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CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
PROLOGUE
BOOK I
BOOK II
BOOK III
BOOK IV
BOOK V
BOOK VI
BOOK VII
BOOK VIII
BOOK IX
BOOK X
BOOK XI
BOOK XII
BOOK XIII
BOOK XIV
BOOK XV
BOOK XVI
BOOK XVII
BOOK XVIII
BOOK XIX
BOOK XX
BOOK XXI
BOOK XXII
BOOK XXIII
BOOK XXIV
EPILOGUE
SYNOPSIS
AN ADDITIONAL NOTE ON PROSODY
NOTES
This translation is for James Merrill
INTRODUCTION
I. A MODERN SEQUEL TO HOMER
When in the winter of 1938, at the age of fifty-five, Nikos Kazantzakis first published his Odyssey in Athens, it had long been awaited with intense anticipation, and was received with confused bewilderment. Expectation had run high during the twelve years since 1925 when he had worked and reworked through seven complex versions of what he hoped would be the final and best summation of his life and thought. Already he had taken his place among the greatest of modern Greek authors with his many prose and poetic dramas,* his novels, † his books of travel and philosophy, and his invaluable translations, including Dante’s Divine Comedy and Goethe’s Faust. Later, he was also to publish his translations into modern Greek of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, but now he had dared to challenge, or so it seemed, the most sacrosanct of all poets not only by grafting his own epic firmly on Homer’s poem, but also by giving it the same title and by continuing “the sufferings and torments of renowned Odysseus” in a modern sequel three times the size of his predecessor’s original. He had even dared to attempt this in an age in which, all scholars were agreed, it was no longer possible to compose a long narrative poem based on myth. The critics now found themselves confronted by a huge tome of 835 pages (subsidized by an American patron, Miss Joe Mac Leod), 10 by 15 inches in size, handsomely printed in a special type, limited to an edition of 300 copies, written in 24 books (one for each letter of the Greek alphabet), and in 33,333 lines of an extremely unfamiliar seventeen-syllable unrhymed iambic measure of eight beats.
Furthermore, the poem was filled with disturbing innovations and seemed to depart from tradition in every conceivable way, for the poet had chosen to publish it in a form of simplified spelling and syntax which he had long advocated, analogous in English to the experiments of Robert Bridges in The Testament of Beauty. Worse, he had ruthlessly cut away the atrophied yet hallowed accentual marks imposed on ancient Greek by Byzantine scholars, retaining only the acute accent for certain syllables in order to indicate stress, much as in Spanish. Blood had been spilled and scholars deposed from their chairs at the University of Athens for proposing similar linguistic simplifications. But most distressing of all to Athenian intellectuals was to be confronted with a special lexicon of almost 2,000 words appended to the poem and meant to elucidate a diction and an idiom with which they found themselves disconcertingly unfamiliar, although (as I was later to attest) these words and phrases were in daily and familiar use by shepherds and fishermen throughout the islands and villages of Greece, or imbedded in their folk songs and legends. Even then, however, there were many who hailed the book for what it was—the greatest of modern Greek poems and a masterpiece of the modern world. Yet it was inevitable that most critics, confronted with a work of such scope, should shy away from considerations of its meaning and its poetic worth and preoccupy themselves with its exterior manifestations, its strange spelling, its unfamiliar diction, its lack of accentual marks, its unusual measure, and primarily with its “anti-classical” style and structure.
