In his early youth Kazantzakis wrote two treatises, one on Nietzsche and one on Bergson, and though scholars may later trace in his thoughts pervading influences of such diverse and contrary strains as Buddha, Lenin, Christ, Spinoza, Spengler, Darwin, Homer, Frazer and Dante, they will discover, I believe, that the earliest influences were the deepest. Nietzsche confirmed him in his predilection for the Dionysian as opposed to the Apollonian vision of life: for Dionysus, the god of wine and revelry, of ascending life, of joy in action, of ecstatic motion and inspiration, of instinct and adventure and dauntless suffering, the god of song and music and dance; as opposed to Apollo, the god of peace, of leisure and repose, of aesthetic emotion and intellectual contemplation, of logical order and philosophical calm, the god of painting and sculpture and epic poetry. We shall see, however, that though this was for him a decided predilection and a biased emphasis, it was not at all a rejection, but rather an assimilation of the Apollonian vision of life. He had always strongly felt the opposing attraction of Apollonian clarity. Once, as he stood before an elaborate baroque church in Spain, lost in its intricacies, Kazantzakis felt a distaste for so much complication and lack of clarity. “Surely,” he wrote in his travel book on that country, “the highest art lies in the restraint of passion, in imposing order on disorder, serenity on joy and pain. . . . A man must not be seduced by superfluous beauties, he must not be misled to think that by filling up space he has conquered time.” He then recounts how Dionysus came out of India clad in multicolored silks, laden with bracelets and rings, his eyes ringed with black, his fingernails painted crimson. But as the god proceeded into Greece, his adornments fell from him one by one until he stood naked on a hill at Eleusis. Dionysus, the god of ecstatic and visionary drunkenness, had turned into Apollo, the god of serene beauty. Such, wrote Kazantzakis, is the progress of art. Ultimately Kazantzakis wished to combine the two in what he called the “Cretan Glance,” to remind scholars that Dionysus as well as Apollo was a god of the Greeks, and that the noblest of Greek arts was a synthesis of the two ideals. He may be compared to Yeats who in his philosophical work A Vision describes human character and human history as a conflicting war between subjective and objective elements, yet who had a decided predilection in his own work and in that of others for those of subjective, or what he called “antithetical” temperament.
From Nietzsche, Kazantzakis also took the exaltation of tragedy as the joy of life, a certain “tragic optimism” of the strong man who delights to discover that strife is the pervading law of life, the “melancholy joy” which Wagner discerned in the last quartets of Beethoven. Innumerable epigrams from Thus Spake Zarathustra may illustrate various sections of the Odyssey: “Live dangerously. Erect your cities beside Vesuvius. Send out your ships to unexplored seas. Live in a state of war.” “My formula for greatness is Amor fati . . . not only to bear up under every necessity, but to love it.” “Thou shalt build beyond thyself . . . Thou shalt not only propagate thyself, but propagate thyself upwards.” “He who strideth across the highest mountain laugheth at all tragedies.” But in contrast to Nietzsche, Kazantzakis had an intense love for the common man and a belief in socialistic orders which try to alleviate poverty and lift oppression. Though he distrusted the purely “intellectual” men, he accepted certain aspects of Nietzsche’s superman, and depicted Odysseus as a type of those superior beings in humanity who must ruthlessly take the vanguard and lead mankind toward spiritual fulfillment. It was Kazantzakis’ vain dream, perhaps, as it was that of Odysseus and Moses, to make all individuals into superior beings, to lead them toward the Promised Land and to test them to the breaking point. Nietzsche and Spengler also confirmed him in his belief that civilizations flourish and then are destroyed by some more primitive force, as the Doric barbarians in his poem overrun Greece, Knossos, and Egypt; as the Romans overran Greece; as the Teutons overran Europe; and as the Russians today threaten to overrun the vacillating democracies of both hemispheres.
