Egypt. In Eastern Orthodox tradition, the flame seen by Moses was God’s Glory manifested as light.  1  the ashes of Gomorrah:  Genesis 19:24–28 describes the destruction of sinful Sodom and Gomorrah owing to brimstone and fire rained down upon them by the Lord, after which “the smoke of the land went up as the smoke of a furnace.”

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Uppsala University Library; missing from the Kazantzakis Museum Knös archive; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 613; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 523; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 535.

Antibes, 1 May 1954 Very dear friend, Thank you very much for your essay on Philaras; I read it very carefully, once again admiring your wisdom and your balanced, fair judgment. May the God of Sweden and Greece give you strength to continue your work for many years! Yesterday I received a telegram from my German publisher: “Letzte Versuchung auf päpstlichen Index!” He asks me to send him a few words to explain how I wrote the book. I sent him the enclosed. The narrow-mindedness or faintheartedness of human beings always astonishes me. Here is a book that I

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wrote with profound religious exaltation, with fiery love for Christ. But Christ’s representative, the pope, understands nothing, senses none of the Christian affection in the writing, and condemns the book. Nevertheless, for me to be condemned is consistent with the wretchedness and slavery of today’s world. In my mind I am calmly sketching out my new book. Before beginning to write it down, I’m waiting for my books to come from Greece and for us to move into the Cocoon. I’m hoping that this will happen this May. The American publisher is coming to Antibes on 12 May so that we may see each other. He is going to publish Kapetan Mihalis now. Dr. Tau writes me that the Mannheim theater has accepted Sodom & Gomorrah for production. We’ll see. Sunshine. The trees are blossoming, the sea is warming up and giving off mist. The world is beautiful. Has the sun, the certus deus, finally reached your North, too? My wife and I greet you and your wife with very much love. Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis P.S. Hasn’t the Swedish publisher replied yet regarding Saint Francis? It needs to be printed quickly.

1  Letzte Versuchung auf päpstlichen Index:  Last Temptation on papist Index—that is, on the Catholic Church’s Index Librorum Prohibitorum (List of Prohibited Books), which was abolished in 1966.  1  certus deus: Indisputable god.

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; printed in Friar 1977, pp. 8–9.

Antibes, 2 May 1954 Dear Mr. Friar, I received your letter of 18 April and saw that there is practically no hope that some American organization will help us with the translation of the Odyssey. Schuster telegraphed me that he’s coming here in May. We’ll discuss then whether he agrees to support the translation of one-third of the Odyssey, in which case we’ll need to make a careful selection so that this one-third will constitute an organic whole. If you come here in the summer, then I’ll stay in Antibes so that we may work together. These days we are going to leave the Villa Manolita and go to a small house I bought in Antibes; thus I am very sorry that I will not be able

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to keep you at home, because there is no space. But I’ll look around to find you a room where you can be comfortable. Write to me quickly, however, so that I can take care of this because the summer here is full of people. I’ll be very happy if you come and we work together, because otherwise it will be impossible for you to begin the translation on your own. Not because it has many Cretan words but because its language is the rich modern Greek language that very few of our intellectuals know. They don’t learn it in school and are prevented from learning it by newspapers, the radio, laziness, and slipshod use of language. For years I went round to the villages and mountains of Greece collecting words from the lips of the common people—how they call each thing. But Athenian men of letters have an impromptu extremely poverty-stricken vocabulary, and whatever word they don’t recognize they say is Cretan. When I translated Dante’s Divine Comedy, I made a public wager with whomever accepted that in the 14,000 lines of Dante there are not fourteen exclusively Cretan words: one word in every thousand lines! And in the Odyssey I wagered that in its 33,333 lines there are not thirty-three—no, not even thirteen—exclusively Cretan words. It goes without saying that no one accepted the wager. When you come, I’ll explain this matter to you in the fullest detail. This is needed because it isn’t right for you, too, to write that my vocabulary is Cretan! On the contrary, when there is a better word—that is, a more Panhellenic word—I always prefer that one. I have received Contemporary Greek Poetry and I thank you very much; also Wake 12. I’m glad that the mission of making our modern Greek intellectual life known in America happened to fall to you. That life is remarkable, and worth being known by foreigners, too. Naturally you have your preferences. Sometimes you are wrong because, lacking anyone in Greece to point them out to you, you were unaware of several of our writers and poets who are very much better than many of those whom you have translated. But that doesn’t matter. On the contrary, the service you are rendering to modern Greek literature is invaluable. That’s all for today. I’m waiting for you to write me whether you are coming so that I may see about a room and not leave France during the summer, but work together with you. With love, yours, N. Kazantzakis P.S. Your schedule is extraordinarily interesting and rich. May God give you the strength to write the important work that is your desire!

1  Contemporary Greek Poetry:  Just the table of contents of Friar’s translations of twenty contemporary Greek poets, scheduled for publication by the University of Minnesota Press but actually never published. An anthology by Friar under the same title was finally published in Athens in 1985 by the Greek

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Ministry of Culture.  1  Wake 12:  Volume 12 of this periodical (1954) published a small anthology of Friar’s translations, including seven excerpts from Kazantzakis’s Odyssey, plus poetry by Seferis, Papatzonis, and Elytis.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 666–68.

Antibes, 9 May 1954 Dear Brother, Thank you very much for your letter and for your brotherly care. I agree with you; let’s hope that Goudelis, the new publisher, turns out to be solid. I’m awaiting his letter so that I may answer him. As you say, it’s right for him to bring out the first three volumes. Only I don’t know who in Greece has the manuscript of Christ Recrucified or of Dante’s Inferno. Spyros Theodoropoulos received it from Dimitrakos, and I asked Agni to ask him for it, but she hasn’t written me anything about it. Tea has Christopher Columbus. You should telephone her and ask her to bring it to you. Ploritis, the editor of Eleftheria, came to the Manolita and asked me on behalf of his newspaper to give him one of my books to be serialized. After hesitating, I gave him the entire manuscript of Saint Francis, under these conditions: 1. Printed without any omissions 2. Printed without touching the language 3. That Androulidakis should reach an agreement with you regarding the remuneration 4. If it isn’t accepted, that the manuscript be given immediately to you I don’t know if Androulidakis has been in touch with you yet. If not, do me the favor of telephoning him and asking what they decided because I’m afraid the manuscript might be mislaid. Thank you for the verses of Empedocles. I have a large book about Hölderlin, and as soon as I find it (we’re moving into the new house now, the “Cocoon,” and I’m expecting my books from Aegina), I’ll send it to you. My German publisher telegraphed me enthusiastically the other day that the pope placed The Last Temptation on the index. What hypocrisy, what putridity this world must have, not to be able to tolerate a book written with such flame and purity! And how fallen intellectual and moral Greece must be for Melas and Bastias and the “Holy” Synod to consider me immoral and a traitor! I expect that the Orthodox Church will quickly excommunicate me.

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Great joy, pride, and freedom! I enjoy seeing them laying siege to my shadow and shooting arrows at it. How will you spend your summer, and where? What will you write? I have you in mind at every moment; my pleasure at knowing that you exist is inexhaustible. The moment I slip into the Cocoon I’ll start work on the new book. I still don’t know what it will be called, but it’s very difficult. We won’t take a trip this year, because I’m expecting Friar, who wants to translate the Odyssey. And the American publisher, Schuster, is coming in a few days. I no longer believe in anything except personal contact; that’s why it’s useful for me to be here, an Antipolitis. Eleni greets you and loves you very much. If you see Katina, tell her how glad we are that she’s well now, indestructible, with nine lives. Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis P.S. Sodom & Gomorrah was accepted by the Mannheim theater. Did Agni give you the reviews of the performance of Christ Recrucified in Norway?

1  Goudelis:  Yannis Goudelis (1919–99), publisher and editor; founded Difros in 1954, began the periodical Kainouria Epohi in 1956; was meant to publish Kazantzakis’s collected works but never did, except for three volumes of plays.  1  Ploritis:  Marios Ploritis (1919–2006), journalist, trans­ lator, critic, theater director; theatrical critic for the newspaper Eleftheria 1945–65.  1  what they decided:  Actually, Saint Francis (Ο Φτωχούλης του Θεού) was first published in Ploritis’s newspaper in serialized form, starting on 6 June 1954.  1  the verses of Empedocles:  Prevelakis had sent Kazantzakis some verses from the drama Der Tod der Empedokles (The Death of Empedocles) by Friedrich Hölderlin (1770–1843). The verses obviously pertain to Kazantzakis’s current difficulties. They are: “When a nation is to die / The Furies send one man alone who through / Deception lures the vital human beings to / Commit the evil deed he has devised.” (First version, act 2, scene 4, lines 1345–48, translation by David Farrell Krell.)  1  an Antipolitis: Resident of Antibes. The French town was founded by ancient Greeks and was originally called Antipolis. But Kazantzakis is also punning on the word, since it can mean, as well, an “anti-citizen.”

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, p. 669.

[Antibes, May 1954]

1954 Letters  •  763

I telegraphed Tertullian’s sentence, “Ad tuum, Domine, tribunal appello,” to the Committee of the Index at the Vatican. I’m sending the same sentence to the Orthodox Church: “I appeal to your tribunal, Lord.” And I’m adding this for our metropolitans and bishops: “You gave me your curse, holy fathers; I give you a blessing: I pray that your conscience may be as clear as mine, and that you are as moral and religious as I am.” N. K.

1  Tertullian:  Quintus Septimius Florens Tertullianus (ca. A.D. 160–ca. 220), prolific early Christian author, some of whose theological positions—for example, his subordination of Son to Father—were not acceptable to the church. Around 211 he seems to have separated entirely from the church to join the Montanists, then considered heretical.  1  our metropolitans:  A metropolitan is the bishop of a metropolis—that is a regional capital. In the Greek Orthodox Church, metropolitans are ranked below archbishops.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Uppsala University Library; missing in the Kazantzakis Museum Knös archive; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 613–14; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 523–24; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 535–36.

Antibes, 14 May 1954 Very dear friend, No, I hadn’t received your letter in which you said that the Swedish publisher did not accept Francis; I wrote at once to Dr. Tau, asking him to intervene. In the meantime, Tau had sent me a letter the moment he read the book. I’ll copy out an excerpt for you: “Ich habe söben ‘Mein Franz von Assisi’ fertig gelesen; es ist eines der schönsten Gedichten in Prosa. Es verändert Materie in Geist und es ist ein Bekenntnis zu der Kräften der Seele, zu der Macht des Herzens, gerade weil es in allem durchgeistigt ist. Nie habe ich einen so wunderbaren Gesang vernommen, nie wurde meine Seele so im innerster von der religiösen Quellen ausgesprochen, wie es Ihnen in Ihrem herrlichen Meisterwerk gelungen ist. Die Übersetzung von Dr Börje Knös is einfach meisterhaft; er hat mit einer Kogenialen Liebe Ihre Lyrik übertragen, daß ich wirklich dankbar bin.” So, let‘s hope that it will find a publisher in Sweden who will print it in a timely manner. In Norway it will be published in the autumn. My publisher in New York, Mr. Schuster, was in our house yesterday with his wife. We talked a lot, and he wants the Odyssey to be translated. He’s going to pay Mr. Friar, the translator, to come to Antibes and stay six months so that

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he can work with me. A gigantic task, extraordinarily difficult, needing superhuman patience and love. Kapetan Mihalis is still churning up Greek blood. The metropolitan of Chios denounced it as filthy, traitorous, antireligious, and an insult to Crete! So, just imagine the barbarism in which my country (i.e., official Greeks: politicians and clergy) is wallowing! And the Orthodox Church of America, having assembled, condemned The Last Temptation as “most vile,” atheist, traitorous, and confessed that it did not read the book but based its decision on the articles in Estia! I sit peacefully here in solitude, devoted to my duty, and cultivate the Greek language and the eternal spirit of Greece as much as I can. “Ad tuum, Domine, tribunal appello!” as Tertullian, too, cried out. I hope that we shall enter the Cocoon at the end of May or beginning of June. My books are coming in a few days. God help us! My wife and I greet you and your wife with profound love. N. Kazantzakis

1  Ich habe söben . . . dankbar bin:  “I just finished reading ‘My Francis of Assisi.’ It is one of the most beautiful poems in prose. It transforms the material into spirit, and it is a profession of the soul’s powers and the heart’s force, because it is in everything transcendent. I have never heard such a wonderful song; never was my innermost soul so impressed by religious wellsprings as with your magnificent masterpiece. Dr. Börje Knös’s translation is masterful. He translated your lyrics with a congenial love, so that I am truly thankful.”

To Thrasos Kastanakis —Photocopy of the manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1986, pp. 9–10.

Antibes, 25 May 1954 Dear friend and neighbor, Your letter pleased me and moved me. I was sure that you didn’t like Kapetan Mihalis and that was why you were silent; thus, you can imagine my sudden pleasure now. This book has stirred up a huge tempest in Greece, where it is deemed ­antinational, immoral, against religion, and degrading vis-à-vis the Cretans and the Cretan struggles! The Holy Synod has been convened three times to ban it. The intellectuals, both friends and enemies, have risen up to defend freedom of expression. The archbishop of America anathematized The Last Temptation as “most vile” without reading it, as he himself confessed, but basing his position on the tirade in Estia. Wretched, ill-fated Greece—by whom

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is it governed? I’d be very happy concerning all this brouhaha if I didn’t love Greece. The days when you’ll be coming are approaching—a great pleasure. Right now I’m waiting for my books from Aegina. I’ll arrange them. Then we move, maybe in mid-June. I’m leaving the other page for Eleni. May “God” be with the two of you, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  The archbishop of America:  Archbishop Michael (1892–1958), ordained as archbishop of North and South America in 1949.

To Ioannis Konstantarakis —Printed in Knosos 1958, p. 86.

Antibes, 6 June 1954 Dear friend, Thank you very much for The Holy Mountain and also for the valuable manuscript that describes the Kourá ceremony. I’m enclosing a card; please give it to Mr. Sotiriou, who had the courtesy to send me his book. Thank you as well for the Ethnos that contained the Society of Authors’ protest. I regularly receive newspaper clippings and am following this war between good and evil. No matter what happens, good will be victorious in the end—that is its fate, especially when it is temporarily defeated. One senses then that it gains momentum and perseverance, to rise up once more, indomitable. I hope that Cretans will take part in the effort—they above all—and will say if the book traduces the Cretan struggles and degrades Crete. Certainly the tone of this book transcends truth and, transcending it, manages to formulate the essence more faithfully; for it is not a “realistic” work that describes the heroes’ words and actions with physiological accuracy and human measure. Kapetan Mihalis is an “epic” work; consequently the characters needed to be described in this way, supernaturally. The supernatural is the natural measure of epic. Many people do not know all this and are surprised by the hyperbole, but my entire oeuvre is epic and the heroes operate on life’s highest level—that is, where the “Essences” live and govern. At first I aimed to make your grandfather, Korakas, the central hero; but this hero is very well known historically, and I did not have the right to attribute imaginary words and actions to him. I am very sorry, because he is perfect for epic. Please convey my love to the whole Kostantarakis family tree, and say to Mihalis especially that, as I learned yesterday, another two of our wonderful sixth form have left us and departed: Harilaos Stefanidis and Vernardos. How many are still left?

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Hold on firmly, Kapetan Mihalis! I’m holding on, and so is Fanourakis. A Spanish verse says: “Quiero vivir, porche mis muertos no mueran!” So, hold on, Venizelos! My most recent work, The Poor Man of God, Saint Francis, written last year, will begin to be printed in Eleftheria. Please follow it to see with what religious emotion it is written. And the priests accuse me of being an atheist! I’ll stop. I’m glad that I was given the opportunity to chat with you after so many years. God be with you and yours always, N. Kazantzakis

1  Ioannis Konstantarakis:  Also Yannis Kostantarakis.  1  The Holy Mountain:  Presumably a book on the monastic communities on Mount Athos.  1  the Kourá ceremony: Tonsure: the shaving of a novice’s head to signify his full entrance into a monastic order.  1  Sotiriou:  Yeoryios Sotiriou (1880– 1965), Byzantinist, archaeologist, historian of art; member of the Academy of Athens.  1  the “Essences”:  Kazantzakis’s uses Plato’s term, ουσία.  1  Korakas:  Kapetan Mihalis Korakas (1797–1882) chief of the Iraklion sector in the Cretan rising of 1866, described at length in Prevelakis’s book on the 1866 rising, Παντέρμη Κρήτη. See Bien 2007a, p. 568, n. 11, for ways in which Korakas does enter Kapetan Mihalis.  1  Vernardos:  Kazantzakis’s classmate in high school.  1  Yeoryios A. Fanourakis:  Kazantzakis’s classmate in high school.  1  a Spanish verse:  “I want to live so that my dead ones will not die!” The verse, part of the long poem “Canción” (Song) by José María Gabriel y Galán (1870–1905), was published in his collection Nuevas Castellanas (1905).

To Kimon Friar —Typewritten original in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library.

Villa Manolita, Antibes A.M. 8 June 1954 Dear Mr. Friar, I have just received your letter. I’m very glad that you’ll be coming so that we will be able to work together on the difficult text. But take care that you back up your arrangements with Mr. Schuster first. When he was here and I asked him what he had decided about the Odyssey, he replied: “I want it to be published and I want to publish it, but I asked Mr. Friar for a sample of his translation in rhythmic verse so that I can see and judge which I prefer. Then I will give Mr. Friar the means to come and work together with you for six months.”

1954 Letters  •  767

So please come to a definitive agreement with Mr. Schuster before you leave and show him a bit of rhythmic translation (I don’t mean regular verse but that which the French call “versets” and which Claudel employs extensively in his plays). I have the Odyssey here, so there is no need for you to bring yours. I have an English-French, French-English dictionary and another small English one and an English-Greek. Using “versets,” the translator has more freedom. So, in the hope that you’ll arrange everything satisfactorily before you leave, I’m glad that I’ll see you again. N. Kazantzakis

1  versets:  Free verse, without definite meter, somewhat approaching prose, but retaining the incantatory and mystical properties of poetry; modeled somewhat on the Bible, the Koran, etc.

To Nikos Pouliopoulos —Photograph of manuscript in Pouliopoulos 1975, hors texte, between pages 264 and 265.

8 June 1954 Dear unforgettable comrade: Forgive me for taking such a long time to answer your ardent letter, but I always have you in mind with much love, as you know. You are a vivacious person; the more obstacles that exist, the greater vigor is imparted to your steadfastness, pride, and love for Greece, and you become ready for continually new campaigns. You always start out without being sure of success—it’s only the “shopkeepers” who entertain such considerations before launching a campaign—and you know that more important than victory is the assault to produce victory. The assault is a person’s supreme moment. If I needed to choose either freedom or the assault to produce freedom, I would prefer the assault. This is what I have always done in my life. You have always been ready to do the same, which is why from our very first contact I considered you a brother. Now you write me that your are planning to gather together in a political periodical all those people in Greece who still remain free and pure. Why are you asking me? Do it as soon as you can, and don’t ask anybody. One thing is sure: you will save your soul—that is, the insatiable flame—because, as you know, the surest way to save your soul is to struggle to save the souls of others. How very much I would like to converse with you again! Why must we talk with letters? Why didn’t you come two years ago so that we might have seen

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each other? The years are passing. Finished! I’m departing; the time has come for me to relieve the “Greeks” of my presence. Thus we must not forgo any opportunity to meet. My books arrived; I’ll go and get them today. Thanks for all the difficulties I caused you; I hope not to do so again. I am eager to go to the new house, to sit in the new chair. Beginning the ascent once again here in exile, I will struggle until I die. I feel no homesickness whatsoever, thank God. Wherever I go, I always hold Greece like a laurel leaf between my teeth. Here’s to our meeting, dear comrade! My wife and I greet you with much love. N. Kazantzakis

1  N. Pouliopoulos:  Nikos D. Pouliopoulos, lawyer specializing in criminal law, active in the Resistance against the Germans; founder of the socialist political party SKELKA and cofounder with Kazantzakis of the Socialist Labor Union (Σοσιαλιστική Εργατική ΄Ενωση, ΣΕΕ) in 1945; starting 1956, president of the Greek Anti-Colonial League. Regarding the political movement in which Kazantzakis was involved, there is a good summary in Pouliopoulos 1958. For a complete account, see Pouliopoulos 1972, 1975.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 616; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 525–26; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 537–38.

Antibes, 21 June 1954 Very dear Friend, So, our friend Zorba won the prize for the best foreign book published in France! I can imagine how he’ll laugh in paradise, where he must be. Meanwhile Francis is being serialized in one of the best Athenian newspapers. You can just imagine how overcome with fury are the wretched Spyros Melas and our uneducated bishops. Fortunately many newspapers and honorable people came out in my defense. I’m reduced to being famous today in Greece. From my sunny solitude here I follow human passions with astonishment and pity, continuing my work, dreaming of a better humanity, struggling to formulate that humanity, and believing that by formulating it I facilitate its arrival. In a few days Mr. Friar, the American poet and professor of poetry at an American university, will arrive in Antibes. My publisher in New York is sending him and paying him to stay with me for six months in order for us to

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translate the Odyssey. If the translation does not happen while I am alive, it will never happen. I believe that my entire soul, all the flame and light that I have been able to draw out of the materiality of which I am constituted, is expressed in the Odyssey. All my other works are secondary. That is why I agreed to make this sacrifice: to lose six months. Did I write you that Sodom and Gomorrah is going to be produced at Mannheim on 29 November 1954? I’ll go if I can; my wife will be extremely pleased. The day after tomorrow, finally, we enter the Cocoon! I have arranged my books that arrived from Greece and Eleni is overjoyed, like a bird that has built its nest and is entering it now to warm the eggs. Which eggs? The books that I will write and she will type; we don’t have any other children. I wrote Dr. Tau about a Swedish edition of Saint Francis. Will there be one? Francis will come out in Norwegian in October, and Kapetan Mihalis in German. Will Francis come out in Swedish? May God so grant! God be with you, my very good friend, and with your wife, always! N. Kazantzakis Address: simply Antibes. Not Bas-Castelet, 8; let’s have only close friends know that detail.

To Bohuslav Martinu —Printed in Dostálová and Brezina 2003, no. 8 (in French); printed in Anemoyannis 1986, p. 48.

[Antibes, 24 October 1954 Dear Mr. Martinu, I believe that you have chosen the subject of your work well; I ask only that you attach great importance to the chorus. This should be a work for the masses and the chorus should play one of the most important roles. I like your idea of using Bach. Naturally the dialogue needs to be very brief. Well, go to work with zest. I’ll expect you after you’ve established your initial plan. Cordially yours, N. Kazantzakis P.S. You can write me in English.

1  Bohuslav Martinu:  Martinu (1890–1959) was a Czech composter of symphonies, concertos, chamber music, cantatas, ballets, and fourteen operas, of which the last (1958) is The Greek Passion based on Kazantzakis’s Christ Recrucified.

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To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 678–79.

Antibes, 9 November 1954 My dear brother, I’m writing you for a specific reason today. Mrs. Mitaraki, who is an excellent person, asked me to intercede with you regarding her husband, who desires to be appointed in your school. As you must know, he’s having financial difficulties. He lost everything he had, and now he absolutely needs some steady placement. I believe that you esteem him as a painter and a human being. Perhaps you’ll want to give him your vote and also to intercede with Kefallinos so that he, too, will support him. I promised her that I’d write you and ask you this. I’ve done it. Now you do what you think is right. I wrote you how much I like the edition of Christ Recrucified. Bless you! I’m working intensely now on the new book. At the beginning of December I’ll go to Mannheim to be present at the première of Sodom and Gomorrah. I have no appetite at all to change location, but Eleni wants so much to go, and is so happy, it would be inhuman for me to refuse. My life here goes by calmly. I’m doing lots of work. I hardly speak at all, rarely open my mouth any more. I have changed! Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis

1  her husband:  Yannis Mitarakis (1898–1963), painter. He was not voted for the position, despite Prevelakis’s efforts.  1  your school:  The School of Fine Arts In Athens.  1  the edition of Christ Recrucified:  The Difros edition of 1954, the novel’s first publication in Greece.  1  Eleni wants so much to go:  Prevelakis tells us (Prevelakis 1965, p. 679, n. 3) that her purpose was to bring Kazantzakis from Mannheim to Freiburg to see the famous hematologist Professor Heilmeyer. This happened, and Heilmeyer was the first to diagnose Kazantzakis’s disease correctly as benign lymphoid leukemia.

To Bohuslav Martinu —Printed in Dostálová and Brezina 2003, no. 12 (in French); printed in Anemoyannis 1986, p. 50.

Antibes, 27 November 1954

1954 Letters  •  771

Dear Sir, I well understand your difficulties. The final act must be speedy, with an accelerated tempo. On principle I agree with you that it’s necessary to try to find something that is different from the novel. As far as the spectacle is concerned, your idea is fine: to have Manolios die where you say. Our aim is to have a very good opera emerge from the novel. Therefore work as you think best and come to see me one day with your manuscript. Then we’ll make some decisions. The day after tomorrow I’m leaving for Germany, where one of my plays, Sodom and Gomorrah, will be performed. I’ll return around 10 December. So, work well, and see you soon! N. Kazantzakis

To Agni Rousopoulou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

Freiburg, 30 December 1954 My dear Agni, I’m writing you from Germany still, where I’ll be staying for two more weeks. Eleni has returned to the Cocoon. I’ll answer your questions at once: 1.  Goudelis: We must make things as easy for him as we can, so that he’ll continue the collected works with the same love. I agree with you: six hundred dollars at once in Switzerland and the rest within a year in Greek currency. Let him print the six thousand and give only 20 percent. Make things as easy as possible, so he won’t suffer a loss. 2.  Plays: I very much want my plays with ancient themes to be printed as quickly as possible. That’s why we should let him have his way with Christ Recrucified. Write me if he received the manuscript of Melissa, which I sent to Prevelakis. 3. I received your previous letters with the clippings. Thanks. 4. Church: In today’s clippings I see that the church calls upon me to defend myself. Never have I received such an invitation from any prelate. When I receive it, I have my answer ready. In any case, the Greek publication of The Last Temptation will be delayed. 5. Dimitrakos: I received only the letter in which he asks to reprint Zorba. I wrote you then to telephone him why we cannot: we’ve engaged another publisher. Don’t forget to rescue the copies of Zorba that he owes us. 6.  When you have a chance, give a copy of Kapetan Mihalis to Svolos (if he doesn’t have one) and also a copy of Christ Recrucified. The same to Papandreou. What a shame that such a gifted man should not take advantage of the

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best opportunities of his life to make corporeal the brightest and most urgent aspirations of our common people. 7. Captain Orestes does not know that my God is the search for God; no other God exists. The journey to Ithaca: that is Ithaca. 8. I’ll be greatly indebted to you if you are able to learn exactly what Knös wrote to the Society of Authors. Knös is a discreet friend who never lets me know what actions he takes on my behalf. So, can you learn? 9.  How right you are about the Greek Boulanger. I saw him once and realized. What a shame that Sofianopoulos is not alive! What a curse that is in Greece! 10. I have a lot to tell you about Germany. I’ll tell you when, as I hope, you are able to come to the Cocoon. In any case, in West Germany there are two Germanys: the peaceful one and the avenging one. I’m afraid that France has gone with the latter. I think I’ve answered everything. May God bless you and give you love and strength to defend me, too! It’s a great joy and consolation to feel you next to me. Greetings to friends and fellow-combatants. God be with you! N. Kazantzakis

1  Boulanger:  French for “baker.”

To Agni Rousopoulou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

Antibes, 24 January 1955 My dear Agni, From Freiburg I answered all your questions, I believe. Now, with the intercession of Fanourakis (who writes me that you saw each other) and with many letters that I’m getting, a new question is raised: the complaint that I am publishing expensive books and that the poor—those who can understand me better—are unable to buy them. How can my works be published in inexpensive editions that circulate widely? They should be published at first as they have been up until now and reissued inexpensively when these deluxe editions are sold. Zorba, Kapetan Mihalis, and Christ Recrucified should come out like this. And it would be very opportune for Kapetan Mihalis to be published in an inexpensive edition exclusively for Cyprus using the title it was given in foreign languages: Freedom or Death. Many people assure me that it will be eagerly snatched up. So please look into whether this can happen, because precisely the public that interests me is the one that cannot buy me. Speak to Prevelakis and

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Goudelis, and you’ll all reach some conclusion. The request is a proper one. I’m ashamed to be read only by the rich. I don’t have anything else to write you today except that I returned from Freiburg the other day and am completely well. I began to work immediately. Two oxen, my shadow and myself, have come under the yoke again and have begun once more to plow chaos. Health and joy, dear Agni! N. Kazantzakis

To Thrasos Kastanakis —Printed in Kazantzakis 1986, p. 10.

Antibes, 17 February 1955 Dear friend, I was very moved when I read your words and those of our friend Tsirkas. I, too, wonder very often what and where my duty is, and I always reach the same conclusion: my duty is to avoid wasting time, to manage, by writing, to save my own soul and also the souls of all those who find that their anguish and salvation coincide with my own anguish and salvation. This can happen only in solitude. In Greece I would lose lots of time, lots of soul, and would give evil the occasion to organize itself still more iniquitously and dangerously. My friends, too, would suffer. Working and writing now, and publishing in Greece, I am struggling to transform my absence there into presence. This is what I thought I ought to say to you, dear friend, and to Tsirkas, whom I, too, love and esteem very much. Yours, N. Kazantzakis

1  Tsirkas:  Stratis Tsirkas (1911–80), novelist. Born in Cairo; in Athens after 1963.

To Apostolos Sachinis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

Antibes, 2 March 1955 Dear Mr. Sachinis, What details about my life do you seek? What can I write? My life has been so simple, so devoid of sensational internal or external adventures, that when

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I call it to mind I see that I don’t have anything to say. I acquired in my youth the tempo that regulates me still today at age seventy. I have never been roused by any external passion—wine, women, vanity, ambition—except one: my contact with the invisible Presence, a contact that sometimes became a struggle, sometimes a reconciliation, and sometimes the achievement of sameness. Call that Presence whatever name you wish: God, Matter, Energy, Spirit, Mystery, Nothingness. All of my works are nothing else but this struggle to reconcile or identify with the invisible Presence, which I have always been battling to make visible. If I had been a man of action, I would have attempted to make the Presence visible by means of deeds; if I had been a painter, with lines and colors; if I had been a woman, with love. But I am (have been reduced to being) a scribbler, and I mobilize the twenty-four tiny soldiers of the alphabet and undertake a hopeless, quixotic campaign: to capture the Invisible. Like the savages who paint in their caves the wild beast they wish to catch, so that the beast will see its outline and enter, I too set words up as traps, not to capture beauty, as do easily satisfied scribblers, but to capture “God.” From this you will understand that I have no connection with so-called men of letters or with so-called literature; of course I use the same means— words—but for an entirely different end. For me, beauty itself is a means, not an end, for I know that the Invisible is enticed much more surely by beauty than by ugliness. I am revealing to you in this way a secret of mine that people who do not possess the same struggle and purpose as I do find difficult to divine. Perhaps this will be useful to you if you wish to judge my life and work. In my case, life and work have always been identical. No matter how strictly I investigate my life, I do not find that I have been at all unfaithful to the severe, unyielding Rhythm that devours me and nourishes me. I have compressed in Askitiki the ascent that I have pursued and am still pursuing, for the ascent has no end. Askitiki is converted to song in the ­Odyssey—is completed in warm bodies, dangerous adventures, human joys and sorrows. These are the two works that best reveal my soul. I have kept this letter going too long. What is it? Nothing. These things cannot be stuffed into words. On the other hand, how else can one communicate with another person? The other person needs to be able to split the “atomic” energy hidden in words. Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis

1  at age seventy:  He was actually seventy-two.  1  the invisible Presence:  Kazantzakis’s word for Presence is the theologically significant Parousia (presence, arrival), which in Christian theology (e.g., in Matthew 24: 3, 27) means the Second Coming of Christ or the Second Advent (Latin adventus = coming). 

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1  the twenty-four tiny soldiers:  The Greek alphabet, unlike the English one, has only twenty-four letters.

To Petros Haris —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Petros Haris.

5 March 1955 Dear Mr. Haris, Allow me to add a word to Eleni’s letter. What the “Holy Synod” is doing is entirely in accord with eternal laws. There are two fundamental interpretations of Christianity: that of priest Grigoris and that of priest Fotis. I agree with priest Fotis, and surely Christ does too. All those others are priest Grigorises. They’re in danger; they defend themselves. But the priest Fotises must not cower and be silent. Indeed, here once more is a splendid opportunity for the twelve of you to stand up for freedom. Unfortunately, freedom is neither omnipotent nor immortal. It, too, being a child of humankind, needs human support. N. Kazantzakis

1  priest Grigoris and . . . priest Fotis:  The opposing priests in Christ Recrucified. The name Fotis, etymologically, suggests “light.”

To Bohuslav Martinu —Typescript printed in Dostálová 2003, no. 21 (in French); printed in Anemoyannis 1986, pp. 57–58.

