Зорба Гркот не бил Грк туку Македонец!

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  • Louis
    Banned
    • Jun 2012
    • 109

    #31
    What makes this story important is the interaction between the bookish intellectual who can only think and write and the vibrant, wise, uneducated man who can feel and act. The film, the music and the dance helped a lot.

    The rapes you mention is (literally) one line in the film and in the book, while there's also one chapter describing the murder of a Bulgarian priest and the burning of a village through some impressive contradictions. In both cases the point is humanistic and anti-nationalistic.

    Comment

    • damian
      Banned
      • Jun 2012
      • 191

      #32
      I always thought his character was that of a ridiculous clown what they call the karayioz. And when did this take place the Greeks of the caucasus I thought they were exiled by Stalin?


      Originally posted by Louis View Post
      Damian,
      There are no negative views about Zorba in Greece. The title “Zorba the Freak” refers to himself (Sidiropoulos) and is supposed to be satirical.

      Soldier of Macedon,
      -I DO remember the great scene from the movie where a devastated Zorba regrets that in the past “he raped women and killed people because they were Turks or Bulgarians”, but I don’t really remember if this is in the book.
      -I think that in the book Zorba participates as a rebel in the Macedonian Struggle.
      -As far as I know, the real Zorba did not participate in the Macedonian Struggle or in the Balkan Wars, he was mostly affected and destroyed by the wars.
      -Yet, he did play a political role in 1919 when along with Kazantzakis (and 3-4 other men) took a mission in Russia and brought to Greece about 100,000-150,000 Greeks of Caucus that were caught in the middle of the Russian Civil War and were in danger and devastation. Most of them were located in Macedonia and Thrace.

      They say the most important thing you can do in your life is write a great book or do something that will inspire a great book. During the 50s one of the oldest sons of Zorba, vice colonel Andreas Zorbas sent a protest letter to Kazantzakis accusing him that he ridiculed his father in the book. Yet, according to all testimonies, the real character of Zorba (with all its’ controversies) seems to be like the one described in the book.
      Kazantzakis was a genius and he really adored Zorba; he considered him his guru. Some of the elements are fictional, yet Kazantzakis and Zorbas DID experience (almost 90% of) what is in the book. They DID join in this lignite operation in 1915-1916 (in Peloponnesus, not in Crete) and it did have a gloriously disastrous ending.

      Actually Sidiropoulos comes in a sense from the Kazantzakis family. Zorbas’ daughter Anastasia was taken under the protection of Kazantzakis’ first wife (author Galateia Kazantzaki) and eventually married Garateia’s brother, Radamanthys Alexiou.

      Comment

      • Soldier of Macedon
        Senior Member
        • Sep 2008
        • 13674

        #33
        Originally posted by Louis View Post
        What makes this story important is the interaction between the bookish intellectual who can only think and write and the vibrant, wise, uneducated man who can feel and act. The film, the music and the dance helped a lot.

        The rapes you mention is (literally) one line in the film and in the book, while there's also one chapter describing the murder of a Bulgarian priest and the burning of a village through some impressive contradictions. In both cases the point is humanistic and anti-nationalistic.
        I am not referring to the plot of the book/movie, or the importance of a story concerning the interaction of a so-called intellectual with a murderous animal. I am just curious to understand why your people choose to glorify a self-confessed rapist by naming their cafes and restaurants all over the world after him, even if he is a deluded figment of Kazantzakis' imagination. Is it because, in your eyes, he somehow manages to 'redeem' himself through an admission of guilt? That makes him 'human' now? If a rapist from the Bosnian or Rwandan wars said "sorry" for his dispicable crimes, should Bosnians and Rwandans glorify his name? Zorba the Greek can kiss my Macedonian ass.
        In the name of the blood and the sun, the dagger and the gun, Christ protect this soldier, a lion and a Macedonian.