Perhaps the deepest influence on Kazantzakis’ thought has been that of Bergson. The relationship which Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas bore to the thought and structure of Dante, Bergson bears to the thought and structure of Kazantzakis, and it is not without significance that he studied with Bergson at the Collège de France during his formative years. At the core of Kazantzakis’ thought and his Dionysian method lies Bergson’s concept of life as the expression of an élan vital, a vital or creative impulse, a fluid and persistent creation that flows eternally and manifests itself in everchanging eruptive phenomena. “According to Bergson,” Kazantzakis wrote in his treatise on his former teacher, “life is an unceasing creation, a leap upwards, a vital outburst, an élan vital . . . All the history of life up to man is a gigantic endeavor of the vital impulse to elevate matter, to create a being which would be free of the inflexible mechanism of inertia. . . Two streams, that of life and that of matter, are in motion, though in opposite directions: one toward integration and the other toward disintegration. Bergson thinks of the élan vital as a seething stream which in its ebullition distills into falling drops. It is these drops which constitute matter.” Life, as Bergson describes it in his Creative Evolution, is more a matter of time than of space; it is not position, but change; it is not quantity so much as quality; it is not a mere redistribution of matter and motion. The emphasis lies not on matter but on mind; not on space but on time; not on passivity but on action; not on mechanism, but on choice. Life is “always and always the procreative urge of the world.” The shape of things is not imposed from without, but impelled from within. Although life abandons the individual to disintegration, it conquers death through reproduction and an unceasing creative evolution.
The impulse of life, according to Bergson, has manifested itself in three stages in its effort toward more and more freedom. In the first stage life was rooted in the dark torpidity of plants and in the security it found there; in the second stage it froze in the mechanical instinct of such automatons as the ant and the bee; in the third stage, through vertebrates, through intelligence and will, it cast off routine instinct and plunged into “the endless risks of thought.” For Kazantzakis, as for Bergson, intuition (allied to instinct) is a more penetrating and more Dionysian vision which seeks the essence of things, but both based their ultimate hope on the intellect which, as it grows stronger and bolder in evolutionary growth, seems to embody best the highest forms through which the élan vital may find its supreme expression. Yet it must be stressed that both intuition and intellect have a common ancestry, that they are yoked bifurcations of the same body. “They are not successive degrees of evolution,” Kazantzakis writes; “they are simply directions which the same fermentation took. Difference of quality and not of quantity exists between instinct and intellect. Instinct knows things, intellect the relationship between things. Both are cognitive faculties. . . . Intuition has the advantage of entering into the very essence of life, of feeling its movement, its creation. But it has one great disadvantage: it cannot express itself.” Language is an instrument of the intellect. That philosophy which wants to interpret experience and to understand the essence of things cannot do it with the intellect alone. “Intellect must therefore work hand in hand with instinct ‘Only the intellect,’ says Bergson, ‘can seek to solve some problems, though it will never solve them; only the instinct can solve them, though it will never seek them.’ There is need, therefore, of absolute collaboration.”
“Life,” writes Kazantzakis, stressing his words by underlining them, “is what inspiration is to a poem. Words obstruct the flow of inspiration, but nevertheless they express it as best they can. Only the human intellect can dissect words, or unite them, or delineate them grammatically; but if we are to comprehend the poem, something else is needed; we must plunge into its heart, we must live in its inspiration, we must enter into a rhythmical harmony with the poet himself, for only then may the words lose their rigidity and inflexibility or may the current rush on its way once more and the poem seethe in us w
ith its true essence, and which a grammatical analysis can never discover. Similarly, in order to comprehend the élan vital, the human intellect is necessary, the examination of created things, the history of our earth as our scientific researches show them; but this is not enough, just as words are not enough by which to comprehend a poem. Both elements are indispensable.”