The appearance of Kazantzakis’ Odyssey, in short, created as much furor in Greek circles as the publication in English circles of another epic of comparable proportions and intent, the Ulysses of James Joyce. Both works are concerned with the modern man in search of a soul, and both utilize the framework of Homer’s Odyssey as reference, though in strikingly different ways. In a recent work, The Ulysses Theme, Dr. W. B. Stanford, Regius Professor of Greek at the University of Dublin, traces the permutations of Odysseus in literature from Greek, Hellenic, Alexandrian, Roman, Renaissance, Medieval and Modern times through almost three thousand years of changing development, and then devotes his last chapter to a consideration of Kazantzakis’ Odyssey and Joyce’s Ulysses as “the most elaborate portraits of Odysseus in the whole post-Homeric tradition,” as “unusually comprehensive symbols of contemporary aspirations and perplexities,” and concludes that Kazantzakis’ Odyssey “offers as much scope for ethical, theological, and artistic controversy as Joyce’s Ulysses.” He asserts that both works justify their bulk by their complex development of the theme’s content and symbolism, and that it says much for the vitality of the myth that its greatest extensions should have emerged almost three thousand years after its first appearance in literature. Kazantzakis, Dr. Stanford continues, “has found many new ways of understanding Odysseus in terms of modern thought,” and has presented “a fully integrated portrait of the hero—as wanderer and politician, as destroyer and preserver, as sensualist and ascetic, as soldier and philosopher, as pragmatist and idealist, as legislator and humorist,” combining many scattered elements in both ancient and modern traditions until the episodic and spatial enrichments of the myth “are augmented on a scale, both physical and imaginative, far beyond any contributions since Homer’s.”
In his characterization of Odysseus, Kazantzakis has, of course, derived many of his hero’s qualities and adventures from the early Greek epic, but in essence, Dr. Stanford believes, “his Odysseus is an avatar of Dante’s centrifugal hero, and derives from the tradition which leads from Dante through Tennyson and Pascoli to the present day.” In the twenty-sixth canto of Dante’s Inferno, Odysseus speaks from a two-forked tongue of flame: “Neither fondness for my son, nor reverence for my aged father, nor due love that should have cheered Penelope could conquer in me the ardor that I had to gain experience of the world and of human vice and worth; I put forth on the deep sea, with but one ship, and with that small company which had not deserted me. . . . ‘O brothers,’ I said, . . . ‘deny not experience of the unpeopled world beyond the Sun. Consider your origins: ye were not formed to live like brutes, but to follow virtue and knowledge.’” Dr. Stanford finds that Kazantzakis’ Odysseus is closer to Tennyson’s in essence, “for though Tennyson makes his hero’s expressed desire To follow knowledge, like a sinking. star, / Beyond the utmost bound of human thought,’ yet his immediate motive is to free himself from his domestic environment in Ithaca.” This is similar to the thought of the great Greek-Alexandrine poet Constantine Cavafis, who in his poem Ithaca wrote that what was meaningful for Odysseus was not the arrival in Ithaca but the enriching experiences of the voyage itself, for when the mariner comes to understand that Ithaca has given him the beautiful voyage, that without her in mind he would never have set out on his way, and that she has nothing more to give him now, then he will have understood “what an Ithaca means.” And in Book XVI of Kazantzakis’ poem, Odysseus exclaims: “My soul, your voyages have been your nati
ve land!”
Dr. Stanford believes that “Kazantzakis has singled out the wish to be free as the dominant passion of his hero. In fact, psychologically, his epic is an exploration of the meaning of freedom.” Throughout his poem Kazantzakis explores the meaning of freedom in all its implications of liberation, redemption, deliverance, and salvation. “Odysseus,” he once said in a newspaper interview, “is the man who has freed himself from everything—religions, philosophies, political systems—one who has cut away all the strings. He wants to try all the forms of life, freely, beyond plans and systems, keeping the thought of death before him as a stimulant, not to make every pleasure more acrid or every ephemeral moment more sharply enjoyable in its brevity, but to whet his appetites in life, to make them more capable of embracing and of exhausting all things so that, when death finally came, it would find nothing to take from him, for it would find an entirely squandered Odysseus.” Kazantzakis has expressed the last part of this thought in verse in the beautiful opening to Book XXIII, lines 27-37, and in these courageous ten lines he has written his own best epitaph.