        Comment

        • Louis
          Banned
          • Jun 2012
          • 109

          #34
          I thought I fully answered this. This is the scene (around 3:30-6:30)

          ZORBA THE GREEK (7/14) - Mikis Theodorakis, Nikos Kazantzakis - YouTube

          Comment

          • Soldier of Macedon
            Senior Member
            • Sep 2008
            • 13674

            #35
            Originally posted by Louis
            I thought I fully answered this.
            Your response wasn't an answer to my question.
            In the name of the blood and the sun, the dagger and the gun, Christ protect this soldier, a lion and a Macedonian.

            Comment

            • Louis
              Banned
              • Jun 2012
              • 109

              #36
              Yes it was. Cafes and restaurants all over the world are named after him, because of the international success, the impact of the film, the music and the dance.
              Zorba was one of the few things foreign tourists knew about Greece.

              Comment

              • Soldier of Macedon
                Senior Member
                • Sep 2008
                • 13674

                #37
                So the money these restaurateurs reap from the fame of the movie is supposed to overshadow the fact that its main character was a rapist.
                In the name of the blood and the sun, the dagger and the gun, Christ protect this soldier, a lion and a Macedonian.

                Comment

                • Amphipolis
                  Banned
                  • Aug 2014
                  • 1328

                  #38
                  The case of Zorba is trickier. I also don’t know the true story, but there are books about the life of real (George) Zorbas, a new one was just presented this year. If one names a taverna in Chicago as “Zorba the Greek” is he celebrating the man? The character? The book? The author? The film? None I’m afraid.

                  I DO know Kazantzakis really admired and appreciated the real Zorba, their real relation often reminisces the book and that sounds as the ultimate award.

                  Comment

                  • Soldier of Macedon
                    Senior Member
                    • Sep 2008
                    • 13674

                    #39
                    Originally posted by Amphipolis View Post
                    If one names a taverna in Chicago as “Zorba the Greek” is he celebrating the man? The character? The book? The author? The film? None I’m afraid.
                    Don't be ridiculous. It is celebrating at least one of those subjects, all of which are connected and all of which directly relate to a self-confessed rapist. You and the other Greeks can choose to look at this from an abstract perspective because the movie helped make your people popular to western audiences, but in the end, it amounts to the same thing - the celebration of an individual (fictional or otherwise) who was a rapist. And he was apparently the inspiration for a stupid dance.
                    I DO know Kazantzakis really admired and appreciated the real Zorba, their real relation often reminisces the book and that sounds as the ultimate award.
                    One wonders just how much of the real Zorba is present in the fictional character. One wonders why Kazantzakis would make Anthony Quinn's character a rapist if there wasn't some sort of real-life inspiration to serve as a basis. It's a rather random characteristic to assign to the "hero" of a story that he admired so much. Perhaps Kazantzakis is just as sick as the character he created or relayed in print.
                    In the name of the blood and the sun, the dagger and the gun, Christ protect this soldier, a lion and a Macedonian.

                    Comment

                    • Amphipolis
                      Banned
                      • Aug 2014
                      • 1328

                      #40
                      This is the part we're talking about


                      I admired this man whose brain functioned with so much confidence and daring and whose soul, wherever you touched it, struck out fire.
                      'Have you ever been to war, Zorba?'

                      'How do I know?' he asked with a frown. T can't remember. What war?'

                      'I mean, have you ever fought for your country?'

                      'Couldn't you talk about something else? All that nonsense is over and done with and best forgotten.'

                      'Do you call that nonsense, Zorba? Aren't you ashamed? Is that how you speak of your country?'

                      Zorba raised his head and looked at me. I was lying on my bed, too, and the oil-lamp was burning above my head. He looked at me severely for a time, then, taking a firm hold of his moustache, said:

                      "That's a half-baked thing to say; it's what I expect from a schoolmaster. I might as well be singing, boss, for all the good it is my talking to you, if you'll pardon my saying so.'

                      'What?' I protested. 'I understand things, Zorba, don't forget.'

                      'Yes, you understand with your brain. You say: "This is right, and that's wrong; this is true, and that isn't; he's right, the other one's wrong ..." But where does that lead us?

                      While you are talking I watch your arms and chest. Well, what are they doing? They're silent. They don't say a word. As though they hadn't a drop of blood between them.

