So I spoke to myself and I began to write. But no, this was not writing: it was a real war, a merciless hunt, a siege, a spell to bring the monster out of its hiding place. Art is, in fact, a magic incantation. Obscure homicidal forces lurk in our entrails, deadly impulses to kill, destroy, hate, dishonor. Then art appears with its sweet piping and delivers us.

I wrote, pursued, struggled the whole day through. In the evening I was exhausted. But I felt I had made progress, had mastered a few advance posts of the enemy. I was now anxious for Zorba to return, so that I could eat, sleep and build up my strength to resume the fight at dawn.

It was already dark when Zorba came in. He had a radiant expression on his face. He has found the answer to something, too, I thought. And I waited.

I had begun to grow impatient with him and, only a few days before, I had said angrily:

"Zorba, our funds are getting low. Whatever has to be done, do it quickly! Let's get this railway going; if we're not successful with the coal, let's go all out for the timber. Otherwise we've had it!"

Zorba had scratched his head.

"Funds getting low, are they, boss? That's bad!" he said.

"They're gone, Zorba. We've swallowed up the lot. Do something! How are your experiments going? No luck yet?"

Zorba had hung his head and made no reply. He had felt ashamed that evening. "That damned slope!" he said furiously. "I'll get the better of it yet!" And now he had come in, his face lit up with success.

"I've done it, boss!" he shouted. "I've found the right angle! It was slipping through my hands, trying to get away from me, but I held on and pinned it down, boss!"

"Well, hurry up and get the thing working! Fire away, Zorba! What else do you need?"

"Early tomorrow morning I must go to town and buy the tackle: a thick steel cable, pulleys, bearings, nails, hooks… Don't worry, I'll be back almost before you've seen me go!"

He lit the fire shortly afterwards, prepared our meal and we ate and drank with excellent appetites. We had both worked well that day.

The next morning I went with Zorba as far as the víllage. We talked like serious and practical-minded people about the working of the lignite. While going down a slope, Zorba kícked against a stone, which went rolling downhill. He stopped for a moment in amazement, as if he were seeing this astounding spectacle for the first time in his life. He looked round at me, and in his look I discerned faint consternation.

"Boss, did you see that?" he said at last. "On slopes, stones come to life again."

I said nothing, but I felt a deep joy. This, I thought, is how great visionaries and poets see everything-as if for the first time. Each morning they see a new world before their eyes; they do not really see it, they create it.

The universe for Zorba, as for the first men on earth, was a weighty, intense vision; the stars glided over him, the sea broke against his temples. He lived the earth, water, the animals and God, without the distorting intervention of reason.

Dame Hortense had been informed and she was waiting for us on her doorstep. She was painted, caulked with powder, and uneasy. She had got herself up like a fun fair on a Saturday night. The mule was in front of her gate; Zorba jumped on its back and seized the reins.

The old siren came up timidly and placed her plump little hand on the animal's breast, as if she wanted to prevent her beloved from leaving.

"Zorba…" she cooed, raising herself on tiptoe. "Zorba…"

Zorba turned his head away. He hated having to listen to lovers' nonsense like this in the middle of the road. The poor woman saw his look and was terrified. But her hand still pressed on the mule's breast, full of tender entreaty.

"What do you want?" Zorba asked angrily.

"Zorba," she pleaded, "be good… Don't forget me, Zorba… Be good…"

Zorba shook the reins without replying. The mule started off.

"Good luck, Zorba!" I cried. "Three days, do you hear'? No more!"

He turned round, waving his big hand. The old siren was weeping and her tears washed furrows in the powder on her face.

"I gave you my word, boss!" Zorba shouted. "Goodbye!"

And he disappeared beneath the olive trees. Dame Hortense went on crying, but she kept her eyes on the splash of color made by the gay red rug which she had placed so carefully for her beloved so that he should be comfortably seated. It was constantly being hidden by the silver foliage of the trees. Soon even that had disappeared. Dame Hortense looked round her. The world was empty.

I did not go back to the beach. I felt sad and walked towards the mountains. As I reached the mountain track, I heard a trumpet sound. The country postman was announcing his arrival in the village.

"Master!" he called to me, waving his hand.

He came over and gave me a packet of newspapers, some literary reviews and two letters: one I immediately put away in my pocket to read in the evening, when day is done and the spirit is calm. I knew who had written it and I wanted to defer my joy so that it should last longer.

The other letter I recognized from its sharp, jerky writing and the exotic stamps: it came from one of my old fellow students, Karayannis. It was from a wild African mountainside, near Tanganyika.

He was a strange, impulsive, dark man with very white teeth. One of his canines stuck out like a wild boar's. He never talked, he shouted. He never discussed, he quarrelled. He had left his own country, Crete, where he had been a young theology teacher and a monk. He had flírted wíth one of his students, and they had been surprised one day kissing out in the fields. They had been booed. The same day the young teacher threw off the cowl and took a boat. He went to an uncle in Africa and started to work with a will. He opened a rope factory and made a lot of money. From time to time he wrote to me and invited me to go and stay with him for six months. Whenever I opened one of his letters, even before I read it, I could feel, arising from the crowded pages, which were always sewn together with string, a violent breath which made my hair stand on end. I was always deciding I would go and see him in Africa, but never went.

I left the track, sat on a stone, opened and began reading this letter:

When are you going to make up your mind to come here to me, you damned limpet clamped to the rocks of Greece? You, too, have turned into a typical lousy Greek, a tavern-loafer, a wallower in café-life. Because you need not think only cafés are cafés; books are, too, and habits, and your precious ideologies. They are all cafés. It is Sunday today and I have nothing to do: I am on my estate and I'm thinking of you. The sun is like a furnace, and there has not been a drop of rain. Here, when the rain does fall, in April, May and June, it's an absolute deluge.

I'm all alone, and I like that. There are quite a lot of lousy Greeks here (Is there anywhere this vermin doesn't get to?) but I don't want to mix with them. They disgust me. Even here, you damned tavernloafers-may the Devil take you-you've sent us your leprosy, your miserable back-biting. That's what is ruining Greece -politics! There's card-playing, too, of course, and ignorance, and the sins of the flesh.

I detest Europeans; that's why I am wandering about here in the mountains of Usumbara. I hate Europeans, but most of all I hate the lousy Greeks and everything Greek. I'll never set foot in Greece again. This is where I'll finish up. I've had my tomb made already, in front of my hut, here on the wild mountainside. I've even put up the stone and myself carved these words in large capitals:

HERE LIES A GREEK WHO HATES THE GREEKS

I burst out laughing, spit, swear and weep whenever I think of Greece. So as to see no Greeks and nothing Greek, I left the country forever. I came here, brought my destiny with me-it was not my destiny which brought me: man does what he chooses!-I brought my destiny here and I've worked and still am working like a slave. I've been sweating and will continue to sweat by the bucketful. I am fighting with the earth, the wind, the rain, and with the workmen, my red and black slaves.