After considering the development of Odysseus in vernacular plays, lyrics, novels, and moral discourses, Dr. Stanford concludes that “Joyce’s prose narrative and Kazantzakis’ poem are nearer to heroic epic than to any of these genres. This epic quality enables these authors to treat of Odysseus with a greater objectivity than in drama, and a greater weight of heroic symbolism than in a novel. Here, in fact, we return after a long interval to the heroic-romantic atmosphere of the Odyssey, an atmosphere less strictly epical than that of the Iliad, but closer to it than to any other genre of classical literature, and an atmosphere especially congenial to the versatile and often unorthodox heroism of Odysseus.” Yet for Kazantzakis the question of whether or not his poem was an epic seemed of little importance. “Nothing, in truth, is more superficial or more barren,” he wrote in answer to a young Greek scholar, “than the discussion as to whether or not the Odyssey is an epic poem and whether the epic is a contemporary art form. Historians of literature come only after the artist has passed; they hold measuring rods, they take measurements and construct useful laws for their science, but these are useless for the creator because he has the right and the strength—this is what creation means—to break them by creating new ones. When a vital soul feels, without previous aesthetic theories, the necessity to create, then whatever shape his creations take cannot help but be alive. Form and Substance are one. So far as I am concerned, there has been no age more epical than ours. It is in such ages which come between two cultures—when one Myth dissolves and another struggles to be born—that epic poems are created. For me, the Odyssey is a new epical-dramatic attempt of the modern man to find deliverance by passing through all the stages of contemporary anxieties and by pursuing the most daring hopes. What deliverance? He does not know as he starts out, but he creates it constantly with his joys and sorrows, with his successes and failures, with his disappointments, fighting always. This, I am certain, is the anguished struggle, whether conscious or subconscious, of the true modern man. In such intermediate periods, a spiritual endeavor can either look back to justify and judge the old civilization which is disintegrating, or it can look ahead and struggle to prophesy and formulate the new one. Odysseus struggles by looking ahead unceasingly, his neck stretched forward like the leader of birds migrating.” In Book III, as Odysseus watches the tribes of blond barbarians slowly seeping into Greece from the North, he exclaims: “Blessed be that hour that gave me birth between two eras!”
Nor was it ever Kazantzakis’ intention to emulate or to imitate Homer. Although he has grafted his poem directly on the main trunk of Homer’s Odyssey, by lopping off the last two books and wedging his opening firmly in Book XXII, it does not continue in a direct line of ascent but swerves almost immediately into its own directional growth, into the modern world and its problems, ruthlessly abandoning what it does not need, yet plunging its own veins deep in the main trunk to drink up vast primordial sources overlaid with the parasitical growth of almost thirty centuries. Odysseus completely ignores Penelope, as though her image had vanished after nineteen years of longing; a new relationship between himself, his son, his father, and his people is formulated; the Olympian gods are almost entirely abandoned to make way for the slow appearance of a new agonized deity, and the turbulent quest of the modern man for new questions and new answers almost immediately begins.
II. THE PHILOSOPHY
Just before Kazantzakis began to write the Odyssey, he completed a small book, perhaps best titled The Saviors of God and subtitled Spiritual Exercises, where in a passionate and poetic style, yet in systematic fashion, he set down the philosophy embodied not only in the Odyssey but in everything he has written, for he was a man of one overwhelming vision, striving to give it shape in all the forms he could master, in epic, drama, novel, travelogue, criticism, translation, and even political action. A brief summary of the skeletal ideas of that book will place in a more comprehensible order the same vision which is scattered and intermingled with narrative and incident in the Odyssey; primarily in Books XIV, XVI, and in those following when Odysseus meets various representative types of mankind such as Prince Motherth (of Buddha), Margaro (of the Courtesan), the Hermit (of Faust), Captain Sole (of Don Quixote), the Lord of the Tower (of the Hedonist), and the Negro Fisher-lad (of Christ). I have appended a complete synopsis of the poem at the back of this book, but a reading at this moment of the brief summaries of Book XIV and XVI will help the reader toward a better understanding of the exposition which follows.
