Report to Greco

by Nikos Kazantzakis

As long as life struggles for preservation—to protect itself from its enemies, maintain itself upon the surface of the earth—civilization cannot be born. It is born the moment that life satisfies its primary needs and begins to enjoy a little leisure.

Harmony of mind and body—that was the Greeks’ supreme ideal.

Perfection is a momentary equilibrium above chaos, a most difficult and dangerous balance. Throw a little weight to one side or the other, and it falls.

We Greeks did not attain the victory, it says; it was attained not by our race alone, but by every man who, advancing from exploit to exploit, struggled to conquer beasts, barbarians, and death.

If we want our lives to bear fruit, we must make the decision which harmonizes with the fearsome rhythm of our times.

Following the tradition of reason and empirical inquiry, the West bounds forward to conquer the world; the East, prodded by frightening subconscious forces, likewise darts forward to conquer the world. Greece is placed in the middle; it is the world’s geographical and spiritual crossroads. Once again its duty is to reconcile these two monstrous impulses by finding a synthesis. Will it succeed?

If having these metaphysical concerns in one’s youth is a disease, I was, at that period, gravely ill.

The answer comes when we stop asking the question, I told myself, growing calm. It comes when the question descends from our garrulous brains and invades our hearts and loins.

Is there anything truer than truth? Yes, legend. This gives eternal meaning to ephemeral truth.

Under my authority I had nothing but twenty-six lead soldiers, the twenty-six letters of the alphabet. I will proclaim full mobilization, I said, raise an army, and battle against death.

I was always bewitched by three of God’s creatures—the worm that becomes a butterfly, the flying fish that leaps out of the water in an effort to transcend its nature, and the silkworm that turns its entrails into silk. I always felt a mystical unity with them, for I always imagined them as symbols symbolizing the route of my soul.

Man can feel no religious awe more genuine and profound, I believe, than the awe he feels when treading the ground where his ancestors—his roots—repose. Your own feet sprout roots which descend into the earth and search, seeking to mingle with the great, immortal roots of the dead.