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So what else can he do? How about introducing a female viewpoint into the
most famous buddy narrative in English literature, Robinson Crusoe? His Foe
plunks a female character, Susan Barton, down on Crusoe’s island, where she
finds things not entirely as reported by Daniel Defoe (the “Foe” of the title).
Friday is clearly African, as against the nearly European original, and he has
been rendered speechless by the mutilation of his tongue, although agency in this
horrific act is never established. Cruso (as it is spelled throughout) dies on the
return voyage, and it is only through Susan’s importuning of the titular author
that his story is told, however distorted in the process. Needless to say, the novel
turns an adventure yarn into a meditation on race, gender, and the consequences
of colonialism, topics of which Defoe was blithely unaware. It also reminds us
of his sources. Defoe typically drew from real-life counterparts for his
narratives, from the lives of various female criminals, probably including the
notorious Mary Carleton, who had published an autobiography during her own
crime spree. Unlike Carleton, who died on the gallows, his Moll repents and is
transported, although her protestations of reform and remorse are never as
convincing or as engaging as her tales of bad behavior. For Crusoe, he drew
upon the most famous castaway of his time, Alexander Selkirk, who spent four
years on a desert island before being rescued and whose tale was told in various
fictional “autobiographical” accounts as well as in an interview with the famous
journalist Richard Steele. What better figure, then, to draw from than someone
who made a practice of reworking sources himself?
Okay, so novelists borrow from other narrative. We’ve got that. Novels,
memoirs, letters, stories of all sorts. Check. Sometimes those narratives are
really old. Older than writing. Older than anything. The American novelist John
Barth has shown that he’ll borrow from anywhere, but he prefers A Thousand
and One Nights. And why not? There’s a story there for every occasion. Plus, the
really interesting story, for Barth, is the talking-for-your-life tale of
Scheherazade herself, whom he sees as a sort of Ur-novelist, a figure compelled
by circumstance or fate to spin tales endlessly. A good model for the novelist. In
Chimera (1972), he weaves together the tales of his bedtime story genius￾heroine and her sister Dunyazade, Perseus, and Bellerophon, along with a figure
purporting to represent the novelist himself as genie (or “Djean”). In The Last
Voyage of Somebody the Sailor (1991), we’re pretty sure who will make an
appearance. Sure enough, when the contemporary man Simon Behler falls
overboard off the coast of Sri Lanka, he somehow awakens to find himself
trapped in ancient Baghdad and locked in a contest of storytelling prowess with
Sindbad the Sailor, no slouch at yarn-spinning. Barth is always enthralled with
other storytellers and with earlier literature, and that fascination takes him back
toward the great stories, and thence to the great myths. Here’s what matters,
though: this is personal experience for him. As much as being a twin, as living in
Maryland, as being a sailor, as teaching English, as dealing with publishers and
editors all help define him, so does his reading, so do his obsessions and
preoccupations.
When Barth encounters these tales, of course, he’s playing his postmodern
games with them, but that’s not the inevitable path. Joyce makes use of
Odysseus and the Greek gods in Ulysses, Finn McCool and other—many, many
other—myths in Finnegans Wake. D. H. Lawrence borrows myth everywhere he
travels, perhaps most notably the myth of the Mexican god Quetzalcoatl in The
Plumed Serpent. The modernists frequently turn back to ancient myth as
organizing principle for their stories of modern struggle. Lawrence and Joyce,
though, have a contemporary who made myth seriously fun. A Greek. The
Greek. How can you not love somebody named Zorba? You remember Zorba,
right? Anthony Quinn playing very far over the top? Well, before it was a Quinn
movie (actually, a Michael Cacoyannis movie, but who remembers him?), it was
a Nikos Kazantzakis novel. Kazantzakis worked for decades on a long verse
epic, The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel. He became notorious in his own lifetime
and then much later, when Martin Scorsese filmed The Last Temptation of
Christ, although the novel is simply The Last Temptation. He wrote novels about
St. Francis of Assisi and Alexander the Great, and he wrote The Greek Passion,
about a passion play that gets out of hand, where, essentially, Christ is
recrucified. So he’s pretty familiar with recycling myth. But what made him very
famous and much loved, naturally, is Zorba the Greek. Wait a minute, you’re
saying—that’s the least mythic of them all. True, if you mean the immediate
story. But Alexis Zorba’s no ordinary man. He’s all passions and desires, drink
and sex, music and dancing, dark energy and deep digging. He is, in other words,
Dionysus. The unnamed narrator, with his emphasis on the mind, his instinctive
recoil from sexual urges and the body generally, and his bookishness, is almost
pure Apollonian, according to the dichotomy that first comes to us—and to
Kazantzakis—from Friedrich Nietzsche. Zorba represents the other, livelier half,
of that opposition. Zorba is connected to wine, of course, to harvest bounty more
generally, as well as to music and dance, but also to deep drives and urges,
particularly those like lust and anger that are most difficult to tame. He has a
way with women, reminding us that Dionysus had a cult of wild women, the
Maenads, who held orgiastic rituals in the wooded darkness where among other
activities they drank, danced, slaughtered animals and consumed them raw. Dark
urges, indeed.
Dionysus was the most alarming of the Olympian gods, in part because his
specialty, fruitfulness and the vine, was both mysterious and terrifying in its
negative consequences. If grapes or olives failed, a community was in great
danger of annihilation. What we often regard as the high-water mark of classical
Greece, the drama, grew out of primitive dithyrambic rites (dancing and sung
narratives) meant to appease and celebrate him. In the theaters there was always
a seat in the front row reserved for him, and performances were generally
preceded by an animal sacrifice in his honor. He alone of the major deities was
not pictured directly in his own person, but as a figure or face reflected in the
clouds. Well, one can’t very well write a novel about the god himself, can one?
So Kazantzakis gives us Zorba, both the representation of the god and a
recognizable figure in himself: the unschooled workman in touch with the earth
and its pleasures, the man whose genius is for living.
If a farm kid from Ohio writes such a story, it may come off as a bit
contrived. I can speak with some authority on this point. But Kazantzakis grew
up in a world infused with knowledge of the ancient world and its deities. He
was a scholar and translator of philosophy and classical works, a student of
various religious traditions. His Dionysian figure owes as much to Nietzsche as
to the ancient tradition. Not for nothing is the narrator writing a book on the
Buddha, whose teachings lead invariably away from the body and from desire
generally. Does this mean he “believes” in the ancient myths? Not literally, but
he does place them in the context of a broader wisdom tradition, reminding
readers that salvation (one of Zorba’s favorite topics) relies not only on the spirit
and the mind but also on the stomach, the sexual organs, and the body. Those are
the lessons of Zorba/Dionysus, and they are available to Kazantzakis through his
direct, personal experience of the world.