Antibes, 8 March 1955 Dear Mr. Martinu, Thanks for the clipping; it is interesting. I apologize for interfering in your work. The plan that I sent you has no claim. It is just a simple suggestion. You alone must decide. You are absolutely in charge and will be guided by the spirit of music. I am impatiently awaiting your new plan. Would you like to come here on Saturday afternoon to have a cup of tea? I will be greatly pleased to listen to the radio transmissions that relate to you. When will I listen to the first chords of your Greek Passion? But one must be patient—impatiently patient. Cordially yours, N. Kazantzakis

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To Agni Rousopoulou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

[Antibes,] 14 March 1955 Dear Agni, I think we’ve said everything and are in agreement. I hope that the Holy Synod will make a hole in water and lots of free advertising for Goudelis. I hope as well that P. will speak well in parliament now that he’ll have the book reviews that we sent you. Thank you for the pile of clippings that you’ve been sending me. I’ve descended to becoming famous thanks to Melas, Estia, and the Synod. Unfortunately all this gives me neither any pleasure nor any sorrow. My full concern is for the new book I’m writing, which is leading me into many difficulties. Please give the enclosed note to Goudelis. I wrote to him a long time ago. Are my letters going astray? “God” be with you! You are our great protector in Athens, our Notre-Dame de la Garde! Health and joy! N. Kazantzakis

1  P.:  Presumably George Papandreou.  1  Notre-Dame de la Garde: Our Lady of the Watch, the Virgin Mary, guardian of seafarers. Kazantzakis would have been aware of the large basilica in Marseilles called Notre-Dame de la Garde.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in English translation in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 532–33; not in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977.

Antibes, 24 March 1955 Very dear friend, I have been reduced to becoming famous in Greece. All the newspapers except two have declared themselves on my side, and from all parts of Greece telegrams are being sent protesting the priests’ desire to seize my books and persecute intellectual freedom. The question will be raised in parliament in a few days, and all the leaders will defend me. I’m sending you a few additional

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clippings to while away your time; I receive a whole pile of them every day. So my name has become universally known! And the books are sold out the moment they are printed. Certain booksellers buy up a number of copies and sell them afterwards at very high black-market prices! What a disgrace! How medieval! They denigrate Kapetan Mihalis on the grounds that it is against the . . . fatherland! And Christ Recrucified on the grounds that it is against religion! What sadness and anger dominate all honorable Greeks—and there are more of them than we imagined. As for me, I sit here and go on peacefully working, not bothering anyone, struggling to give my fellow human beings the best I can to help them endure life and have confidence in virtue. As you say, evil will surely be conquered, has already been conquered. The whole of Greece, except for a few priests and Melas & Co., is with me. In a few days I hope everything will end with the triumph of the Good. That’s how it always happens. I’m sending you an article I wrote about Cyprus in which I trumpet forth my belief in the triumph of justice. Together with this, I am also sending some photographs of me and a periodical with an article by Mirambel on the modern Greek language, which I hope you’ll find interesting. I’m very happy that you’ve begun to translate Askitiki. As you know, that work is the seed from which my entire oeuvre has sprouted. Whatever I have written is a commentary on and illustration of Askitiki. I hope that you have the French and German translations. If not, write me to send them to you. These days I’m awaiting Dante’s Purgatory, and I’ll send it. I hope also to send you quickly my plays on ancient Greek subjects—the first volume, which is being printed now. Springtime here. Sweet sunshine; the earth is beginning to be fragrant; trees are putting forth buds. Abundant sweetness, fresh warmth, heavenly weather. My wife and I greet both of you with profound love. Pax et bonum always! N. Kazantzakis P.S. I hope that Ljus will decide quickly. Has the German publisher sent you several copies of Freiheit oder Tod?

1  against the . . . fatherland:  The three dots are Kazantzakis’s indicating irony, whimsy, etc., as they prepare for the unexpected and incredible word that follows.  1  the first volume: Of the three-volume edition by Difros of the collected plays. Volumes 2 and 3 appeared in 1956.  1  Freiheit oder Tod:  Freedom or Death (= Kapetan Mihalis).  1  Ljus:  Aktiebolaget Ljus, Swedish publishing firm in Stockholm.

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To Agni Rousopoulou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

Antibes, 6 April 1955 Our dear Agni, I’m receiving the clippings regularly, and I thank you very much. I also received the ten copies of Purgatory, and Goudelis received Paradise. Now I’m waiting to receive the new volumes that he is going to print: plays, Odyssey. Yesterday I received an English book from Oxford: The Ulysses Theme by W. B. Stanford, a university professor in Dublin (Blackwells publishers, Oxford). It gave me much pleasure. It analyzes my Odyssey in full detail (pp. 211–41). Also, in the English periodical Statesman and Nation (19 March), I saw an analysis of the work with the critic concluding that they are awaiting “urgently a translation of Kazantzakis.” Because my salvation depends on the Odyssey, all of this gives me pleasure. From Friar I have received the entire first book of the Odyssey translated very beautifully into verse. Now note well: If you have some money of mine in hand, please remit about two hundred dollars (in drachmas, of course) to my sister (Eleni Theodosiadi, 22 Chysolora Street, Athens). I’d appreciate it. It’s a small gift for Easter. Happy Easter, our dear Agni. Χριστός ανέστη! N. Kazantzakis

1  The Ulysses Theme:  This is the first edition (1954) of Stanford’s popular book, which has been reissued in many subsequent editions and is still used by scholars. Stanford’s aim is to show the great adaptability of Odysseus. He discusses the treatment in both Homeric poems; then the turn-around in Pindar, Sophocles, and Virgil, where Odysseus is now a villain; then further changes in Ovid, Seneca, Shakespeare, du Bellay, Seferis, Dante, Hauptmann, Tennyson; finally, under the rubric “The Re-integrated Hero,” Joyce and Kazantzakis (pp. 211–41), beginning with “What strikes one first about these two works is their sheer bulk”! The specific treatment of Kazantzakis starts on page 222 with a discussion of similarities with and differences from Joyce. Then comes a synopsis of the plot (pp. 226–34), derived not from reading Kazantzakis’s modern Greek, which Stanford confesses he was unable to do, but largely from summaries provided by Professor George Savidis (Stanford 1954, p. 278, n. 19). Stanford’s final judgment is that “the prevailing mood is fundamentally that of the Stoics” (p. 239).  1  W. B. Stanford:  William Bedell Stanford (1910–84), Regius Professor of Greek at Trinity College, Dublin between 1940 and 1980, chancellor of the university 1982–84; Irish senator 1951–69.  1  an analysis of the work:  By Andrew Wordsworth in The New

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Statesman and Nation, 19 March 1955, p. 398. He concludes that, “in Joyce’s Ulysses and in the even larger Odyssey of the Greek poet Kazantzakis, [Odysseus] recovers epic stature; he represents the whole of our culture. Mr. Stanford’s book would be worth getting if only for the pleasure of finding the classical skills of criticism applied to two modern masterpieces. We shall easily forgive him for persuading us to read Ulysses again, and urgently demand a translation of Kazantzakis.”  1  Χριστός ανέστη:  “Christ is risen!” A fixed salutation among Greeks to one another at Easter each year after the resurrection is celebrated.

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; Greek text printed in Friar 1983, pp. 64–65; English translation printed in Friar 1979, pp. 64–65.

Antibes, 16 April 1955 Dear Kimon, I’ve finally found time to look at each line of verse and am sending you a note: very few things. I greatly enjoyed rereading your translation; it’s not a translation, it’s a re-creation. A great point is the power of your diction, and also the meter. Sometimes you surpass the original, and I thank you very much. No person in the world could do me a greater good. If the Odyssey is saved, I’ll owe it to you, because if it stayed in Greece it would unjustly disappear. May your heart remain always well, always ardent, and your mind always bright! May I, too, be well so that I’ll be able to see the Odyssey published in English! I wrote to Stanford, and he sent me a very cordial letter in reply. I’m asking your permission now to lend him your translation of the first book for a few days. He plans to bring out a new edition of his book and it will be useful for him to know of your work. I hope that you’ll read The Ulysses Theme; you will enjoy it a lot. I wrote to Schuster immediately that he should read it. I hope that it will encourage him. I’ll let Eleni finish the letter now. I’ll say just this to you: What great pleasure Alpha gave me, what a miracle your work is! Now I’m waiting for Beta. After that, I wonder if I’ll write you: I’m waiting now for Omega. I clasp your hand with love and gratitude. N. Kazantzakis How very much I would have liked to hear the lectures you gave! Many people have written me that they were excellent. Will they possibly be published?

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Did you go to Froso’s home with my nephew? We’ve missed you very much here in these excellent sun-washed days. Heath, joy, strength, and love, N

1  Alpha . . . Beta . . . Omega:  Book 1, book 2, book 24 of the Odyssey, ­divided—as are the Homeric epics—into twenty-four books, each identified with a letter of the Greek alphabet, alpha to omega (= completion).

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 683–84.

Antipolis, Easter 1955 [17 April 1955] Dear brother, I had asked various friends to keep writing me how you are getting along, and they all inform me that you are confined to bed, but that you have never been in danger—as they have announced so many times about me. Now that I’ve received your letter, I’m glad that the trouble is beginning to give way and that cosmetic surgery will constitute the definitive treatment. May God grant it quickly, because I know what immobility in bed means! I am well now, but I am obliged to have my blood analyzed once a month. I did so precisely today, and the blood is entirely normal now. I am working hard, living as always in absolute solitude and tranquillity. In the summer we plan to go for a month or so to Zurich, where perhaps we will settle later. Here we’ve had our fill of those thingamajigs, sun and sea. Thank you for all your care concerning the collected works. God grant that I’ll see the Iliad, Odyssey, and the plays this year! The other day I had a proposal from the German Academy to undertake to print the Iliad—original and translation—in an edition of a thousand copies, giving us a hundred copies as payment. I wrote to Kakridis immediately to decide. I think we should accept since they grant us the right to bring out our own edition—thus we have a splendid bilingual edition guaranteed under the aegis of a celebrated academy. I wonder if you agree. As you well understand, the priests and Melas & Co. do not touch me at all. I know that they’re doing me nothing but good: they’ve stirred people up, obliging them to learn my name. And I am truly moved when I receive letters from young people, chiefly university and high school students, and sometimes from elderly Cretans.

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It seems that Christ Recrucified is enjoying great success here. Enthusiastic reviews have been written (Eleni sent them to Marika); a splendid composer is preparing an opera oratorio; the publishing house Plon is negotiating with a screenwriter and with Jean-Louis Barrault. I’m going to have a broadcast on the National Network on 6 May, ten o’clock French time—that is, eleven o’clock in Athens. And the libretto is ready to be played by Barrault on the radio. I was wary of these French Cartesians, but I was mistaken. May God give you strength to sit up and to write whatever you put into your mind while immobile. This immobility may be fruitful; the best parts of The Poor Man of God were dictated by me to Eleni while I had fever. Now I hope that one of your plays will be mounted by Hourmouzios and Minotis. Let’s hope. If such a hope exists, please write me. I wonder if we’ll arrange to meet this summer. Eleni sends you warm greetings, and she thanks you with emotion for the good things about her that you have written. She certainly deserves them. I have owed my life to her two or three times. Para sempre! N. Kazantzakis

1  Antipolis:  Antibes, originally named Antipolis by the ancient Greeks, who used it as a port; it became part of the Roman Empire in 43 b.c.  1  the German Academy:  More accurately, the East German Academy.  1  JeanLouis Barrault:  French actor, director, and mime artist (1910–1994).  1  Cartesians:  Those who are overly rationalistic, like René Descartes.  1  mounted by Hourmouzios:  Hourmouzios had become director general of the National Theater.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 685–87.

Antibes, 25 April 1955 Dear brother, I received your letter a moment ago; thank you a thousand times for finding, among so many concerns you have, the time, disposition, and love to spend so much time on the publication. How can I ever show my gratitude? I’ll answer all your questions: 1.  Format of the plays: I’m very disturbed to see that the plays will come out in a smaller format owing to typographical necessity. Perhaps “With Ancient Themes” should be written underneath the title TRAGEDIES, vol. 1a

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and vol. 1b. You decide and do as you wish. And you decide also how the plays should be distributed between 1a and 1b. 2. I’m not going to correct Kapetan Mihalis at all. A few simply typographical mistakes will be fixed, nothing else. I don’t want to touch those texts again. 3.  Friar’s Odyssey needs a few corrections, very few. When the time comes, let Goudelis ask me for that work, and I’ll give it to him. I don’t want to touch that text either. 4. Of course, it should be printed with accents. 5.  Kakridis writes me that he calculates the Iliad will cost seventy thousand. I’ve given eight thousand so far; I’ll write to Agni to give the remainder of my portion out of the money she’ll get from Goudelis or from the bills of exchange she has in hand. 6.  Goudelis’s proposals seem logical to me, and I think that we should accept them. We need to help him avoid a loss. He should reprint Kapetan Mihalis and Zorba. The other novel, The Poor Man of God, as well as the one I’m completing these days, we should leave for later groupings. The other book in this second batch will be volume 2 of the plays (modern themes) and not Faust. 7. I’ll send him Japan-China as soon as I make some slight corrections. He can start Kapetan Mihalis immediately without waiting for corrections. I’m sorry that Kakridis is unable to give the Iliad to the German Academy; we would have had a splendid edition free of charge, and at the same time the right to publish on our own. I don’t understand the problem with the ancient text. Can’t it be printed with a declaration that the text is the usual one, not Kakridis’s? I’ll write to Kakridis; in any case, I’ll do whatever he decides. I’m glad that broadcasts of your works are happening so well and so often on the radio. I’m enclosing for you the wavelengths of the National Network. But I don’t know at which wavelengths one gets it in Athens; the time in Athens should be about 9:00 p.m. (here it’s 10:00 or 10:15 a.m.). Yesterday I had an unexpected visit from a “Great Personage” who assured me as well that no prosecution will take place on the part of the government. I presume that this information must come from the same source as your information. “God” be with you, dear brother! Eleni greets you with much love. N. Kazantzakis

1  Friar’s Odyssey:  The copy of the Odyssey being used by Friar for his translation.  1  printed with accents: Unlike the first edition of the Odyssey, which had been printed with Kazantzakis’s own accentual system, which, for example, omits the accent on all words stressed on the final syllable, this one, Kazantzakis conceded, could be printed with the common system then employed in Greece and also in other volumes of his collected works.  1  the National

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Network:  French radio.  1  a “Great Personage”:  Princess Maria Bonaparte, wife of Prince George of Greece. For details of this and other visits, see Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 621–22, Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 533, Bien 2007a, p. 574, n. 1. In his letter to Prevelakis on 25 June 1955, Kazantzakis confirms that the church’s campaign against him has failed, as has that of Melas & Co. as well. “How shameful,” he comments, “how idiotic!” (Prevelakis 1965, p. 689).

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 288–89.

Antibes, 29 April 1955 Dear friend, A foreign academy had to intervene to force you to write me! Everything concerning the Iliad I leave you to handle as you please. I am sorry, however, that we shall not have a splendid edition of the original and the translation, without any expense. I don’t understand very well all that you write me about the ancient text. Can’t you declare in a prologue that the text is not your version but the well-known Homeric text? You’ll have responsibility only for the translation. But, once again, do as you think best. I wrote to Agni to deposit in your account my portion of the expenses as soon as she collects this amount. The fonts have arrived, so you’ll be able to get going quickly. As Knös wrote me a while ago, your own Melas & Co. have taken action to prevent you from going to America. But, as usual, evil has its good side: you will be in Greece and be able to publish the Iliad a year sooner. May God make things work smoothly, because this exploit of ours deserves not to be lost! Listen now: Reading the fourth volume of Koukoules (Life and Civilization of Byzantium), I found on page 34, note 5, that in Serres the saint who helps women who are giving birth is called Aghia Lehousa. Couldn’t we use this name for Ειλείθυια (whose name sounds so ugly to modern Greek ears)? Consider and act. And this, too (vol. 4, p. 169, note 7): In book 23.178: φίλον τ’ ονόμηνε . . . The proper word is ανακαλιέμαι—it’s said specifically for this case. So let’s change it. When the Iliad is printed, we will surely discover other changes as well, and you’ll need to print a new, improved edition on your own after I’ve finally donned the “Black Helmet.” Because, let us not forget: an original work sometimes can do without further work; but translations always need adjustment. I ascertained this with largo sudore (“generous sweat,” as Dante says) in my translation of The Divine Comedy. (By the way, I instructed my publisher, Goudelis, to keep sending you everything of mine that he issues. So far he has printed Inferno and Purgatory;

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Paradise is coming out in a few days. If you didn’t receive them, please remind him. I sent him your name a while ago in the brief list of names for complimentary copies.) What have we said up to now? Nothing! You are right. What can letters say? What’s needed is a terrace in a garden and evening to descend and the coffee to come (and Eleni with it), and for us to be sitting one opposite the other in the half light, and for the sweet, peaceful conversation to begin, aimlessly, endlessly. The ροζονάρισμα, as we say in Crete; the οαριστύς. May “God” be with you and the sacred family always! I dare not add: write to me. Do as you please, if you feel like it, when you feel like it. But you should know only this: if I ever return to Greece, you’ll be to blame! N. Kazantzakis

1  Koukoules:  Phaidon I. Koukoules (1881–1956), Βυζαντινών Βίος και Πολιτισμός (Athens, 1948–57).  1  Lehousa:  The word in Greek means the woman who has recently given birth and must, following popular custom, remain enclosed in her home for forty days.  1  Ειλείθυια: Ilithyia, the goddess of childbirth, who comes to the aid of women at the time of delivery. Iliad 11.270. The words sounds “so ugly to modern Greek ears” because it is pronounced exactly the same as the feminine adjective ηλίθια, which unfortunately means “idiotic,” “stupid,” “foolish.”  1  φίλον τ’ ονόμηνε:  More correctly: φίλον δ’ ὀνόμηνεν ἑταῖρον (called on his dear comrade by name).  1  ανακαλιέμαι:  The Georgacas Greek-English Dictionary agrees, saying that the meaning is “to entreat” (i.e., to call by name) and citing a usage in this meaning in the Kazantzakis-Kakridis Iliad at 8.347.  1  ροζονάρισμα:  Noun from Italian verb ragionare: to discuss, especially the discourse of lovers.  1  οαριστύς:  Ancient Greek word for conversation, especially of lovers; Iliad 14.216.  1  largo sudore:  Strangely, this does not occur in The Divine Comedy. See note to letter of 24 August 1948 to Knös.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 290.

Antibes, 7 May 1955 Dear friend, I’m sending you one of the corrected samples. Good God, will this need for perfection never cease? I’ve made several significant corrections. Chiefly book 22, lines 19 and 20, the word ξεδίκιομα does not exist, nor does the phrase “παίρνω το γδικιομό μου πίσω.” Those are not demotic. In addition, “στητός στη δύναμή του” is horrible; we must eliminate it everywhere. Μέγα φρονέων is rendered perfectly by “με γάβραν έπαρση.” In line 58 the demotic

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“ταξιδεφτεις” is lovely. Also, we must never use των instead of τους; it would be a horrible concession to katharevousa—that Gryparis does this is immaterial to us. Also, no spaces every five lines; the best typographical fonts are the ones I’m sending you, or even the smaller ones; perhaps those, the smaller—I like them better. I’ve decided to look over the entire translation once again. I’m sending you the initial corrections. Please write me any to which you object. I’ve thought a great deal before undertaking the revision. I abandoned all my other work and threw myself again into the Iliad as though inebriated. I can’t wait for dawn to break so that I can begin work. I’m at book 5 today. I’ll send you corrections at regular intervals. But we need to agree completely, because various expressions arouse horror. Look at book 1.25; I cannot stomach that “αποπάνω.” Line 108 is better now. Line 253 strikes me as better the way it is now; “καλόγνωμος” won’t do. In 310 I kept “ροδομάγουλη”; it’s needed. In the following books, however, the corrections are considerably fewer, although there are several significant ones. Once again, please do not start printing unless we agree on everything. I’m ashamed to have us print a bad line of verse. I’m waiting for a letter from you. Regarding the matter of the edition by the academy, tu signore e tu maestro; do as you wish. When are we going to get going on the Odyssey? You’ve got to hurry while I still exist; and it’s shameful for us not to complete this exploit as well. I am very happy and very proud that our two names have been joined in this way for so very many generations. When someone better than us is found, let him surpass our translation. Correcting now with Pallis’s translation beside me, I see how defective and “cowardly” it is, because it shamelessly skips over the difficulties. As for us, we do have a sense of shame, thank God. Enough for today; I’m in a hurry to swim again in the immortal text. I’m well, and so is Eleni, and there’s lots of sunshine. From my desk I watch the sea laughing, and the vine on the balcony has thrown out leaves and bunches of grapes. My heart is at peace, my conscience clear, my hand steady and writing. For how long? We shall see! Eleni and I send greetings to the sacred family. May “God” be with all of you, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  we must never use των instead of τους:  The plural form of the possessive pronoun (“their” in English) is των in katharevousa, whereas in demotic it is τους. No one says or writes των any longer for “their” in a sentence like “They want their supper now.” Kazantzakis is right that των would be a regrettable concession to katharevousa. In his letter to Kakridis of 27 June 1955, above, Kazantzakis indicates that Kakridis sometimes objects to τους for ­aesthetic reasons, not grammatical ones. He might object, for example, to a phrase such as τους γιους τους, preferring τους γιους των.  1  tu signore e

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tu maestro: Dante’s Inferno 2.140 has “tu segnore e tu maestro” (you the lord and master).

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 290–92.

Antibes [1 June 1955] Dear friend, My only consolation is that you sent me a letter and it went astray. I have worked and reworked the Iliad all month long. I sent you whatever cor­ rections I made in the first book; today I’m sending you the remaining books. I beg of you, look them over and write me if you do not agree with any correction, so that we may reach a final decision. Quite a few corrections are significant; the verse has been corrected, and the meaning emerges more clearly. Please do not continue to remain silent. I am uneasy and worried when I need to receive an answer and do not receive one. As we had agreed, do not forget the following in the printing: 1. Never των, always τους 2. το άλογο, τ’ άλογα (the article loses its vowel only when the identical vowel follows) 3. βαθειά (feminine), βαθιά (neuter or adverb) 4. λέγουνταν, λέγουνται, never λέγονταν, λέγονται 5. Everything in ήτερος with η, everything in ότερος with ο Can these go in: ανέμπληστος = αχόρταγος, ρουχολογώ = συλώ, ανθρωπομέτρι = απογραφή, γαργαρολαιμούσα = πούχει άσπρο λ., αντρού = αντρομανής? Achilles’ horse Balíos is still called Bálios today: a horse with a white patch on the forehead; Olympios’s Homeric dictionary is aware of it: “Balíos, today Bálios.” Thus we’ll write it as Bálios. What a miracle the unity of our language is! Another word that we did not use: αντρολάτης. Insert it if you can, lest it disappear. Write me what is happening with the publication of the Iliad. I am embarrassed at getting tidbits of information from third parties. Do you hope that it will be published this year? I have a thousand things to ask you, but every day I expect a letter from you so that I can discover all the details. Life here continues at the same tempo as always. In summer we’ll take a trip—most likely Italy or Switzerland. I wonder when you and I will meet again.

1955 Letters  •  787

Eleni greets you with much love and nostalgia. Both of us greet the entire sacred family. N. Kazantzakis I’ll sending you this letter c/o Prevelakis, in order to be sure that you receive it. It’s necessary that it not go astray. Please, if you disagree with various corrections, write me so that the two of us may decide. In cases of difference of opinion, let’s have Prevelakis decide. For example, book 1.73, the line must be corrected as I note. Καλόγνωμος: He who easily accepts the opinion of others. It does not mean he who has correct opinions, but rather he who is accommodating, agreeable. Also lines 108, 137–39, 231–32, 322–23, 580–81, etc. I’m worried that the printing might start before the corrections are made. I’ve said it a thousand times, and I say it again even if you get sick and tired of me: write me which ones you do not accept so that we may make a final decision. Look at book 22.21: how much better the line is. That “στητός στη δύναμή του” is artificial. I corrected it wherever I could. 3 June 1955 I just this moment received your letter—at last! I’m replying at once: 1. I think that we must include an epilogue. Given such a great expense, let another three or four thousand drachmas be added. It’s absolutely needed, to throw light on the translation. 2. I agree that we should let Kollaros handle everything. (a) He’s honest; (b) you yourself cannot undertake distribution to bookstores; (c) if we put it in someone else’s hands, we endanger ourselves; (4) we escape the need for a warehouse. 3.  Let’s use a good binding on a thousand copies. 4. I directed Agni to give you money as soon as she gets some. 5.  Last but not least: I sent Prevelakis the corrections I made for the entire Iliad. I consider them indispensable and I beg you to look at them carefully. By no means should we print the Iliad without these corrections. You write me that you already corrected “σκουτάρι,” etc., but that’s not the most significant one. I’ve kept a copy, and I entreat you no longer just as a friend but as a collaborator who has his own responsibility for the translation: (a) to look at all of them with care, (b) to write me at once, before the printing begins, where you disagree, and I will answer you at once. It’s necessary for you to make this effort, because I consider very many of the new corrections to be significant and I would not like the Iliad to be printed without our having corrected it definitively. Please pay attention to what I’m writing you, and I’ll appreciate it. You’ll get the corrections from Prevelakis.

788  •  1955 Letters

What a great joy it is that this great gift we are making to the demotic tongue will be printed. I think that if we do nothing else but this, our birth will have been justified. What a great joy that we shall begin the Odyssey immediately afterwards. Act quickly so that I’ll be in time. Greetings to the sacred family. Perhaps you’ll be in Athens now; therefore I’m sending this letter to you there. Eleni greets all of you; she, too, is fighting at our side with nobility, patience, and love. God bless her! I owe everything to her—life, peace, happiness. May the God of the Iliad and Odyssey be with us always! N. Kazantzakis

1  Achilles’s horse Balíos:  Iliad 16.149, meaning spotted, dappled, piebald.  1  Last but not least: English in the original.

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library, damaged by water and mostly illegible; however, clear handwritten copy also at Princeton; printed in Friar 1977, p. 14, in Friar 1979, p. 35 (incomplete, dated 6 June 1955), and in Friar 1983, p. 66 (incomplete).

Antibes, 10 June 1955 Dear Kimon, Conqueror of Crete! Huge crowds! What a triumph this was, and how you won over our great island with your words! I read all the newspapers that you sent me. I’ve received a horde of letters saying how beautifully you spoke, that you moved all the Cretans, that you came, saw, and conquered. I am very pleased because our two names came together in this way, so fraternally and with such splendor. I was very moved reading your letter in which you describe it so well. I’m glad that you became such friends and spent time with my nephew Nikos and all my family. The photos are excellent, but I didn’t recognize my family home. It’s become a ruin, and so has my sister, who was so beautiful in her youth. I do not fear death; I fear and detest bodily decline. The English translation of Askitiki will not benefit you at all because (a) it was done by a Greek woman, (b) the first edition is different, much changed. If you have any trouble at the end, write me. I asked your permission for me to send to Professor Stanford in Dublin the first two books, A & B. Shall I send them? All these days I’ve been talking continually with Eleni, with great pleasure and emotion, about your triumphant campaign in Crete. Luck does not exist;

1955 Letters  •  789

what exists is destiny. It was destined that you should have come from America and should have found as a very young man what I found after much struggle. And it was destined that we agree on the greatest and most basic problems concerning humanity’s fate and also concerning art. I am sure that you will advance beyond the summit on which I stopped and will go much further; you have what I do not have—youth, above all. I’m glad that I will consequently die in peace, because I am going to leave in this world someone younger than me and better than me. All this gives me immense joy. I think that no greater joy exists for a spiritual person. May you always be well! I thank you and clasp your hand, N. Kazantzakis

1  much changed: Obviously he means that the second edition is much changed, owing to the addition of The Silence at the end.

To Agni Rousopoulou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

[Antibes,] 20 June 1955 My dear Agni, I sent you answers to everything in a long letter. Did it go astray? 1. I went to the consul in Nice, who is also a lawyer, a robust French viveur, and he advised me to have you make me a plan not just for Askitiki, he says, but for whatever book happens to be pirated. Then he’ll guarantee the signature for only two thousand francs! If this happens, please send me the formula. 2.  So let’s await the new fonts for the Odyssey. Let’s await the new fonts for the plays, too. Will we manage, I wonder, to get them printed in time? You put a huge mess in your head for my sake when we undertook to publish these works ourselves. On the other hand, you understand and judge better than I do. 3. I still have not received Paradise. Please remind Goudelis that he must send all three of the Dante books to Papandreou, Svolos, Merlier, Kakridis, and Lavagnini (Italian Institute). And we need to make sure about the author’s copies, because we were cheated with Zorba and Kapetan Mihalis. 4.  May the God of the Greeks grant that the Iliad may finally be printed! Give whatever we owe to Kakridis when you have some of our money. I yearn to see that exploit in print.

790  •  1955 Letters

5.  The slap in the face that the patriarch gave the Holy Synod was fine. I was pleased. 6.  Christ Recrucified is going to be turned into a film in France and an opera is being done by the famous Czech composer B. Martinu. A favor now: Martinu needs the music of our folk songs, our dances, marriages, laments, etc. This must have been published. Please buy this music for me and send it directly to the composer: B. Martinu, Bd Mont-Boron 73bis, Nice. This needs to be done in a hurry. I’ll appreciate it. Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis P.S. We’re leaving on 1 July for Milan and from there to Switzerland. Our address until 5 August: Kurhaus Cademario, près de Lugano, Suisse. From there we leave on 5 August for Zurich, and we’ll write you the new address. 1 September = Antibes.

1  viveur:  Man of pleasure, free-liver.  1  patriarch:  This was Athena­ goras (1886–1972), ecumenical patriarch from 1948 until 1972, and thus senior prelate of the Greek Orthodox Church; often spoke and acted against schisms within the Orthodox Church and between Orthodoxy and Roman Catholicism.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 292.

Antibes, 27 June 1955 Dear friend, I was extremely saddened by your letter of 15 June 1955, which I received just this moment. You won’t waste any time at all looking at the corrections I made; several are extraordinarily significant, and it’s embarrassing for us to print the Iliad with mistakes that we failed to catch. I sent Prevelakis the entire series of corrections that I made, and I hope that you’ve received them. However, today I’m sending you my own copy as well, in order to be sure. I’m marking for you in red pencil the corrections that I consider indispensable. I am terribly anxious, and I’ll expect a letter from you answering me. You won’t lose much time, and you can be perfectly in time if you correct the Iliad while it is being printed. For example, book 1, line 73 is unacceptable as we had it; I had written you (or did you fail to receive that letter?) that “καλόγνωμος” does not mean he who has a good, correct opinion, but rather he who easily accepts the opinion of others. So, is the way we translated it at all suitable? It

1955 Letters  •  791

must be corrected at all costs; and it recurs often. And just imagine at 5.306 to have put “ladle” instead of “hip joint”! Exceeding embarrassing! In 2.204 how much better is “το πολυβασιλίκι είναι κακό” etc. As much as we can, we must avoid κι απε, using μετα. We should restrict “κύβερνος” as much as we can to ship captain. The word “σάβανο” is absolutely necessary in 22.513; otherwise the line is incomprehensible. But how can I note all of them for you? You’ll see them on your own. And don’t say to me that we’ll correct them in the next edition; in the next edition you will have survived, and the responsibility for all the imperfections that I’ve noted will rest with me. So please make the effort, do the corrections, and if there is disagreement, let Prevelakis serve as arbitrator, as we said. You’ll understand from the tone in which I write you how anxious I am and how much I insist that you make this final effort, which will not take much of your time. Do not throw a shadow over our joy by making us see our work printed with these imperfections. Forgive me for insisting on τους. It is not right for aesthetic considerations to make us yield to katharevousa to such a degree; our translation must be pure demotic, flawless—that is one of its greatest virtues—and των would deform it. A great struggle awaits you in Athens. I’m ashamed that I am unable to share it with you. You know to what degree I am not afraid of effort and to what degree my conscience does not tolerate injustice. But what can I do, since fate has sent us into exile? Please believe how well I understand that all the trouble has fallen disproportionately on you. Nevertheless, I have in mind to repay the obligation one day. Eleni greets you with much love. In a few days, 30 June, we leave for Italy for a short stay and then continue on to Switzerland. My address from 5 July to 5 August: Kurhaus Cademario, Lugano, Suisse. Then we’re going to Zurich. We return to Antibes on 1 September. Eleni is very tired and needs a bit of rest. She deserves it. Life here continues its sacred tempo: lots of work, peace, solitude, one’s heart in the right place. I’ll expect a letter from you at the Cademario. Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis Please give Prevelakis the enclosed letter so that the two of you may discuss the Iliad together and he can give you the corrections.

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 623; English translation (incomplete)

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in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, p. 534; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, p. 544.

Kurhaus Cademario Lugano, Switzerland 10 July 1955 Very dear friend, We’re in a famous place above Lake Lugano, elevation twenty-seven hundred feet: chestnut trees, cherry trees, fir trees, sunshine, peace. The pension is marvelous, faultless. At last, Eleni and I are finding some peace. I’m planning to start my new work here: Letters to El Greco, a kind of autobiography in which I make my confession to my grandfather, El Greco. Yesterday a learned friend, von den Steinen, came to see me and told me that Petrarch wrote Letters to Cicero, whom he dearly loved. I was pleased. Thus, my idea is not a personal one; there is an age-old need for the creator to converse with a beloved person who has died—someone he trusts—and to relate his suffering to him. You, too, are at peace now in the countryside. What does “at peace” mean for us? It means that we are working on what we want and not on what external necessity wants. Thus, you’ll complete Askitiki, freely. Without a doubt you will discover its tone and pace, which Merlier was unable to find. I’m very pleased that you have undertaken to make known in Sweden this brief work that is the nucleus of my entire life and of all my writings. May “God”—our God—give you strength, patience, and love for many more years. Your presence on earth is invaluable. I’m surprised that you have not received the Inferno. I myself sent it to you from Antibes. Now that you are going down to Athens, my publisher will give it to you, and also other writings of mine that you desire, as many as you wish. I instructed him to do so. I’m enclosing for you a review of Christ Recrucified from the leading newspaper of the Côte d’Azur, Nice-Matin. The author is its editor, Pierre Rocher. Send it to your friends if you think it is useful. I have recently acquired two important friends, the queen of Greece, and Maria Bonaparte: Princesse Georges de Grèce (author, student of Freud’s). The former sends letters expressing her admiration for my books; the latter, filled with energy, enthusiasm, and love, comes regularly to my house in Antibes. She got the Belgian queen (let this be this strictly confidential between us) to write to Schweitzer, and she herself wrote to T. Mann to intervene with the Swedish Academy regarding this year’s Nobel. May “God” put forth his hand. l sent the theatrical contract to Dr. Tau. He will give it its definitive wording. I instructed him not to forget your royalties. I’m glad that Kapetan Mihalis will be published in Swedish in August.

