Journey to the Morea: Kazantzakis on Kolokotronis

One of my favourite parts in one of my favourite Nikos Kazantzakis’ books is the following from Travels in Greece: Journey to the Morea, in which the Cretan author reflects on the character of perhaps the foremost hero of the Greek War of Independence, Theodoros Kolokotronis, the Old Man of the Morea. I’ve always liked Kazantzakis’ description of Kolokotronis, which has him, for 50 years, patiently preparing for the fight against the Ottomans, for the moment when his life would begin and take meaning.

The Old Man of the Morea
Today as I sit in a Tripolitan coffeehouse watching the people and listening to their talk, I sense that if I were a young man living in Tripolis, I would concentrate – in order to save myself – upon the rich, aggressive and valiant soul of Kolokotronis. Here in Tripolis, air and mountain are still filled with his ample breath. From the days he spent as a merchant in Zakynthos, gazing at the mountains of Morea across the way, sighing:

I see the spreading sea, and afar the Morea,
Grief has seized me, and great yearning…

until his censure by the land that he liberated, and those final serene moments when Charon found him, Kolokotronis’ life was a dramatic, characteristic unfolding of a rich modern Greek soul: faith, optimism, tenacity, valour, a certain, practical mind, deceptive versatility, like Odysseus.

When the penpushers all lost their bearings, or the tin-soldier generals bickered among themselves, Kolokotronis would see the simplest, most effective solution. Gentle and softhearted when it served the great purpose, harsh and savage when necessary. Harsh and savage most of all with himself. When he served as a corsair on the ‘black ships’ he once found himself without tobacco. He opened his pipe and scraped it in order to get some burned tobacco to make a cigarette. But at the same instant he started to smoke, he felt ashamed. ‘Here’s a man for you,’ he muttered to himself with scorn. ‘Here’s a man who wants to save his country, and can’t even save himself from an inconsequential habit.’ And he flung the cigarette away.

Thus he conditioned and hardened himself, in order to be prepared. For years in foreign armies he studied the art of war, the ‘manual of arms’; aboard ship he learned the risalto, the assault; he made himself ready. And when the revolution burst out he was primed, fifty years old by then, organised from top to toe. Armed to the teeth. He had amassed knowledge by the quintal, cunning, bravery, wide experience; he wrought songs to relieve his ‘yearning’; by contributing an axiom at a crucial moment he would silence the unorganised chatter. Our modern Greek problems have not yet found more profound, humorous and epigrammatic expression.

He had both impulse and restraint, he knew how to retreat so that he could advance; hemmed in by enemies, Greeks and Turks, he was forced to mobilise all his bravery and wile so that the Race would not be lost. Often all would desert him, he would be left alone in the mountains, and then burst out weeping. He sobbed like the Homeric heroes, with his long hair and helmet; he sobbed and was refreshed. He regained his fortitude, formulated new schemes in his mind, sent off messages, involved the elders once more, mocked the Turks, conciliated the Greeks; and the struggle began again.

Kolokotronis, with all his faults and virtues, is one of the leaders of our race. Here in Tripolis, which he took with mind and sword, his scent still lingers dissipated in the air; with patience and concentration a youth should be able to reconstruct, as model and guide, the peerless Old Man. And thus, with a struggle now invisible and spiritual, to reconquer and ravish Tripolis.

Travels in Greece

Travels in Greece has always been one of my favourite Nikos Kazantzakis’ books, in which the Cretan writer takes the opportunity of a journey through the Peloponnese to meditate on Greek past and present. It’s a melancholy work, written in the 1930s, heavily influenced by Ion Dragoumis – whose spirit, Kazantzakis says, accompanied him on the journey – and echoes  Seferis’ ‘wherever I go, Greece wounds me’. No doubt, in contemporary Greece, this Dragoumian view of the Greek self as inseparable from the travails of the Greek nation, is anathema.

Some excerpts from the opening chapter of Travels in Greece:

‘The face of Greece is a palimpsest bearing twelve successive inscriptions: Contemporary; the period of 1821; the Turkish yoke; the Frankish sway; the Byzantine; the Roman; the Hellenistic epoch; the Classic; the Dorian middle ages; the Mycenaean; the Aegean; and the Stone Age.

‘Pause on a patch of Greek earth and anguish overcomes you. It is a deep, twelve-levelled tomb, from which voices rise up calling to you. Which voice should you choose? Every voice, every spirit longs for its body; your heart is shaken, and cannot decide.

