Report to Greco

by Nikos Kazantzakis

Solitude is fatal to any soul which fails to burn with a great passion. If, in his solitude, a monk does not love God to the point of frenzy, he is doomed. The minds of several of the monks had tottered. These brothers had nothing to think about, nothing to desire. Half closing their eyes, they sat down in a row in the courtyard and waited for the hour when they would enter the chapel, the refectory, their cells—that was all. Their memories had grown murky, their teeth had fallen out, their loins ached. They were not men, but neither were they animals. Nor were they angels yet. They were neither male nor female, neither alive nor dead. In a stupor, their arms folded, they waited for death, just as bare stalks await the spring.