1955 Letters  •  793

My wife and I greet you and your wife with much love. Write me if you need anything for Greece, although since everyone there knows you now and honors you, you don’t need me. Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis

1  von den Steinen:  Helmut von den Steinen (1890–1957), a friend of both Kazantzakis’s and Prevelakis’s; translated Kapetan Mihalis, Saint Francis, and Melissa into German, as well as excerpts from the Odyssey. See Prevelakis’s obituary for von den Steinen in Nea Estia’s issue of 1 February 1957 and Kazantzakis’s appreciation in his letter to Prevelakis dated 12 February 1957 (below).  1  Petrarch:  Francesco Petrarch (1304–74) did write a letter to Marcus Tullius Cicero (104 –43 b.c.), dated Verona, 16 June 1345. In it, he berates Cicero for involving himself in the wranglings of politics instead of retreating in old age to the peace and quiet befitting a philosopher.  1  the queen of Greece:  Frederika (1917–81), born as Fredrica Louise Thyra von Hannover; married King Paul I of Greece in 1938.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 293.

Kurhaus Cademario, Lugano, 24 July 1955 My dear Fellow Doer of Exploits, Your letter delighted me very much. I’m happy that you found time and took the further trouble to look at the new corrections and to accept twothirds of them. I feel relieved, because leaving those defects in our work was weighing down my soul. Thanks for “τους”; to make a concession of this sort to katharevousa for aesthetic reasons would be a dangerous precedent. Do what you want about “καλόγνωμος,” but καλόγνωμος does not mean he who has a correct opinion but he who has a good, accommodating opinion (that is: view, character) and easily accepts what he’s told. You can be sure of that, no matter what you were told by the scribblers you asked. I think that Voss, too, translated the line in this way. However, I tell you once again: do as you think best. We’ll make the correction in the second edition. I accept the others that you reject; I cannot have an opinion compared to yours in matters of interpretation: “tu duca e tu maestro.” You see how καλόγνωμος I am! Fortunately you, too, are καλόγνωμος—that is, compliant— which is why our collaboration is bound to remain a model. This, too, is a miracle. I understand very well—and am ashamed in front of you—regarding how much work and bother the Iliad is giving you while I sit here without

794  •  1955 Letters

participating. But what can be done? You know that I do not do it out of laziness and irresponsibility. Necessity dictated this. Let’s hope that in our other exploit—the translation of the Odyssey—I will be more useful. Because immediately after we “bring out” the Iliad (like a daughter of ours) we must throw ourselves headfirst into the waves of the Odyssey. As we said, let’s not enter heaven crippled. You’ll receive as much money as is needed from Agni. I gave her instructions. I agree about the epilogue. Perhaps Nea Estia should make us lots of offprints (with some payment), and these should be given out with the Iliad (the way I did with the difficult words in the Odyssey). Perhaps we should put a small glossary at the end of the epilogue. I think that the epilogue should be sufficiently detailed so that the meaning of our translation may be realized by the Smellenes (especially the “men of letters”) who are so spiteful or illiterate or both. And, above all, how different it is from the translation of Pallis, to whom we dedicate ours. “Μονοφοράς” = all at once, all together. If you don’t like the word, change it. Enough! I repeat: your most recent letter delighted me very much. Don’t ask me anything further. Do as you judge best, so that we don’t lose time. We’ll correct various defects in the second edition. Odyssey now, in the name of “God”! “Danger is good. It must always be ventured.” We’re leaving here in a few days; we’re going round Switzerland and staying a while in Zurich; we plan to settle there one day—this is the wish of Eleni, who greets you and the entire sacred family very warmly. How glad I am that Captain Haritos will follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather! May the chain never be cut! God be with you, dear comrade! May you have strength, patience, love! Who was the ancient Greek who said: “Μέλι βραχύ ο βίος”? So let us gather in the harvest, as long (as the Cretans say) as our eyes have water. Always Pax et bonum, N. Kazantzakis

1  tu duca e tu maestro:  More accurately: “tu duca, tu segnore e tu maestro” (you the leader, you the lord and master), Inferno 2.140.  1  Captain Haritos:  Yannis Kakridis’s son, Fanis Kakridis (b. 1933), who did indeed follow in the footsteps of father and grandfather, since he is now a professor of classics in his own right.  1  Μέλι βραχύ ο βίος:  Life is short-lived honey.

To Lefteris Alexiou —Photo of manuscript in Elli Alexiou 1981, hors-texte; printed in Η Λέξη, no. 139 (May–June 1997): 347.

Cademario, Lugano, 26 July 1955

1955 Letters  •  795

My dear Lefteris, I keep receiving your poems and am always moved when I read them. I have also read with deep satisfaction your pamphlet on your father’s contribution to Erotokritos. It’s high time that the Smellenes learned that Erotokritos would not have been printed without the elder Alexiou, with his wisdom and his material sacrifices. I know that you find what I write repugnant, and I understand this. It would be shameful and stupid of me to bear a grudge against you on that ­account. I understand very well, and justify, all those who despise my work much better than I do those who love it. Never in my life have I been either frivolous or conceited. I know the summit of my power very well, the limits of my power much better. And never have I considered myself a pen-pusher. I’m pleased to hear from everyone about your son’s intellectual and human excellence; let’s hope that he does not resemble me in any way! I know that Kretika Chronika is significant, but unfortunately I don’t get it. Only oc­ casionally has an issue fallen into my hands and have I seen how truly excellent it is. I was very sorry to hear about Schoinas; I wasn’t aware. The opposite bank is continually filling up with beloved shades. Perhaps death may become more bearable for us in this way. I remember perfectly everyone you write me about: Zilos, Mitsanis, and of course Avyeris, whom I continue to esteem even though he does and says what he pleases. What’s the phrase? Ἕτερον ἐκάτερον. God be with you always, dear Lefteris! N. Kazantzakis

1  your father’s contribution to Erotokritos:  The important edition of Erotokritos in 1915, edited by Xanthoudidis with the elder Stylianos Alexiou’s help, was published by the latter in his printing shop.  1  your son’s intellectual and human excellence:  Stylianos Alexiou (b. 1921) taught at the ­University of Crete from 1977 to 1991; corresponding member of the Academy of Athens; honorary doctorates from the universities of Padova, Athens, and Cyprus; significant archaeological discoveries of Minoan remains in Lenta; founded museums in Hania and Agios Nikolaos; published on Erotokritos, Solomos, Digenis Akritas, etc.  1  Kretika Chronika:  The periodical “Cretan Annals.”  1  Ἕτερον ἑκάτερον:  Ancient Greek expression meaning “this one’s different from that one.” It occurs in Galen, Plato, Aristotle, Plotinus, etc.

To Anghelakis Family —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

Cademario, Lugano [early August, 1955]

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Our dear Trinity! Many greetings from a high mountain at Lugano. We’re leaving for Zurich and plan to go from there to Alsace, where Schweitzer has invited us. When will we see each other? Neither Christ, Allah, nor Jehovah can give an answer. Always, N. & El. Kazantzakis

1  The handwriting is Nikos’s.

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; printed (always incomplete) in Friar 1977, p. 25; Friar 1979, pp. 35–36; and Friar 1983, p. 67.

Antibes, 23 August 1955 Our dear Kimon, We returned home yesterday and found the enclosed letter from Schuster. Read it and write to him. Perhaps you can help find an English publisher to shoulder the expense with Schuster. He proposes 1½ percent for the translator. To that you should add half of my royalties: 5 percent—that is, 6½ percent is yours. If you wish, however, I’ll concede all my 10 percent royalties to you; thus you’ll have 11½ percent. I want one thing: for the translation to be done by you, because only in this way will I be certain that the translation can turn out better than the original. I have great pleasure reading your English verse. Nothing but your collaboration is capable of rendering whatever is beautiful in the Odyssey. That’s why I’ll concede all my royalties to you if you wish. I’ll consult in that case with Agni Rousopoulou, my lawyer, and she’ll draw up for you an official document for the concession. I ask only one thing: that the translation be done as quickly as possible, so that I will be in time to see and enjoy it. I’m glad that you have found your roots in Greece. I can imagine with what emotion you must have seen so many relatives, their blood the same as yours, and have realized that you sprouted from deep within Greek soil. It’s clear that this journey has greatly strengthened your heart and soul. I’m still receiving letters from everywhere in Greece describing with what pleasure and emotion your lectures were heard. Your words fell like the first autumn rain in the parched Greek provinces. I’m writing you in haste and am awaiting the rest of the Odyssey that you have completed. The house is upside-down. We have carpenters, and Eleni is painting the walls. She sends greetings, loves you very much, and will write a word to you.

1955 Letters  •  797

I am well; I hope you are, too. You should know that you are now my greatest hope. Always, N. Kazantzakis

To Mrs. Angelaki —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

Antibes, 31 August 1955 Dear long-desired friend, Returning now from a long tour—Italy, Switzerland, Germany, Alsace—I found your charming letter and was frightened to see the question you pose for me: What do I advise regarding Katerina? How can I know at such a distance, without having followed the various, complicated stages of her development? Of course, I realize from everything of hers that I have read—letters and material in magazines—that she is a fiery soul, an unquiet mind, a rebellious will that wants to find a higher rhythm so that her powers may assume purpose and meaning. But these factors—factors of youthfulness—are not sufficient to enable me to form an opinion. In any case, for purely Greek reasons I do not think that she should study journalism in particular. Unfortunately, that is still premature for Greece—or routine Greek journalism will soon devour her. Nor should she study literature; that department in our university will wither her brain. Perhaps the best would be for her to study political science or law in order to continue her father’s work but with a broader, up-to-date social direction. And if she has the disposition and power to occupy herself with literature, that will be finally seen when she herself decides. Never, however—but never!—should journalism and writing become her principal occupation. If we saw each other, it’s certain that we would reach a more reliable conclusion through assertion and counterassertion. But we are distant. I assert an opinion, await a counterassertion that does not come; consequently, I am unable to complete and improve my opinion. Now I’ll let Eleni write to you. During the two months we were away, a pile of correspondence collected, and we need to reply. I also have the screenwriter who is going to film Christ Recrucified, and every so often I work together with him, wearisomely. Exile has cast nets over me from every side; at this point it’s difficult for me to free myself. But I’m doing my creative work with intensity. I’m in a hurry. My new work begins like this: “I collect my tools: sight, hearing, taste, smell, touch, intelligence. Evening has come, the day’s work is done. I return like a mole to my home, the ground. Not because I am tired. I am not tired. But the sun has set. The sacred night is descending

798  •  1955 Letters

from the sky, rising from the earth. The mountain ranges of my mind still retain a little light at their summits. The light has sworn not to yield. But it knows there is no salvation. It will not surrender, but it will expire.” Those are the opening sentences; you are the first to be aware of them. With you always, and Yanni and Katerina, N. Kazantzakis

1  My new work:  Report to Greco (Kazantzakis 1965a).

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 293–94.

Antibes, 12 September 1955 Very dear Fellow Doer of Exploits, It will be an immense pleasure for us to see—God bless you!—the Iliad in print, our struggle visible. The other day I had a dream: It seemed I was laughing and saying to you, “Oh, when will the second edition be issued so that we can correct that καλόγνωμος”! (As you see, that word doesn’t allow me to rest in peace.) This morning I looked at the large Dimitrakos dictionary and found: “καλόγνωμος = καλογνώμων (καλογνώμων = καλοκάγαθος).” Pallis: καλόγνωμη θεά. The opposite is κακόγνωμος. Κακόγνωμος: not someone who has a defective opinion, but someone who is peevish, ill-tempered. Oh well, I won’t ever mention this word to you again, except for the new edition. Now regarding the immense pleasure: Please send me immediately the first copy that is bound. How moved I’ll be when I clutch it between my palms! No work of my own ever caused me to rejoice—only this one, which is Homer’s and yours. I have nothing to add or subtract from the contract. What you do is well done. Regarding the dedication, I do have something to write: I prefer “greetings”; however, if you don’t like this, put whatever you desire. Of course, there is no need at all to add anything to the name “Pallis.” A very few insignificant changes in the prologue. I would prefer simply that the sentence on page 4 be changed. It should appear that, if the reader stumbles over a word, it is because he does not know the word, does not know the richness of demotic; the way you have it, it appears that we are asking to be forgiven because we have used a strange word. Will you place this as a prologue or an epilogue? Whichever you want. We, here, are all well—in other words, the two of us and the cuckoo. We had an excellent trip to Italy, Switzerland, Germany, and Alsace, where we had a very moving meeting with Albert Schweitzer. Now—little caterpillars

1955 Letters  •  799

working to produce wings—we’ve entered the cocoon again. I’m writing a new book: Letters to El Greco. But the most important is: When are we going to start on the Odyssey? I greatly yearn for us to dive headfirst into the immortal verses. Do one book at a time and send it to me so that we can write a second draft; the first will undoubtedly be extremely imperfect, but it’s always in this way, from imperfection, that the struggle begins that leads as well as it can to “perfection.” Do not send me Eftaliotis’s translation until after you begin to send me your own versions in manuscript—here I have only Sideris’s. Eftaliotis’s is mediocre, but it might be useful on occasion. I shall fast on the day that I begin the Odyssey, the way the ancient icon painters did when they picked up their brush to paint a saint. We, the Dyad, greet your sacred Tetrad. May God be with you always! May God grant that I do not die before we finish and publish the Odyssey, too. Yours always, and I’m delighted that you exist. N. Kazantzakis

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 695–96.

Antibes, 17 September 1955 My dear brother, Reading your last letter, I was deeply moved, not because I was surprised or perturbed by human wretchedness but because I saw how much trouble you are enduring for my sake, how many worries you have, and that you are doing this with such great love. This emotion neutralized my indignation and bitterness over Rousopoulou’s deviations, whether conscious or not. I’m writing her at once precisely what you suggest. She is not to proceed with any action without your approval; she should aim for the speediest possible fulfillment of the agreements with Goudelis, so that our enslavement may expire by March 1956. After the slavery ends, you’ll negotiate for the publication of the collected works, with a common set of conditions for all the books, including the Odyssey. Regarding the Odyssey, I think—if you approve—that we should prefer the second solution—namely that we begin to print it, without haste. I’m writing a stern letter to Rousopoulou, and I hope that there will be no more deviations. I beg you to please write me precisely what I should reply, every time there’s a need, because I’m both far away and by nature incapable of comprehending.

800  •  1955 Letters

One thing disturbs me above all: that you are going to so much trouble, and to such a type of trouble. God bless you! And realize that I know very well what I owe you. I hope that you’ll receive the Iliad shortly. I disagree with various details, but they’ll be corrected in the second edition. I, too, am waiting for it day by day. My emotion and joy at seeing it will be inexpressible. Now it’s the Odyssey’s turn. I wrote to Kakridis to begin to work on my translation of all of the Odyssey that I sent to him. I’d like to be in time to see this one, too. I’m working well here; my body is doing well; I’m struggling now with the screenwriters of Christ Recrucified, and I hope that it will turn out to be a good film. Kapetan Mihalis will be filmed later, in Crete. Will one of your plays be done at the National Theater? How did Minotis behave? Please write me as soon as the decision is made. I’m anxious. Kapetan Mihalis is coming out in English quite soon. On 24 September there’s going to be a broadcast about Greece. They asked me to speak about literature. I refused. I learned about Anastasiou’s death from Eleftheria and felt extremely sad. He wasted his life; he had a genuine lyrical vein, a good mind, and lots of dignity, but he was consumed by laziness, domestic mishaps, and defeatism. I think of him often, and my heart breaks. How very much I’d like to see you! I’m told that your health is improving. I keep asking and am continually informed that you are better. God bless you! Write to me as often as you can. Eleni sends greetings and love. She, too, thanks you very much. N. Kazantzakis

1  the second solution:  Was for Kazantzakis to reprint his Odyssey at his own expense.  1  all of the Odyssey that I sent to him:  Kazantzakis had completed his translation of Homer’s Odyssey in first draft. The plan was to have Kakridis go over each line.

To Agni Rousopoulou —Photocopy of typescript in my possession; the letter was dictated by Kazantzakis to Eleni.

[Antibes,] 18 September 1955 My dear Agni, I’m confused and I don’t know what’s going on. I give my word and afterwards am obliged to take it back. How long ago Goudelis undertook to print the plays, and he’s only beginning now! And what’s happening with the Odyssey? And who will bring out the Voyaging volumes? The contracts and decisions are mutually conflicting, and I no longer know where we stand.

1955 Letters  •  801

Therefore, I beg of you, please, from now on do me the favor of following Prevelakis’s opinion completely, so that you may be released from all responsibility and won’t need to worry about figuring out whether your decision will please me or not. This way you won’t need to worry at all. For better or worse, let Prevelakis decide. I’ll be very grateful. So, in order that we may clear the way in the best possible manner, please: 1. Try to obtain rapid fulfillment of the agreements with Goudelis so that our enslavement be over by March 1956. Of course, Goudelis will extend the slavery as much as he can concerning the four books that he will have published, because he may keep claiming over a long period that these have not sold out (I, Eleni, add: How can they sell out when all the people who come to us here from Athens complain that they don’t see them anywhere, and that Goudelis, too, just like Mavridis, is using his salesmen to sell them on the black market?); consequently, we do not have the right to reissue them. In any case, we’ll be able to negotiate the publication of my other books after March 1956. 2.  After this termination—albeit partial—of my books’ enslavement, we should negotiate the publication of the collected works with a common set of conditions for all of my books without distinction. 3.  The Odyssey should not be separated from the publication of the collected works. For now, we can begin to print it since we have the paper. Thus, we’ll be able in April 1956 to designate it as the first volume of the collected works. That’s that, in general. Please set my mind in order. Please tell Goudelis that I still have not received either Kapetan Mihalis or Paradise. That is unacceptable. Did he send them? Try to guarantee my author’s copies, so we don’t get cheated the way we did with Mavridis. At first it was 100 for me and 100 for the press. Now I see that mine have become 50, with 250 of Goudelis’s apparently for the press. I find this monstrous. For certain he doesn’t give even 50 to the press. Let him send me 20 of Kapetan Mihalis and 20 of Paradise with utmost speed, and hand over the remainder to you, Agni, because I’ve had a very bitter experience with him. And let him send me 10 from the previous edition of Christ Recrucified and Inferno and Purgatory and hand over the remainder to you. Now I’m going to let the other nightingale twitter. I kiss you with love, always, N. Kazantzakis

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed in Kazantzakis 1977d, pp. 302–3.

Antibes, 29 September 1955

802  •  1955 Letters

Very dear friend, You are in Greece at a crucial psychological moment for the Greek people. This age-old, tormented country is being struck once again by a new injustice, and precisely at this moment it has a cadaver as its prime minister. When I think of Greece, my heart breaks. It’s the Eternally Crucified, the Outcry Eternally Crucified. And applauding and dancing all around that Outcry are iniquity, injustice, hypocrisy, and violence. How much more deeply you will sense the Greek nation now if you converse with simple ­people—peasants, workers—far away from the shallow intelligentsia! Ah, it’s just the right moment for you to go to Crete. You are eagerly awaited there by all my friends and first of all by my nephew, Nikos, and my niece, Kleio. Do not fail now to get on the bus and go to Phaistos. In the whole world, there is no landscape more tranquil and fascinating. If my friend the archaeologist Doro Levi, director of the Archaeological School, happens to be there, and you go to see him on my behalf, you will meet an extraordinary human being and scholar. Please write to me regularly from Greece, so that I will know what you are doing and if your wife is pleased. I’ll be following you with concern from here, from Antibes. Are you pleased? Is the weather good? Have you met anyone capable of giving you intellectual pleasure? That’s what I’ll be wondering, with concern. I’m working here on my new book. The title is Letters to El Greco or Report to El Greco. Little by little it’s becoming a sort of autobiography—Dichtung und Wahrheit. I won’t speak at all about El Greco’s era but rather about our own era and its anguish and hopes. It will take me a long time to finish it, because I have very much to say. When you return to Stockholm safe and sound, I’ll send you the other book’s first chapter. Yesterday I received the Swedish edition of Freedom or Death, a very beautiful edition, and I was glad. Let’s hope that the elderly Mandarins read it and like it. I’m working on a regular basis with the filmmaker Dassin, who is going to make a movie of Christ Recrucified. Next year Freedom or Death will be filmed in Crete. Kakridis wrote me today that you met. He is one of the purest, best Greeks. One of these days our translation of the Iliad will appear. My joy cannot be expressed. I think that this translation is a great feat; we are making a royal gift to the nation, and no one understands this. The state would get rid of us if it could. No matter—we work without recompense. When I was young, my motto was Ohne Belohnung! That still remains the motto of my life and work. Very dear friend, my wife and I greet your wife and you with fraternal love. God be with both of you in Greece! Pax et bonum! Nikos Kazantzakis

1955 Letters  •  803

1  cadaver:  Alexandros Papagos (1883–1955). He died on 4 October 1955 and was succeeded as prime minister by Constantine Karamanlis (1907–98).  1  Dichtung und Wahrheit:  “Poetry and Truth,” Goethe’s autobiography, composed between 1811 and 1831. For the significant similarities between this and Kazantzakis’s Report to Greco, see Bien 2007a, pp. 528–29.  1  Dassin:  Jules Dassin (1911–2008), American film director who, after being blacklisted in Hollywood owing to his leftist politics, moved to Greece and eventually married Melina Mercouri (1920–94). His films, besides the adaptation of Kazantzakis’s novel, Celui qui doit mourir (1957; He Who Must Die), include Never on Sunday (1960), starring his wife. Freedom and Death was never filmed.  1  Ohne Belohnung:  Without reward, without remuneration.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 294.

Antibes, 29 September 1955 Dear friend, Fellow Doer of Exploits and Wearer of the Laurel Crown! I’m returning the two signatures to you. God be with the Iliad. I’m counting the days before I grasp it in my hands. The day we begin the Odyssey will be a huge pleasure. I’d like us to do Pindar and Thucydides together as well, but life is short, alas, and the human being settles into the soil still loaded with possibilities and desires. Life here is the way you know it. I’m working, hurrying. A multitude of things that ought to bother me do not bother me. I have formed a crust of insensitivity around my sensitivity; thus, my inner calm cannot be disturbed by anyone. “Larvatus prodeo,” as Descartes used to say. Every sensitive person needs to wear an inflexible mask; it’s absolutely necessary in the iniquitous age in which we live. When will we see each other again? Eleni and I send greetings to all of you. With fraternal love, N. Kazantzakis

1  two signatures:  Here the meaning is not typographical; the reference is simply to two instances in which he signed his name.  1  Larvatus prodeo:  “I go forward masked,” stated by the youthful René Descartes (1596–1650); interpreted by Jacques Maritain (1882–1973) as Descartes’ way of announcing that the masked philosopher would unmask the sciences.

To Aris Diktaios —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Yorgos Stefanakis.

Antibes, 3 October 1955

804  •  1955 Letters

Dear friend, Thank you very much for your letter. Everything you say is correct. Certainly you will surmise, however, that I would never deign to be governed by self-interest regarding the editions. Although I am tied to a publisher, many booksellers buy lots of books, keep them, and form a black market. I have been begging for a long time for new editions; this has happened in the case of Kapetan Mihalis, and will happen shortly with Zorba, too. These vicissitudes have disturbed me greatly, but I am far away, will continue to be far away, and am unable to intervene directly. Yours always, N. Kazantzakis

To Agni Rousopoulou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

Antibes, 6 October 1955 My dear Agni, I received your last letter, 1 October. Please allow me a few days for my mind to settle, because I’m all confused, not understanding such matters very well. One thing remains firm in my mind: that you should continue to represent me. Help me now to find how this may happen, how there may be unimpeded collaboration with Prevelakis, because you’ll understand in what a difficult position I find myself, between two extremely dear friends who do not get along and whom I would not like to lose. So please give me a few days during which perhaps we can find a solution. The only thing that surprised me very much in your letter was this: I wrote to whom? To Vaïanos! Criticizing you? How is it possible for you to believe this? Never, no, to no one! Regarding Askitiki now, I think that Goudelis has got to publish it quickly. Please tell him to get going. In addition, as soon as our affairs are settled and we see how this special power of attorney will be arranged, he can announce that he is going to print The Last Temptation, since the need exists. Please take the trouble again of sending me the formula, because the previous one remained with the consul’s papers and it’s questionable if it can be found again. The Odyssey is in press. With the bills of exchange that you possess, please be of service to Christos’s printing house, as you’ve written to me. I hope that the Plays will be ready in time. Goudelis writes me that he’s about to come to Antibes. I’ll be very happy to see him and to talk to him; perhaps once again things will get cleared up a bit.

1955 Letters  •  805

As you know, I want one thing only: for the collected works to be printed— well printed, as is happening now—and as quickly as possible. That’s why I’d like you to be near me up to the end. So please be patient a few more days. Yours, N. Kazantzakis

1  Vaïanos:  Marios Vaïanos (1908–75), poet, literary critic, friend of Cavafy, Sikelianos, Gryparis, Venezis; the first to devote an entire issue of a periodical to Cavafy (1924). A letter from Kazantzakis to Vaïanos dated 21 June 1955 says nothing about Rousopoulou. However, in his letter to Prevelakis dated 17 September 1955, above, he did comment on her “deviations.”

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 698–99.

Antibes, 27 October 1955 My dear brother, Thanks for your last letter. I knew it! Indeed, I had read as well the letter that was sent. However, there is no hope at all. If you knew how multi-intricate, multi-sided, and multi-disgraceful this game is and what intellectual worth the old men possess who are handling it, you too would be overcome by the same disgust and despair. Mrs. Rousopoulou wrote me that she’ll do what she can to remain my lawyer, as I have requested her to do, without entering into disagreement with you. Today, in order that we might slip out of this entire maze that has made me dizzy and ill, I accepted the proposal of Yannis Goudelis, who arrived yesterday, to print the collected works within eighteen months after the signing of the contract. He left today in order to reach an agreement with you and with Agni regarding the conditions. I have a need for these collected works to be completed quickly, so that I may see them before I close my eyes forever—because sometimes I have a premonition that the hour is approaching. I have already begun to prepare myself. The book I am writing will be called Report to Greco—“report” with the military meaning of an officer to a general. It’s a type of autobiography. I am preparing myself, I’m telling you. Friar broke his leg. I’m very worried. Fortunately you are leaving the house now, going out to your classes. May God keep you strong! You are my greatest hope.

806  •  1955 Letters

Semertzidis is here, doing Eleni’s portrait. It’s fine. I received the three volumes of Lyrical Life, and I thank you and Anna. As you suggested, I wrote to Haris that Kouros should be published; it seems that the first volume of Plays will be very large. Eleni greets you with very much love as do I, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  I knew it!:  This paragraph refers to the competition for the Nobel Prize for Literature. The letter referred to was sent by a “high personage” (presumably Maria Bonaparte) in support of Kazantzakis. But the prize in 1955 was taken by the Icelandic writer Halldór Kiljan Laxness.  1  Lyrical Life:  Sikelianos’s definitive poetic collection, in three volumes.  1  Anna:  Anna Karamani Sikelianou, Sikelianos’s second wife.  1  that Kouros should be published: In Nea Estia, edited by Petros Haris.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 294–95.

Antibes, 9 November 1955 Dear, triumphant Fellow Doer of Exploits, I think that this has been one of the happiest days of my life. Eleni came up to my study, jumping two steps at a time, and had her hands hidden behind her back. “Shut your eyes!” she called out. And I understood at once: the Iliad! I closed my eyes, took it in my hands, kissed it. I opened my eyes. What a joy it is, after all, to struggle for years and years, and for the fruit of your struggle to ripen, slowly, and for you to hold it in your hands! God bless you, dear comrade! Nothing would have happened without you; the entire honor belongs to you. Now let’s roll up our sleeves—the Odyssey’s turn. How I yearn for the struggle to recommence! How I’d like to undertake a third one as well, but I won’t live long enough; you’ll remain all alone. The appearance is perfect, the dust jacket excellent, and I like the font very much. Now we need to send it to various newspapers (to Hourmouzios of Kathimerini in person) as well as to various mutual friends. Let’s send to as many as necessary in common, to save money. I’m enclosing a list for you to which you can add whomever you wish—but write me your list that so I don’t send to them separately. I’ll send to others on my own. Send me ten or so copies when it’s no trouble, so that I may post them to foreign friends from here. And another ten later. The Iliad that you inscribed for me will stay always in front of me on my desk.

1955 Letters  •  807

I’m marking off the 9th of November 1955 with a large white stone. Yours always, N. Kazantzakis

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 699–700.

Antibes, 27 December 1955 My dear brother, I couldn’t have wanted a better, more splendid New Year’s present. As soon as I received your unexpected play, I read it in a single breath. How marvelously you chose your subject, with what dramatic proportioning and what artfulness it unfolds, how assuredly it takes its place in the theater! I like it exceedingly. It lays out and solves one of the most tragic problems of our age and of all ages. This path you are taking is splendid, and I am very moved. The New Year is starting out well. May “God” bless you and give you the strength to go all the way to the end! I am buried once more in the Iliad. I read and enjoyed the whole of it again. I found a few flaws, very few; I’m enclosing several corrections for you. Fix them if you agree. In January we start the Odyssey. I received The Last Temptation this very moment. It’s the work that especially moves me, because I know how it was written. I didn’t want it to be published now, but I was afraid lest it be translated from the German and sold in installments. Also, I was afraid to see a work of mine in wretched demotic. Eleni and I wish the New Year to be whatever you desire. You are with us always, indestructibly. Para siempre! N. Kazantzakis

1  your unexpected play:  Τα χέρια του ζωντανού Θεού (Athens, 1955; The Hands of the Living God).  1  I received The Last Temptation:  He means, of course, the Greek publication, which came three years after the novel’s German translation.  1  wretched demotic:  That is, in someone else’s Greek— the adapter’s—in what would have been a pirated edition.

To Apostolos Sachinis —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession, gift from Apostolos Sachinis.

Antibes, 31 December 1955

808  •  1956 Letters

Dear friend, I’m answering your letter at once. 1. I’ll write to my publisher immediately to send you Dante, Plays (vol. 1), which will be published in a few days, and The Last Temptation, which was published at Christmas but which I have not yet received, either. Please pay especial attention to this book: I think that it’s the best prose that I’ve written up to now. He’ll also send you all the books that he brings out from time to time. 2. I am the only, and firstborn, son; I still have two sisters, one married in Athens, the other in Iraklio; and four nephews. 3.  My wife and I wish that you may see in 1956 whatever you desire! We were very happy that we saw you in Antibes. “God” be with you! N. Kazantzakis

To Agni Rousopoulou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

Antibes, 2 February 1956 My dear Agni, I’ve just received your letter saying that in order to execute a specific power or attorney for the trial against the thieving publisher I should go to Marseilles, since the honorary consul at Nice doesn’t have the authorization. As you see, even if I were able, I wouldn’t be in time. Let it happen as now planned, with a single plaintiff against Goudelis, and let us rely on justice and on the court’s perception. It’s impossible for me to go to Marseilles now. Let’s finish at last with signing the general contract with G. It’s not worth the trouble to lose valuable time for Manglis. How much is normally given to translators and publishers? Let him give him that much and, if he doesn’t accept, let him give up on him. I’m in a hurry for the eighteen-month deadline to begin to operate during which months Goudelis is obligated to have printed the collected works. I hope that The Last Temptation is going well, but I still haven’t seen any reviews. I’m writing you hastily today. Always with love, N. Kazantzakis

1  Manglis: Under discussion here is Manglis’s translation of Toda-Raba into Greek from Kazantzakis’s original French.

1956 Letters  •  809

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript (water-damaged) in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; printed in Friar 1977, p. 16; Friar 1979, pp. 36–37; and Friar 1983, p. 68.

Antibes, 5 February 1956 Dear, immortal Kimon, You can imagine how overjoyed I was to receive the new verses. So you’re able to work now; the sacred rhythm has penetrated your life again; you have reentered the immortal waters of poetry. No other salvation exists, no other life exists, no other reality exists—only Poetry. Stay well! The evil has passed; the sacred Ascent is beginning again. Not a moment goes by when I fail to have you in my mind and heart. This world is a mystery, as is the chemical affinity between people, and I always consider it a great joy that we met on this beloved crust of the world. As always, I am working as though I had over me an employer, a boss, with a whip in his hand. What name shall I give this boss? God? Certainly not. Let’s call him the supreme Summit of our soul. Health, joy, and here’s to our next meeting! N. Kazantzakis

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; not printed in any of Friar’s publications.