                      Well, what do you think you understand with? With your head? Bah!'

                      'Come, give me an answer, Zorba; don't try to dodge the question!' I said, to excite him. 'I'm pretty sure you don't bother yourself overmuch about your country, do you?'

                      He was angry and banged his fist on the wall of petrol cans.

                      'The man you see here in front of you/ he cried, 'once embroidered the Church of Saint Sophia in hairs from his own head, and carried it round with him, hanging on his chest like a charm. Yes, boss, that's what I did, and I embroidered it with these great paws of mine, and with these hairs, too, which were as black as jet at the time. I used to wander about the mountains of Macedonia with Pavlos Melas was a strapping fellow then, taller than this hut, with my kilt, red fez, silver charms, amulets, yataghan, cartridgecases and pistols. I was covered with steel, silver and studs. When I marched there was a clatter and clank as if a regiment were passing down the street! Look here! Here! And look there!'

                      He opened his shirt and lowered his trousers.
                      'Bring the light over!' he ordered.

                      I held the lamp close to the thin, tanned body. What with deep scars, bullet and sword marks, his body was like a collander.

                      'Now look at the other side!'

                      He turned round and showed me his back.

                      'Not a scratch on the back, you see. Do you understand? Now take the lamp back.' 'Nonsense!' he cried in a rage. 'It's disgusting! When will men really be men, d'you think? We put trousers on, and shirts and collars and hats, and yet we're still a lot of mules, foxes, wolves and pigs. We say we're made in the image of God! Who, us? I spit on our idiotic mugs!'

                      Terrifying memories seemed to be coming to his mind and he was getting more and more exasperated. Incomprehensible words issued from between his shaking, hollow teeth.

                      He rose, picked up the water-jug, took a long drink and seemed refreshed and calmer.

                      'No matter where you touch me, I yell,' he said. T'm all wounds and scars and lumps.

                      What d'you mean by all that rot about women? When I discovered I was really a man, I didn't even turn round to look at them. I touched them for a minute, like that, in passing, like a cock, then went on. "The dirty ferrets," I said to myself. "They'd like to suck me dry of all my strength. Bah! To hell with women!"

                      'Then I picked up my rifle and off I went! I went into the mountains as a comitadji. One day, at dusk, I came into a Bulgarian village and hid in a stable. It was the very house of a priest, a ferocious, pitiless Bulgarian comitadji. At night he'd take off his cassock, put on shepherd's clothes, pick up his rifle and go over into the neighbouring Greek villages. He came back before dawn, trickling with mud and blood, and hurried to church to conduct mass for the faithful. A few days before this, he had killed a Greek schoolmaster asleep in his bed. So I went into this priest's stable and waited. Towards nightfall the priest came into the stable to feed the animals. I threw myself on him and cut his throat like a sheep. I lopped off his ears and stuck them in my pocket. I was making a collection of Bulgar ears, you see; so I took the priest's ears and made off.
                      'A few days later, there I was in the village again. It was midday. I was peddling. I'd left my arms in the mountains and had come down to buy bread, salt and boots for the others. Then I met five little kids in front of one of the houses - they were all dressed in black, bare-foot, holding one another by the hand and begging. Three girls and two boys. The eldest couldn't have been more than ten, the youngest was still a baby. The eldest girl was carrying the youngster in her arms, kissing him and caressing him so that he shouldn't cry. I don't know why, divine inspiration I suppose, but I went up to them.

                      '"Whose children are you?" I asked them in Bulgarian.
                      "The eldest boy raised his little head.

                      "The priest's. Father's throat was cut the other day in the stable," he answered.
                      "The tears came to my eyes and the earth began turning round like a millstone. I leaned against the wall, and it stopped.
                      '"Come here, children," I said, "come near to me."

                      T took out my purse; it was full of Turkish pounds and mejidies. I knelt down and poured them all out on the floor.

                      "There, take them!" I cried. "Take them! Take them!"

                      "The children threw themselves on the ground and gathered up the money.

                      '"It's for you! It's for you!" I cried. "Take it all!"

                      "Then I left them my basket with all I had bought.