The unceasing creativity of life, casting up and discarding individuals and species as experiments on its way toward more and more liberation, is what Bergson and Kazantzakis both meant by God. For both men God is not omnipotent, but infinite; he is not omniscient, but struggles and stumbles, impeded by matter, toward more and more consciousness, toward light. “God, thus defined,” writes Bergson, “has nothing of the readymade; He is unceasing life, action, freedom. Creation so conceived is not a mystery; we experience it in ourselves when we act freely.” All the impulses in man toward further strength and betterment are the voices and the surge of the creative force within him pushing him onward and upward in an unending stream of creation and re-creation. Finally, what appears but darkly, hesitatingly, tentatively in Kazantzakis (especially in the last encounters of Odysseus with Heracles and Prometheus) is enunciated clearly by Bergson: the final hope that life in its struggle with matter might in time learn how to elude mortality. “The animal,” writes Bergson, “takes its stand on the plant, man bestrides animality, and the whole of humanity, in space and time, is one army galloping beside and before and behind each of us in an overwhelming charge able to beat down every resistance and clear the most formidable obstacles, perhaps even death.” *
Like all poets, Kazantzakis is not so much a systematic philosopher as one who, reaching out the tentacles of his mind and spirit, and grasping whatever might bring him nourishment, sucks up all into the third inner eye of vision peculiar to himself alone, and moves the reader with an imaginative view of life so intense as to be, in truth, a new apprehension. Basic to all of Kazantzakis’ vision, as to that of Yeats, has been the attempt to synthesize what seem to be contraries, antitheses, antinomies. His own life and personality would seem to be a battleground of contradictions unless one looked upon them with the third inner eye, and from a higher peak, as on an unceasing battle for a harmony never resolved. This eye, this glance, between the eye of the Orient (or Dionysus, who came from India or Asia Minor) and the eye of Hellenic Greece (or Apollo), Kazantzakis called the “Cretan Glance,” for he was born on the island of Crete, at the crossroads between Africa, Asia, and Europe. In replying to a young Greek scholar who accused him of being “anti-classical” in his Odyssey, Kazantzakis answered that the streams which created the ancient Greek civilization were two: the dark underground stream of Dionysus, and the upper lustrous one of Apollo. The underground stream watered and nourished the fruits of the upper world; if Dionysus had not existed, Apollo would have become anemic. Both were primitive and fertile Greek roots, but in the three thousand years that have passed, much new blood has entered into Greek veins and enriched them. A creator might take either one of two roads: he might deny anything that was not part of “classical Greece,” and of that accept the Apollonian vision only; or he might try, as the incurable descendants of an abundant richness, to create the synthesis of all these bloods, to find the expressions of a hyper-hellenic wealth. “You,” wrote Kazantzakis to the young scholar, “prefer the first road, that of ancient classical Hellenism, and I the second. In my Odyssey, I attempted to make this synthesis and to find this expression. Odysseus is not only a general sketch of the newer man who longs for a new and superior form of life, but he is also, in particular, the Greek who has to solve a most fundamental dilemma of his destiny; Odysseus chooses and lives the solution which seems to him the most true; he does not seek to prune his life, he denies nothing, he seeks the synthesis.”
Kazantzakis then makes two distinctions between Greece and the Orient. The chief characteristic of Greece is to erect the secure fortress of the ego, the fixed outline which subdues disorderly drives and primitive demons to the dictates of the enlightened and disciplined will. The supreme ideal of Greece is to save the ego from anarchy and chaos. The supreme ideal of the Orient is to dissolve the ego into the infinite and to become one with it. Passive contemplation, the bliss of renunciation, an utterly trustful abandonment to mysterious and impersonal powers—such is the essence of the Orient. “There is nothing so contrary to the spirit and practice of Odysseus as this Oriental conception of life,” Kazantzakis wrote to his young critic. “Of course he does not, like the Greeks, cast a veil over chaos, for he prefers, instead, to keep a sleepless vigil and to increase his strength by gazing into it; yet he never abandons himself to chaos, for on the contrary, until the very last moment, when Death appears, he stands erect before chaos and looks upon it with undimmed eyes.” This attitude toward life and death is not Greek, nor is it Oriental; it is something else: “Crete, for me (and not, naturally, for all Cretans), is the synthesis which I always pursue, the synthesis of Greece and the Orient. I neither feel Europe in me nor a clear and distilled classical Greece; nor do I at all feel the anarchic chaos and the will-less perseverance of the Orient. I feel something else, a synthesis, a being that not only gazes on the abyss without disintegrating, but which, on the contrary, is filled with coherence, pride, and manliness; by such a vision. This glance which confronts life and, death so bravely, I call Cretan.”