[Antibes, 14 February 1956] Dear Kimon, I’ve read your letter carefully. Eleni will look over the comments you make on the verses; you’re right regarding everything you underlined, and those will be corrected. In 4.570–75 no line is missing, the numbering is faulty. Not καψοβούλης (1279); it’s a mistake. Write: κοψοβούλης, he who cuts the will, the desire, he who decides something different from what you want. You translated the names Καρτερός, Χάλικας, Πέτρακας beautifully. It doesn’t matter that there are nine dogs instead of seven (1251). Γιούχτας is spelled Youchtas. The priestesses were unmounted. They were Dictynna’s companions.

810  •  1956 Letters

I never received a letter from you asking me about boats. —Miller’s letter is very interesting. He’s right from his point of view. —I’m finishing the book Report to Greco now. —You’re right: it’s time to clear up all business details about the contract. I wrote to Schuster that I grant you all of my royalties; write to him yourself, as well, to draw up the contract. There’s no need for Rousopoulou to get mixed up in this. I agree with you: formulate it as you wish. My pleasure that a poet and a human being like you, Kimon, has translated the Odyssey is the highest level of royalties I desire. I’m delighted that you exist and that we met. That is my compensation. I didn’t send anything to Stanford because I asked you and you didn’t answer me; in other words, I didn’t have permission. We’ll send him something later if you wish. I enjoyed Bowra. The page is finished; there’s space for me to put only one word: Love! N. Kazantzakis

1  κοψοβούλης:  Kazantzakis needed to include this word in the glossary he was forced to prepare after the Odyssey’s initial publication.  1  You translated . . . beautifully:  Friar’s translations are: Hardihood (Καρτερός), Granite (Χάλικας), Rocky (Πέτρακας).  1  Youchtas:  Strangely it comes out as “Grouhla” in the translation at 5.1109.  1  unmounted: In English in the letter.  1  Miller’s letter:  Presumably Henry Miller’s.  1  Bowra:  Sir Cecil Maurice Bowra (1898–1971), English classical scholar; author of numerous books on ancient Greek literature.

To Petros Haris —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession; gift from Petros Haris.

[Antibes,] 18 March 1956 Dear friend, It was with great emotion and pleasure that I read your most splendid ­review in Eleftheria. I hope that it’s as you say—no other recompense is necessary. With similar emotion I saw that you have decided, even though I am still alive, to bring out a special issue on my struggle and the results of my struggle. That is an extremely special honor, and I thank you for not waiting until I die. In this way I will enjoy while alive what usually the dead would enjoy if they weren’t dead.

1956 Letters  •  811

I shall send you what you need: photographs, unpublished pages, foreign reviews. The people you chose to write about me are splendid; however, a few are missing who also might say something substantive: Prevelakis, Hourmouzios, Aris Diktaios, and Kimon Friar (he would speak better than anyone else about the Odyssey, the translation of which he has almost completed—no one has studied it as much as he has). I believe it is essential that these four have their say. But when do you suppose that this issue will appear? Write to me, please, so that I may prepare whatever you need. I’m glad that you gave the prize to Provelengios; he deserved it. Yours, N. Kazantzakis

1  a special issue:  The special issue of Nea Estia finally came out at Christmas 1959, posthumously. Of the four authors favored by Kazantzakis, only Friar was included, although Prevelakis contributed a chronology of Ka­ zantzakis’s life. Those who wrote were Haris, Bonaparte, Eleni Kazantzaki, Kerenyi, Athanasiadis-Novas, Kalitsounakis, Friar, Panayotopoulos, Andriotis, Merlier, Mirambel, Kakridis, Stavrou, Hatzinis, Chasel, Knös, Tzermias, Apostolopoulos, Karandonis, Karavias, Minotis, Petreas, Parlamas, Thrylos, Jouvenel.

To Agni Rousopoulou —Photocopy of typescript in my possession; dictated by Kazantzakis to Eleni.

Antibes, 19 March 1956 My dear Agni, I hope you received my last letter. Today I’m writing you on a special matter: A few days ago Manos Katrakis asked me to give him permission to make a dramatic adaptation of Christ Recrucified and to produce it. I replied that under no circumstances should it be performed unless I had previously approved the adaptation. At the same time I wrote him that, when the time comes, he should come to an agreement with you, who represents me in Greece. So please, since I have no faith in people’s tact, invite him to your office and get him to sign a paper saying that he won’t produce it unless he first sends me the adaptation for my approval. Otherwise we’ll have recourse to the courts. His address is Acharnon 32. That’s for today. You can imagine with what pleasure we’re waiting for you. N. Kazantzakis

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Goudelis writes today that you are coming quickly. God grant that you may find us here! So come, great martyr and heroine! NK P.S. Please telephone Haris that he can publish the brief letter I sent about Kollaros.

1  Manos Katrakis:  Splendid Cretan actor (1908–84), active in the National Theater from 1932 onward, and in the EAM Ethniko Theater during the German occupation.

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; printed (incomplete) in Friar 1977, p. 17.

Antibes, 21 March 1956 My dear Kimon, Your last letter in Greek is a masterpiece: perfect language, not a single mistake, very lively. But you don’t answer our last letter. I received the three books, and you’ll have the dedication you wish. I also received book 7 and marveled at your derring-do. I know your poetic worth and power, but to be able to do so much work immediately after leaving the hospital is heroism, and I admire you. Walk with a cane, don’t put your head in the lion’s mouth quite yet; you can do that later. Your whole life is ahead of you, and I hope that this adventure of yours in Greece has given you new sources of strength. You certainly mellowed, and you can perform miracles. I’m replying to everything you wrote me: 1. All the changes you made are very fine and sometimes better than the text. Freedom! Don’t enslave yourself at all to the original. 2. You’re right about lines 1–141. Correct line 95 thus: 95: σγουρό μπουμπούκι λες τριαντάφυλλο τ’ ολοστερνό μαχαίρι 96: . . . να ζεσταθει, ν’ ανοίξει. 3. Tombstones is better than marble (267). 476: The lily is an amulet, a charm, and Helen wears it around her neck. 1072: You’re right: heralds are one thing and eunuchs something else. Therefore correct it. 1080: As long as the heralds were speaking. 1095: they smile is better.

1956 Letters  •  813

1319: κάστρο here is the city and the waves are not rising. κεφάλι is one thing and κάφκαλο something else; κάφκαλο is the top of the head; κεφάλι includes the face. I’m delighted that you liked the Iliad; I love it very much. But when we say that we’ve been working on it for fourteen years, you must have in mind that this means that we started it fourteen years ago, because in that period it’s doubtful whether we worked on it all-in-all for one and a half years. Kakridis was far away. We worked together in Antibes only forty days; meanwhile I wrote so much else, and every so often I would merely revise the Iliad. In any case it’s a work that I’m sure will greatly outlive both Kakridis and me. I ask you once again: please take note of the last letter I sent you via Eleni. We are unable to bear the idea that you are in distress. I’m working well, and I hope to see you soon. In May I may go for a month to Germany, where I’ve been invited. But I would not like to leave without having seen you. How many times should I tell you this? And how should I tell you? If you want to understand, look at what I wrote you as an inscription in the copy of Zorba you sent me: “Dear Kimon Friar, Before I knew you, if you had opened my heart you would have seen a wild mountain and upon it a person ascending. Ever since I’ve known you, if you opened my heart you would see two persons ascending.” That says it all. Always, N. Kazantzakis

1  κάφκαλο:  Kazantzakis’s spelling. Normally καύκαλο. The meaning is “skull,” “cranium.”

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 701–3.

Antibes, 22 March 1956 My dear brother, Thank you for making the effort every so often that allows me to observe the Heraclean labors of the Odyssey. I have always liked the small fonts that we chose. I failed to receive just the first typographic signature and will be much obliged to you if you send it. The jacket cover you sent me strikes me as too complicated. I had in mind something very simple and had found it: a Cycladic ceramic representing a

814  •  1956 Letters

coarsely fashioned lyre and a primitive bard entirely schematically. I had kept it, but I searched and searched and couldn’t find it. I lost lots of things in the move from Aegina to Antibes: manuscripts, notes, books, pictures—and a lot of valuable things were stolen from me. Perhaps you can find this Cycladic sculpture in some book. Meanwhile I’ll keep the problem in mind, and perhaps we’ll find something better. In any case it should be harsh, primitive— the power of creativity more than a created work. I have instructed Goudelis to give you as many copies as you desire, taking them from mine. I’ve already sent him the plays for volume 2, and soon will send those for volume 3. In volume 3 you’ll read a play that you don’t know: Yangtze, which I’ve renamed Buddha. I like it, but am afraid that no one else will like it. I intend to send its prologue to Nea Estia, which—I don’t know how or why—has decided to devote an issue to me while I’m still alive. I wrote to Haris to ask you and apply to you—first among all those about whom he writes to me: Papanoutsos, Panayotopoulos, Th. Stavrou, etc. Who else is closer to me? I’m working hard. I’ll finish Report to Greco in a few days. I plan to send the prologue to the journal that Goudelis intends to publish. Eleni didn’t want to copy it; she was overcome by tears because I speak of my death. But she needs to become accustomed to this. I will become accustomed to it myself. “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 that there is no salvation. It will not surrender, but it will expire.” I hope that you’ll take an occasional look at the Iliad. Please make a note of any observations you have. Did you receive several corrections I sent you? Do you approve of them? I work very long hours without fatigue. This endurance worries me; it’s not natural. I have various projects in mind. The days seem short to me; never in my life have I experienced years that are so short. I won’t have time. My inner flame grows and grows, as though it’s grown tired of me now and wants to burn me up. I have reread your last play; I like it a lot. It’s perfect for the movies. How shameful for Greece that it isn’t being produced! This, and all your plays. Could it be that you, too, are experiencing, with me, the same Neohellenic Middle Age? Eleni sends you warm greetings. I, too, para siempre. N. Kazantzakis P.S. There are several typographical errors in the Odyssey and one defective numeration: book 4.570. But I have faith in Kasdaglis.

1  Odyssey:  The question here is of the second printing of Kazantzakis’s Odyssey, which appeared finally in 1957. Edited by Emmanouil Kasdaglis, it pres-

1956 Letters  •  815

ents a reliable text for the first time. Kazantzakis did not receive the first typographic signature because that one was printed last.  1  a Cycladic ceramic:  The 1957 edition was published with a dust jacket bearing precisely this design that Kazantzakis preferred.  1  volume 2 . . . volume 3:  Goudelis published Kazantzakis’s plays in three volumes as follows: Volume 1 (1955), Plays with Ancient Greek Themes; Volume 2 (1956), Plays with Byzantine Themes; Volume 3 (1956), Plays with Diverse Themes.  1  Stavrou:  Thrasivoulos Stavrou (1886–1979), poet, translator.  1  the journal that Goudelis intends to publish:  Καινούρια Εποχή.  1  Kasdaglis: Emmanouil Kasdaglis (1924–98), director of the Cultural Foundation of the National Bank, expert book editor who was preparing Kazantzakis’s works for the collected works (that never happened, except for the plays). Prevelakis 1965, pp. 674–75, gives a full list of Kazantzakis’s texts that were edited by Kasdaglis and that are therefore reliable.

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; printed (incomplete) in Friar 1977, pp. 17–18.

Antibes, 10 April 1956 Dear Kimon, we read your last letter very carefully and with great emotion. Eleni wept. We agree with everything, and today we are writing to Max that your opinion is our opinion and that he should draw up the contract the way you want it. It’s good that this “monkey business” should stop. I’m glad that Max finally laid down firm foundations, and I hope that he will improve the terms after our letter. You explained everything to him very nicely, and I hope that he will finally understand. I was very touched by what you write about me in your letter, and you know how much I, in my turn, love you and admire you. I know that you are a great poet and that you’ll emerge from this purgatory of the Odyssey ready to enter paradise armed to the teeth. Oh, if only I were your age, forty-four years old, I think I’d give a punch and knock down the door of paradise (of Poetry, I mean) and enter. You complain that I don’t answer your questions regularly. It seems that letters are going astray. I answered you twice that I don’t know anything about “Cretan Boats.” Is it one of your own poems? I never received it. The three celebrated daggers. What I mean is that the hero moves weighted down (or, if you wish, he is wounded) by three daggers plunged into his heart. Advancing, he sees them disappear, one by one, and he is liberated. The first is love: he is liberated from sex. Next is the yearning for power: a breeze blows, the city is wiped out, the hero is liberated from this passion, too. Then the third dagger is transubstantiated into a rose, the third form of slavery

816  •  1956 Letters

turns into freedom, and the hero, free at last, continues his journey. He becomes clear; he is unburdened of the great passions that bind him to the ephemeral; he transforms chains into wings. If, however, this strikes you as obscure, write two instead of three. You can put “town” (book 7); κάστρο chiefly means fortified city or the city’s highest place, surrounded by walls. I was looking all day long today for the letter in which you speak to me about book 4. I didn’t find it. So if there’s a need, take the trouble of sending me a copy. If you need money, you can tell Mrs. Rousopoulou. She’s been in Antibes the past ten days, and we spoke. She’s leaving in a few days, and she’ll come to see you. Where will I be at the end of May when you’re leaving? I would like to see you without fail. In a few days I’m leaving for Germany. I don’t know how long I’ll stay—about a month. I’ll write you from there. I’m well, but every year I need to go for a checkup. We’re planning to go to Italy and Yugoslavia this summer. You and I must be regularly in touch in order to see how we can meet. I wish we were able to go to the U.S.A. for a month. Very difficult but not impossible. Dear Kimon, once again thank you for all that you are doing for me; the day when in my hands I hold the Odyssey printed in English, you and I will enter paradise together. Love, N. Kazantzakis

1  monkey business: In English in the manuscript.

To Agni Rousopoulou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

Freiburg, 24 April 1956 My Lady, Everything’s going well. In four days the enemies decreased from 300,000 to 100,000. I’ll soon burrow back into the Cocoon. I’m glad that you donated the valuable document to Crete; I hope you gave its envelope to Haris. I telephoned Dora Stratou about Katrakis: “Einverstanden.” Part 2 is also fine. This too: Thank you for coming to Antibes. Those days of love, of faith, and of gossip were unforgettable. God be with you! N. Kazantzakis

1956 Letters  •  817

1  the enemies decreased:  White blood cells. Kazantzakis’s annual stays in Freiburg were for observation and possible treatment of his leukemia.  1  Dora Stratou:  Stratou (1903–88), collaborated with Karolos Koun starting in 1936; founding member of the Art Theater; in 1952 founded her company of Greek folk dancers that gave more than fifteen hundred performances in numerous countries.  1  Einverstanden:  Agreed.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 704–5.

Antibes, 2 June 1956 My dear Brother, Thank you very much for your article in Eikones. Bless you! Now I’m waiting for Medea. I hope it reaches me in time, before I leave for Vienna. I need to be there on 25 June, when the official conferring of the Peace Prize takes place. This came like a sudden bolt out of the blue. I refused at first because I thought that it’s given only to communists, and I wrote them that I am not one nor would I ever be one. They replied that it is given to whoever has fought for freedom and human dignity by means of his or her work, and that it was awarded to me unanimously and I should not refuse. So I accepted, and I’m leaving for Vienna; from there, Yugoslavia, and I’ll return home at the beginning of September. I finished Greco, but I’m going to delay in publishing it; now I’m thinking of other works. In the autumn I might leave for China, where Peking has invited me. I shall be very happy to see it again. I hope it doesn’t tire me. I went to Freiburg in May for a general examination, stayed twenty days, and returned. Everything’s fine; nothing to worry about. You didn’t write me about your health in your letter; I ask others and learn from them. I’m working peacefully. The vine on my balcony is loaded with grapes. I view the sea between its leaves. I sense the joy of contemplation and solitude here in foreign exile. I know no one, I greet no one, I am free. I wonder when we are going to see each other. The day will come when we regret that we allowed time to pass in this way. When I write you, I have so much to tell you that my voice fails. God grant that it will be this year! Eleni sends warm greetings, and I rejoice that you exist and reconcile me even with human beings. N. Kazantzakis

1  Medea: Euripides’s play, translated into modern Greek by Prevelakis.

818  •  1956 Letters

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library.

Antibes, 20 June 1956 Dear Kimon, I’m getting ready for a trip, and I’m writing you so that you won’t complain that I have forgotten. Some of my letters must certainly have gone astray, but I hope that you’ll receive this one. You must never doubt that I have you in mind at every moment. I’m ashamed now to write you and write you again so frequently to say how much I love and esteem your poetry and how convinced I am that you will ascend to the highest peak one day. The work you are now doing translating “the longest epic of the white race,” as the Odyssey has been called, will remain a poetic monument, and I’m happy that my name will live on in this way next to yours. Ah! that evening in the garden in Florence constitutes a sacred stage in my life. I agree with the verses you sent to Nea Estia. Whenever I don’t say anything, that means Yes! I wrote to Schuster today and said to him that if you delay a few weeks in handing over the entire translation, I am sure that he won’t object. I don’t think I’ll go to Crete. The Cretans’ love will be very tiring for me, and I need to be careful. I still have some words to say to humanity. However, we hope to see you in Yugoslavia, where you will be our guest. Did you write to Stanford? Are you going to send him a bit of your translation? This man is very estimable, and his book is valuable. If you come to Yugoslavia, we’ll work together extensively and well. Bring along whatever is needed, because I won’t have any books with me. So, here’s to our meeting! Yours always, N. Kazantzakis

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 297–98.

Antibes, 24 June 1956 Dear Fellow Doer of Exploits, Your letter was a great pleasure, as always. We’re departing for Vienna the day after tomorrow and from there to a mountain in Yugoslavia. I am very hesitant to go down to Greece; the Cretans will suffocate me with aperitifs of

1956 Letters  •  819

raki, with wining and dining, with love—very dangerous. I intend to forgo this pleasure. I need to live a while longer. Work as much as you can on the Odyssey this summer; by working, we shall discover the suitable pace; I shall be impatient to return here in September and to have the first books. I have a great yearning to swim once more in the Homeric seventeen-syllables. I knew that “τάλαντα” weren’t money; they’re golden trays. But he says that they are a golden pair of scales. In any case, “tu duca, tu signore tu maestro.” Thanks for the article you wrote for Nea Estia; it’s good that our collabo­ ration’s “honeymoon” should be known; it should become an example for contemporary and future Smellenes. And this moon, the full moon, should never set. I received a telegram today from Rousopoulou-Katrakis-Goudelis that the first performance of Christ Recrucified was a great success. I’m sorry that I’m not going to see it. But I bear up. The Peace Prize was extremely sudden. Eleni was glad, and that’s why I, too, was not sorry. My indifference to all this is unbelievable, ending up pathological. My heart burns, yet for other things. But who can believe this? Only you. I’m working, looking over Greco again. It’s finished but still needs work. Like fermenting grape juice, it needs time to become wine. Both Eleni and I were very pleased about your Eleni’s success. God be with her in France, too! And let’s hope that we’ll see her. Have a good summer, dear friend! Have a good rest—that is, work well on the Odyssey! Eleni sends warm greetings, and both of us together greet the sacred family. Write to me here until I send you an address in Yugoslavia. Yours always, your brother in Homer, N. Kazantzakis

1  raki:  A strong alcoholic aperitif typically offered not only before every meal, to stimulate the appetite, but also after the meal, to aid digestion!  1  the article you wrote for Nea Estia:  This was published after Kazantzakis’s death in the Kazantzakis special issue (Christmas 1959, pp. 115–20). Entitled “Το χρονικό μιας συνεργασίας” (The Chronicle of a Collaboration), it details how they exchanged views in order to arrive at a definitive translation of the Iliad.  1  the Peace Prize: Issued by the Soviet bloc; not the Nobel.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 705–6.

Antibes, 27 June 1956

820  •  1956 Letters

Dear brother, The translation of Medea is splendid; I read it and felt great pleasure—the verse, the diction, the accuracy, the perfect rhythmic accommodation to the needs of the theater. I’m glad that the Smellenes will hear it. On the other hand, I continue to be astonished and saddened that none of your original works has been performed so far at the National Theater. Tomorrow we’re leaving for Vienna by plane; we’ll stay there a week. Then the mountains—most probably Yugoslavia. As soon as we settle down somewhere, I’ll write you so that we may investigate how, where, and when we can meet, because I, too, have desired that very much. Greco is finished, but just the first draft; three are needed. I am not hurrying because this work is a sort of autobiography, not of my entire life but only of a part: the four principal steps I climbed in order to reach today’s “quivering” equilibrium. I don’t know which hotels in Italy to recommend to you; we stayed in tiny, insignificant and inconvenient pensions. I, too, on my way back at the end of August would like to stop at Pompeii, which Eleni still has not seen. I don’t want to go to Crete. I’d become more emotional than I would like or should—and I still need to live a few years. I have several new things in mind, and must finish them in time. Besides, I don’t have the slightest curiosity to see either the play or the film of Christ Recrucified. And now I don’t have the slightest desire to go to Vienna and take part in ceremonies. But Eleni is glad, and “Hélène oblige.” I was very pleased that you wrote me that the wound is healed. Stay well— that’s what I want. Eleni sends you much love. Always, N. Kazantzakis

1  four principal steps: Christ, Buddha, Lenin, Odysseas.  1  Helène oblige:  Compare: noblesse oblige (nobility obligates).

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 298.

Vienna, 2 July 1956 Dear friend, The receptions and ceremonies are finished here—I’ve escaped. The day after tomorrow we’re leaving for Yugoslavia, where we’ll stay more than a month. It’s not worth the trouble for me to write you details; therefore I’m restricting this letter to one request.

1956 Letters  •  821

You know Andonis Mystakidis, and you must know his virtues: he’s an honest, educated, diligent, genuine person with a conscience. His virtues would be augmented by a sojourn in Sweden, where they’re looking for people to teach modern Greek. An ardent letter of recommendation from you would be invaluable and would rescue a man of this sort. So I beg you very much to give him such a letter. I’d appreciate it. Greetings from me to the sacred family. Eleni and I love all of you very much, and I expect by November, finally, a kilo of manuscript with Odyssey translation. All power to you, be of good heart! Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis

1  Andonis Mystakidis:  Better known under the pseudonym Mesevrinos. Greek leftist writer who did spend his career in Sweden. His publications include The Socialist Manifesto of 1945 (Lund, 1974)—the platform issued by the political party led by Kazantzakis.

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; printed (incomplete) in Friar 1977, p. 18.

Rogaska Slatina, Hôtel Slovenski Dom 22 July 1956 Dear Kimon, You will have received our postcard in which we tell you our whereabouts during the summer and how much we hope to meet with you. On 30 July we leave here for Bohinj, Hôtel Zlatorog. Would that you could come so that we’d be able to talk and work. I’m pleased with everything that Stanford wrote you. But you’re correct regarding “and” and the adjectives. Our demotic language is analytical; it doesn’t have many participles, and it joins clauses most often with “and.” And it has an excessive love for adjectives (cf. the folk songs and Cretan mandinades). I personally possess a need for adjectives for reasons that you understand very well. That’s why you are correct in saying that these two elements characterize our demotic generally and my personal style specifically. It’s right for a translation to preserve the principal characteristics of the original even though this startles foreigners. We Orientals love adjectives, also narration by juxtaposition of elements one after the other, also repetition (absolutely customary characteristics, as well, in Homer, our Grandfather).

822  •  1956 Letters

But I hope that we’ll discuss all this together, soon. Kakridis has written about these things. Mention it to him if you see him. Line 10.440: “Αναχητόνεται η ψυχή, σπαρνάει, του καστροκαταλύτη.” Αναχητόνεται is from the word χήτη, the horse’s mane, and it means: “he jumps up in fury, his soul is in turmoil.” I think that everything you write me about the theatrical performance is entirely correct, because some have written me that it was excellent, some that it was dreadful. It’s neither one nor the other. In Greece, scholars still have not learned to judge in a measured, balanced manner. You, fortunately, combine oriental flame with light, and you register and judge with both ardor and justice. We are eagerly awaiting a letter from you. You are angry because I tell you repeatedly how much I love you and how you are never out of my thoughts and I never forget the good that you are doing me. But the words of a language are few, and we necessarily say the same things over and over. The heart, however, never repeats itself. May we meet soon, dear Kimon! N. Kazantzakis

1  mandinades: Rhymed couplets improvised with great facility by all sorts of people in Crete, including shepherds, fishermen, etc.  1  Αναχητόνεται:  Kazantzakis’s spelling; normally αναχητώνεται, and thus “corrected” in the epic’s 1957 second edition.  1  χήτη:  Although rare, this word is attested as a demotic form of the normal word for a horse’s mane, χαίτη. The entry in volume 9 or the Dimitrakos dictionary cites examples from Kostis Palamas, Aristotelis Valaoritis (1824–79), and Andreas Karkavitsas.

To Thrasyvoulos Androulidakis —Printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, pp. 633–34, and (incomplete) in Goudelis 1987, pp. 505–6; English translation (incomplete) in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 545–46; French translation (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1968, pp. 553–55.

Bohinj, Hôtel Zlatorog Yugoslavia 18 August 1956 Oh! the past, that shadow-play Oh! to bring back a single day! My dear Thrasyvoulos, All the time I was reading your splendid letter that was so ardent, this mandinada was flitting through my mind. You brought the heroic age to me and

1956 Letters  •  823

made it alive, the time when you were extracting wonderful garden greens out of stones, were listening intently to the radio, and were tapping on the windowpane while I was standing there expecting you, and you were bringing me the news. A dark time full of brightness. And you shared your rations with me, to keep me from dying of hunger. How many times here in exile do we bring back the memory, also, of your wife and companion, Despoina, and tears of emotion come to our eyes! Blessed be the famine and horror for creating the occasion for your generosity and love to shine so brightly! Dear, unforgettable friend! I shall never forget the days I spent with you. Those horrendous days are among the most beautiful of our life. God bless you! I was struggling then; I am still struggling; I shall struggle until the death— that is my duty. My entire life has turned to ashes for the sake of humanity, for the freedom of humanity. The only ones who can know my struggle are those, like you, who have observed my life from up close. And certainly I would not have been able to endure such a prolonged crucifixion if Eleni had not been present. Many times, God bless her, she has saved me from death and despair. Now she’s gone down to Crete for ten days to watch the filming. It was her great desire. As for me, I have no curiosity whatsoever; my struggle refuses to accept even these small human joys. “Do not stop; do not look behind you. Ascend!” That inhuman (and, at the same time, so human) voice does not allow me to enjoy. Yet I am able to say that I am happy, although my happiness is fierce, cheerless, insatiable, and does not allow me to experience pleasure even for a moment. It tells me that enjoyment is repose and that repose is sin. Give my warm greetings to my friend Christos Levantas. I have never forgotten him, and I love him very much. I wonder if I shall ever cross paths with him. And when shall I see you again, and Despoina and Popi together with you? I saw Manglis in Vienna, but still not Kintzios. Ah, I wanted so much for all of us to come together once more in Aegina, to make pancakes again with carob-honey sauce! We leave for Vienna at the end of August. From 5 to 15 September I’ll be in Geneva at an international symposium. Afterwards I’ll settle down at last in my tiny house in Antibes. Next May (I hope I’ll still be alive, but I behave and reckon as though I were immortal)—well, next May we intend to go to China. The Chinese government has sent Eleni and me an official invitation. I’m saying goodbye, goodbye. I shall go quickly around the world to say goodbye to all the places I have enjoyed. Farewell! I shall also say goodbye to the people I have loved; in this way, dear Thrasos, we shall see each other again.

824  •  1956 Letters

I’m enclosing a note for you to take to my publisher, Goudelis (114 Solonos Street), so he can give you whichever books of mine you do not have. I’d like you to have my collected works in your library. Warm greetings from me to Despoina and Popi. Greetings to whomever among our friends you see. I’m living abroad, but my heart strolls up and down in Greece. I don’t know if Eleni will have enough time to see you; she’s in a hurry to return here. But you should know that she loves you very very much. God be with you and your home, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  Christos Levantas:  Pseudonym of Kyriakos Hatzidakis (1904–75), short story writer, author of children’s books, journalist.  1  carob-honey sauce:  Sweetener made from carob pods, which can also be pleasantly chewed.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 708–9.

Bohinj, Hôtel Zlatorog, 18 August 1956 My dear brother, You will have seen Eleni by now, and she will have told you everything in detail—my health, why I didn’t go down to Greece, what I’m working on, how I’m working, and everything that a brother desires to learn about his brother. I expect Eleni here on the 26th. We leave for Vienna on the 28th, for Geneva on 4 September, for Antibes on 15 September. This year’s summer cycle is ending. It’s possible that next May we’ll dash over to China. Eleni must have told you that we received an official invitation. However, what I would desire most of all is for us to meet, something that apparently we will not have the pleasure of doing this year. Never has time seemed to me to pass so quickly; you’d think that I had begun to race toward the finishing line. What you write me about the Laïko Theater is just about the same as what Minotis wrote me. I’m sure that you are right. The Laïko Theater’s principal purpose, to blow a breath over the common people, has succeeded. Let’s not complain. Naturally, Hourmouzios’s circle has written me that it was a huge disgrace, that I was humiliated, etc. But I know what happens behind the scenes, and I don’t attach any importance to this. How they refuse to produce any of your plays at the National Theater bothers me exceedingly, although it doesn’t surprise me. It’s shameful. When will

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we get rid of the Philistines? When will our “friends” behave somewhat better toward us than our enemies? Please give Mr. Lacarrière the enclosed note. Saint Francis was translated last year by Gisèle Prassinos. The Last Temptation is still waiting. Since I’m far from France, I don’t know if Gisèle signed a contract with Plon for that novel. In any case, as you have described Lacarrière to me, one needs to stand over him to be sure that he understands the Greek. Your Greek and also mine is sufficiently craggy for those who do not know demotic. Thus, I confess that I would not entrust the Temptation to Mr. L. at a distance. Given the idea that Eleni will see you, I’m not writing you anything else— just this: I’m amazed by what you tell me about Goudelis. How can this happen? I’ve written him thousands of times to send you as many copies as you want. I’ll write him again. May God be with you, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  Laïko Theater:  What is being discussed here is Katrakis’s production of the theatrical adaptation of Christ Recrucified.  1  Lacarrière:  Jacques Lacarrière (1925–2005), French essayist, journalist, critic, translator, philhellene, author of The Wisdom of Ancient Greece (1996), etc.  1  Gisèle Prassinos: Poet, novelist, translator (b. 1920), originally a surrealist.  1  at a distance:  In other words, Lacarrière could do a proper job only if Kazantzakis and he were close enough to collaborate, as had happened with Friar.

To Myrtiotissa —Photo of manuscript in Elli Alexiou 1981, hors-texte.

Antipolis, 20 September 1956 Dear Myrtiotisa, I was very moved when I read your letter. I understand perfectly. I have experienced profoundly what you have written me. I too am holding on to my soul by my fingernails, not allowing it to fall. The end of the journey is coming near, and I am struggling to face the abyss without hope and without fear. If I succeed in doing this, I desire no other recompense for my day’s work. With great pleasure I’m sending you a note for my publisher. Take whichever of my books you desire and paste into Christ Recrucified the enclosed dedication, because I don’t have a copy of the book here. God be with you always, dear Poetess, N. Kazantzakis

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1  Myrtiotisa:  Kazantzakis’s reformed spelling system required that doubled consonants be abandoned; thus his spelling of Myrtiotissa, the pen name of the poet Theoni Drakopoulou (1881–1968).

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 710–11.

Antibes, 23 September 1956 Dear brother, I’m glad that you saw Eleni and talked with her; it was as though the two of us had met. I was able to learn valuable details about you. God grant that we may truly meet soon. I was also extremely glad about your inner, secret turmoil regarding the “gestation,” as you call it in your letter. You know that all my hopes rest on you, and that when I bring you to mind, I do not fear death. I’m eager to see your Cretan published in French and to follow its reverberation in western Europe. It’s difficult for the insipid souls here to understand souls like those of Crete. They’re astonished and terrified, which is all that we must expect from those creampuffs. You must not worry about me. So long as the soul stands up straight, the body obeys willy-nilly. You know that I reckon to depart at age eighty-three. Several years remain, the best ones—I mean the most mature—and I’m not going to lose them. Right now I am perfectly well and am working; I am rewriting my Report to Greco. Next May we might go to China, where, as Eleni will have told you, the government has invited us. It’s easier for me to go to China than to Crete. I love Crete very much, but I lack the endurance. I wrote about you to Dr. Tau. Max Tau is a German Jew who took refuge in Norway during the war and became a Norwegian. He is the director of the artistic division of a large Norwegian publishing house. He’s fiery, an idealist, apostle of peace, tireless, charming, and a trifle shallow. I have him as my general literary agent in America and Europe. But his mania to propagandize peace, going from nation to nation, often makes him neglect the authors who are his clients. Make him your agent only in Europe; find someone else for America. Unfortunately I have him for America, too, but I’ll quickly find someone else for out there. He doesn’t know French; however, his secretary is able to correspond in English. I was greatly pleased to see that your work entered the program of the National. That door has opened at last, and I can imagine the hidden wrath of the doorkeeper, Terzakis. I’m told that he was overheard saying at a performance

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of Christ Recrucified: “What is this preaching? The police ought to intervene!” Miserable human pygmies! Eleni sends you warm greetings, and tells me that I should write you how glad she was to see you and how sorry that she did not see you again. God be with you, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  Norwegian publishing house:  Aschehoug, in Oslo.  1  the National:  The National Theater.

To Agni Rousopoulou —Photocopy of manuscript in my possession.