                      '"All that's for you, too; take it all!"

                      'And I cleared out. I left the village, opened my shirt, seized the Saint Sophia I had embroidered and tore it to shreds, threw it away and ran for all I was worth.
                      'And I'm still running

                      Zorba leaned against the wall, and turned towards me.
                      "That was how I was rescued,' he said.
                      'Rescued from your country?'

                      'Yes, from my country,' he said in a firm, calm voice. Then after a moment:

                      'Rescued from my country, from priests, and from money. I began sifting things, sifting more and more things out. I lighten my burden that way. I - how shall I put it? -1 find my own deliverance, I become a man.'

                      Zorba's eyes glowed, his large mouth laughed contentedly.

                      After staying silent a moment or two he started off again. His heart was overflowing, he couldn't control it.

                      'There was a time when I used to say: that man's a Turk, or a Bulgar, or a Greek. I've done things for my country that would make your hair stand on end, boss. I've cut people's throats, burned villages, robbed and raped women, wiped out entire families.
                      Why? Because they were Bulgars, or Turks. "Bah! To hell with you, you swine!" I say to myself sometimes. "To hell with you right away, you ass." Nowadays I say this man is a good fellow, that one's a bastard. They can be Greeks or Bulgars or Turks, it doesn't matter. Is he good? Or is he bad? That's the only thing I ask nowadays. And
                      as I grow older - I'd swear this on the last crust I eat -1 feel I shan't even go on asking that! Whether a man's good or bad, I'm sorry for him, for all of 'em. The sight of a man just rends my insides, even if I act as though I don't care a damn! There he is, poor devil, I think, he also eats and drinks and makes love and is frightened, whoever he is: he has his God and his devil just the same, and he'll peg out and lie as stiff as a board beneath the ground and be food for worms, just the same. Poor devil! We're all brothers! All worm-meat!

                      'And if it's a woman... Ah! then I just want to cry my eyes out! Your honoured self, boss, keeps teasing me and saying I'm too fond of the women. Why shouldn't I be fond of 'em, when they're all weak creatures who don't know what they're doing and surrender on the spot if you just catch hold of their breasts ...
                      'Once I went into another Bulgarian village. And one old brute who'd spotted me - he was a village elder - told the others and they surrounded the house I was lodging in. I slipped out onto the balcony and crept from one roof to the next; the moon was up and I jumped from balcony to balcony like a cat. But they saw my shadow, climbed up onto the roofs and started shooting. So what do I do? I dropped down into the yard, and there I found a Bulgarian woman in bed. She stood up in her nightdress, saw me and opened her mouth to shout, but I held out my arms and whispered: "Mercy! Mercy! Don't shout!" and seized her breasts. She went pale and half swooned.
                      '"Come inside," she said in a low voice. "Come in so that we can't be seen ..."
                      'I went inside, she gripped my hand: "Are you a Greek?" she said. "Yes, Greek. Don't betray me." I took her by the waist. She said not a word. I went to bed with her, and my heart trembled with pleasure. "There, Zorba, you dog," I said to myself, "there's a woman for you; that's what humanity means! What is she? Bulgar? Greek? Papuan?
                      That's the last thing that matters! She's human, and a human being with a mouth, and breasts, and she can love. Aren't you ashamed of killing? Bah! Swine!" 'That's the way I thought while I was with her, sharing her warmth. But did that mad bitch, my country, leave me in peace for that, do you think? I disappeared next morning in the clothes the Bulgar woman gave me. She was a widow. She took her late husband's clothes out of a chest, gave them to me, and she
                      hugged my knees and begged me to come back to her.

                      'Yes, yes, I did go back ... the following night. I was a patriot then, of course - a wild beast; I went back with a can of paraffin and set fire to the village. She must have been burnt along with the others, poor wretch. Her name was Ludmilla.' Zorba sighed. He lit a cigarette, took one or two puffs and then threw it away.
                      'My country, you say? ... You believe all the rubbish your books tell you ... ? Well, I'm the one you should believe. So long as there are countries, man will stay like an animal, a ferocious animal... But I am delivered from all that, God be praised! It's finished for me! What about you?'