Kazantzakis then goes on to trace the Cretan Glance to its origins in the old pre-classical Minoan civilization of Crete. Minoan Crete, with its dreadful earthquakes symbolized by the Bull-God, and with the acrobatic games which the Cretans played with this same Bull, was a true realization of what Kazantzakis considered to be the superior vision: the Synthesis. The Cretan bull-rituals had no relationship to the bullfights of modern Spain. The Cretans confronted the Bull—the Titan-Earthquake—without fear, with undimmed eyes, nor killed him in order to unite with him (the Orient) or to be released from his presence (Greece), but played with him at their ease. “This direct contact with the Bull honed the strength of the Cretan, cultivated the flexibility and charm of his body, the flaming yet cool exactness of movement, the discipline of desire, and the hard-won virility to measure himself against the dark and powerful Bull-Titan. And thus the Cretan transformed terror into a high game wherein man’s virtue, in a direct contact with the beast, became tempered, and triumphed. The Cretan triumphed without killing the abominable bull because he did not think of it as an enemy but as a collaborator; without it his body would not have become so strong and charming or his spirit so manly. Of course, to endure and to play such a dangerous game, one needs great bodily and spiritual training and a sleepless discipline of nerves; but if a man once trains himself and becomes skillful in the game, then every one of his movements becomes simple, certain, and graceful. The heroic and playful eyes, without hope yet without fear, which so confront the Bull, the Abyss, I call the Cretan Glance.”
Kazantzakis was well aware that throughout the world and in contemporary Greece other clear glances existed, filled with light and nobility, which looked on the world with greater composure and did not inflame it with tension. He respected and rejoiced in the Apollonian or classical ordered vision of life, he was drawn to it and influenced by it even more than he realized, but he did not consider it to be either his own particular view or the one which could best gaze upon and understand the violent transitions of the modern world. “The epoch through which we are passing,” he wrote, “seems to me decidedly anti-classical. It seems to break the molds in political, economic, and social life, in thought and in action in order to achieve a new balance—a new classical age—on a higher plane; to create that which we have called a new Myth, and which might give a new and synchronized meaning to the world at last. Our age is a savage one; the Bull, the underground Dionysian powers, has been unleashed; the Apollonian crust of the earth is cracking. [“And what rough beast,” wrote Yeats in The Second Coming, “slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”] Nobility, harmony, balance, t
he sweetness of life, happiness, are all virtues and graces which we must have the courage to bid goodbye. They belong to another age, either past or future. Every age has its own face; the face of ours is a savage one; delicate spirits cannot confront it; they swerve their eyes in terror; they invoke the noble and ancient prototypes; they cannot look directly at the contemporary, prodigious, and dreadful spectacle of a world in painful birth. They want an art work cut in the pattern of their desires and their fears. They watch contemporary life exploding before them every minute with a world-destroying demonic power, and yet they do not see it; if they had seen it, indeed, they would have sought for its reflection, its mirror-image, in contemporary art.”
The Cretan Glance for Kazantzakis, therefore, was an attempted synthesis of those contraries which he believed underlie all human and natural endeavor, but a synthesis not so much of permanent as of momentary harmony, which in turn builds into a greater tension and explodes toward a higher and more inclusive synthesis in an ever upward and spiraling onrush, leaving behind it the bloodstained path of man’s and nature’s endeavors. This may explain much that, from a more restricted point of view, seems contradictory in his life and thought, but which takes on another value when seen as the ever-shifting sections of larger and, in themselves, ever-changing unities. The emphasis here is more on the constant tension and flux of the élan vital, the creative impulse, than on any momentary object which it has cast up along its way in its onward rush—whether plant, or animal, or man, or star. It is a double vision between whose dual tensions rises the third inner eye that soars on the balancing wings of good and evil, that no sooner creates a new law than it begins immediately to conceive of an opposed and contrary law with which to knock it down. In Book X, Odysseus exclaims: “If only I could fight with both my friends and foes, / join in my heart God, anti-God, both yes and no, / like that round fruit which two lips make when they are kissing!” In Book XI he says: “God spreads the enormous wing of good from his right side, / the wing of evil from his left, then springs and soars. / If only I could be like God, to fly with wayward wings!” And in Book XII: “To all laws I’ll erect contrary, secret laws / that must deny with scorn and smash all former laws.”