In this blog post, I’d like to share the inspiration and reflection that Kazantzakis and his works have given me.
I received the original book just as winter was coming to an end. I thought to myself, “Ah, how much better it would have been if it had arrived at the start of winter!” The thought of devoting an entire spring to translating the story into Korean felt a bit unfair. After hesitating for a day or two, I opened the book, and only then did spring begin. As spring began, so did my happy days. I could hardly tear myself away from my desk.
During the day, a little bird would fly to the window and chirp mischievously, “Mitchichi, Mitchichi.” “Haha, yes, you’re right,” I replied, glancing out the window. For several months, I spent my time immersed in the stories told by those two men—no, three men—along with that little bird. Like a mouse sitting in front of a huge block of cheese, I gnawed away at that block of cheese—those sweet spring days—with relish.
That was it. That third man, Kazantzakis, the writer. He was the man who had been staring down at me from the top shelf of my bookshelf for so many years. His gaze was so intense, his eyebrows so thick, that for all those years I had only dared to reach out to touch the book a few times, never daring to open it and read it. His eyes were like those of a bird of prey. I was often intimidated and cowed by them. For some reason, I felt he wouldn’t leave the reader alone, that he would inflict excruciating pain.
But all that fear was utterly foolish. That man’s eyes were, in fact, the deepest and warmest in the world. His heart was the hottest and kindest in the world. I was immediately drawn in by the narrator’s kindness, Zorba’s clarity, and the author’s deep, warm heart. Just as the narrator, pen in hand, had been drawn into Zorba, so too was I. I realized how foolish and cowardly I had been to fear Kazantzakis’s eyes for so many years. The author was a person with a warmer and more caring heart than anyone else, and his eyes were filled with infinite love and compassion.
He was more devout, moral, kind, serious, and loving toward humanity than anyone else in the world. I swear I have never before met a writer who loved humanity this deeply, a writer this devout, a writer with such a warm heart.
During that spring spent with the writer, I grew young again. As I walked a long path alongside the writer and the characters in his stories, I became serious again, I began to reflect again, I became moral again, and I became devout again. I reflected anew on the dawn air, the stars in the night sky, the morning sun and the evening sun, the earth, water, and wind, silence and solitude, humanity and nations, war and God, Buddhist contemplation, thought, ideology, morality, and action, as well as insects, trees, flowers, women, men, life, and death. The path I walked with those three men was a path walked with a seeker of truth.
Following the men, I traveled through Athens, Crete, Macedonia, and Turkey. I climbed rugged, rocky mountains; looked down upon gorges filled with almond, fig, and orange trees; strolled along sighing coastlines; visited sun-drenched Cretan farmhouses; and spent nights in monasteries. I even found myself tearing up at the love story of an old cabaret singer abandoned on a foreign shore. Has any writer’s gaze ever been so filled with love and compassion for humanity and nature? Has any writer ever looked upon women, the powerless, and small creatures with such a warm gaze?
Suddenly, I envied Greece for having such a great writer as Kazantzakis.
Or perhaps it was precisely because it was Greece that it could give birth to a noble soul like Kazantzakis. Think of Greece’s brilliant ancient civilization, its resplendent culture, and its blazing sun. Think of the blue sea, the olives, the wine, and the great lights that shaped the gods. It would have been stranger indeed if Kazantzakis had not been born in Greece.Sadly, however, throughout that spring when I spoke with the author, the news was filled day after day with reports of Greece’s economic crisis. Greece, already exhausted by countless wars, civil wars, and successive political upheavals, was facing yet another crisis. Every time I heard that news, I felt as if I could hear the cry of Kazantzakis—the writer who loved his homeland and his people more than his own life. It was as if I could hear his voice, rushing far and wide to save his fellow countrymen. “Greece, Greek people, world, humanity, do not surrender; fight.” The greatest act a human being can perform is to fight without surrendering.For that alone is the path to our immortality.Struggle. Just as the history of the great earth has been, and just as the noble life of humanity has been, the writer’s life itself was a struggle. Thorough and agonizing reflection, self-examination, writing, and action. Kazantzakis was not only a great writer but also a devout seeker, a moral politician and activist, and a true citizen of the world. He struggled against himself, he struggled against God, and he struggled with all his might for his afflicted people, for humanity, and for all of humankind. That is why, to me, Kazantzakis was another Zorba.Now, when we need warm comfort more than ever, let us quietly call out the name “Kazantzakis.” If you turn your head, you will find the writer with clear, deep eyes standing beside you. He will place his large hand gently on your shoulder and, with warm words of comfort, instill in you the courage to carry on. Let us find the courage once more. Let us live with all our might. Just like that almond tree in the story, standing bravely in the depths of winter, blooming despite the bitter cold.On a particularly dark spring night, a large owl perched on a utility pole outside the window, hooted long and loud, and then flew away. Minerva’s owl. Suddenly, the spirit of Kazantzakis came to mind. Yes. Great writers are immortal. Kazantzakis is immortal.