Antipolis, 23 September 1956 My dear Agni, I’m writing you today about two main subjects. One of them is amazing. 1.  Katrakis has written me asking that I grant him a portion of my royalties for Christ Recrucified. Following my unfortunate habit, I have accepted. I have not written him yet. You telephone him and tell him that when we see what amount is finally coming to me, then you’ll arrange with him what we shall grant him. The same for Knossos. I know it’s a gamble, etc., but I promised, and we need to give something. We’ll see how much when the season ends. I wrote you that Christ Recrucified will probably be performed beyond the Iron Curtain and that there is a need for the two adaptors to examine it with extreme care if they want it to be accepted. And they’ll need to send me the new manuscript so that I may look it over and send it back. 2.  This is amazing. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t learned it from a responsible, absolutely certain person. Two times in two years the Academy of Athens officially recommended . . . Vouyouklakis to the Swedish Academy for the Nobel Prize! Crazy and unheard-of in modern Greek letters! I didn’t believe it. Today it was confirmed to me by an official voice from the academy. Mamakis and Eleftheria can make a lethal campaign out of this scandal, totally unsettling the Academy of Athens. They must never write from whom they learned about it but should say that they’re in a position to know that the Academy of Athens reached a point of such shame and infamy by making a recommendation of this sort and humiliating itself to such a degree before a foreign academy. Please announce this, of course without saying that I wrote that the Academy could not suffer a greater humiliation. Please do what you can, because there is no greater intellectual scandal. That’s all for today. From Goudelis I received one copy of Russia, one copy of the second volume of plays, and one Francis. I keep begging him to send

828  •  1956 Letters

me ten of each, a few at a time. You keep the rest to give to our usual honorary clientele. Eleni will continue now. Yours always. N. Kazantzakis

1  recommended . . . Vouyouklakis:  The three dots are Kazantzakis’s, indicating incomprehension, irony, whimsy, and always that a surprise is going to follow.  1  Vouyouklakis:  Yeoryios Vouyouklakis (1903–56), Greek novelist residing most of his life in France. His name and his works are now entirely forgotten.

To Emmanuel Kriaras —Printed in Kriaras 2007, pp. 196–97; reprinted in Philologos, no. 128 (May– June 2007): 207–8.

Antibes, 12 October 1956 Dear, wise friend, 1. Translating Dante, I needed to invent one word (or does it perhaps exist?): βοράστρι (based on the Cretan μεράστρι, morning star). ΄Αστρο της Τραμουντάνας did not fit in an eleven-syllable line, all its words would not fit, and I had the crazy idea of translating Dante word for word, line by line, because I was ashamed to distort il gran padre Alighieri. 2. Does the word χεραγκαλιά exist? The verse was deformed by αλαμπρατσέτα. 3. Certainly the word βοδάλαφο (or αλαφομόσκι) does not exist, because we don’t have reindeer in Greece; thus, I translated reindeer with the word βοδάλαφο, uniting in this way the two animals that resemble the reindeer so closely. Fortunately, Petros Vlastos used it shortly afterwards in one of his books; perhaps it will be saved in this way. Naturally the Smellenes will say, “How do you expect us to understand? Those words are Cretan dialect!” They always scream like that in order to hide their ignorance. I’ve wagered for years that in the entire Dante translation (14,200 lines), you won’t find fourteen words that are clearly Cretan, and in the entire Odyssey (33,333 lines) you won’t find even thirty-three. One verse in every thousand. But, patience! First I need to die. For the Iliad, fortunately, I had Kakridis as a seven-man shield. But here I’m alone. Once again, please forgive me for troubling you, but I needed your approval. My greetings to your brave companion. Always with love, yours truly, N. Kazantzakis

1956 Letters  •  829

P.S. The word κρυφοπαχειά (fausse-maigre) I heard for the first time from an elderly Cretan, twelve years ago. I’ve still not seen it written anywhere. Later I learned that it’s said also in Mytilini. I was very pleased, because I’d been seeking it for years.

1  βοράστρι:  North star.  1  ΄Αστρο της Τραμουντάνας:  North star (from Italian tramontana: wind from the northern mountains).  1  il gran padre Alighieri:  The great father [Dante] Alighieri.  1  χεραγκαλιά:  χέρι (arm or hand) + αγκαλιά (armful, embrace).  1  αλαμπρατσέτα:  Also αλά μπρατσέτα = arm in arm. From Italian alla braccetta.  1  the two animals:  Bull (βόδι) and deer (ελάφι).  1  κρυφοπαχειά:  κρυφός (secret, hidden) + παχύς (fat, corpulent).  1  fausse-maigre: Deceptively thin.

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library.

[Antibes,] 31 October 1956 Dear Kimon, I’m sending you the final corrections. I hope that you have returned to Athens after enjoying our heavenly islands. I’m afraid that I’ll never see them again, and that strikes me as a great sin. If I don’t go to heaven, it’s because I did not go to Samos, Lemnos, Lesvos, and Samothrace. I’m well now. I’m rewriting Greco and getting ready to begin to translate the other Odyssey, the one by our Grandfather. Oh, to have time to manage to finish as much as I have in mind! You are fortunate that you are young and still have a long road ahead of you. It seems to me that, if I were your age, I would conquer the world—the intellectual world, of course. Now it’s too late. With love and great confidence in you. Yours, N. Kazantzakis

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 712–13.

Antibes, 6 November 1956 Dear brother, I very much enjoyed the verses you sent me; I’m pleased that you are enriching the Greek stage in this way with such translations: diction, rhythm,

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accuracy—not a single flaw. I’m pleased as well that your work will be performed; the doors are opening because you have broken them down. Not just the kingdom of heaven; also the kingdom of housebreakers. Yesterday I received from my nephew the great miracle: Kefallinos’s work. I don’t know how to thank this unique person for his courtesy in sending me such a royal gift. And I don’t know how to write him to state my delight, admiration, and emotion. Please tell him that I truly do not know how to express it. When will you come to Paris on the occasion of the publication of your book? Would that it chanced that we were there together! Plon says that he’s going to hold a big celebration at the Sorbonne in order to honor my work; he will invite many foreign writers, chiefly all those who are contributors to “Feux Croisés.” I’ll need to go myself; would that I could avoid it. I feel a mortal aversion to all these festivities, but if you happen to be in Paris I’ll go without fail. It’s time for us to see each other. The English translation of the Odyssey is finally finished. I think that I’ll be pleased when I see it in print and open it up on my lap, because all the rest gave me no pleasure, since it happened to me at a time when I had surpassed easy pleasures. These days I’m going to start to translate the Odyssey, and I can’t wait. What a joy it is to fashion our language, attempting to arrive at a rendering of such an original! In the meantime, I’m completing the second draft of Report to Greco; there will also be a third. I’m working a lot, intensely and tirelessly. Sometimes I say I should stop for a bit and spend a few months doing nothing but reading, but I can’t. You know what the Indians say: “Whoever has mounted a tiger can never dismount.” We have mounted a tiger. Eleni sends warm greetings. God be with you, para siempre! I really was pleased for Jiménez, who deserved it; I wrote to him at once in Puerto Rico. I am rereading his poems; they are splendid. N. Kazantzakis

1  kingdom of housebreakers:  Kazantzakis is playing with Matthew 11:12: “the kingdom of heaven suffereth violence and the violent take it by force.” I follow Peter Mackridge’s suggestion to use “housebreakers” instead of “the violent” in order to match Kazantzakis’s “the doors are opening because you have broken them.”  1  Kefallinos’s work:  What Kazantzakis received was the splendid album Δέκα Λευκαί Αττικαί Λήκυθοι (Ten White Attic OilFlasks).  1  Feux Croisés:  The French publisher Plon’s collection of literature by foreign writers, begun in 1928. The proposed celebration actually took place on 21 May 1957.  1  start to translate the Odyssey:  He means to revise his translation of Homer’s Odyssey.  1  Jiménez, who deserved it:  Jiménez

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received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1956 “for his lyrical poetry, which in Spanish language constitutes an example of high spirit and artistical purity.”  1  I wrote to him at once:  Kazantzakis’s gracious letter of congratulation to Jiménez, dated 26 October 1956, is reproduced in Greek translation in Prevelakis 1965, p. 713, n. 5. Its chief concern is the mortal illness of Jiménez’s wife: “Dear master and friend, I am aware of the painful circumstances under which you were awarded the high literary reward that has belonged to you for such a long time. I have always considered you the greatest lyric poet of our time. Forgive me for telling you this at this tragic moment of your life when, as I well know, nothing exists except the beloved person who is suffering. Nevertheless, I felt the need to send you across the oceans a sign that I am with you and that I profoundly share your pain, dear master and friend.”

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed in Kazantzakis 1977d, p. 303.

Antibes, 19 November 1956 Very dear friend, I was very moved reading your essay in Kainouria Epohi. Now I sit here and ask myself: Am I, I wonder, worthy of such an honor? I have never been able to guess whether what I write has value and will be able to withstand time— and for how long. The only certain judge, the Areopagus, is Time. Unfortunately, it will pronounce its decision too late, when I will already be dust; thus, I will never find out. However, this doubt does not sap my courage. Just like the warrior who fights even though he knows there is no hope that he will win, I work as though what I do does have value—in order to save human dignity. In which epoch was this dignity more precious than in our own disgraceful, bestial, merciless one? Look around you: what ignominy, what hypocrisy! If a few souls lose their courage, we are lost. But to hear your voice is a consolation for me; I have absolute confidence in your purity. May God grant that Time agree with you! In a few days I will send you “When the Seed of the ‘Odyssey’ Was Germinating within Me,” a chapter from Report to Greco. I hope that some Swedish review may be found to publish it, and I also hope that the prologue printed in the first issue of Kainouria Epohi may be published there as well. If you could, you’d give me great pleasure; and I need that pleasure. The Nobel was placed in worthy hands for the first time in years. Jiménez is a good friend of mine; we met in Madrid. I have always considered him the greatest lyric poet of our age, and I have translated many of his poems.

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His language is a miracle of harmony, his soul an Aeolian harp quivering at every breath of air. Unfortunately, as so often happens, he was honored too late—at a moment when he was unable to rejoice. I am impatient for you to tell me how the Swedes received Francis. How strange national psychologies are! No one can ever predict the fate of one of his books. I wonder if they’ll realize that this book is filled with love, struggle, and poetry. It is tragic to toss your outcry (I mean your soul) at people and for them not to understand it or—still worse—to distort it. Very dear friend and Fellow Doer of Exploits, God be with you! Eleni and I greet your wife and you with much esteem and love. Nikos Kazantzakis

1  your essay:  “Η φήμη του Καζαντζάκη,” Καινούρια Εποχή, Autumn 1956, pp. 8ff.  1  Areopagus:  The Supreme Court of ancient Athens.  1  Aeolian harp:  An instrument played not by human hands, but by the wind, its melodies improvisations by nature itself.  1  unable to rejoice:  Jiménez’s wife was dying at the time he received the prize. See Kazantzakis’s letter to him in the final footnote to the previous letter.

To Lefteris Alexiou —Photo of manuscript in Elli Alexiou 1981, hors-texte.

Antipolis, 23 December 1956 Dear Lefteris, Your letter is fine, and I thank you. Of course, you may make whatever use of it you wish, and whichever phrase you wish of my letter that truthfully expressed my opinion of your book. I’ve learned that Galatea has published a book about me. So be it. The myth concerning my life is being slowly nourished in this way, filled with contradiction. “Ad tuum, Domine, tribunal appello!” The Dominus here is Time. Eleni sends you her greetings and is jealous because you have such a musical treasury at your disposal. We, too, have a good radio here and hear good music. Besides the two gods, Bach and Mozart, we’re crazy about Purcell, Monteverdi, and the older Italians and French: Vivaldi, Lalande, Couperin, etc. These have given us the greatest pleasure the past few years. Where has time gone? We shall never see each other again. That we die is such a bitter injustice filling me with indignation. I’m called a “nihilist”; I admire those who stand up against this injustice. As for me, I die but do not sign. May God give you health, serenity, and intellectual uplift in 1957! And water and salt on whatever we said in our lifetimes! Pax et bonum! N. Kazantzakis

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1  published a book about me:  Galatea Kazantzakis’s ΄Ανθρωποι και υπεράνθρωποι (Athens: Pyksida, 1957; Men and Supermen;) is an extremely negative and mean-spirited roman à clef in which the character Alexandros clearly equals Kazantzakis and the character Danae clearly equals Galatea.  1  Ad tuum, Domine, tribunal appello: I lodge my appeal at your tribunal, Lord. (The quote from Tertullian that Kazantzakis sent to the Vatican when The Last Temptation was placed on the Index of Forbidden Books.)  1  Lalande:  Michel-Richard de Lalande (1657–1726), French composer specializing in motets.  1  do not sign:  Kazantzakis seems to be thinking of the Greek idiom “I sign my death warrant.”  1  water and salt on whatever we said:  The Greek idiom means “Let’s become friends again, forgetting our differences and misunderstanding, as though what was said was never said.”

To the Historical Museum of Crete —Manuscript in The Historical Museum of Crete, φ. 12 / 7.

Antibes, 9 January 1957 Dear friends, I read your letter with pleasure and emotion. It is my duty and delight to aid the splendid endeavor that you have undertaken with such knowledge and love. Not only will I gladly give to the museum various things that belong to me, but also whatever of value I have that is related to my long-lasting, arduous intellectual life—my entire library, my manuscripts, pictures, personal things I loved and used, a complete transfer of my study to Megalo Kastro, so that the cell may be saved in this way: the cell in which a Kastrinos intellectual laborer has worked for so many years. But you must have a little patience. Several friends in Athens have spoken about this to my nephew, Nikos Saklambanis, and indeed I promised to underwrite a portion of the expenses that the Society for Cretan Studies might chance to incur in order to accept my office for its building. In any case, what I possess gains greater value with the idea that it will return to the Homeland and remain there. May the God of Crete be with us always! N. Kazantzakis

1  The Historical Museum of Crete:  Now housed at 7, Lysimachou Kalokerinou Street, Iraklio 71202. Kazantzakis’s study, complete with desk, books, manuscripts, etc., is now a permanent exhibit in the Museum. The Web site http://www.historical-museum.gr/kazantzakis/index1.html describes, in English, the museum’s extensive holdings relating to Kazantzakis.  1  Megalo Kastro:  Great Fortress, one of the names of Iraklio since Byzantine times.

834  •  1957 Letters

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, pp. 299–300.

Antibes, 9 January 1957 Dear friend, I finished the two books, 5 and 6, and am waiting for new ones. I’m like the monster in Dante’s Inferno that “as soon as it eats feels hungrier than before it ate.” I have not made many alterations; I’ve been reduced to not being needed by you any more; your prosody is always correct and your language rich. Eleni will make copies now on the typewriter, but I won’t send you anything until I receive other books. I feel so intoxicated when I enter Homer that I’m close to feeling weary, so completely was I buried in him heart and soul and unable to extricate myself. Eleni needed to force me to go out for a walk, to breathe a little fresh air and see the sun. What a shame that a person doesn’t live for five hundred years, to manage to translate all the ancients! But the fact that we have managed with Homer is a great joy. Your article in Kainouria Epohi is excellent. We should have such faith and love in order not to be overcome by indignation and disgust regarding our contemporary Greek “intellectuals.” But you and I, praise God, keep strong; we have a clear conscience, obstinacy, love, and we are not afraid of anyone. “Ad tuum, Domine, tribunal appello!” Dominus here is Time. How wretched, superficial, unscrupulous is Eftaliotis’s translation! And the Greeks gape at it and marvel. Why? Because they are illiterate and above all because the translator has died—a great attribute for the modern Greeks. He doesn’t bother them. “Sit divus dumodo non sit vivus.” They needn’t worry; we’ll die, too. Have you settled the matter of the Iliad with Agni—of Captain Haritos, of the Odyssey, of Eleni? Please don’t forget. I laugh and grow angry when I hear that we employ many Cretan words. They don’t know demotic, and whatever word they don’t know they christen as Cretan; thus, their hellish conscience is able to rest, as is their modern Greek self-esteem. We must finish the Odyssey this year, and afterwards find a way to meet again and to joust—that is, to give it its definitive form. God be with you and with all the sacred family! May this year be peaceful, productive, and good. Pax et bonum, N. Kazantzakis

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1  the monster in Dante’s Inferno:  Inferno 1.94–99: “For the beast that moves you to cry out / lets no man pass her way, / but so besets him that she slays him. / Her nature is so vicious and malign / her greedy appetite is never sated— / after she feeds she is hungrier than ever” (Robert and Jean Hollander translation).  1  your article:  “Η μετάφραση της Ιλιάδας,” Καινούρια Εποχή, Winter 1956, pp. 17–64.  1  Sit divus dum[m]odo non sit vivus:  More accurately “Sit divus, dum non sit vivus.” Said by the Roman emperor Caracalla (reigned A.D. 198–217), who had killed his brother Geta in order to gain the throne, when he was assured that, by granting the brother divine honors, his own fratricide might be expiated. An approximate translation is “Let him be a god, by all means, provided he die first.”

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; printed (incomplete) in Friar 1977, p. 19.

Antibes, 15 January 1957 Dear Kimon, 1. I’m glad that you enjoyed the holidays. And you started a literary salon where the eaglets and eagles of our intellectual Olympus come and spread their wings. You sit there like Zeus, admiring them. And you smile like God. All that is fine in the Athenian desert. 2. I’m sending you the answers. I hope that you don’t find difficulties. I’m waiting now for you to send me other queries. 3.  Greco is getting finished and not getting finished. Every day I remember something out of my life and add it. I’m in no hurry to publish it. It’s a work made from truth and fantasy, from thought and dream. I need to be very careful. 4. I am glad that you are finishing the exploit. What a pleasure it will be, what a relief, when you escape the Odyssey and begin to create your own SuperFriar! I am in a hurry so that I’ll manage to see how far you reach and to what degree you will surpass me. Your health and happiness, always! N. Kazantzakis

1  SuperFriar: In English in the manuscript.

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To Bohuslav Martinu —Printed in Dostálová and Brezina 2003, no. 51; printed in Anemoyannis 1986, pp. 84–85; French text photographed (incomplete) in Le Regard Crétois, no. 29 (July 2004): 22.

8, rue du Bas-Castelet Antibes A.M. 24 January 1957 Dear Mr. Martinu, What good news your letter brings me! The opera ready, Vienna, London, Milan, and New York vying for the première, and you in good health! The gods have truly been our benefactors to the utmost. I shall try as much as I can to answer all your questions. However, I cannot sign the contract without having first shown it to my friend and literary agent, Dr. Max Tau (Oslo, Karl Johangat. 41). He knows that you began this opera a long time ago, and he expects the contract. He’s the one who signs all contracts for all my work. In any case, I think that Universal’s conditions are honorable. That is the basic thing, as you say. So I don’t have any objection. Regarding the English text, since you used Mr. Griffin’s translation, I think it’s right for him to collect his 5 percent. Regarding the other translations, I do not think that the other translators should be paid, since the individual will be paid who prepares the Italian, German, etc., etc. texts, based on your libretto. I am absolutely free to permit an opera to be made from my book without paying any percentage to the various publishers. There are about sixteen at this moment. I believe that all the countries behind the Iron Curtain will be added shortly. And China is interested as well. I hope that the première will not take place in June when—God willing— I’ll be in China. My wife and I are dreaming of that evening, the most glorious of all, which we will spend at your sides, close to Mrs. Martinu and yourself, dear friend. Ever since I’ve known you, I have listened to your works on the radio with lively interest. A few days ago, a very beautiful composition of yours was transmitted once again on the radio. I’m sorry that so far I have never heard anything by you in a concert hall. Kubelík, Herbert von Karajan, what names as guarantee! I am pleased with everything. Bravo, dear Mr. Martinu! I am certain of your success. It will be worldwide. So write to Mr. Tau at once. On my part, I will inform him about your letter and the sending of the contract. Agreed? Cordially yours, dear friend and Maestro, N. Kazantzakis

1957 Letters  •  837

I the undersigned, Nikos Kazantzakis, inhabitant of Antibes A.M., France, 8 rue du Bas-Castelet, declare by means of the present document that I have authorized Mr. Bohuslav Martinu to write a libretto based on my novel CHRIST RECRUCIFIED for the purpose of composing an opera. Antibes, 24 January 1957 N. Kazantzakis

To Börje Knös —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; archive in University of Uppsala; printed (incomplete) in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 639.

Antibes, 25 January 1957 Very dear friend, I was worried that perhaps you were ill; fortunately your letter has reassured me. As for me, I’m wrestling here bravely with both work and illness, and I have no other consolation than the fact that I am working. I am translating Homer’s Odyssey now and forgetting this wretched, disgraceful world in which we live. Like the Charioteer of Delphi, I am holding the reins as firmly as I can and fighting to guide the body whither my soul wishes and not whither the body wishes. I, too, receive books every day from Greek scribblers whom I know and do not know, and they ask me to read their books and tell them my opinion. But I don’t have time. They don’t understand and become angry. The impertinence or naïveté they have, all seeking the Nobel, makes me sad. Thank you for translating the chapter from Greco. I’m sending you with pleasure the explanations you desire. A month ago the official Greek state recognized me for the first time, awarding me first prize for the Collected Plays, which I hope you will have chanced to receive from my publisher (three volumes). I shared this prize, giving it to Voutyras, who is ill and poor, and to the child of Kotzioulas, who died. An adaptation of Christ Recrucified was performed with lots of success on Paris radio by actors from the Comédie Française. The film will be shown at the Cannes festival in May under the title The Fires of the Sarakina. And the well-known Czech composer Bohuslav Martinu has completed an opera on Christ Recrucified. It will be performed at the Vienna Opera, at La Scala in Milan, and at Covent Garden in London. This novel has been very fortunate. I wonder when we shall meet to talk a little, for the heart to be relieved. I don’t have anyone to talk to any longer. Only my wife.

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May God keep you well, very dear friend. My wife and I greet your wife and you with much esteem and love. N. Kazantzakis

1  Kotzioulas:  Yorgos Kotzioulas (1909–56), poet, prose writer, critic, translator.  1  The fires of the Sarakina:  The film’s title was, of course, Celui qui doit mourir (He Who Must Die).  1  has completed an opera:  Actually, Martinu wrote two completely different versions of this opera. A second less-­ experimental one after the first—the so-called London version—was rejected by Covent Garden. The first version, which needed to be reassembled by the composer Ales Brezina, head of the Bohuslav Martinu Institute in Prague, was premiered in Brno, Czech Republic, in 2005.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed (incomplete) in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 714–16.

Antibes, 12 February 1957 Dear brother, I began to worry that it took so long to receive your letter. Fortunately I received it and was relieved. I enjoyed the new draft of the Chronicle very much; that text will remain a model for diction, style, rhythm; in the midst of the confusion and ignorance of contemporary “men of letters,” your example touches the miraculous. May “God” bless you! I’m glad that you like Buddha. No one else in Greece will notice it; nothing of what interests us in this work interests them. Who among them has been able to surpass hope and despair? Who among them understands what the canary symbolizes in this work? It is good that you exist; otherwise I would be alone. Buddha is my swan song; it says everything, and I’m glad that I was able to manage, before I depart, to utter the καταθύρα, my final word. I wrote the first draft of Buddha in Vienna in 1921 when I was submerged in Buddhism; it was then that my face suffered what Manolios catches in Christ Recrucified. I describe it accurately in Report to Greco. Afterwards I reworked the play here in Antibes; I didn’t change much, just a few things, but important ones. I don’t want to reread it, because I don’t want to change anything in it any longer. Many people, because they are small, terror-stricken souls, or naïve ones, will find Buddha pessimistic. How can they understand that it is a hymn to human dignity and pride? Thank you for writing about me. No one else would be able to write about my life and my ascent, and to judge it. In Report to Greco I make my confession to our old Grandfather and I speak there about the four chief stages I

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went through, each of which bears a sacred name: Christ, Buddha, Lenin, Odysseas. I restricted myself to these because my other life is of no interest to anyone. The book is ready, but I am going to delay in publishing it; perhaps I’ll allow it to be posthumous. I haven’t decided yet. But what you write about me interests me more than what I write about myself. I am glad that I’ll still exist in order to read it. I was very saddened by von den Steinen’s departure. I esteemed and loved him greatly, and he was useful for Greek literature. A splendid mind, great wisdom, profound comprehension of Greece. Fate is not blind; it sees and chooses the best of us. I’m working now on the translation of the Odyssey. Unfortunately Kakridis delays in sending back my initial translation with his corrections; thus the job is going very slowly and this slow pace tires me, the impetus being broken the moment I gather momentum. When will your work be performed? Or is it that difficulties have sprouted up? I have no confidence at all in the mandarins of the National Theater. Small people, they are jealous and afraid. I hope that we shall see each other this year. The date of the Sorbonne ­celebration has still not been set; in any case, in May. Then, too, the film of Christ Recrucified at the Cannes festival. At the end of May or beginning of June, “God” willing, we leave for China. I am well. Only one thing bothers me: an allergic reaction that sometimes makes my lips swell and subside a few days later. In any case before May I’ll go to Freiburg once again for a month, as I do every year. Eleni and I wish you everything on 18 February! With love, para siempre! N. Kazantzakis

1  the new draft of the Chronicle:  The third edition of Prevelakis’s Χρονικό μιας πολιτείας.  1  what the canary symbolizes:  See Bien 2007a, p. 139: “Our salvation comes only when, no longer desiring, we welcome death as a release. . . . Buddha passes through the successive doorways of nonexistence until nothing remains except the song of the canary (imagination).” Compare the ending of Christ Recrucified, where Fotis dreams that he has always been chasing a yellow canary. The meaning, he realizes, is that he is the soul of mankind eternally pursuing a never-achievable spiritual goal.  1  καταθύρα: In the lexicon he devised for the Odyssey, Kazantzakis defines this term as the last words uttered by someone about to die. The term does not appear in any Greek dictionary.  1  in Vienna in 1921:  Actually in 1922; for accurate dating of the four versions of this play, see Bien 2007a, pp. 134–37.  1  writing about me:  Prevelakis was then writing Ο ποιητής και το ποίημα της Οδύσσειας, published in 1958.  1  18 February:  His birthday; also Kazantzakis’s.

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To M. Karagatsis —Printed in Alexiou and Stefanakis 1977, pp. 149–50, and Alexiou and Stefanakis 1983, pp. 349, 352–53.

Antibes, 20 February 1957 Dear friend, Please forgive me for taking so long to answer you. Living abroad, one gets bound up in a thousand troubles, the days shrink, the concerns swell, and it is extremely difficult to do one’s duty by one’s friends. That to keep you from being angry with me. I read the manuscript with extraordinary pleasure and admiration. I always knew that you were a master at inventing plots and handling them. From the first page to the last, the reader yearns to see what happened, how it happened, and how the story ends. I am sure that you would have astounding success if you wrote in a foreign language. But Greece is narrow and hypercritical. I don’t know what advice to give you now. I find it hard to give advice, because the moment I say “A” I see that “minus A” is also correct. And I have no confidence in my judgment. The problem of creativity is so complicated and at the same time so simple that it cannot be solved by reason. The creator is able to transgress all logical rules (that’s why he is called a creator) and able to put to shame the most deeply considered judgment. The only thing I can say is the following: What I would have done myself. Well, out of the story as formulated by you, I would have brought a long novel. It would be much longer and would risk including historical material to an extent greater than art allows. Otherwise, in order to avoid the story’s monotonous repetition, you would be obliged to start it anew in each epoch. That would finally become tiring, and the initial conception would lose its freshness. I like it very much the way it is; but you are capable of doing whatever you wish. As I said, my opinion does not have the slightest objective worth. Once again, please forgive me for my tardiness. I always remember with pleasure the moments I spent with you. We did not converse like Greek “men of letters”; we conversed like human beings. You are well aware of the difference. I am working peacefully, without seeing anyone, without wasting time, because little time still remains to me and I need to hurry. Like a great sage of our time, ninety-two years old today, I too would like to go out into the street, stretch out my hand like a beggar, and entreat the passers-by wandering idly up and down and wasting their time, “Give alms, Christians, give me as alms a little of the time you are wasting.”

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My wife and I greet your wife and you with love and hope very much to see you both again. N. Kazantzakis

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library.

Antibes, 26 February 1957 My dear Kimon, I sent you the other corrections immediately; now the latest ones as well. Courage! Your torments are finally coming to an end. I would very much like to hear your lecture; right now Eleni is attempting to purchase the machine. What a pleasure for you to be writing to me in this fashion from America and for me to answer you. I’ll believe that we are still together. Galatea, poor thing (with her brother), is doing her best to destroy me. I say to you simply this: Galatea is better and smarter than someone would imagine who has read her book—which, as I’m told, is all lies and rancor. I still have not read it, nor will I read it; I don’t want to spoil the few good moments that I experienced with her. In March I’ll be going to Germany for the customary treatment. I’ll try to be in Antibes when you arrive. I’m well, working well, tail up! But I need to go for treatment each year. Now Eleni will write to you. Health and joy! N. Kazantzakis

1  her book:  Άνθρωποι και υπεράνθρωποι.  1  tail up: In English in the manuscript.

To Dimitris Fotiadis —Printed in Eleni Kazantzaki 1977, p. 640.

Antibes, 27 February 1957 My dear Fotiadis, May the God of Greece bless you and bless your hand to keep writing! I am reading Karaïsakis, and my eyes often well up with tears. What iniquity and what bravery, what betrayal and what sacrifice for liberty! What was this ’21,

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what dung, yet how the blue flower took root and blossomed above it! And this, too: what lies we were taught in school and how tardily—bless you!— true people have come to say the truth! I cannot get my fill of your book, and I am so sorry that we are so incurably distant, so that I cannot come and clasp your hand. Your Karaïsakis has given me much pleasure and much sorrow. I have it in front of me on my desk and am reading it slowly, in order not to finish it quickly—for what work by a penpusher would be able to move me so? Bless you, my dear Fotiadis! You’ve written a beautiful book and have done a brave act. It’s rare that these two are combined. Yours always with love, N. Kazantzakis

1  Dimitris Fotiadis:  Greek dramatist, journalist, translator, novelistic historian (1898–1988); editor of the periodicals Νεοελληνικά Γράμματα (1936–41) and Ελεύθερα Γράμματα (1945–48); concentrated chiefly on the Greek War of Independence. Karaïsakis was published in 1956.  1  Karaïskakis:  Yeoryios Karaïskakis (1780 or 1782–1827), famous military commander in the Greek War of Independence, killed in action.  1  this 21:  The Greek War of Independence, whose official starting date is 25 March 1821 (o.s.), when Bishop Germanos of Patras raised the Greek flag at the Monastery of Agia Lavra.  1  blue flower: Colors of the Greek flag: blue and white.

To Yeoryios A. Fanourakis —Printed (incomplete) in Synadinos 1957, p. 224.

[Antibes,] 28 February 1957 . . . It’s impossible to say what pleasure your letters have given me. You write that what will remain from my toil is the work I did on the demotic language. I think that you are correct. Theories are ephemeral; only poetry and perfect linguistic form resist time. But, my god, what effort! what torment! Every morning when I sit down at my desk at dawn in front of blank paper, I am overcome by an indescribable malaise. What is this mania I possess—to write? Who urges me on? Who is the master inside me, and I his slave? The sun shines outdoors, the sea murmurs, the almond trees blossom. Why don’t I go out like everyone else to promenade in the sun beneath the blossoming trees? Why, now that my own sun is setting, do I not stretch out on my chaise longue to watch the people go by, lost in deep concerns about bread, children, women? Inside me is a demon that I often divine with fright is not myself. I am merely the donkey that this demon mounts in order to go. To go where? The demon knows; I do not. He spurs me on mercilessly and advances. This,

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old grandfather, is my life, I want you to know. No one knows it, but I confess it to you, and that is why the insults and praise cannot touch me. My mind is on the master whom I carry along. Do you know the Indian proverb: “Whoever mounts a tiger cannot dismount.” I, however, have suffered something even worse: a tiger has mounted me! . . .

To Nikolaos Stratakis —Printed in Knosos 1958, pp. 87–88.

Antibes, 3 March 1957 Dear friend, I’m ashamed that so much time has passed and I did not manage to find time to thank you for the marvelous talk you gave on my work. I admired with what love and at the same time with what clear judgment you spoke, and I ask myself whether I am worth all the trouble I gave you and how large a portion of my work will withstand time—Cronus—who mercilessly engenders his children and then devours them. Let’s hope that what remains will be the Outcry that emerged from the breast of a human being who saw that the world is headed toward the abyss and who uttered a cry to indicate the danger. In truth, all my work and my entire life are nothing else but a commentary on this Outcry. In a book that I am writing now, Report to Greco, I try to formulate the stages through which my anguish passed in order to reach today’s deliverance. It is a confession that will complete your talk. Thank you once again for the pleasure you gave me. One day I hope that I shall also be able to tell you this in person. May the God of Crete be with us always! N. Kazantzakis

1  N. Stratakis:  Poet (1888–1970), lyricist of the song “Τα λουλούδια της.”  1  talk you gave:  Lecture given under the auspices of “Knosos” in the Parnasos Hall on 15 November 1956.

To Thrasos Kastanakis —Manuscript in ELIA; photocopy of manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1986, pp. 11–12.

