Zorba The Greek by Nikos Kazantzakis

Author:Nikos Kazantzakis [Kazantzakis, Nikos]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: prose_contemporary

15

THAT DAY there was a strong south wind, which came burning from the sands of Africa across the Mediterranean. Clouds of fine sand twisted and turned in the air and got into throat and lungs. Teeth were gritty and eyes inflamed; doors and windows had to be locked tight if one wanted to make sure of eating a single piece of bread that was not sprinkled with sand.

It was close. During those oppressive days when the sap was rising I was myself a prey to the prevailing springtime unrest. A feeling of lassitude, an emotional tension in the breast, a tingling sensation throughout my body, a desire-or was it memory-of a vast and simple happiness.

I took the pebbly mountain track. I had a sudden impulse to visit the small Minoan city which had risen from the ground after three or four thousand years and was warming itself once more under its beloved Cretan sun. I thought that perhaps after three or four hours' walk fatigue would calm the unrest that spring had brought.

Bare grey stones, a luminous nakedness, the harsh and deserted mountain that I love. An owl, its round yellow eyes staring, blinded by the bright light, had perched on a stone. It was grave, beautiful, full of mystery. I was walking lightly, but its hearing was keen; it took fright, flew up silently among the stones and disappeared. There was a scent of thyme in the air. The first tender flowers of the yellow gorse were already showing amongst its thorns.

When I came in sight of the small ruined city I stood spellbound. It must have been about noon, the sun's rays were falling perpendicularly and drenching the stones with light. In old ruined cities this is a dangerous time of day, for the air is filled with cries and the noise of spirits. If a branch cracks, if a lizard darts, if a cloud throws a shadow as it passes overhead, panic seizes you. Every inch of ground you tread is a grave, and you hear the dead groaning.

Gradually my eyes grew accustomed to the bright light. I could now see traces of the hand of man in the ruins: two broad roads paved with shining stones. To the left and right of them, narrow tortuous alleys. In the center the circular agora, or public meeting place, and next to it, with a totally democratic condescension, had been placed the king's palace with its double columns, large stone stairways and numerous outbuildings.

In the heart of the city the stones were most heavily trodden by the foot of man and that was where the inner shrine must have been: the Great Goddess was there, with her huge breasts, set wide apart, and her arms wreathed in snakes.

Everywhere were small shops, oil presses, forges, and the workshops of joiners and potters. A cleverly designed anthill, well-built in a sheltered position, and whence the ants had disappeared thousands of years ago. In one place a craftsman had been carving a

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