He was silent, but soon broke out again.

"No, I'm not the sort to hold out my neck to Charon like a sheep and say: 'Cut my throat, Mr. Charon, please: I want to go straight to Paradise!'"

I listened to Zorba in perplexity. Who was the sage who tried to teach his disciples to do voluntarily what the law ordered should be done? To say "yes" to necessity and change the inevitable into something done of their own free will? That is perhaps the only human way to deliverance. It is a pitiable way, but there is no other.

But what of revolt? The proud, quixotic reaction of mankind to conquer Necessity and make external laws conform to the internal laws of the soul, to deny all that is and create a new world according to the laws of one's own heart, which are contrary to the inhuman laws of nature-to create a new world which is purer, better and more moral than the one that exists?

Zorba looked at me, saw that I had no more to say to him, took up the cage carefully so that he should not wake the parrot, placed it by his head and stretched out on the pebbles.

"Good night, boss!" he said. "That's enough."

A strong south wind was blowing from Africa. It was making the vegetables and fruits and Cretan breasts all swell and grow. I felt it on my forehead, lips and neck; and like a fruit my brain cracked and swelled.

I could not and would not sleep. I thought of nothing. I just felt something, someone growing to maturity inside me in the warm night. I lived lucidly through a most surprising experience: I saw myself change. A thing that usually happens only in the most obscure depths of our bowels was this time occurring in the open, before my eyes. Crouched by the sea, I watched this miracle take place.

The stars grew dim, the sky grew light and against this luminous background appeared, as if delicately traced in ink, the mountains, trees and gulls.

Dawn was breaking.

Several days went by. The corn had ripened and the heavy ears were hanging down with the weight of the grain. On the olive trees the cicadas sawed the air, and brilliant insects hummed in the burning light. Vapor was rising from the sea.

Zorba went off silently at dawn every day to the mountain. The work of installing the overhead line was nearing an end. The pylons were all in place, the cable was stretched ready and the pulleys fixed. Zorba came back from work at dusk, worn out. He lit the fire, made the evening meal, and we ate. We took care not to arouse the demons that were sleeping within us-death and fear; we never talked of the widow, or Dame Hortense, or God. Silently we gazed out over the sea.

Because of Zorba's silence, the eternal but vain questions rose up once more within me. Once more my breast was filled with anguish. What is this world? I wondered. What is its aim and in what way can we help to attain it during our ephemeral lives? The aim of man and matter is to create joy, according to Zorba-others would say "to create spirit," but that comes to the same thing on another plane. But why? With what object? And when the body dissolves, does anything at all remain of what we have called the soul? Or does nothing remain, and does our unquenchable desire for immortality spring, not from the fact that we are immortal, but from the fact that during the short span of our life we are in the service of something immortal?

One day I rose and washed, and the earth, it seemed, had also just risen and finished its ablutions. It shone as if it were a new creation. I went down to the village. On my left the indigo-blue sea was motionless, on my right in the distance glistened the fields of wheat, like an army flourishing a host of golden lances. I passed the Fig Tree of Our Young Lady, covered with green leaves and tiny little figs, hastened by the widow's garden without so much as turning my head, and entered the village. The small hotel was deserted now, abandoned. Doors and windows were missing, dogs walked in and out of the yard as they pleased, the rooms were empty. In the death chamber, the bed, trunk and chairs had all gone; there remained only a tattered slipper with a worn heel and red pompon, in one corner of the room. It still faithfully preserved the shape of its owner's foot. That wretched slipper, more compassionate than the human mind, had not yet forgotten the beloved but maltreated foot.

I was late returning. Zorba had already lit the fire and was preparing to cook. As he raised his eyes to greet me, he knew immediately where I had been. He frowned. After so many days of silence he unlocked his heart that evening and spoke.

"Every time I suffer, boss," he said, as though to justify himself, "it just cracks my heart in two. But it's all scarred and riddled with wounds already, and it sticks itself together again in a trice and the wound can't be seen. I'm covered with healed wounds, that's why I can stand so much."

"You've soon forgotten poor Bouboulina, Zorba," I said, in a tone which was somewhat brutal for me.

Zorba was piqued and raísed his voice.

"A fresh road, and fresh plans!" he cried. "I've stopped thinking all the time of what happened yesterday. And stopped asking myself what's going to happen tomorrow. What's happening today, this minute, that's what I care about. I say: 'What are you doing at this moment, Zorba?' 'I'm sleeping.' 'Well, sleep well.' 'What are you doíng at this moment, Zorba?' 'I'm working.' 'Well, work well.' 'What are you doing at this moment, Zorba?' 'I'm kissing a woman.' 'Well, kiss her well, Zorba! And forget all the rest while you're doing it; there's nothing else on earth, only you and her! Get on withit!'"

A few moments later he continued.

"When she, Bouboulina, was alive, you know, no kind of Canavaro had ever given her so much pleasure as I did-old rag-and-bone Zorba. Do you want to know why? Because all the Canavaros in the world, while they were kissing her, kept thinking about their fleets, or the king, or Crete, or their stripes and decorations, or their wives. But I used to forget everything else, and she knew that, the old trollop. And let me tell you this, my learned friend-there's no greater pleasure for a woman than that. A real woman-now listen to this and I hope it helps you-gets more out of the pleasure she gives than the pleasure she takes from a man."

He bent down to put some wood on the fire and was silent.

I looked at him and was very happy. I felt these minutes on that deserted shore to be simple but rich in deep human value. And our meal every evening was like the stews that sailors make when they land on some deserted beach-with fish, oysters, onions, and plenty of pepper; they are more tasty than any other dish and have no equal for nourishing a man's spirit. There, at the edge of the world, we were like two shipwrecked men.

"The day after tomorrow we get our line started," said Zorba, pursuing his train of thought. "I'm not walking on the ground any more; I'm a creature of the air. I can feel the pulleys on my shoulders!"

"Do you remember the bait you threw me in the Piraeus Restaurant to land me on the hook?" I asked. "You said you could cook wonderful soups-and it happens to be the dish I like best. How did you know?"

Zorba shook his head with slight scorn.

"I can't say, boss. It just came into my head like that. The way you were sitting there in the corner of the café, quiet, reserved, bent over that little gilt-edged book-I don't know, I just felt you liked soup, that's all. It just came to me like that; there's no understanding it!"

He suddenly stopped and leaned forward, listening.

"Quiet!" he said. "There's someone coming!"

We heard rapid footsteps and the heavy breathing of someone running. Suddenly there appeared in the flickering light of the flames a monk in a torn habit, bare headed, red bearded and with a small moustache. He brought with him a strong smell of paraffin.