Report to Grego by Nikos Kazantzakis Page B

in order to hurl myself headforemost into the well.
    Every Sunday when I went to church, I saw an icon (placed low on the iconostasis) which showed Christ rising from the grave and hovering in the air, a white banner in His hand. On the bottom His guards were fallen on their backs and staring at Him in terror. I had heard many stories about Cretan uprisings and about wars, I’d been told that my paternal grandfather was a great military leader, and as I gazed at the icon, I gradually convinced myself that Christ was indeed my grandfather. I collected my friends around the icon, therefore, and said to them, “Look at my grandfather. He’s holding the banner and going to war. And see there on the bottom? The Turks, sprawled on their backs.”
    What I said was neither true nor false; it overstepped the limits of logic and ethics in order to hover in a lighter, freer air. If someone had accused me of telling lies, I would have wept from shame. The feather in my hands had ceased to be a rooster’s; the angel had given it to me. I was not telling lies. I had an unshakable faith that the Christ with the banner was my grandfather and the terror-stricken guards below were the Turks.
    Much, much later, when I started writing poems and novels, I came to understand that this secret elaboration is termed “creation.”
    One day while reading the legend of Saint John of the Hut, I jumped to my feet and made a decision: “I shall go to Mount Athos to become a saint!” Without turning to look at my mother (Saint John of the Hut had not turned to look at his mother), Istrode over the threshold and out into the street. Taking the most outlying lanes and running all the way for fear that one of my uncles might see me and take me hack home, I reached the harbor, where I approached a caique, the one which was ready to weigh anchor first. A sun-roasted seaman was leaning over the iron bitt and struggling to undo the cable. Trembling with emotion, I went up to him.
    â€œCan you take me with you, Captain?”
    â€œWhere do you want to go?”
    â€œMount Athos.”
    â€œWhere? Mount Athos? To do what”’
    â€œBecome a saint.”
    The skipper shook with laughter. Clapping his hands as though shooing away a hen, he shouted, “Home! Home!”
    I ran home in disgrace, crawled under the sofa, and never breathed a word to anyone. Today is the first time I admit it: my initial attempt to become a saint miscarried.
    My misery lasted for years, perhaps even to this day. I was born, after all, on Friday the eighteenth of February, the day of souls, a very holy day indeed, and the old midwife clutched me in her hands, brought me close to the light, and looked at me with great care. She seemed to see some kind of mystic signs on me. Lifting me high, she said, “Mark my words, one day this child will become a bishop.”
    When in the course of time I learned of the midwife’s prophecy, I believed it, so well did it match my own most secret yearnings. A great responsibility fell upon me then, and I no longer wished to do anything that a bishop would not have done. Much later, when I saw what bishops actually do, I changed my mind. Thenceforth, in order to deserve the sainthood I so craved, I wished to avoid all things that bishops do.

9
LONGING FOR FLIGHT
    T HE DAYS were slow-moving and monotonous in that era. People did not read newspapers; the radio, telephone, and cinema were still unborn, and life rolled along noiselessly—serious and sparing of words. Each person was a closed world, each house both locked and bolted. The goodmen within grew older day by day. They caroused in whispers lest they be overheard, or they quarreled secretly, or fell mutely ill and died. Then the door opened for the remains to emerge, and the four walls momentarily revealed their secret. But the door closed again immediately, and life began noiselessly to grind away once more.
    On the annual