Antibes, 12 March 1957

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My dear Thrasos, Thank you very much for your concern. This year, like every year, I’ll go for three weeks to have my customary treatment at Freiburg. It’s a routine that will take place every year. So do not worry. We said it, and I keep my word: I shall don the “black helmet,” as the Persian poet Firdousi says, when I enter my eighty-third year. We still have time. I read “Χ. Μανουηλ.” It’s a masterpiece of plotting, liveliness, dialogue, and language (although several phrases like “μέχρι θάνατο” annoy me). What goes against my nature (I do not say good or bad, ethical or unethical; simply “goes against my nature”) are the raw, pathological sexual scenes. You’ll say that the hero is like that, but I think that everything could have been said with less rawness. But it will be avidly read by our epoch precisely because of these raw atrocities. You are well aware that my opinion has nothing but personal significance. As you are also well aware, opinions are not weighed, they are counted. My warm greetings to Elpis. I’ll be in Paris on 21 May. So, until we meet again! N. Kazantzakis

1  Firdousi:  Poet (ca. 935–ca. 1020), author of “Book of Kings” (1010), the Persian national epic. Also spelled Firdawsi or Firdusi; it is the pseudonym of Abu Ol-qasem Mansur.  1  Χ. Μανουηλ:  Kastanakis’s novel Ο Χατζημανουήλ (Athens: Estia, 1956).  1  phrases like “μέχρι θάνατο” annoy me:  Kastanakis’s “until death” is perhaps too demotic for Kazantzakis in that the preposition μέχρι (until) is allowed to govern a noun in the accusative case. The more usual expression, even in today’s demotic, is μέχρι θανάτου, in which the noun governed by μέχρι is still in the genitive case, as it is meant to be in katharevousa. Babiniotis’s dictionary (1998), p. 1101, allows both accusative and genitive but prefers the “learned” θανάτου in this particular expression.  1  Elpis:  Kastanakis’s wife.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 717–18.

Freiburg im Breisgau, 4 April 1957 Dead brother, I’m thinking of Kefallinos’s death, and my heart is breaking. Leafing through his last work, I cannot see anything, my eyes are so blurred. How is it possible for those hands, those eyes—the love, patience, perfection—to turn to dust? It’s not just the pain; it’s the indignation, the unjustness, and, most horrible of

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all, the certainty that there is no salvation. Against whom can we rebel? Whom can we curse? We beat our heads against the walls of night and try to save our pride, to clench our teeth and deign not to cry out, but we are unable. We try not to weep, but our tears flow. I know that you are suffering more, not only because your bond to him was stronger, but also because you are younger and you have had the frightful lot of burying several people whom you love. As for me, I’ll do what I can to sadden you as late as possible. I think that I endure only for the sake of two people in the world—so that I will not sadden them. We really must see each other soon. The celebration will take place in Paris on 21 May and I need to be there; then, if everything is ready, I’ll leave Paris for Warsaw, Moscow, and China, where I’ll stay all of June. Afterwards, in July, Yugoslavia for Eleni’s mineral baths; then Antibes. That’s the schedule if everything works out nicely. The treatment here finished extraordinarily straightforwardly and well. I stayed three weeks and am leaving the day after tomorrow. Don’t worry; I’m carrying on. How can I convey to you how moved I am that I am going to hear your talk about my life and work? You are the only person in the world who can judge me and whose talk will have inexpressible value for me. May God give you strength, and may he allow me to live long enough! I won’t publish Greco beforehand. I’ll be waiting for you with eagerness. How the thirty-one years have gone by! Like a glass of refreshing water! Our meeting constituted a high landmark in my life, one from which I saw the world with greater confidence. I’ll answer your questions in a few days, from Antibes. I’ll also consult Eleni, who remembers more. I wrote to Mme Kefallinou, but I did not venture to ask a favor of her. I’ll ask it of you, if you are able—a photograph of Kefallinos. God be with you, dear brother! N. Kazantzakis

1  the celebration: Organized by his French publisher, Plon, to honor him.  1  I won’t publish Greco beforehand:  Prevelakis had asked Kazantzakis to withhold publication of Report to Greco until he—Prevelakis—had finished Ο ποιητής και το ποίημα της Οδύσσειας. In the event, Prevelakis’s study came out in 1958. A reliable Greek text of Report to Greco did not appear until 1961.  1  the thirty-one years:  The duration of their friendship; they had first met on 12 November 1926.  1  your questions:  Prevelakis had asked Kazantzakis for details about his studies, parents, places of residence, Galatea, travels, unpublished writings, Nietzsche, Russia, friends, admired writers, political activity in 1945, Eleni, various drafts of the Odyssey, translations of his works, foreign critiques of his works, etc. Kazantzakis’s answers are printed

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in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 720–24, followed by valuable annotations by Prevelakis on pp. 725–26.

To Lieutenant-Colonel Andreas Zorbas —Photograph of manuscript in Goudelis 1987, p. 21; printed in Goudelis 1987, pp. 21–22; also in Goudelis 1978, pp. 31–32.

Antibes, 28 April 1957 Lieutenant-Colonel: Seldom have I loved and esteemed a human being as much as Zorba. I portrayed him in my writings as a superior free person, and he is now glorified by thousands of people in Europe and America. He has been considered the model of the free man, and many people in America want to found associations—“The friends of Zorba”—in his name. Last year the Greek newspapers even wrote that a high-level employee of the American embassy in Athens said that ever since he read Zorba he has felt like abandoning everything and following Zorba’s example. I can place at your disposal an entire volume of European and American book reviews that praise Zorba’s personality. I did all that for the father; and now the son complains. I authorize you to publish this letter if you wish, to show how much I loved and esteemed your father. That’s all, N. Kazantzakis

  1  Andreas Zorbas:  Son of Yeoryis Zorbas. Niki Stavrou tells me that ­ orba’s great-granddaughter, a remarkable young woman, is—unlike Andreas Z Zorbas—very happy to be related to Kazantzakis’s fictional (?) hero.  1  28 April 1957:  A torn manuscript in the Kazantzakis Museum dated 21 April 1957 opens differently but contains some of the same sentiments and language.  1  Zorbas . . . Zorba:  Zorbas is nominative; Zorba is accusative or genitive. The latter seems to have caught on better in English, even when ungrammatical.

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 719–20.

Antibes, 4 May 1957

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Dear brother, Please forgive me for delaying so long to answer. I’m drowning in work. The moment I returned from Germany I needed (1) to reply to a long series of questions about my work and my social, philosophical, aesthetic, etc. notions posed to me by Paris radio; there will be four programs, each lasting an hour, beginning 11 May and running the entire month; (2) Friar arrived and I began (and am continuing still) to read the entire Odyssey out loud so that we can compare it with the translation—frightfully tiring for me; (3) a pile of correspondence, and finally (4) I’m looking again at Greco, which continues to need correction, and I prepared an anthology of my travel writings that Plon will publish. Terrible fatigue. I’ve been rising at 5:00 a.m. and working; I’m impressed that I’m bearing up. Your questions I’ll answer as well as I can remember. The time that passed seems uniform and full to me, and I cannot divide it up. Before sending you answers, I’ll consult Eleni; she is better at distinguishing details. I remember very little about the political movement in which I was involved; that’s why I asked you to telephone the lawyer N. Pouliopoulos (Aiolou 78); he is an excellent, warm human being and was the leading player in that movement; he’ll give you all the details with great pleasure. Last night at dawn I returned from Cannes, where Christ Recrucified was shown for the first time, at the festival. Astonishing success; many wept. Eleni was overjoyed, with her new evening dress, with the hundreds of photographers taking her picture, and I watched all this and felt ashamed that my heart was unmoved. I have been denying human pleasures more than is proper. As time passes, my heart grows fierce, my mind burns, but it’s as though I’d been removed to a place beyond this earth. A piece of rock crystal inside me remains clear and, as though it were a moon, reflects the world. The celebration in Paris will take place on 21 May; I need to be there for a week—a great nuisance for me, whose only joy is solitude. I’ve entered a whirlwind, and round and round I go. And in September I’m invited to Oslo, where Christopher Columbus will be produced. Your own play will be performed in the next few days. I’m eager to see how it will seem to the Smellenes and glad that your voice will be heard and your creations brought to life. How terrible to live and wrestle with such people, or even to scorn such people. I wonder if we’ll see each other before I depart for China. That interests me above all. How many years is it since we saw each other? When will The Cretan be published? Eleni sends warm greetings. God be with you! N. Kazantzakis I received the photo of Kefallinos with much emotion. My heart still has not accepted the truth that such a human being is now underground. I have

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his photograph in front of me, am looking at it, and am unable to forgive the blind powers. Your play is being performed these days. I enjoyed the interview you gave to Solomos.

1  Paris radio:  There were actually six programs, hosted by Pierre Sipriot. The contents are published in Sipriot 1990; there is a summary in Lettres Étrangères 1957; also in Arts, 5 June 1957; excerpts in Helen Kazantzakis 1968, pp. 527–30.  1  anthology of my travel writings:  Du Mont Sinaï à l’île de Vénus (Paris: Plon, 1958).  1  your own play:  Τα χέρια του ζωντανού Θεού, playing at the National Theater, directed by Alexis Solomos (b. 1918), distinguished director and playwright.  1  The Cretan:  The French translation.

To Mrs. Anghelaki —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum.

[May (?) 1957] Dear Mrs. Anghelaki, With great pleasure I, too, will say something at the French Institute. I’m writing to Merlier now and asking him. Let’s hope. I’ll be very pleased, because Katerina deserves it. Who knows what her fate has in store for her. May God be with her always—for His own good! Give my greetings to dear Yannis Drys. God bless all of you, always! Bright sunshine here, the sea, quiet, happiness—Greece without the Smellenes. I am working as though obliged, as though enslaved to some demon. And I call this enslavement freedom. Yours, always, N. Kazantzakis

1  Yannis Drys:  “John Oak,” Kazantzakis’s nickname for Ioannis Anghelakis.

To Yannis Kakridis —Manuscript in Kazantzakis Museum; printed in Kazantzakis 1977b, p. 300.

Antibes, 1 June 1957 Dear friend, “si volumus non redire currendum est”; we’re racing like sick turtles. I’m tired of waiting for the Odyssey and am leaving for China in a few

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days. I’ll be back in Antibes in early September. I hope to return in order that we may complete our work. I wrote you yet again that it’s shameful for us to enter paradise with one leg. So prepare as much manuscript as you can and send it in September. Throw away the small pearls for the Great Pearl. Eleni greets you with much love. You can imagine how pleased she is that she’ll be seeing the yellow swarm. We greet the sacred family and say: When shall we see each other? Where? How? Let God reply. N. Kazantzakis

1  si volumus non redire, currendum est:  “If we want not to go backward, it is necessary to run”; attributed to Pelagius (ca. 355–ca. 435), a British monk condemned as a heretic because his views on original sin, grace, and predestination differed from those of Saint Augustine.

To Bohuslav Martinu —Photograph of manuscript in Regard Cretois, 2004, p. 23; printed in Dostálová and Brezina 2003, no. 57; printed in Anemoyannis 1986, pp. 93–94.

Antibes, 4 June 1957 Dear Mr. Martinu, I’ve read your letter with pleasure. We are leaving tomorrow for BerneMoscow-Peking. We’ll stay in China for a month and then a month in Yugoslavia on our return. We’ll be in Antibes in September. Let’s hope that everything goes well. I am very satisfied with the news that you’ve given me about your opera. I hope to be present at its first performance. Don’t worry: Max Tau is a remarkable man whom I love and esteem greatly; he is my agent-general and will receive 10 percent of my honoraria. I am enclosing a word for my friend Mitropoulos. You’ll give it to him when he is in Rome. The film was very moving. I was unable to hold back my tears. You’ll see it soon in Italy. Saint Francis of Assisi is being translated now into English. I hope that you will like it. I think of you often, dear friend, and will be extremely happy on the day when we see each other again. My wife and I shake your hand cordially. N. Kazantzakis

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To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; printed in Friar 1979, p. 37, and in Friar 1983, p. 69.

Antibes, 5 June 1957 Dear Kimon, We’re leaving for Berne-Moscow-China in a few hours. Lots of commotion. I hope that everything goes well. You’re in America now, and God knows when we’ll have a letter from you and learn what you’ve been doing, how you are, how the New World strikes you, and how you found your family. We will write to you from Moscow and China, but where can you write? Maybe we’ll be able to give you an address once we’re there. We think of you always and wonder when we will see you again. We, too, might come to America. I must not leave this world before seeing you again— before seeing and enjoying the work you have in mind. I’m writing you hastily, in the midst of valises. Once again I am taking the road of folly, which has always been for me the road of highest wisdom. Here’s to our meeting, Kimon! N. Kazantzakis

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library; printed in Friar 1977, pp. 20–21; Friar 1979, pp. 37–38; Friar 1983, pp. 69–70.

Peking, 24 June 1957 Dear Kimon, How are you doing? When will we get a letter from you? We’ll be in Yugoslavia in August. We bring you to our minds, and to our hearts, at every moment. You would like the yellow world here very much. I am forcing my body to obey my soul, and thus I don’t feel tired. We’ll return to Europe via the North Pole. I am saying goodbye to everything; everything is saying goodbye to me. Never more. The fairy tale is ending. Love, Nikos

1  Never more: In English in the manuscript. The origin is the refrain “Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’” in Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “The Raven” (1845).

1957 Letters  •  851

To Kimon Friar —Manuscript in Kimon Friar Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library.

[?July 1957] Dear Kimon, We said it; let’s say it again: Best wishes, health, joy, work! May the eyes see, the ears hear, the mouth speak (don’t listen to what this postcard says), the hand write! No moment passes when we do not remember you and wish you all the best. May you get well quickly, may we see each other quickly! You are now inseparable from our lives. I have read the radio talk. Thank you. What else can I write you? You know everything. Love, N. Kazantzakis

To Pandelis Prevelakis —Manuscript in Prevelakis Archive, University of Crete Library, Rethymno; printed in Prevelakis 1965, pp. 729–30.

Tokyo—Nara, 1 August 1957 Dear brother, So far everything is going well. I have enjoyed confirming the degree to which the human soul is omnipotent. I depart for Alaska tomorrow and am eager to say hello—and goodbye—to that aspect of the earth. I send you greetings at every instant from this edge of the world. Eleni, too, greets you with much love. God be with you! N. Kazantzakis

References Cited

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856  • References Cited Markakis, Petros 1959 “Ανέκδοτα γράμματα του Νίκου Καζαντζάκη: το περιοδικό ‘Πινακοθήκη’ κι ο Δημ. Καλογερόπουλος.” Καινούρια Εποχή (Autumn): 30–38. Middleton, Darren J. N. 2000– “A Heretic in the Garden of the Virgin: Nikos Kazantzakis and the Holy 2001 Mount, Athos.” Modern Greek Studies (Australia and New Zealand) 8–9: 81–99. Mitsotakis, Kyriakos Ο Καζαντζάκης μιλεί για Θεό. Athens: Minoas. 1972 Panopoulos, Kostas P. 1978 Γράμματα του Καζαντζάκη στο Ζερβό. Athens. Papathanasopoulos, Thanasis 1986 “Εικοσιένα ανέκδοτα γράμματα του Ν. Καζαντζάκη στον Β. Κίντζιο.” Νέα Εστία 120 (1 July): 864–69. 1988 Ο Νίκος Καζαντζάκης γράφει: ανέκδοτες επιστολές. Varvari, Irakliou: Nikos Kazantzakis Museum. Parlamas, M. G. 1959 “Δέκα ανέκδοτες επιστολές του Καζαντζάκη.” Νέα Εστία 66 (Christmas): 205–10. Petrakou, Kyriaki 2005 Ο Καζαντζάκης και το θέατρο. Athens: Militos. Pitikakis, Manolis I. 1983 Το γλωσσικό ιδίωμα της Ανατολικής Κρήτης, 2 vols. Athens: Πολιτιστικής και Λαογραφικής Εταιρείας Απάνω Μεραμπέλου-Νεάπολις Κρήτης. Politis, N. G. 1978 Εκλογαί από τα τραγούδια του ελληνικού λαού, 7th printing. Athens: Vagionakis. Pouliopoulos, Nikos D. 1958 “Η πολιτική φυσιογνωμία του Νίκου Καζαντζάκη.” Καινούρια Εποχή 3/11 (Autumn): 280–87. 1972 Ο Νίκος Καζαντζάκης και τα παγκόσμια ιδεολογικά ρεύματα, vol. 1. Athens. 1975 Ο Νίκος Καζαντζάκης και τα παγκόσμια ιδεολογικά ρεύματα, vol. 2. Athens. Prevelakis, Pandelis 1948 Ο Κρητικός. Athens: Aetos. Ο ποιητής και το ποίημα της Οδύσσειας. Athens: Estias. 1958 1961 Nikos Kazantzakis and His “Odyssey”: A Study of the Poet and the Poem. New York: Simon and Schuster. 1965 Τετρακόσια γράμματα του Καζαντζάκη στον Πρεβελάκη. Athens: Eleni N. Kazantzaki. (Reprinted, 1984, with the same pagination.) 1984 Άγγελος Σικελιανός: τρία κεφάλαια βιογραφίας κ’ ένας πρόλογος. Athens: Μορφωτικό Ίδρυμα Εθνικής Τραπέζης. Rakette, Egon H. 1977 Max Tau, der Freund der Freunde. Heidenheim: Jerratsch. Le Regard Crétois: Revue de la Société Internationale des Amis de Nikos Kazantzaki 2004 No. 29 (July). [Letters to Martinu, pp. 15–23.] Samios, Eleni (= Eleni Kazantzaki) 1938 La Verdadera Tragedia de Panaït Istrati. Santiago, Chile: Ercilla.

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Index

Abbé Mugnier, 419, 421n, 724 Abdoul Hasan, 451, 451–52n Academy of Athens, 17, 74n, 336n, 564, 565n, 578–79, 601, 601–2n, 607, 735n, 740, 827 Achilles’ heel, 691n Aegina, 631, 687; German occupation of, 578, 579n, 579, 583, 584; house-building there, 490, 491, 495, 501, 503, 515 Aeschylus, 557, 633, 643, 651n, 676 Africa, 242, 246, 247, 296, 357, 358, 361, 363, 374, 392, 617 Agathangelos, 207, 208n Akritas, 336, 337n, 383, 384n, 511n, 519, 521, 522, 523n, 530, 531, 545, 570, 572, 582, 593; Epic of Diyenis Akritis, 556, 556n, 557, 694, 695n Alaska, 851 Albanian campaign, 535 Alexiou, Christos, xiv Alexiou, Elli, 52n, 82, 83, 83n, 679n Alexiou, Lefteris, 41n, 50n, 86, 93, 95, 96, 99, 102, 103, 109, 113, 116, 126, 132, 135, 138, 148, 150, 153, 155, 158, 168, 201, 216, 224, 474, 606, 647, 795; estrangement from, 211, 247, 260n, 415, 445, 448, 453, 455n, 469, 470n, 517n, 841 Alexiou, Stylianos (Galatea’s father), 83n, 795, 795n Alexiou, Stylianos (Galatea’s nephew), xiv, 795 Aliki. See Nikolaïdi-Theodoridi, Aliki Amandos, Konstantinos, 740, 742n America, 109, 171, 344, 372, 508, 601, 607, 608n, 610, 610n, 631, 635, 641, 649, 653, 655, 658, 659, 660, 661, 664, 665, 755, 757, 816, 850; Marshall Plan, 647n; Truman Doctrine, 642n, 647n, 653 American Farm School, xv Amorgos, 222–23, 256 Anagennisi, 263n, 272 Anagnostakis, Manolis, 562n Anastasia (Kazantzakis’s sister). See Saklambani, Anestasia Anastasiou, Mihalis, 216, 217n, 260n, 327, 334, 353, 356, 438, 557, 582, 644, 800

ancient Greek language, art, and culture, 466, 471, 580, 581n, 585, 634n, 697 Andoniadou, Sophia, 705, 706n Andreadis, Andreas, 155, 157n Andriotis, Nikolaos P., 811n Androulidakis, Thrasyvoulos, 567, 567n Androulidakis, Yeoryis, 316, 316n, 557, 761 Androulides, Pindaros, 720, 721n Anemoyanni, Tea, 605, 606, 612, 613n, 617, 635, 636, 644, 660, 690, 698, 706, 707, 713, 719, 728, 729, 739, 748, 751, 761; her “Saturday crowd,” 618, 618n, 637 Anemoyannis, Andonis, 6n, 606 Anemoyannis, Yannis, 613n Anemoyannis, Yorgos, xiv, 210n Anestasia (Kazantzakis’s sister). See Saklambani, Anestasia Angela. See Valliadi, Angela Angeloglou, Alkis, 595, 596, 597n Anghelaki-Rooke, Katerina, xiv, 68n, 519, 520n, 657, 657n, 670, 703, 712, 713n, 753n, 797, 848 Anghelakis, Ioannis (and sometimes his wife), 67n, 94, 98, 99, 201, 208n, 385, 389, 402, 403, 416, 417, 448, 452–53, 517n, 540, 574, 579, 657, 848n Anna (Eleni Samiou’s sister). See Tsangridi, Anna Antibes, 666, 672, 673, 678, 681, 699, 755, 762n, 769, 780, 781n Antonakes, Michael, xiv Apollo, 551, 567n, 659n, 687 Aposkitou-Alexiou, Martha, xiv Apostolakis, Yannis M., 582, 583n Apostolidis, Iraklis, 516, 704, 705n Apostolopoulos, Dimis, 577, 577n, 612, 618n, 637, 811n Aragon, Louis, 624n Aravandinos, Panayotis S., 583n Archbishop Damaskinos, 586n, 675, 676n Argyropoulou, Zizi, 688, 688n, 694, 701 Aristophanes, 14n, 604n Aristotle, 217n, 423, 725n, 795n Arkadi, 45n Armen Ohanian, 296, 296n

860  • Index Asia Minor Catastrophe, 111–12, 114n, 115, 118, 119n, 123, 123n; “the Six” who were responsible, 119n, 130 Assisi, 194–95, 197, 199 Atatürk, Mustafa Kemal, 114n Athanasiadis, Tasos, 681, 681n Athanasiadis-Novas, Yeoryios, 811n Athanasopoulos, Vangelis, 52n Athenaeus of Naucratis, 581n Athens, 2, 5, 9, 13, 15, 18, 52, 64, 65, 68, 78, 233, 254 Athos, Mount, xviii, xix, 60–61, 63n, 65, 65n, 220, 765, 766n Atthis, 6n, 9 Auden, W. H., 653n Avyeris, Markos, 41n, 51, 52n, 106, 126, 154, 155, 523, 524n, 528, 795 Babiniotis dictionary, 604n, 844 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 398, 832 Balatsouka, Kalliopi, xiv Balkan Wars, 53, 85n Barbaro, Nicolo, 677, 677n Barbusse, Henri, 275, 275n, 281, 282, 283, 301, 302, 624n Barrault, Jean-Louis, 781, 781n Basch, Victor-Guillaume, 432, 433n, 469, 470n Bastias, Kostis, 258, 258n, 502, 510, 510n, 512n, 704, 761 Bataille, Marie-Louise, 738, 738n Baud-Bovy, Bilili (Istrati’s partner), 300–301, 301n, 302, 316, 319, 330, 387, 458–59, 480 Baudouin IV, 684, 685n, 686 Bauer, Gérard, 639, 640n Bayazid al Bistami, 669, 669n BBC, 618, 625, 710, 740 Beaton, Roderick, xiv, 523n Bebeka. See Samiou, Polly (Eleni’s sister) Beckett, Samuel, ix Ben Yehuda, 451, 452n Benaki Museum, xv Benakis, Linos, xiv Benavente, Jacinto, 424, 425n, 428n Berdyaev, Nikolai, 330, 332n Bergson, Henri, xviii, 39, 40n, 72n, 136, 154, 155, 157n, 628–29 Berlin, ix, 104, 113, 114–15, 122, 144, 146, 190, 329; educational reform, 118, 124, 150, 159, 161–62, 170, 171–72, 180; inflation, 145, 146, 150, 180, 181–82 Bertos, Nikos, 477, 478n Bielinski, Vissarion, 271, 271n Bien, Chrysanthi, xii, xiii

Bien, Peter, Politics of the Spirit, vol. 1, xvii, 766n Bilili. See Baud-Bovy, Bilili Blok, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich, 106, 108n Blum, Léon, 632n, 636, 637, 638n, 639, 640 Boccaccio, Giovanni, 420n Bolshevik Revolution, tenth anniversary of, ix, 277n, 280, 282 Bonaparte, Princess Marie, 26n, 782, 783n, 792, 806n, 811n Borja, Francisco de, 366, 366n Boumi-Papa, Rita, 618n, 677, 716 Bowra, Sir Cecil Maurice, 810, 810n Braunstein, Laura, xiv Brecht, Bertolt, 108n Brehm, Alfred, 259, 260n Bronstein, Léo, 427, 428n, 433, 434n, 445 Brueghel, Pieter, 739 Büchner, Louis, 34, 35n Buck, Pearl, 649, 650n Buddhism, xviii, 65, 87, 93, 101, 112, 140, 152, 170, 179, 266, 307, 311, 313, 323, 328, 383, 400, 410, 411, 451, 452, 454, 487, 496, 563, 654, 838, 839; Buddha vs. Epaphos, 476 Budé, 574n Bukhara, 343–44, 347 Bulgaria, 54–55, 81, 84, 175 burning bush, 758 Cahier Bleu, Le, 468n Calderón, Pedro, 523, 524n Camus, Albert, 660, 660n Cardinal Bernardo Bibbiena (Bernardo Dovizi), 425, 425n, 539, 644, 644n Cassou, Jean, 374, 374n, 388, 390 Caucasus, xix, 26n, 66n, 68n, 75, 78, 79n, 157n, 170, 285 Cavafy, Constantine P., ix, 148n, 562n, 653n, 772 Celui qui doit mourir, ix, 790, 797, 800, 802, 820, 823, 837, 838n, 849 Cervantes, Miguel de, 365, 366n, 410, 452n; Dulcinea, 451, 452n Chaliapin, Feodor Fedorovich, 418, 420n Chamberlain, Arthur Neville, 520n Charioteer of Delphi, 425 Charlot, 418, 420–21n Chasel, Rosa, 811n China, 480, 817, 823, 824, 826, 839–45, 849, 850 Chronicle of the Morea, 556, 556n, 557, 847 Chrysanthos, 79, 80, 81, 81n, 165, 167–68, 178 Churchill, Winston, 600n Cicellis, Kay, xiii, 748, 748n

Index  •  861 Cicero, 792, 793n Claudel, Paul, 270, 394, 397, 433, 434n, 592, 596, 654, 714, 767 Cleridou, Chrysanthi, 619n, 626n Cocteau, Jean, 713n Comédie Française, 837 Conrad, Joseph, xiv Constantinople (Istanbul), 226, 227, 273, 274n Corazzini, Sergio, 644, 645n Cossío, Manuel Bartolomé, 365, 366n, 402, 404, 430, 433, 448, 704, 705n Couperin, François, 832 Couturier. See Vaillant-Couturier Cretan dialect, 327, 327n, 334–35, 828 Crete, 4, 6, 7–9, 16, 28, 276, 349, 352, 367, 414, 494, 498, 530, 569–70, 636, 702, 709, 711, 726, 746–47, 753, 765, 788, 818, 820, 826; German atrocities there, 605, 605–6n, 606 Critobulus of Imbros, Michael, 677, 677n Cronus, 659n Crookes, Sir William, 34, 36n Cyprus, 777 Dalven, Rae, 653, 653n, 654, 655, 660, 661, 662–63 Daniilidis, Demosthenes, 93, 93n, 94, 101, 104, 105, 146, 148–49, 150n, 157, 158, 168, 170, 173, 174, 175, 188, 189 d’Annunzio, Gabriele, 40, 41n Dante, xviii, xix, 8, 10n, 108, 134, 321, 321n, 399n, 425, 426, 438, 441, 442n, 443, 448, 464, 469, 470n, 472, 478, 481, 535, 539, 542, 571, 575, 602, 660, 668, 668n, 674, 697, 701n, 728, 728n, 748, 754, 760, 761, 777, 778, 778n, 783, 784n, 785–86n, 789, 792, 794n, 828, 834, 835n; Divine Comedy, 10n, 439n Daphni, 375, 376n Daremberg, Charles, 557, 558n Darwin, Charles, 34, 35n Daskalakis, Vasilis, 103, 105n, 138 Daskalakis, Vasos, 82, 83n, 181n Daskaloyannis, Yannis, 359, 360n Dassin, Jules, 802, 803n dates, old style vs. new style, xvii, 3n, 83n, 150 Davies, Laurence J., xiv Decharme, Paul, 574, 575n Deffner, Michael, 445, 446n de Gaulle, Charles, 632n Dehmel, Richard, 465 Deligiannis, Theodoros, 11–12, 12n Delmouzos, Alexandros 173, 174–75n Delphi, 425, 688n, 837

demotic Greek, xviii, 3n, 10n, 31, 31n, 33n, 41n, 44, 47, 55, 127n, 174, 174n, 265n, 325, 327, 334, 335, 362, 363, 367n, 368, 387, 389, 393, 404n, 444, 447, 453, 455n, 460, 461n, 470n, 472–73, 520–21, 532, 563, 602, 634, 682, 732– 33, 734, 735, 760, 761, 784, 788, 791, 798, 807, 821, 825, 828, 829, 834, 842, 844n Descartes, René, 803, 803n Despotopoulos, Konstantinos I., 585, 586n, 612, 618n Dexameni, 462, 465n Dhafermos, Yeoryios, 312, 312n Diamantaras, Stamos, 243, 501n, 576 Diamantopoulos, Alexis, 623, 624n, 649 Dieterich, Karl, 122, 123n, 165, 174, 189, 190–91, 195 Diktaios, Aris, 498n, 618n, 716, 811 Dimakis, Minas, 512n, 618n, 697, 706, 711, 716 Dimakos, Andreas, 547, 548n Dimaras, Constantine Th., 557, 601, 699, 700n, 701, 715, 741 Dimaras, Nikolaos, 8, 10n Dimitrakos, Dimitrios B., 50n, 92, 98, 99, 102, 103, 104, 106, 107, 115, 118, 122, 123, 125, 132, 138, 144, 147, 158, 168, 174, 190, 193, 195, 196, 201, 204, 383, 386, 389, 391, 402, 403, 405, 406, 408, 411, 413n, 415, 416, 417, 421–22, 430, 433, 445, 464, 472, 473, 620, 660, 746, 748, 750, 750n, 751, 752, 753, 754, 755, 761, 771 Dimitrakos Dictionary, 798, 822n Dimitriadis, Kostas, 432, 434n Doenges, Norman A., xv Domínguez, Eugenio Montes, 433, 434n d’Ors, Eugenio, 366, 367n, 399, 404 Dostoevsky, Fyodor, x, 266, 623 Doukaris, Dimitris, 618n Douras, Vasilis, 490, 491n, 493, 517n Dragoumis, Ion, xviii, xix, 81n, 107n, 110n, 168, 320n, 455n, 499, 502n, 532, 532n Drakakis, Stelios, 447, 449n Drakopoulou-Theodoropoulou, Avra, 281n Drivas, Anastasios, 472, 473n Drosinis, Yeoryios, 335, 336n du Bellay, Joachim, 647n, 778n Duhamel, Georges, 624n, 630, 631n, 654 Duncan, Bruce, xv Duncan, Isadora, 125, 125n Dunkelblum, Leah, 237, 714 Duplaix, Georges, 738, 738n Dupouis, Gaston, 629, 629n Dürer, Albrecht, 510 Dzerzhinsky, Felix, 377, 378n

862  • Index EAM, 83n, 680n, 812n EAM-Bulgarian, 740, 742n Eckermann, Johann Peter, 551, 573n, 591 Educational Association, xviii, 156, 157n, 163, 175n, 265n Eftaliotis, Argyris, 474, 476n, 517n, 799, 834 Egypt, 246, 249–50 Ehrenburg, Ilya Grigoryevich, 454, 455n Einstein, Albert, 113 E. K. See Karouzou, Eleni El Greco, 113, 233, 234, 236, 237, 238, 266, 359, 365–66, 367, 368n, 369, 372n, 377, 383, 395, 397, 399, 401n, 412, 414, 427, 429, 450n, 452, 454, 596, 622, 703, 711, 802; terzina “El Greco,” 455–56, 457n Eleftheroudakis, Kostas, 257, 261, 262, 264, 335, 339, 351, 359, 363, 363n, 364, 366, 367n, 368, 372n, 372, 373, 379, 383, 384n, 387, 389, 391, 405, 411, 415, 419, 423, 469, 478, 489; his Encyclopedic Dictionary, 266, 267n, 268, 271, 284, 292, 294, 306n, 376, 377n, 378, 438, 453 Eleni (Kazantzakis’s sister). See Kazantzaki, Eleni (Kazantzakis’s sister) ELIA, 470n; Paxinou-Minotis archive therein, xv Eliot, T. S., 619, 621n, 671n Eliyia, Giôseph, 653n, 655, 655n Elizabeth. See Lange, Elsa Elpis (Thrasos Kastanakis’s wife), 680, 681, 844 Elytis, Odysseas, ix, 761n Emmanouil, Kaisar, 472, 473n Emperor Constantine XI Palaiologos, 596, 598n England, 445, 448, 519, 521, 522, 524, 525, 527, 535, 612, 614, 614n, 615–20, 622–27 English language, 597n, 717, 769 Engonopoulos, Nikos, 259n, 739 Epaphos, 476–77, 477n, 666, 667 Epictetus, 576n Erotokritos, xvi, 45n, 191, 191n, 424, 579, 603, 604n, 795, 795n Escorial, 429, 456–57, 703 Eugenio. See Domínguez Euripides, 817n, 820 existentialism, 612 Fanourakis, Yeoryios A., 766, 766n, 772, 842 Farandatos, Yannis, 66, 67n, 68, 70, 71, 129, 137 Ferrer, Jose, 754, 754n Fexis publishing house, 49n, 374n Filindas, Menos, 474, 476n Firdousi, 844, 844n First Balkan War, xviii