                      I didn't answer. I was envious of the man. He had lived with his flesh and blood - fighting, killing, kissing - all that I had tried to learn through pen and ink alone. All the problems I was trying to solve point by point in my solitude and glued to my chair, this man had solved up in the pure air of the mountains with his sword. I closed my eyes, inconsolable.

                      Comment

                      • Soldier of Macedon
                        Senior Member
                        • Sep 2008
                        • 13674

                        #41
                        I've cut people's throats, burned villages, robbed and raped women, wiped out entire families.
                        Context, no context, it makes absolutely no difference, he was a murderous rapist.
                        Nowadays I say this man is a good fellow, that one's a bastard. They can be Greeks or Bulgars or Turks, it doesn't matter. Is he good? Or is he bad? That's the only thing I ask nowadays.
                        Is that supposed to mean this animal has a "human" side? Let's see.

                        I slipped out onto the balcony and crept from one roof to the next; the moon was up and I jumped from balcony to balcony....I dropped down into the yard, and there I found a Bulgarian woman in bed. She stood up in her nightdress, saw me and opened her mouth to shout, but I held out my arms and whispered: "Mercy! Mercy! Don't shout!" and seized her breasts. She went pale and half swooned. '"Come inside," she said in a low voice. "Come in so that we can't be seen ..." 'I went inside, she gripped my hand: "Are you a Greek?" she said. "Yes, Greek. Don't betray me." I took her by the waist. She said not a word. I went to bed with her, and my heart trembled with pleasure.........I disappeared next morning in the clothes the Bulgar woman gave me. She was a widow. She took her late husband's clothes out of a chest, gave them to me, and she hugged my knees and begged me to come back to her.
                        Let me get this right. He enters the house of an unknown woman who is alone at night, startles her from bed and grabs her breasts. Sounds more like Ted "Zorba" Bundy. Anyway, according to this story, the lady helped him hide and even had "consensual" sex with him. OK. In what world does that seem plausible? Perhaps the precursor of Stockholm Syndrome was a sudden and instant condition according to Kazantzakis.
                        'Yes, yes, I did go back ... the following night. I was a patriot then, of course - a wild beast; I went back with a can of paraffin and set fire to the village. She must have been burnt along with the others, poor wretch. Her name was Ludmilla.
                        Again I ask, why do morons name their restaurants and clubs after this rapist?
                        In the name of the blood and the sun, the dagger and the gun, Christ protect this soldier, a lion and a Macedonian.

                        Comment

                        • Karposh
                          Member
                          • Aug 2015
                          • 863

                          #42
                          He apparently spent the last 20 years of his life in Skopje between 1922 and 1941. Many of the old Macedonian revolutionaries would have been alive during this period. If only they knew what he got up to in his younger days. They would have strung him up by his balls.

                          Comment

                          • Amphipolis
                            Banned
                            • Aug 2014
                            • 1328

                            #43
                            Originally posted by Karposh View Post
                            He apparently spent the last 20 years of his life in Skopje between 1922 and 1941. Many of the old Macedonian revolutionaries would have been alive during this period. If only they knew what he got up to in his younger days. They would have strung him up by his balls.
                            You should look at my older post #27. The real Zorbas probably never participated in the Macedonian Struggle. I read many extended articles and nothing is mentioned. Then again there are several books and studies about him, his own letters to Kazantzakis for further research.

                            Comment

                            • Karposh
                              Member
                              • Aug 2015
                              • 863

                              #44
                              I did after I posted that comment. There's also the suggestion that he might have actually had a Macedonian ethnic background (with "Chorba" being a strong possibility of his actual nickname) from some of the older posts. I didn't realise the exploits of this Zorba character are mostly fictional. Fare enough.

                              Comment

                              • Liberator of Makedonija
                                Senior Member
                                • Apr 2014
                                • 1597

                                #45
                                The real man was likely a Vlach
                                I know of two tragic histories in the world- that of Ireland, and that of Macedonia. Both of them have been deprived and tormented.

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