There's a sort of miracle happening here, boss. (Zorba the Greek)

We were sitting yesterday in front of the hut. When he had drunk a glass of wine, he turned to me in alarm: "Now whatever is this red water, boss, just tell me! An old stock grows branches, and at first there's nothing but a sour bunch of beads hanging down. Time passes, the sun ripens them, they become as sweet as honey, and then they're called grapes. We trample on them; we extract the juice and put it into casks; it ferments on its own, we open it on the feast day of St. John the Drinker, it's become wine! It's a miracle! You drink the red juice and, lo and behold, your soul grows big, too big for the old carcass, it challenges God to a fight."

--

I was happy and said to myself: "This is true happiness: to have no ambition and to work like a horse as if you had every ambition. To live far from men, not to need them and yet to love them. To take part in the Christmas festivities and, after eating and drinking well, to escape on your own far from all the snares, to have the stars above, the land to your left and the sea to your right: and to realize of a sudden that, in your heart, life has accomplished its final miracle: it has become a fairy tale."

--

For me Paradise is this: a little perfumed room with gay-colored dresses on the wall, scented soaps, a big bed with good springs, and at my side the female of the species.

--

"And what might you be after in the ruins?"
"I'm studying antiquity."
"What good do you get out of that?"
"None."
"None. Nor do I. This is all dead, and we're alive. You'd do better to go, quick. God be with you!"

--

"I long for heaven! I tell jokes and cut capers about the place and make the monks laugh. They all say I'm possessed by the devil and insult me. But I say to myself: 'It can't be true; God must like fun and laughter. "Come inside, my little buffoon, come inside," he'll say to me one day, I know. "Come and make me laugh!"' That's the way I'll get into Paradise, as a buffoon!

--

"This is my second theory: every idea that has a real influence has also a real existence. It is really there, it does not float invisibly in the atmosphere--it has a real body--eyes, a mouth, feet, a stomach. It is male or female and therefore runs after men or women, as the case may be. That is why the Gospel says: 'The Word became flesh . . .'"
He looked at me anxiously again.
"My third theory," he went on hurriedly, as he could not bear my silence, "is this: there is some Eternity even in our ephemeral lives, only it is very difficult for us to discover it alone. Our daily cares lead us astray. A few people only, the flower of humanity, manage to live in eternity even in their transitory lives on this earth. Since all the others would therefore be lost, God had mercy on them and sent them religion--thus the crowd is able to live in eternity, too."
He had finished and was visibly relieved for having spoken. He raised his small eyes, which had no lashes, and smiled at me. It was as though he were saying: "There, I am giving you all I have, take it!" I was very moved by the sight of this little old man thus offering me outright, when he hardly knew me, the fruits of a lifetime's work.
He had tears in his eyes.
"What do you think of my theories?" he asked, taking my hand between his own and looking into my eyes. I felt that he depended on my reply to tell him whether his life had been of any use or not.
I knew that, over and above the truth, there exists another duty which is much more important and much more human.
"These theories may save many souls," I answered.
The bishop's face lit up. That was the justification of his entire life.
"Thank you, my son," he whispered, squeezing my hand affectionately.
Zorba leapt from his corner.
"I've got a fourth theory!" he cried.
I looked anxiously at him. The bishop turned to him.
"Speak, my son, and may your theory be blessed! What is it?"
"That two and two make four!" said Zorba gravely.
The bishop looked aat him, flabbergasted.
"And a fifth theory, old man," Zorba went on. "What two and two don't make four. Go on, my friend, take a chance! Make your choice!"
"I don't understand," stammered the old man, casting a questioning glance at me.
"Neither do I!" said Zorba, bursting into laughter.

--

God changes his appearance every second. Blessed is the man who can recognize him in all his disguises. At one moment he is a glass of fresh water, the next your son bouncing on your knees or an enchanting woman, or perhaps merely a morning walk.

--

"You're cruel!" the old cabaret singer said all of a sudden in a hoarse voice.
Zorba raised his head and looked at her. His eyes softened. He could never hear a woman say anything to him a harrowing tone without being completely overwhelmed. One tear from a woman could drown him.




(Nikos Kazantzakis, Zorba the Greek)