A man, writes Kazantzakis, has three duties. His first duty is to the mind which imposes order on disorder, formulates laws, builds bridges over the unfathomable abyss, and sets up rational boundaries beyond which man does not dare to go. But his second duty is to the heart, which admits of no boundaries; which yearns to pierce beyond phenomena and to merge with something beyond mind and matter. His third duty is to free himself from both mind and heart, from the great temptation of the hope which both offer of subduing phenomena or of finding the essence of things. A man must then embrace the annihilating abyss without any hope, he must say that nothing exists, neither life nor death, and must accept this necessity bravely, with exultation and song. He may then build the affirmative structure of his life over this abyss in an ecstasy of tragic joy.
A man is now prepared to undertake a pilgrimage of four stages. At the start of his journey, he hears an agonized cry within him shouting for help. His first step is to plunge into his own ego until he discovers that it is the endangered spirit (or “God”) locked within each man that is crying out for liberation. In order to free it, each man must consider himself solely responsible for the salvation of the world, because when a man dies, that aspect of the universe which is his own particular vision and the unique play of his mind also crashes in ruins forever. In the second step, a man must plunge beyond his ego and into his racial origins; yet among his forefathers he must choose only those who can help him toward greater refinement of spirit, that he may in turn pass on his task to a son who may also surpass him. The third step for a man is to plunge beyond his own particular race into the races of all mankind and to suffer their composite agony in the struggle to liberate God within themselves. The fourth step is to plunge beyond mankind and to become identified with all the universe, with animate and inanimate matter, with earth, stones, sea, plants, animals, insects, and birds, with the vital impulse of creation in all phenomena. Each man is a fathomless composite of atavistic roots plunging down to the primordial origin of things. A man is now prepared to go beyond the mind, the heart, and hope, beyond his ego, his race, and mankind even, beyond all phenomena and plunge further into a vision of the Invisible permeating all things and forever ascending.
The essence of the Invisible is an agonized ascent toward more and more purity of spirit, toward light. The goal is the struggle itself, since the ascent is endless. God is not a perfect being toward which man proceeds
, but a spiritual concept which evolves toward purity as man himself evolves on earth. He is not Almighty, for he is in constant danger, filled with wounds, struggling to survive; he is not All-holy, for he is pitiless in the cruel choice he makes to survive, caring neither for men nor animals, neither for virtues nor ideas, but making use of them all in an attempt to pass through them and shake himself free; he is not All-knowing, for his head is a confused jumble of dark and light. He cries out to man for help because man is his highest spiritual reach in the present stage of his evolution. He cannot be saved unless man tries to save him by struggling with him, nor can man be saved unless God is saved. On the whole, it is rather man who must save God. When a man has had this vision of the ceaselessly unsated and struggling spirit, he must then attempt to give it body in deeds, in political action, in works of every nature, realizing, of course, that any embodiment must of necessity pollute the vision, yet accepting and utilizing such imperfect instruments in the never-ending struggle.
The essence of God is to find freedom, salvation. Our duty is to aid him in this ascent, and to save ourselves at last from our final hope of salvation, to say to ourselves that not even salvation exists, and to accept this with tragic joy. Love is the force which urges us on and which descends on us as a dance, a rhythm. Injustice, cruelty, longing, hunger and war are leaders that push us on. God is never created out of happiness and comfort, but out of tragedy and strife. The greatest virtue is not to be free, but to struggle ceaselessly for freedom. The universe is a creation in the meeting of two opposite streams, one male and the other female, one ascending toward integration, toward life, toward immortality, the other descending toward disintegration, toward matter, toward death. It becomes a blossoming Tree of Fire whose summit bears the final fruit of light. Fire is the first and ultimate mask of God. One day it will vanish into the deepest and most distilled essence of the spirit, that of silence, where all contraries at last will be resolved.