First World War, Salonika front, xix, 597n Flaubert, Gustave, 417, 420n Focillon, Henri, 469, 470n Fokas, Nikiforos, 223n Fontane, Theodore, 331n Fotiadis, Alekos, 80, 82n, 630, 631, 635, 636, 638, 639, 640, 641 Fotiadis, Dimitris, 841, 842n Foumis, Konstantinos, 27, 29n Fray Luis de León, 443, 446n French language, 5, 433, 434n, 497 Freris, Velisarios, 248, 248n, 306, 326, 327, 334, 353 Freud, Sigmund, 89, 613n, 792 Friar, Kimon, xiv, 593n, 717, 718n, 721–22, 722n, 737, 759–60, 760–61n, 762, 763, 766, 768, 779–80, 782, 788–89, 796, 805, 810, 811, 811n, 812, 815–16, 818, 835, 847, 850, 851 Friendly Society, 94n, 304n Frobenius, Leo, 208n, 330, 332n, 376, 682, 682n Frost, Robert, 429, 431n Fteris, Yeoryios, 552, 553n Gabriel y Galán, José Maria, 766n Galen, 795n Gallimard, Gaston, 714, 715 Gandhi, Mohandas, 217, 266, 281, 282, 410, 411, 415, 418, 475n, 493, 607, 658, 658n Ganiaris, Chrysostomos, 501n, 516, 517, 517n, 540 Garcilaso de la Vega, 443, 446n Gauthier-Gounelaki, Yvonne, 680, 680n Gavriilidis, Vlasios, 25, 26n Gazis, Anthimos, 93, 93n geishas, 487–88, 494 Genghis Khan, 452, 476n Gennadios II Scholarios, 596, 598n Georgacas dictionary, 565n, 579n, 784n George, Stefan, 696n Georgiadis, Emmanuel (Manolis), 24, 26n, 58, 59, 92, 195, 196n, 212n, 213, 248, 508, 517n; estrangement from, 474 German language, 1, 5, 86, 634 German occupation. See Second World War Germany, 515, 772 Gide, André, 320n, 333, 334n, 714, 714n Gielgud, Sir Arthur John, 623, 624n Giustiniani, Giovanni, 596, 598n Glinos, Dimitris, 263n, 264, 265n, 295, 351, 359, 388, 390 God, 183–84, 187, 189, 304, 313, 391, 409, 476–77, 482, 587, 653, 657, 698, 701n, 716, 718, 728, 734, 741, 757, 772, 774, 774n, 796, 809

Index  •  863 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, x, xxiii, 36, 178, 199, 201n, 256, 409, 456, 457, 551, 573, 591, 599, 696n, 802, 803n; Faust, Part I (Kazan­ tzakis’s translation of), 501, 502n, 538, 572 Gogol, Nikolai, 271 Golfis, Rigas, 202n, 205n Gondicas, Dimitri, xv Góngora, Don Luis de, 365, 366, 366n, 368, 429, 438, 448–49, 472, 542 Gorky, Maxim, 86, 88n, 90, 122, 316, 317n Gottesgab, 350n, 368, 453 Goudelis, Yannis, 761, 762n, 771, 773, 776, 778, 782, 783, 789, 799, 800, 801, 804, 805, 808, 812, 814, 815, 815n, 819, 824, 825, 827; Kai­ nouria Epohi, 762n, 831, 834, 835n Gounalakis, Myros, 216, 217n Gounaris, Dimitrios, 62n Goya, Francisco José de, 366, 427, 454 Grasset, Bernard, 433, 434n Greek Civil War, ix, 600, 600n, 627, 642, 642–43n, 646, 647n, 649, 649n, 657, 660, 665, 673, 677, 678, 679, 680n, 684, 686, 697; Dekemvriana, 601n Greek War of Independence, 841–42, 842n Griffin, Jonathan, 737, 836 Gryparis, Yannis, 155, 157n, 555, 556n, 785 Guéhenno, Jean, 339, 340n Gundolf, Friedrich, 694, 696n Hals, Frans, 739 Haris, Petros, xii, 74n, 571, 571n, 612, 638, 667, 687, 745, 806, 810–11, 811n; special issue of Nea Estia, 811n, 814, 819, 819n, 812 Harnack, Adolf von, 259, 260n Hasiotis, Yannis, xv Hatzi, Yiolanda, xv Hatzidaki, Foula, 678, 679n Hatzidakis, Yeoryios, 475, 476n Hatzikyriakos-Gkikas, Nikos, xv, 592, 593n, 717, 718n Hatzinis, Yannis, 518n, 756, 811n Hatzis, Dimitris, 607, 608n Hatzivassiliou, Evanthis, xv Hauptmann, Gerhart, 105, 105n, 778n Heilmeyer, Ludwig, 770 Helbig, Wolfgang, 557, 558n Herbert, Jean, 627, 628n Hero. See Pezopoulou-Lambrou, Hero Herodotus, 510 Herring, Robert, 630, 631n hiatus, 562, 564n Historical Museum of Crete, xiii, 833n Hitler, Adolf, 396, 396n, 526

Hölderlin, Friedrich, 761, 762n Hollander, Robert, xv Homer, xviii, 65, 108, 336, 589, 604n, 634n, 733n, 746n, 778n, 786, 821, 839; Odyssey translation, 572, 573, 574, 575, 576, 578, 584, 585, 633, 646n, 682, 699, 705, 735, 750, 750n, 754, 785, 788, 788n, 794, 799, 800, 800n, 803, 806, 807, 819, 821, 829, 830, 834, 837, 839, 848–49. See also Iliad translation (listed below among Kazantzakis’s works) Horace, 645n Horowitz, Itka, 121, 308, 309n, 314, 315n, 338, 339 Hortatsis, Yeoryios, 44, 45n Hourmouzios, Emile, 85n, 461n, 514n, 517n, 547, 568, 569, 571, 579, 582, 583, 590, 591, 592, 595, 596, 606, 607, 612, 635, 637, 646, 693, 694n, 744, 746, 747n, 752, 754, 781, 781n, 806, 811, 824 Hugo, Victor-Marie, 8, 10n Huxley, Julian, 635, 636, 637, 638, 639, 640, 641, 641n Hypatia. See Pappa, Hypatia Iatrides, John, xv Ibsen, Henrik, x, 40, 41n; Emperor and Galilean, 401, 403n Iceland, 617 Index Liborum (List of Prohibited Books), 758, 759n, 761, 763 India, 184, 188, 242, 296, 298, 312, 323, 334, 335, 350, 357, 374, 377, 392, 393, 529, 617 Institut de Coopération Intellectuelle Internationale, 264, 265n, 368, 369n, 373, 374n, 376, 624n Institute for Balkan Studies, 561 Institute of Modern Greek Culture, 632 Internationale de l’Esprit, 265n, 622, 623–24, 624n, 629, 630, 632, 634 Ioannidis, Ioannis, 681, 681n Ionesco, Eugène, 644n Iraklio, 206–7 Irving, Washington, 412–13n Istrati, Panaït, 88n, 275, 276n, 283, 284, 285, 286, 287, 288, 290, 291, 292, 293, 299, 308, 310, 313, 316, 317n, 319, 320n, 356n, 358, 363, 368n, 384n, 400, 444, 448, 480, 480n, 486, 499, 505, 515, 607; estrangement from, 301, 302, 303, 305, 306–7, 307n, 323, 324, 325n, 333, 367, 383, 384, 384n; Sotiria and deportation, 294n, 297, 300 Italian language, 2, 5, 15

864  • Index Italy, 188, 190, 191–92, 198; fascism 192–93 Ithaca, 435 Itka. See Horowitz, Itka Jacquemont, Maurice, 643, 644n Jaeger, Werner Wilhelm, 670, 672n Jenny. See Marousi, Jenny Jerusalem, 237, 250 Jesus Christ, 170, 216, 274, 643, 716, 725, 839 Jewish communist young women in Berlin, 121n, 142, 206, 314 Jews, 139, 153, 184, 227, 231, 237, 243, 243n, 273, 276, 286, 305, 468, 654n, 714 Jhering, Rudolf von, 8, 10n Jiménez, Juan Ramón, xv, 236, 271, 399, 399n, 400, 405, 406, 412, 427, 428, 429, 430, 432, 446, 448, 454, 464, 472, 671, 672n, 830, 830–31n, 831–32, 832n Johnstone, Kenneth, 616n, 647 Jørgensen, Johannes, 200, 201n Jouvenel, Renaud de, 419, 467–68, 468n, 469, 472, 508, 648, 811n Joyce, James, ix, x, 778n, 779 Julian the Apostate, 424n Jung, Carl, 613n Kafandaris, Yeoryios, 373, 374n Kahn Nussbaum, Máximo José, 455, 457n Kaisariani, 375, 376n Kakridi, Mrs. See Komninou, Olga Kakridis, Theofanis (Fanis; Captain Haritos), 603, 604n, 625n, 682n, 699, 736, 794, 794n, 834 Kakridis, Yannis, 74n, 547, 552, 568, 553, 572, 574, 579, 605n, 612, 623, 625, 633, 654, 681, 682n, 701, 702, 705, 707, 782, 789, 790, 793, 802, 806, 592, 594, 641, 642, 699, 735, 741, 743, 754, 755, 811n, 813, 819, 821, 822, 828, 839; accent trial, 559, 560, 560n Kalitsounakis, Demetrius Emmanouil, 605n, 811n Kalitsounakis, Ioannis, 740, 742n Kalmouchos, Takis, 246, 247, 250, 251, 252, 295, 296, 298n, 326, 335, 351, 356, 361, 377, 384, 385, 387, 392, 438, 454, 457, 469, 470n, 471–72, 479, 490, 491, 493, 496, 505, 517n, 533, 591, 593 Kalokairinos, Alexis, xiv Kalomoiris, Manolis, 369, 370n, 372, 740 Kaloyeropoulos, Dimitrios, 33n Kambanis, Aristos, 673, 673n Kanellopoulos, Panayotis, 79, 81n, 635, 636, 637, 639, 640, 672n

Kapodistrias, Ioannis, 594, 594n, 604n Karagatsis, M., 529, 530n, 840 Karaghiozis, 397 Karaïskakis, Yeoryios, 841, 842n Karajan, Herbert von, 836 Karamanlis, Constantine, 803n Karandonis, Andreas, 811n Karavias, Panos, 811n Karkavitsas, Andreas, 563, 822n Karouzou, Eleni, 10n Karthaios, Kostas, 366, 367n, 453, 455n Karyotakis, Kostas, 461n Kasdagli, Aglaïa, xv Kasdaglis, Emmanouil, 814, 815n Kasinis, K. G., xv Kasomoulis, Nikolaos, 595, 597n Kastanaki, Mili, 106, 107n, 148, 178, 247, 267 Kastanakis, Loukas, 106, 107n, 111, 137, 138, 148, 178, 181, 189, 195, 201, 240, 243, 244, 246, 277, 286, 295, 378n Kastanakis, Thrasos, 370, 371n, 400, 401n, 663–64, 674, 677, 844, 844n Katehakis, Yeoryios Apostolou, 79, 82n katharevousa (puristic Greek), xviii, 3n, 10n, 24n, 31, 31n, 41n, 44, 387, 461n, 496n, 603, 785, 785n, 791, 793, 844 Katrakis, Manos, 811, 812n, 816, 819, 822, 824, 825n, 827 Katsalaki, Georgia, xiv Katsimbalis, Yiorgos, 374n, 577n, 649n, 650, 651n, 677, 677n, 699, 710, 740, 742n; The Colossus of Marousi, 651n Kauffmann’s, 493n Kavafakis, Andreas, 242n, 264 Kavafakis, Christos, 241, 242n, 242 Kavvadias, Nikos, 548, 548n Kazantzaki, Eleni (Kazantzakis’s sister), x, xi, xii, xiii, xiv, 3n, 38, 43, 102, 104, 124n, 125, 197, 201, 232n, 254, 254n, 339, 440, 442, 464, 492, 493, 568, 572, 579, 778 Kazantzaki, Galatea (Kazantzakis’s first wife), x, xiv, xviii, 40, 41n, 45, 47, 52, 52n, 57, 58, 60, 62, 66, 68, 74, 77, 166n, 188, 190, 263, 272, 296, 370, 371n, 377, 438, 439n, 461n, 482; divorce, 518; estrangement from, 404; her troupe, 85n, 94n, 95; Men and Supermen, 832, 833n, 841, 841n; Sick City, 105, 105n, 166n, 191n, 352 Kazantzaki, Maria (Marigo) (Kazantzakis’s mother), 3n, 206, 209, 299, 695; her death, 440 Kazantzakis, Mihalis (Kazantzakis’s father), xvii, 3n, 29–30, 37, 50, 102, 206, 209 475,

Index  •  865 494, 530, 695, 709, 726; his death, 439–40, 441–42 Kazantzakis, Nikos: Alhambra speech and its consequences, 293, 293n, 294, 295, 296, 297; Antibes, 666–850; anti-Greekness, 126–27, 150, 261, 267, 275, 276, 278, 283, 288, 349, 630, 719, 723; Berlin, 105–91, 208–9; collected works, 577n, 690, 691n, 695, 704, 705, 731, 734, 747–48, 749, 751, 752, 754, 757, 761, 771, 777, 777n, 780, 781, 789, 799, 800– 801, 805, 808, 814, 815n, 837; communism, 90, 91, 93, 105–6, 115, 127, 129, 139, 144–45, 149, 170, 174, 177, 182, 197, 204, 209, 218, 241, 241n, 244, 324, 372, 499, 817; condemnation by the Church, 241n; Cretan glance, 569– 70, 571, 577, 577n, 580, 585, 699, 707; dedication to direct action, 545; desperados, 594–95, 596, 597n; dialectical method, 591, 610–11; dictionary project, x, 382, 383, 384n, 385, 386n, 387, 388n, 389, 391, 393, 405, 406, 408, 422, 434n, 439n, 711, 719; diet: trakhanas, etc., 494, 495n, 565, 569; economic woes, 541–42; eczema, lymphoid leukemia, xix, 88, 89–91, 96, 101, 627, 678, 731, 770n, 780, 816, 817n, 838, 839, 841, 844; epitaph, 375, 656, 727; European publishers, 737; five-year plan with Prevelakis, 411, 412n, 414, 416n, 420, 438, 453; Gottesgab, 349–77, 395–424; humankind versus the flame that devours humankind,” 346; illness in 1953, 743, 743n, 746–47; “Khozyain piruet,” 513, 513n, 529, 671–72; marriage to Galatea failing, 98, 100, 111, 117–18, 134–35, 136, 146, 188; metacommunism, 244, 245n, 268, 269, 279; mottos, 62n, 543, 543n, 656, 802; nationalism, 226, 273, 499, 698; “nihilism,” 832; Nova Graecia, 106, 107n, 109, 111, 115, 137; novelistic genre, 668–69; oriental preference, 71, 149, 345; personal pronouns, 245n; saint’s disease, 99, 100n, 101, 115; Sminthitsa, 565–66, 567n, 584, 584n, 603; socialist political effort in 1945, 604–5, 609, 768n, 847; spelling reform, xii, 191n, 332n, 587, 595, 597n, 782, 782n, 813n, 826n; stages: nationalism, communism, freedom, 499; threat of excommunication or religious censorship, 761–62, 763, 764, 765n, 771, 775, 776, 780, 782, 783n, 790, 790n; transitional age, 32, 176, 336, 514, 515, 640, 652, 699, 727; Vienna, 85–105; view of women, 458–59 Kazantzakis, Nikos, works: —autobiography: Report to Greco, 26n, 35n, 100n, 121n, 141n, 222n, 298n, 317n, 365,

366n, 368n, 421n, 457n, 577n, 670, 792, 797–98, 798n, 799, 802, 805, 810, 814, 817, 819, 820, 820n, 826, 829, 830, 831, 835, 838–39, 843, 845, 845n, 847 —children’s novels: Alexander the Great, In the Palaces of Knossos, 546, 548n, 572 —drama: 511, 815n; Buddha, 112, 121n, 122, 126, 128n, 128, 131, 136, 154, 167, 173, 177, 184, 185, 195, 204, 257, 258n, 334, 336, 394, 396, 411, 414; Christ, xix, 158, 164, 195, 212, 213n, 214, 243n, 248, 295, 315, 319, 320n, 350, 372, 373, 570, 838; Comedy, xviii; Christopher Columbus, 684, 735, 743, 748, 761, 847; Constantine Palaiologos, 594, 595, 596, 611, 677, 684, 734, 735n, 749; Day Is Breaking, xvii, 32–33, 35, 36n; “Faust, Part III,” 694, 695, 695n, 696, 698, 700, 702, 704, 710, 719, 723, 730–31; “Helen,” 686; “Heracles,” 132, 136, 150, 154, 195; “How Long?” 35, 36n, 42; Julian the Apostate, 62n, 401, 403n, 527, 529n, 531, 570, 571, 590, 594, 595, 644, 656, 660, 666, 675, 684; Kapodistrias, 128n, 594, 594n, 596, 599, 604, 684; Kouros (originally entitled Theseus), 683, 683n, 687, 689, 690, 691, 693, 694, 697, 704, 711, 806, 806n; The Masterbuilder, xviii, 370n, 593, 594n; Melissa, 510, 510n, 513, 570, 613, 620, 623, 630, 638, 639, 643, 660, 675; Nikiforos Fokas, xix, 100, 102, 103n, 103, 107, 115, 118, 125, 132, 136, 156, 158, 164, 168, 171, 177, 184, 188, 190, 195, 243n, 264, 272, 351, 372, 428, 433, 434n, 437, 529, 533, 570, 684; Odysseas, xix, 87, 88n, 89, 100, 102, 103, 105, 116, 122, 132, 154, 195, 219, 219n, 243n, 295, 311, 312n, 315, 323, 372, 373, 570, 660, 684; Othello Returns, 397n, 502, 508, 542, 684; Prometheus trilogy, 573, 575, 576, 578, 593, 595, 597n, 660, 670, 674, 698; Sodom and Gomorrah, 637, 638, 641, 666, 667, 672, 673, 674, 675, 683, 684, 716, 752, 759, 762, 769, 770; Yangtze (later renamed Buddha), 539, 540n, 542, 572, 575, 576, 594, 596, 814, 838, 839n —fiction: “Broken Souls,” 51, 52n, 613; Christ Recrucified, xix, 100n, 666, 668, 670, 671, 672, 673, 674, 675, 676, 682, 683, 687, 688n, 690, 691, 693, 695, 696, 697, 698, 701, 706, 707, 709, 709n, 710, 711, 723, 725, 728, 729, 730, 732, 736, 739, 742n, 743, 744, 744n, 746, 748, 748n, 749, 754n, 761, 762, 770, 770n, 771, 772, 775, 777, 781, 790, 792, 811, 819, 820, 825, 827, 836, 837n, 838, 839n; En fumant, 398, 401, 493, 494; “First Siren, The,” 51, 52n; Fratricides, 673, 678, 679, 681, 682,

866  • Index Kazantzakis, Nikos, works (cont.) 683; Freedom or Death (Kapetan Mihalis), xvii, 39n, 121n, 353n, 354–55n, 686, 687, 688, 690, 693, 694, 695, 695n, 696, 697, 698, 700, 701, 702, 706, 709, 711, 713, 715, 723, 725, 726, 741, 746–47, 750, 751, 754, 755, 756, 759, 764, 765n, 765, 769, 771, 772, 777, 782, 792, 800, 802, 803n, 804; “Grandfather’s Death,” 638, 638n, 643, 644, 645, 647, 653, 658; Le Jardin des rochers, 497, 498, 508, 566; Kapétan Élia, 356, 357–58, 361; The Last Temptation, ix, 26n, 551, 551n, 570, 698, 698n, 702, 703n, 704, 707, 710, 714, 715, 716, 717, 719, 723, 724–25, 729, 732, 733n, 737, 739, 741, 742n, 758–59, 759n, 761, 764, 771, 804, 807, 807n, 808, 825; Mama Mary, 505n, 511; Mon père, 492, 497, 498, 530, 530n, 531, 532; A Rainy Day, 382, 383, 398; Saint Francis, 366n, 735, 735n, 737, 739, 741, 743, 744, 745, 746, 748, 749, 750, 754, 756, 761, 763, 768, 769, 781, 825, 832, 849; Serpent and Lily, xvii, 33n, 612, 613n; TodaRaba, 88n, 121n, 350n, 351, 355, 356, 357–58, 359n, 361, 363, 363n, 370, 371n, 382, 383, 390n, 391, 394, 395, 400, 402, 409, 412, 419, 421n, 427, 429, 430, 480, 490, 531, 634, 808n; Zorba the Greek, ix, xix, 68n, 541, 541n, 542, 575, 576, 619, 619n, 620, 626, 626n, 627, 631, 633, 634, 636, 637n, 638, 639, 642, 646, 647, 649, 656, 658, 660, 666, 671, 674, 675, 676, 678, 680n, 684, 686, 687, 696, 699, 704, 707, 709, 711, 712, 723, 733, 736, 749, 755, 768, 771, 772, 804, 846 —Iliad translation: 547, 549, 551–54, 556–60, 562–64, 572, 574, 575, 578, 599, 602, 623, 625, 633, 642, 674, 682, 699, 705, 732, 734, 735, 743, 745, 746, 750, 751, 754, 780, 782, 783, 784, 785, 786, 787, 789, 790–91, 793–94, 798, 800, 802, 803, 806, 807, 813, 814, 828, 834; its seventeen-syllable line, 646 —novelistic biographies: Columbus, Empress Elizabeth, Bernadotte, Chateaubriand, 542, 546 —poetry (epic): Odyssey, x, 74n, 121n, 212, 213, 215, 217n, 220, 243, 246, 247, 248n 255, 256, 256n, 258, 262, 265, 266, 273, 274, 279, 295, 297, 299, 304, 305, 308, 311, 315, 319, 322, 323, 323n, 324, 325, 326, 330, 335, 336, 339, 342, 343, 350–51, 361, 402, 404, 474, 502n, 512, 513, 518, 520, 521, 529, 577, 580, 587–89, 592, 646, 668, 700n, 702, 708, 717, 737, 745, 760, 774, 778, 799, 800n, 801, 804, 813, 818; copying, 417–18; glossary, 545, 563,

564–65n, 691, 723, 839; its meter, 247, 248n, 294, 325, 365, 375, 394, 412, 646; publication, 516, 517, 517n, 582, 672, 737, 759, 780, 814n; reviews of and commentary upon, 524n, 525, 528, 529, 561, 566, 569–70, 577, 580, 585, 586n, 618, 667, 706, 707; translation into English, 654, 655, 658, 660, 661, 662–63, 664, 718n, 763–64, 766–67, 767n, 768–69, 778, 779, 782, 796, 809, 811, 812, 815, 816, 830, 835, 847; various drafts, 348, 356, 357, 362, 364, 368, 370, 373, 374, 376, 395, 398, 407, 408, 409, 426, 438, 443, 447, 463, 464, 469, 472, 477, 486 —poetry (terza rima): Terzinas, 353n, 439n, 443, 445, 448, 452, 454n, 455, 456–57, 472, 474, 475, 476n, 478, 479, 506 —philosophy, politics, etc.: Askitiki, x, 104, 136–37, 138n, 141–42, 143, 146, 151–52, 153, 154, 159, 160, 161, 173, 182–83, 189, 190, 198, 201, 209, 245n, 261, 262, 263n, 263, 266, 267, 268, 270, 272, 277, 279, 292, 311, 312, 314, 315, 315n, 390, 407, 512, 529, 532, 533, 572, 595, 611, 613, 627, 642, 674, 692, 694, 699, 700n, 703, 717, 718n, 722, 746, 748, 774, 777, 788, 789n, 792, 804; “Confession of Faith,” 212n; “Crucified Russia,” 241n, 301; doctoral dissertation on Nietzsche, 49, 52n; “The First Sirens,” 534, 534n, 535; “For Our Youth,” xviii; “Has Science Gone Bankrupt,” xviii; “The Immortal Free Spirit of Man,” 629, 629n; “Letters to My Wife,” 172, 174n, 176, 177, 180, 182; Russian Literature, 373, 376, 377, 379; “The Sickness of the Century,” xvii; “Survey of Soviet Russia,” 241n; Symposium, 109, 110n —schoolbooks: 56, 57n, 123, 166n, 166, 383, 389; histories, 88n, 147, 150, 151n, 156, 166, 174, 196, 204, 469, 470n, 491 —screenplays: 292, 299, 300, 301, 302, 307–8; Buddha, 302, 303, 310, 311, 315, 396, 402, 404, 407, 412, 413; The Decameron, 417, 418, 420; Don Quixote, 410, 413, 415–16, 418, 420; An Eclipse of the Sun, 413, 416n; Lenin, 310, 311, 314; Muhammad, 411, 414, 417, 418; Nikiforos Fokas, 430, 433; The Red Kerchief, 303, 305, 306n, 308, 310, 314 —travel: 293, 295–96, 301, 303, 352, 400; “China,” 492n; Du Mont Sinaï à l’île de Vénus, 847, 848n; England, 529, 533, 534, 535, 610, 649n; “Following the Red Star,” 319; “Homo Bolchevicus,” “Homo Metabolchevicus,” 330; “Japan,” 492n, 513; JapanChina, 517n, 525, 525n, 782; “Moscou a crié”

Index  •  867 (Toda-Raba), 349, 350; Peloponnese, 507, 508, 509n; “Russia,” 241, 582, 583n; Spain, 532; Spanish articles, 460–61; Traveling (Spain, Italy, Egypt, Sinai), 293, 572, 575, 576; “What I Saw in Russia,” 276n, 312, 367n Kazantzakis Museum, xiii, xiv, xvii, 3n, 210n, 613n Kazantzis, Vasilis, 611, 612n Kazazis, Neoklis, 21, 21n, 28, 194, 196n Kefallinos, Yannis, 694, 695n, 701, 770, 830, 830n, 844, 847 Kerenyi, Károly, 811n Keyserling, Count Herman, 150, 151n, 429 King, Muriel, xv King Constantine, 62n, 119n King George II, 144n, 497n Kintzios, Vasilis, 564, 565n, 567, 568, 569, 577, 585, 587, 593, 607, 823 Kisch, Egon Erwin, 339, 340n Klabund (Alfred Henschke), 106, 108n Kleanthous, Myrsini (Kyra), 73, 74n, 74, 75, 168, 170 Knös, Börje, 626, 627, 629n, 630, 633, 639, 641, 650, 651n, 651, 654, 658, 665, 667, 689, 699, 701, 708, 709, 713, 721, 735, 742, 748, 750, 764n, 772, 777, 783, 792, 811n, 831 Knosos, 220 Kokkinos, Dionysios A., 734, 735n Kollaros, I. D., 751, 751n, 752, 787, 812 Kollwitz, Käthe, 113, 114n, 281 Kolokotronis, Theodoros, 475–76, 602, 602–3n, 603–4n Komninou, Olga (Kakridis’s wife), 681, 682n, 751, 753 Kondilis, Yeoryios, 242n Kondoglou, Photis, 122, 123, 123n, 129, 132, 135, 138, 140, 150, 271, 728 Kondylakis, Ioannis, 9, 10n, 353, 354n Kondylis, Yeoryios, 496, 497n Konstantarakis, Ioannis (also Kostantarakis), 24, 26n, 765, 766n Korakas, Mihalis, 26n, 354n, 765, 766n Kordatos, Yannis, 180, 181n, 547 Kornaros, Vitzentzos, 44, 45n, 115, 191 Kotopouli, Marika, 33, 34n, 586–87n Kotzioulas, Yorgos, 837, 838n Koukoules, Phaidon I., 783, 784n Koun, Karolos, 590, 590n, 817n Kounalakis, Mihalis, 11, 12n Kourmoulides, 354n Kovaiou, Eleni, xiii Kriaras, Emmanuel, 545n Ksopateras, 354, 355n

Kubelík, Rafael, 836 Kyra. See Kleanthous, Myrsini Kyrou, Achilleus, 402, 403n Lacarrière, Jacques, 825, 825n Lahanas, Vasilis, 262, 263n, 276n, 311, 319, 370, 377, 432 Lala Frank, 445, 446n Lalande, Michel-Richard de, 832 Lamartine, Alphonse de, 8, 10n Lambrakis, Dimitrios, 444, 446n Lambridi, Elli, xix, 73, 74n, 74, 258n, 262, 263, 264, 266, 312, 316, 351, 389, 428, 517n, 639, 640n; “Bitter Glass,” 630; estrangement from, 306, 412, 616, 631; her friend Loukia, xiv, 258n; her niece, xv Lambrotasos’s (Tasolambros’s) tirade, 648, 649n Lange, Elsa (Elizabeth), 179, 212, 218, 218n, 236, 237, 243, 244, 246, 251, 256, 309 language question, 31, 43, 44 Laonikos Chalkokondyles, 677, 677n Laourdas, Vasileios, 561, 561n, 566, 568, 569, 570, 571, 577, 577n, 579, 580, 582, 584, 595, 750, 751 La Roche, Jacob, 551, 552n, 554, 563 Lasault, F. de, 574, 574n Lavagnini, Bruno, 684, 685n, 789 Lawrence, D. H., x Laxness, Halldór, 806n Lazou, Lia, xv League of Nations screenplay competition, 413–14 Leah. See Dunkelblum, Leah Lebesgue, Philéas, 372, 374n Legrand, Émile, 557, 558n Lehmann, John, 736, 738n Leibniz, Gottfried, 388 Lekatsas, Panayis, 540, 541n, 578 Lenin, Vladimir, 90, 92n, 139, 146, 147n, 149, 169–70, 171n, 266, 274, 275, 377, 378n, 424, 452, 624n, 839 Leon el Majo. See Bronstein Leonidze, Giorgi, 288, 289n Levantas, Christos, 823, 824n Leventis, Andonis, xiv Levesque, Robert, 677, 677n Levi, Doro, 222n, 277, 410, 410n, 802 Levi, Edwige, 221, 222n, 339 Libanius, 401, 403n Lidio-Lidia (Calandra), 425, 425n, 427, 445, 448, 644, 644n, 647 Lilika. See Alexiou, Elli

868  • Index Lipstein, Rahel, 120, 121n, 142, 217, 218, 218n, 230, 236, 237, 242, 243, 276n, 338, 340n, 507, 685 Lloyd George, David, 80, 82n Lombroso, Cesare, 34, 36n López, José, 425, 425n, 430, 437, 438 Lorca, Federico García, 431, 431n, 644 Lord Alfred Tennyson, 778n Lord Byron, 155, 376n, 752n Lord Halifax, 526 Luther, Martin, 199, 201n, 602 Luxemburg, Rosa, 86, 88n, 111, 113n, 115, 121n, 378n Machado, Antonio, 461, 462n, 465 Machiavelli, Niccolò, 438 Mackridge, Peter, xi, xiii, 31n, 560n MacLeod, Miss Josephine, 517n, 527, 737 Makriyannis, General Ioannis, 127n, 602 Malagón-Kurka, Maria Margarita, xv Malakasis, Miltiadis, 586 Malonyay, Tomás de. See Thomas the painter Malraux, André, 642n Mamakis, Achilles, 752, 753n, 827 Mandragola, 437, 438n Manglis, Yannis, 531, 531n, 565, 566, 808, 808n, 823 Mann, Thomas, 730, 733, 737, 792 Manolis. See Georgiadis, Emmanuel Manos, Konstantinos, 25, 26n Manzoni, Alessandro, 8, 10n Marantis, G., 353, 354n, 359, 360n Maridakis, Yeoryios, 741, 742n Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso, 194, 196n Marion, Paul Jules André, 379, 379n Maris, Yeoryios, 368, 369n, 372n, 373 Maritain, Jacques, 803n Markos. See Vafiadis, Markos Marousi, Jenny, 93, 94n, 96, 100, 101, 105, 106, 113, 123, 132, 137, 138, 150, 156, 163, 168, 179, 180, 198 Marquis de la Vega Inclán, 399, 399n Marselos, Athanasios, 472, 473n, 474, 490 Martin-du-Gard, Maurice, 475n Martinu, Bohuslav, xv, 769, 769n, 771, 775, 781, 790, 836, 837, 838n, 849 Marx, Karl, 149, 698 Marxism, 173, 292, 355 Masereel, Franz, 419, 421n Masters, Edgar Lee, 429, 431n Mata Hari, 402, 404n Matsoukas, Spyros, 194, 196n, 396, 397n Mauclair, Camille, 412, 413n, 415

