Life

 Friday, February 5th., Chiltern Court, London.

What I desiderate more than anything in the reminiscential line is a book of reminiscences by a known person about encounters with the admiring uncelebrated. Such a book might be marvellous. I would not write it myself but I have heaped material for it. As an example. Once, on board ship, a lady said to me suddenly: "Oh, Mr. Bennett, I do love your "Old Wives' Tale". I made no reply because, what can one reply that is not desolatingly banal? She thought I was displeased and went on: "But I love your serious books too!" "For instance?" I enquired. "Well, "How to Live on Twenty Four Hours a Day." For once, words failed me!

And words almost fail me in connection with a book I am reading at the moment. In fact I have nearly finished it and stopped reading this afternoon only because I could sense the end was near and I want to savour it. It is "Zorba the Greek" by Nikos Kazantzakis. In translation. This is a book about how to live life, nothing else. I know nothing of Kazantzakis but he must know something about living. Certainly more than I know. The book put me in mind from the start of Hess's "Narziss and Goldmund", the contrast between the sensualist and the aesthete/ascetic. But Zorba is, for me, much more fully realised than is Goldmund. What a character! To say that he is 'larger than life' is to underestimate the man; he is life. Zorba is a noble creation. Casting around for a character on the same scale from my reading I came up with Haggard's noble Zulu, Umslopogaas; he too expanded the conception of what is possible to a man.

We know nothing worth knowing about the narrator of the story, not even his name, but that does not matter. All we need is to have been introduced to Zorba, and to listen fascinated as he tells the stories of his life. We do not believe all he says of course, but his experience fills our breasts to overflowing. At times I wanted to throw down the book and set off immediately in search of adventure. In search of life. To go to Greece. And as for Crete, well, I have been there, but I was wasting my time. I don't suppose the cast of colourful village characters are any more true to life than are Hardy's peasantry, but they live in the mind of the reader in the same way, and will continue to live in the memory. I am exhausted but exhilarated as is the hapless narrator after a night eating and drinking with Zorba.