‘For a Greek, the journey through Greece is a fascinating, exhausting ordeal… For a foreigner the pilgrimage to Greece is simple, it happens without any great convulsions… But for a Greek, this pilgrimage is fraught with hopes and fears, with distress and painful comparison. Never does a clear and unencumbered thought arise, never a bloodless impression.

‘A Greek landscape does not give us… an innocent tremor of beauty. The landscape has a name, it is bound up with a memory – here we were shamed, here glorified; blood or sacred statues rise up from the soil, and all at once the landscape is transformed into rich, all-encompassing History, and the Greek pilgrim’s whole spirit is thrown into confusion.

‘Merciless questions arise to lash our brains. How were so many wonders created, and what are we ourselves doing? Why has the race become debased? How can we carry on once more?’

Kazantzakis interviewed

An unusual gem found here on youtube. It’s an interview with Nikos Kazantzakis on French television, in which the great author discusses his novel on St Francis of Assisi, God’s Pauper. The interview is from May 1957 and Kazantzakis, who was ill at the time, died five months later, which accounts for his frail appearance.

The person who uploaded the video also provided an English translation of what is said, which is below. (The reference in the interview to ‘the one who must die’ is to Kazantzakis’ novel Christ Recrucified, which was filmed by Jules Dassin in 1957 as He Who Must Die).

Pierre Dumayet: ...now that Zorba has existed?

Max-Pol Fouchet: Absolutely. Me, I’ve never doubted that he existed and I have even less doubts, tonight, ever since I‘ve known Mr Kazantzakis because earlier, Mr Kazantzakis was saying that he would have liked to be Zorba but he is Zorba. He is Zorba through what he writes, what he thinks, through his sensitivity, absolutely. Besides, I must say that the main character of what we refer to in cinema as ‘the one that has to die’, right? (I give this title voluntarily so that listeners can relate to your book more easily), well, he’s also someone who's very close to Zorba. Your shepherd who, at a certain time, chooses justice, chooses charity perhaps doesn’t dance, but, you know, he could dance. And I always get the impression that your books are very close to the principles of Greek mythology because your Zorba is, after all, a sort of Antée (Antaeus), if you will. He makes contact with the earth and finds his force there and he finds his strength and his order in this very earth, since, we could easily say, he’s an anarchist, he has an order that he respects and it’s that which is the order of the earth which is the Plutonian order by excellence.


Pierre Dumayet: Now, I think we should ask a few questions about [your novel on] St. Francis of Assisi that was just published. You told me that you wrote this book in gratitude, because Francis of Assisi saved your life twice.

Nikos Kazantzakis: Yes. I owed Francis of Assisi something, that’s why I had... I had the great desire to explain my gratitude by writing a book about him. And the first time he saved my life, it was during the German Occupation. The Germans... I was on a small island near Athens, so the Germans... We had nothing to eat. And I was almost dying of hunger. And everyone around me was dying. So one day, I received a letter from a Franciscan friar who lives in Athens. He told me: ‘If you would translate St Francis of Assisi’s biography, done by Jurgensen, then we will send you a case of provisions.’ So right away I’m... I received... it was a case that had marvellous things, almost unheard of, and I had forgotten them, meaning sugar, coffee, macaroni, rice, etc... And I wrote this book with a long prologue.

Pierre Dumayet: And the second time?


Nikos Kazantzakis: The second time was when I was very ill so, all of a sudden, I thought about St Francis of Assisi. I mean, I wanted to think about a man who was able to conquer death. And right away I thought about St Francis of Assisi. And while... I had a fever, fever, 40, 41, I don’t know how. And my wife would come, she told me: ‘Take this pen and I will dictate.’ And I started to dictate to her St Francis of Assisi. And poetic things, especially. One day, I remember that I told her... Because, you know, this book isn’t a biography, it’s a summary of a biography, the poetry and things that St Francis didn’t say but that he could say because he was [inaudible]. So I told my wife: ‘Take the pencil and write. I’m going to dictate something that St Francis didn’t say but that he could have.’ One day, St Francis saw an almond tree in the middle of winter. So St Francis said to it: ‘Brother almond tree, talk to me about God.’ And all of a sudden, the almond tree became covered with flowers. That’s very Franciscan, isn’t it?