Mauriac, François, 654, 655n Mavilis, Lorentsos, 55, 55n Mavridis, Aristidis, 340n, 745, 751, 752, 754, 801 Mavrogordato, John, 520n Maximos, Serapheim, 316, 316n, 636n Mazon, Paul, 554, 555, 555n Melachrinos, Apostolos, 402, 404n, 405, 424, 444, 438, 453, 454, 472, 477, 478 Melas, Spyros, 516, 517n, 704, 734, 752, 761, 768, 777, 780, 783n, 783 Menendez Pidal, Ramón, 436, 437n Meranaios, Kostis, 612, 613n Mercouri, Melina, 803n Merezhkovsky, Dmitry, 401, 402, 403n Merlier, Octave, 612, 626, 628n, 667, 674, 692, 694, 699, 702–3, 705, 717, 722, 735, 745, 789, 792, 811n, 848; French Institute, 701, 848 Michalakis. See Saklambanis, Mihalis Michalakopoulos, Andreas, 369n, 393 Michelangelo, 199 Michelidakis, Andonios, 7, 9n, 16, 24, 27, 28 Miller, Henry, 651n, 810, 810n Milliex, Roger, 649, 650n Milton, John, x, 623, 624n Mims, Amy, xv Minotis, Alexis, 486n, 490, 495, 510, 517n, 527, 538, 541, 628n, 630, 639, 704, 748, 781, 800, 811n, 824 Mirambel, André, 378n, 705, 706n, 711, 719, 777, 811n Mistriotis, Georgios K., 2, 3n Mitarakis, Yannis, 770, 770n Mitropoulos, Dimitri, 214, 214n, 849 Mohammed, 109, 452 Moissi, Alexander, 273 Montaigne, Michel de, 644, 645n Monteverdi, Claudio, 832 Montherlant, Henry de, 433, 434n Morand, Paul, 418, 420, 420n Morgan, Charles, 619, 619n Moschos, S., 674, 675n, 675, 678, 698 Moscow, ix, 225, 229–30, 237, 250, 268, 273, 275, 286 Moses, 452, 758 Mourellos, Ioannis, 447, 449n Mousouris, Spyros, 339, 340n, 358, 359 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 398, 832 Mudita. See Lambridi, Elli Mukerji, Dhan Gopal, 410, 411, 412n, 415 Mussolini, Benito, 193, 351, 496 Myconos, 237 Myrivilis, Stratis, 595, 597n, 677 Myrtia, xiii, xvii, 3n

Index  •  869 Myrtiotissa, 825, 825n Mystakidis, Andonis (Mesevrinos), 821, 821n Naar, Devin E., xv Nachman of Breslov, 491 Nakou, Lilika, 85n, 96, 463, 547, 548n National Theater, 512, 820, 824, 826, 839, 848 Naxos, xvii, 221, 222n Nazos, Yiorgos, 319, 320n, 356, 357, 461, 461n; estrangement from, 404, 406n Nefertiti. See Lipstein, Rahel New Testament, xviii, 65 Nice, 789 Nielsen, Don Morgan, xv Nietzsche, Friedrich, xviii, xix, 178, 179n, 400, 406, 476n, 594, 613n; Kazantzakis’s dissertation, 49n, 50, 51n, 51, 69, 476n Nikolaevna Tamanchiev, Barbara, 80, 82n Nikolaïdi-Theodoridi, Aliki (daughter of Kyveli), 504, 504n, 505–7 Nikolareïzis, Dimitrios, 667, 667n Nikolidaki, Kallia, xv Nilsson, Martin P., 613, 614n Nobel Prize, 67n, 613, 624n, 621, 622, 625, 627, 630, 633, 634, 638, 641–42, 654, 658, 671, 672n, 709, 710, 711n, 722, 725, 726n, 731, 731n, 738, 740, 741, 792, 805, 806n, 827, 830, 831, 837 Notaras, Loukas, 596, 598n Noumas, 33n Olivier, Laurence, 623, 624n Ortega y Gasset, José, 427, 428n, 429, 430–31, 456, 457, 598, 599n Oscadel, Francis X., xv Osoi zondanoi, 106, 107n, 109 Ossendowski, Ferdynand Antoni, 627, 628n Otto of Bavaria, 604n Ouranis, Kostas, 396, 396n, 400, 401n, 740 Ovid, 778n Owens, Gareth, xv Owens, Lewis, xv Palamas, Kostis, ix, xv, 40, 41n, 95n, 144, 155, 245, 377, 461n, 474, 521n, 562n, 586, 586n, 591, 592n, 621, 822n Pallis, Alexandros, 472, 473n, 474, 476n, 521n, 547, 551, 552, 553, 554, 572, 594, 785, 794, 798 Panayotopoulos, Ioannis M., 529, 530n, 612, 648, 649n, 660, 703, 744, 811n, 814 Pandou, Mary (Eleni Samiou’s cousin), 392, 418, 438, 454n, 457, 607 Papachristodoulou, Polydoros, 740, 742n

Papadiamantis, Alexandros, 529, 530n, 562n, 624n Papadiamantopoulos, Ioannis, 11, 12n Papagos, Alexandros, 802, 803n Papaïoannou, Katy, 85n, 266, 270, 272, 291, 300, 463, 526 Papaïoannou, Marika (later the wife of Emile Hourmouzios), 85n, 221, 240, 246, 256, 266, 268, 270, 272, 291, 295, 300, 330, 331, 340, 419, 461n, 462, 463, 464, 517n, 526, 570, 571, 585, 612, 618n, 693, 739, 748 Papanastasiou, Alexandros, 105, 107n, 262, 263n, 373, 478 Papandoniou, Zaharios, 359, 360n Papandreou, George (1888–1968), 105, 107n, 155, 156, 157, 164, 168, 174, 257, 262, 266, 267, 268, 368, 369, 369n, 372n, 373, 376, 377, 387, 477, 478n, 554, 568, 599n, 601, 608n, 635, 636, 637, 639, 640, 771, 776, 789 Papanoutsos, Evagelos, 402, 403n, 814 Paparrigopoulos, Konstantinos, 596, 597n Papas, Nikos, 618n, 647, 673, 677, 715 Papastavrou, Krinio, 619, 621n Papastefanou, Rev. Emmanuel, xv, 110n, 157, 757, 758 Papathanasopoulos, Thanasis, 565n Papatzonis, Takis, 472, 473n, 761n Papavasiliou, Chryso, 678, 679n Pappa, Hypatia, 469, 470n, 472 Paraschos, Achilles, 8, 10n Paraschos, Kleon, 319, 320n, 529n Paris, 37–39, 68, 69, 80, 619, 627, 628, 629, 630; Colonial Exposition, 392n, 393, 394–95; estrangement from, 337, 378, 379, 406 Parthenis, K., 601n Patatzis, Sotiris, 647, 648n, 681, 681n Patriarch Gregory V, 16, 17n Paxinou, Katina, 486n, 627, 628n, 630, 653, 675, 676n, 704, 762 Peace Prize, 817, 819, 819n, 820 Pelagius, 849 Pergamum, 425 Pericles, 6n Persaki, Julia, 478, 478n, 534, 537 Petrarch, Francesco, 792, 793n Petre, Ben, xv, 592 Petreas, Yeoryios, 811n Petrokokkinos, Dimitrios Pavlos, 472, 473n, 474 Pezopoulou-Lambrou, Hero, 623, 624n Phidias, 6n Philaras, Leonardos, 758 Philippides, Stamatis, xiii

870  • Index Philippidis, Chrysanthos (metropolitan of Trebizond). See Chrysanthos Phodele. See El Greco Phrantzis, Yeoryios, 596, 598n, 677, 677n Piccard, Auguste, 420, 421n Pindar, 585, 586n, 589, 599n, 633, 778n, 803 Pirandello, Luigi, Questa sera si recita a soggeto, 397n Plastiras, Colonel Nikolaos, 118n, 124, 125n, 130, 692n, 697 Plato, 35n, 109, 110n, 216, 217n, 368, 369n, 376, 377, 379, 462, 766n, 795n Plon, 830; Feux Croisés, 830, 830n; Paris celebration, 839, 844, 845, 845n, 847 Ploritis, Marios, 761, 762n Plotinus, 63, 63n, 129, 130n, 557n, 795n Plutarch, 333n Poe, Edgar Allan, 850n Poincaré, Raymond, 144, 145n Polemarkhakis, Heracles, 24, 26n, 27, 35, 53, 54, 59, 97 Politis, Alexis, xiii Politis, Fotos, 272, 274n, 479, 479n Politis, Ioannis, 80, 82n Politis, Nikolaos G., 479n Polly. See Samiou, Polly Polychronakis, Constantine P., 495, 496n Polylas, Iakovos, 551, 552n, 553 Pompeii, 196–97, 820 Popov, Barbara, 80, 82n Porfyroyenis, Miltiadis, 679n Poriotis, Nikolaos, 294, 294n, 362, 453, 455n, 476n, 558 postmodernism, 523n Pouliopoulos, Nikos, 767, 768n, 847 Pourgouras, Anastasios, xv Prassinos, Gisèle, 825, 825n Prastovas, 70, 71n, 129, 130n, 364, 675 Prevelakis, Eleftherios, xiii, 391, 464, 669n, 690, 691n Prevelakis, Pandelis, xi, xii, xiv, 232n, 267n, 298, 311, 312n, 318, 339, 365–66, 366n, 372n, 373, 383, 386–87, 400, 401, 402, 403n, 405, 412, 414, 432, 444n, 450n, 451, 461, 462, 479, 49n, 489n, 502, 503, 507, 513, 533, 562n, 572, 612, 617n, 621, 622, 629n, 637, 650, 660, 660n, 667, 669, 670, 674, 675n, 677, 687, 690, 694, 696n, 701n, 704, 710, 717, 719, 723, 744, 745, 752, 761, 766n, 770, 770n, 772, 781, 787, 791, 799, 800, 801, 804, 805, 807, 807n, 811, 814, 815n, 820, 826, 829, 830, 838, 839, 844–45, 845n, 847, 851; his archive, xiii; his excisions from the letters, 263n

Primo de Rivera, Miguel, 232n Prince George of Greece, 9, 10n, 24, 25, 26, 26n, 27, 28n, 516, 783n Prince Louis-Victor de Broglie, 629, 629n, 656 prodigal son (parable of), 333, 334n Progrès, Le, xv, 447, 449n Prokopiou, Angelos, 618n Prometheus, 139, 480, 659n Proust, Marcel, 40n, 320 Provelengios, Aristomenis, 538, 539n, 811 Psiharis, Yannis, xi–xii, 31, 31n, 43, 44, 202, 359, 360n, 360, 378n, 455, 461n, 472, 474, 475, 476, 521n, 621, 706n, 756, 756n Ptohoprodromos, 557, 558n Pudovkin, V. I., 332n Purcell, Henry, 832 puristic Greek. See katharevousa Pushkin, Alexander, 271 Queen Frederika, 792, 793n Quevedo, Francisco Gómez de, 443, 446n Quintus Smyrnaeus, 604n Rabelais, François, 602 Raftopoulos, Joseph, 202, 205n Rahel. See Lipstein, Rahel Rainer, Ulrike, xv Rappoport, Charles, 282, 285n Rassias, John A., xv Rathenau, Walther, 94, 95n recipients: Alexiou, Elli: 587; Alexiou, Lefteris: 224, 794, 832; Androulidakis, Thrasyvoulos: 822; Anemoyanni, Tea: 617, 619, 636, 643, 738; Anemoyannis, Andonis: 4, 7, 10, 12, 17, 19, 29, 245; Anghelaki, Katerina: 669, 753; Anghelakis, Ioannis (and sometimes Mrs. Anghelaki or the entire family): 67, 68, 69, 70, 75, 78, 390, 394, 421, 518, 657, 703, 712, 724, 727, 795, 797, 848; Bastias, Kostis: 511; Cleridou, Chrysanthi: 626; Dalven, Rae: 653, 655, 661, 664; Delmouzos, Alexandros: 604; Diamantaras, Stamos: 501, 516, 529, 530, 531, 532, 533, 540, 546, 552, 571, 576, 579, 581; Diktaios, Aris: 498, 511, 803; Dimakis, Minas: 512, 672, 697, 706; Dunkelbum, Leah: 434, 514, 714; Fanourakis, Yeoryios, 842; Fotiadis, Dimitris, 841; Freris, Velsarios: 248; Friar, Kimon: 542, 716, 721, 759, 766, 779, 788, 796, 809 (twice), 812, 815, 818, 821, 829, 835, 841, 850 (twice), 851; Haris, Petros: 525, 756, 775, 810; HatzikyriakosGhikas, Nikos: 592; Hatzinis, Yannis, 518,

Index  •  871 610; Historical Museum of Crete, 833; Hourmouzios, Emile: 460, 514, 520, 569, 570, 583, 585, 587, 591, 594, 612, 692, 733, 746; Istrati, Panaït: 306, 450, 458, 480; Jiménez, Juan Ramón: 436, 442, 461, 465; Kakridis, Yannis: 549, 551, 553, 554, 555, 557, 558, 559, 562, 573, 578, 599, 602, 613, 624, 632, 641, 651, 654, 681, 698, 705, 735, 744, 750, 755, 783, 784, 786, 790, 793, 798, 803, 806, 818, 820, 834, 848; Kalmouchos, Takis: 297; Kaloyeropoulos, Dimitrios: 31, 39, 45, 47; Karagatsis, M.: 840; Kastanakis, Thrasos: 470, 650, 663 675, 678, 679, 680, 764, 773, 843; Kazantzaki, Eleni (Kazantzakis’s sister): 18, 48, 50, 53, 54, 61, 62; Kazantzaki, Eleni (Kazantzakis’s second wife): 606, 615, 618, 626; Kazantzaki, Galatea (Kazantzakis’s first wife): 82, 84, 85, 88, 89, 92, 94, 95, 97, 98, 101, 103, 105, 110, 114, 116, 117, 121, 124, 125, 128, 130, 133, 136, 138, 144, 145, 148, 154, 157, 161, 164, 166, 168, 171, 175, 178, 180, 181, 186, 188, 191, 193, 196, 199, 202; Kazantzaki, Maria (Kazantzakis’s mother): 18, 37, 38, 42; Kazantzakis, Mihalis (Kazantzakis’s father): 1, 41, 42–43, 54, 56, 229, 235, 254, 269, 281, 291, 293; Kintzios, Vasilis: 569; Knös, Börje: 628, 631, 633, 645, 652, 656, 657, 665, 667, 676, 682, 684, 685, 688, 691, 696, 702, 708 (twice), 713, 715, 720, 724, 727, 728, 732, 742, 749, 758, 763, 768, 776, 791, 801, 831, 837; Konstantarakis, Ioannis: 765; Kostantoulakis, K. (= Aris Diktaios): 498; Koun, Karolos: 590; Kriaras, Emmanuel: 544, 643, 828; Lambridi, Elli: 227, 257, 259, 279, 287, 289, 317, 407; Lange, Elsa: 179; Laourdas, Vasileios 561; Levi, Edwige: 221, 222, 225, 231, 276, 296, 320, 374, 409, 435, 644; Lipstein, Rahel: 685, 716; Martinu, Bohuslav: 769, 770, 775, 836, 849; Minotis, Alexis: 485, 502, 509; Myrtiotissa, 825; Palamas, Kostis: 43, 45n, 46, 219; Papaïoannou, Marika (later the wife of Emile Hourmouzios): 525; Papastefanou, Rev. Emmanuel: 108, 119, 141, 151, 158, 182, 215, 757; Pouliopoulos, Nikos: 767; Prevelakis, Pandelis: 231, 254, 261, 263, 264, 271, 274, 282, 293, 304, 310, 314, 315, 318, 321, 323, 327, 332, 335, 337, 340, 341, 347, 349, 350, 352, 356, 357, 360, 362, 364, 365, 367, 368, 370, 372, 376, 378, 382, 385, 386, 388, 391, 393, 395, 397, 399, 401, 404, 410, 413, 416, 424, 426, 429, 432, 437, 441, 443, 446, 452, 455, 467, 469, 471, 473, 476, 477, 478, 489, 497 (twice),

498, 510, 513, 521, 523, 527, 530, 539, 541, 543, 545, 550, 575, 598, 611, 622, 630, 635, 637, 639, 647, 648, 659, 666, 668, 670, 673, 686, 689, 694, 700, 703, 710, 718, 722, 730, 740, 745, 747, 753, 761, 762, 770, 780, 781, 799, 805, 807, 813, 817, 819, 824, 826, 829, 838, 844, 846, 851; Rousopoulou, Agni: 751, 752, 771, 772, 776, 778, 789, 800, 804, 808, 811, 816, 827; Sachinis, Apostolos: 707, 773, 807; Saklambani, Anestasia (Kazantzakis’s sister): 298; Saklambanis, Mihalis (Anestasia’s husband): 55; Samiou, Eleni (Kazantzakis’s future second wife): 206, 208, 211, 213, 214, 217, 219, 225, 229, 232, 234, 235, 238, 240, 242, 244, 245, 248, 249, 251, 252, 255, 260, 265, 267, 269, 272, 277, 285, 291, 294, 299, 301, 303, 307, 312, 329, 338, 342, 345, 380, 439, 462, 466, 480, 483, 486, 489, 492, 494, 500, 503, 504, 505 (twice), 506 (twice), 507, 510, 515, 524, 534, 537, 565, 568, 605, 606; Schuster, Max: 736; Serge, Victor: 355; Sikelianos, Angelos: 133, 210, 543, 549, 550, 556, 560, 586, 590, 593, 600, 601, 608, 621; Sofoulis, Themistocles: 609; Stavridakis, Yannis: 71, 72, 74, 77, 79; Stefanidis, Harilaos: 15, 22, 24, 27, 34, 56, 58, 59, 115, 325, 334, 353, 384, 495; Stratakis, Nikolaos, 843; Tau, Max: 726, 730, 731; Theotokas, Yorgos: 580, 593; Tsiridanis: 30; Tsouderos, Emmanouil: 609, 640; Tzelepis, Panos-Nikolis: 756; Vitti, Mario: 743, 744; Vlachos, Yeoryios: 659; Waterlow, Sir Sydney: 526, 535; Zervos, Ioannis: 49, 51, 60, 63, 64, 65; Zorbas, Andreas, 846; Zorbas, Yeoryis: 66 Reinhart, Kevin, xv Rembrandt van Rijn, 432, 739 Remizov, Aleksei, 131, 132n Rendis, Konstantinos, 610, 610n Richet, Charles Robert, 34, 36n Rigas Feraios (Rigas Velestinlis), 15, 17n Rilke, Rainer Maria, 330, 331n, 376, 378n, 479, 479n Ritsos, Yannis, ix, 653n Rizospastis, 180, 181n, 182 Roilos, Panayotis, xv Roïs, Yeoryios, 607, 608n Rolland, Romain, 217, 352, 419, 509n, 597n, 624n Romanos the Melodist, 21n Rondiris, Dimitrios, 704, 705n Rotas, Vasilis, 191, 191n Roth, Joseph, 339, 340n

872  • Index Rousopoulou-Stouditou, Agni, 447, 748n, 750, 751, 752, 755, 761, 772, 787, 789, 796, 799, 800–801, 805, 810, 811, 816, 819 Royal Theater, 510, 512n, 528, 539 Rubio, Timoteo Pérez, 425, 425n, 427, 430, 432, 439, 445, 462, 464, 466 Ruiz, Juan, 443, 446n Russia, 127, 130–31, 133, 143, 155, 157, 159, 163, 165, 168, 173, 175, 184, 194, 198, 212, 226, 227, 228, 229, 241, 241n, 243, 268, 269, 276, 297, 328, 341, 348; estrangement from, 301, 313, 332–33, 361–62 Russian language, xv, 137, 148, 157, 292, 303 Ruttmann, Walter, 417, 418, 420, 420n Sachinis, Apostolos, 706, 707n Saint Augustine, 849 Saint Basil the Great, 401, 403n Saint Demetrios of Thessaloniki, 544, 544n, 613 Saint Eleni, 740n Saint Francis, 129, 203, 402, 475, 732, 733, 738, 738n, 743 Saint George, 475, 544, 544n Saint George the Hunter’s monastery, 257, 258n, 262, 264 Saint Gregory of Nazianzus, 401, 403n Saint Irenaeus of Lyons, 72n Saint John Chrysostom, 530n Saint John of Damascus, 424n Saint Simeon Stylites, 370n Saint Teresa, 239, 390, 420, 421n, 439, 475, 500n, 732 Saklambani, Anestasia (Kazantzakis’s sister), 3n, 38, 43, 62, 90, 221, 229, 235, 282, 291, 293 Saklambani, Kleio (Kazantzakis’s niece), 802 Saklambanis, Mihalis (Anestasia’s husband), 25, 26n, 27, 53, 61, 62, 298, 299 Saklambanis, Nikos (Kazantzakis’s nephew), 627, 628n, 780, 788, 802, 833 Salinas, Pedro, 461, 462n, 465 Samarkand, 341–42 Samiou, Eleni (after 11 November 1945 equals Eleni Kazantzaki, Kazantzakis’s second wife), 207n, 312, 325, 341, 385, 398, 403, 410, 415, 419, 424, 428, 441, 444, 445, 447, 448, 453, 458, 465n, 472n, 473, 479, 489, 492, 526, 531, 537, 546, 553, 554, 555, 568, 570, 572, 573, 579n, 584, 615, 596, 599, 603, 607, 616, 618, 623, 648, 662, 669, 671, 678, 694, 700– 701, 702, 703, 704, 709, 715, 721, 725, 729, 731, 736, 739, 743, 745, 749, 751, 752, 769, 770, 770n, 781, 784, 788, 791, 796, 806, 811n, 814, 819, 820, 823, 834, 837, 847, 849; her

book on Istrati, 505n, 515, 516n; marriage, 518–19, 608n Samiou, Polly (Eleni Samiou’s sister), 218, 218n, 240, 295, 482, 504 San Juan de la Cruz, 443, 446n Sanoudakis, Andonis, 513n Sarandopoulos, Kostas, 751, 751n Saridakis, Yioryios, 75, 75n, 188 Sarita Halpern, 427, 428n, 430 Savidis, George, 778n Savigny, Friedrich Carl von, 8, 10n Sbarounis, Athanasios, 592, 592n, 636, 745, 745n Schadewaldt, Wolfgang, 555, 555n Scherr, Barry, xv Schlumberger, Gustave, 677, 677n Schopenhauer, Arthur, 613n Schuster, Max, xiii, 733, 736, 738n, 759, 762, 763, 766, 768, 779, 796, 810, 818 Schweitzer, Albert, 733, 749, 792, 796, 798 science, 152 Scott, William C., xv Second World War, 520n, 526, 528, 530, 538, 552, 591n, 599, 599n, 627, 672n, 812n, 823 Seferis, Yorgos, ix, 646–47n, 648n, 649n, 665, 706n, 715, 761n, 778n Segredakis, Manolis, 433, 434, 510 Segrédakis, Nicolas, 633, 634n Semertzidis, Valias, 531, 531n, 546, 806 Seneca, 778n Sengopoulos, Alekos, 470n Sengopoulou, Rika, 469, 470n Sent M’Ahesa, 140–41, 141n, 163, 242, 273 Sepuagint Old Testament, 28 Serbia, 84–85 Serge, Victor, 325n, 355, 356n Severyns, Albert, 557, 558n Sfakianakis, Kostas, 25, 26n, 67, 86, 88n, 96, 101, 102, 106, 116, 126, 163, 247, 351 Sfakianakis, Yannis, 618n Sfakianos, 109 Shakespeare, William, 155, 474, 492, 509, 510, 521, 523n, 526, 529, 624n, 696n, 778n Shaw, George Bernard, ix, 40n, 402, 404n, 622 Shestov, Lev, 131, 132n Shevchenko, Taras Hryhorovych, 299, 301n Siantos, Yioryis, 681n Siberia, 300, 310, 327–28 Sideris, Yannis, 574, 574n, 799 Sikelianos, Angelos, xviii, 61n, 63n, 66n, 86, 94, 95n, 100, 109, 113, 114n, 116, 123, 155, 193, 290, 306n, 363, 370, 407, 517n, 551, 556–57, 562n, 608, 608n, 647, 648, 648n, 671, 694,

Index  •  873 695n, 710, 711, 718, 720, 721, 722, 723, 724n, 740, 806; estrangement from, 133, 133n, 163, 198, 362, 408n; Delphic program, 108n, 211n, 362n, 372n, 389, 390n, 396, 397n; Nobel Prize, 613, 614, 621, 622–23, 625, 638, 639; reconciliation, 544, 549, 549n, 550, 560, 586, 591, 593 Sikelianou, Anna, 549, 557, 591, 608, 806 Sikelianou, Eva (née Palmer), 106, 107n, 562, 564n silence, 182–83, 314 Silius Italicus, 668n, 696n Sinai, Mount, 250, 251–52 Singapore, 483–85 Sipriot interviews, 847, 848n Skemer, Don, xv Skipis, Sotiris, 147, 148n, 432, 518, 734, 735n Skliros, Aristidis, 68, 69n, 70, 71 Skordilis, Andreas, 59, 60n, 65n Skouriotis, Panayis, 106, 107n, 257, 264, 389, 390n, 467 Socrates, 34, 35n, 296; his “Apology,” 296n Sodom and Gomorrah, 758n Sofianopoulos, Ioannis, 631, 631n, 678, 679n, 680, 772 Sofoulis, Themistoklis, 517n, 607, 608n, 636n, 651, 651n Solomos, Alexis, 848, 848n Solomos, Dionysios, 8, 10n, 245, 587n, 740n, 752n Solomos Society of Iraklio, xviii “Song of Songs,” 390, 470n Sophocles, 589, 778n Sotiria Tuberculosis Sanatorium, 294n, 582, 583n Sotiriou, Kostas, 275, 276n Sotiriou, Yeoryios, 765, 766n Sounion, 375n Spain, 232n, 367, 397, 398, 428–29n, 433, 443, 444–45, 453, 703; translating Spanish ­poetry, 443, 446 Spanish Civil War, ix, 499, 500–501 Spartan boys, 333n, 401 Spengler, Oswald, 275n Sperantzas, Stelios, 68, 69n, 70, 71 spiritualistic phenomena, 34 Stalin, Joseph, 278, 378n, 526, 679n Stanford, W. B., 778, 778n, 779, 788, 810, 818, 821 Stavridakis, Yannis, x, xv, xix, 67, 68n, 69, 75, 81, 82, 285, 285n, 324, 664 Stavrou, Niki, xv, 846n Stavrou, Patroclus, xiii, 52n

Stavrou, Thrasyvoulos, 811n, 814, 815n Stefanidis, Harilaos, 17n, 53, 54n, 298, 306, 356, 377, 466, 765 Stefanidis, Yorgos, xv Steiner, Rudolf, 89 Stekel, Wilhelm, xix Stephanou, S. E., xv Steryiadis, Aristidis, 80, 82n Stöcker, Helene, 363, 363n Stoicism, 778n Stoppard, Tom, 70n Strada, J. de, 305, 306n Stratakis, Nikolaos, 843, 843n Stratou, Dora, 816, 817n Strindberg, August, x Sultan Mehmed II, 598n, 677n Svolos, Alexander, 680, 680n, 771, 789 Swedish language, 634 synizesis, 562, 564n Tagore, Rabindranath, 491 Taine, Hippolyte, 155, 157n, 224n Tangopoulos, D. P., 34n, 40, 41n Tau, Max, 500n, 721, 721, 725, 726n, 729, 732, 736, 737, 742, 763, 764n, 769, 792, 815, 826, 827n, 836, 849 Tazedakis, Nikolaos, 191n, 477, 519 Tertsetis, Yeoryios, 602, 603n Tertullian, 763, 763n, 764, 832, 833n, 834 Terzakis, Angelos, 596, 597n, 629n, 650, 826–27 Tetrakosia grammata tou Kazantzaki ston Prevelaki, xvii Theodorakopoulos, Ioannis, 670, 672n Theodoridis, Haralambos, 477, 478n Theodoropoulos, Kimon, 516, 517n, 529, 571n, 573, 674, 675n, 675, 687, 688n Theodoropoulos, Spyros, 704, 705n, 711, 754, 761 Theodosiadi, Eleni. See Kazantzaki, Eleni ­(Kazantzakis’s sister) Theodosiadis, Aristidis (Eleni Kazantzaki’s husband), 254, 339 Theotokas, Yorgos, 377, 378n, 557, 580, 581n, 582, 584, 585, 596, 597n, 601, 629n, 638, 650 Theotokis, Konstantinos, 90, 91, 92n, 97n, 105, 155, 163, 164n, 196n, 370 Theotokopoulos, Domenikos. See El Greco Theotokopoulos, Jorge Manuel, 399n Therisos Revolution, 26n, 27, 28, 29n Thomas the painter, 427, 428n Thomopoulos, Ioannis A., 691, 692n Thorez, Maurice, 632n Thrylos, Alkis, 396n, 811n

874  • Index Thucydides, 369, 370n, 803 Titans, 658n Titian, 427, 432, 433n Toledo, 237, 250, 379, 393, 427 Tolstoy, Leo, xix Triandafyllidis, Manolis, 479, 479n Triandafyllopoulos, Konstantinos (30fylopoulos), 604, 605n Trotsky, Leon, 90, 146, 148n, 278, 358 Tsaka, Varvara, xiv Tsakona, Pitsa, xv Tsakopoulos, Angelos, xv Tsakopoulos, Eleni, xv Tsaldaris, Panagis, 467n, 497n, 651n Tsangridi, Anna (Eleni Samiou’s sister), 232n, 234, 237, 240, 241, 241n, 243, 244, 245, 246, 276, 482, 495, 519 Tsarouchis, Yannis, 739, 740n Tsirimokos, Elias, 679, 680, 680n Tsirkas, Stratis, 773, 773n Tsitseli. See Cicellis, Kay Tsouderos, Emmanouil, 516, 517n, 610, 610n tulpa, 511, 598 Turkey, 84, 139, 175, 226 Twelve gospels, 6n Tyrtaeus, 46n, 150n Tzelepis, Panos-Nikolis, 757n Unamuno, Miguel de, 465 UNESCO, 265n, 631, 635, 636, 638, 639, 640, 643, 644, 647, 658, 659, 660, 661, 662, 665 University of Athens, xvii, 51n, 560n, 736 University of Crete, 795n University of Geneva, 628n University of Ioannina, 604n University of Leningrad, 388, 393 University of Lund, 614n University of Madrid, 462, 466 University of Minnesota, 562n University of Paris, 629n University of Thessaloniki, 477, 560n, 614n, 707n University of Uppsala, 628 Vafiadis, Markos, 675, 676n, 678, 679n, 680, 681 Vaïanos, Marios, 804, 805n Vaillant-Couturier, Paul, 275, 275n, 282, 509n Valaoritis, Aristotelis, 822n Valéry, Paul, 404 Valladares, Miguel A., xv–xvi Valle Inclán, Ramón María del, 430, 431n, 432

Valliadi, Angela, 411, 413n Van Gogh, Vincent, 113, 739 Varelas, Panayotis, 673, 673n Varnalis, Kostas, 105, 105n, 126, 128n, 144, 145n, 155, 360, 363, 370, 377, 636, 636n, 638, 676, 677, 683, 683–84n Varvari, xi, xiii, xvii, 3n, 6, 210n, 223–24n, 613n Veïs, Nikos, 612, 613n, 618, 621, 639, 740 Velázquez, 427, 452 Vendiris, Yeoryios, 95, 95n, 96, 99, 174, 393 Venieris, Yeoryios, 472, 473n Venizelos, Eleftherios, xviii, xix, 7, 9n, 11, 16, 26, 26n, 27, 50, 53, 54, 61, 62n, 76, 78, 79, 80, 81, 107n, 117, 118, 135, 144n, 175n, 198, 239, 242n, 264, 463, 467n, 517n; estrangement from, 369, 369n, 370n, 373 Venizelos, Sophocles, 635, 636, 636n, 637, 639, 640, 692, 697 Verne, Jules, 385, 386n, 403, 404, 408, 411 Vienna, ix, xix, 86, 87, 94; inflation, 91, 99 Vincent, Alfred, xvi, 604n Virgil, 748n, 778n Vitti, Mario, 743, 744n, 744 Vivaldi, Antonio, 832 Vizyinos, Yeoryios, 59n Vlachos, Yeoryios, 244, 444, 446n, 447, 490, 659 Vlachoyannis, Yannis, 154, 156–57n, 460, 601n Vlastos, Pavlos, 352, 353n, 453, 455n, 472, 502n, 521n, 523, 680, 828 von den Steinen, Helmut, 792, 793n, 839 Voss, Johann Heinrich, 554, 555n, 793 Voutieridis, Elias, 154, 156n Voutyras, Demosthenes, 195, 196n, 202, 408, 837 Vouyouklakis, Yeoryios, 827, 828n Wagner, Richard, 15 Wallace, Alfred Russel, 34, 36n Waterlow, John, 527n Waterlow, Sir Sydney, 516, 517n, 519, 520n, 523, 528 Welcker, Friedrich Gottlieb, 574, 574n Wigington, Cynthia, xvi Wilde, Oscar, ix, 447, 449n Wildman, Carl, 626n Woolf, Virginia, x, 41n Wordsworth, Andrew, 778–79n Wyneken, Gustav, 162, 164n, 173 Xanthoudidis, Stefanos, 353, 354n, 603, 795n Xenakis, Androklis, 59, 60n, 68, 69n, 69

Index  •  875 Xenopoulos, Grigorios, 444, 447 Xydias, 75 Yeats, William Butler, ix Yiamalakis, Stylianos, 635, 636 Yiofyllis, Fotos. See Mousouris, Spyros Youkhtas (or Youchtas), 206, 207n, 220, 809 Zachariadis, Nikos, 678, 679n, 681n Zacharopoulos, Ioannis, 502n, 547, 552, 554, 572, 573n

Zaïmis, Alexandros, 242n Zervos, Ioannis, 49n, 155, 190, 374, 374n, 408, 417, 422; estrangement from, 448 Zetkin, Clara, 149, 281 Zeus, 659n Zorbas, Andreas, 846, 846n Zorbas, Yeoryis, xix, 65n, 66n, 84, 129, 188, 190, 204, 571, 733, 846 Zurich, 68, 70n, 780 Zweig, Stefan, 339, 356, 357n, 400, 406, 594, 613n