The Colossus of Maroussi by Henry Miller
Just then the bus came along. I made as if to go. “No hurry,” said the interlocutor. “He no go yet. He make water here.” The others were smiling at me. What were they thinking? That I was a queer bird to come to a place like Crete? Again I was asked what my business was. I made the motion of writing with a pen. “Ah!” exclaimed the interlocutor. “Newspaper!” He clapped his hands and spoke excitedly to the innkeeper. A Greek newspaper was produced. He shoved it into my hands. “You read that?” I shook my head. He snatched the paper out of my hand. He read the headline aloud in Greek, the others listening gravely. As he was reading I noticed the date—the paper was a month old. The interlocutor translated for me. “He say President Roosevelt no want fight. Hitler bad man.” Then he got up and seizing a cane from one of the bystanders he put it to his shoulder and imitated a man firing point-blank. Bang-bang! he went, dancing around and aiming at one after the other. Bang-bang! Everybody laughed heartily. “Me,” he said, jerking his thumb towards his breast, “me good soldier. Me kill Turks…many Turks. Me kill, kill, kill,” and he made a ferocious, blood-thirsty grimace. “Cretan people good soldiers. Italians no good.” He went up to one of the men and seized him by the collar. He made as if he were slitting the man’s throat. “Italians, bah!” He spat on the ground. “Me kill Mussolini…like a that! Mussolini bad man. Greek no like Mussolini. We kill all Italians.” He sat down grinning and chuckling. “President Roosevelt, he help Greeks, yes?” I nodded. “Greek good fighter. He kill everybody. He no ’fraid of nobody. Look! Me, one man…” He pointed to the others. “Me one Greek.” He pointed to the others, snatching the cane again and brandishing it like a club. “Me kill everybody—German, Italian, Russian, Turk, French. Greek no ’fraid.” The others laughed and nodded their heads approvingly. It was convincing, to say the least.
The bus was getting ready to move. The whole village seemed to have gathered to see me off. I climbed aboard and waved good-bye. A little girl stepped forward and handed me a bunch of flowers. The interlocutor shouted Hooray! A gawky young lad yelled All right! and they all laughed.
After dinner that evening I took a walk to the edge of the town. It was like walking through the land of Ur. I was making for a brilliantly lit café in the distance. About a mile away, it seemed, I could hear the loudspeaker blasting out the war news—first in Greek, then in French, then in English. It seemed to be proclaiming the news throughout a wasteland. Europe speaking. Europe seemed remote, on some other continent. The noise was deafening. Suddenly another one started up from the opposite direction. I turned back towards the little park facing a cinema where a Western picture was being advertised. I passed what looked like an immense fortress surrounded by a dry moat. The sky seemed very low and filled with tattered clouds through which the moon sailed unsteadily. I felt out of the world, cut off, a total stranger in every sense of the word. The amplifiers increased this feeling of isolation: they seemed to have tuned up to the wildest pitch in order to carry far beyond me—to Abyssinia, Arabia, Persia, Beluchistan, China, Tibet. The waves were passing over my head; they were not intended for Crete, they had been picked up accidentally. I dove into the narrow winding streets which led to the open square. I walked right into a crowd which had gathered outside a tent in which freaks were being exhibited. A man squatting beside the tent was playing a weird melody on the flute, He held the flute up towards the moon which had grown larger and brighter in the interval. A belly-dancer came out of the tent, dragging a cretin by the hand. The crowd giggled. Just then I turned my head and to my astonishment I saw a woman with a vase on her shoulder descending a little bluff in bare feet. She had the poise and grace of a figure on an ancient frieze. Behind her came a donkey laden with jars. The flute was getting more weird, more insistent. Turbaned men with long white boots and black frock coats were pushing towards the open tent. The man beside me held two squawking chickens by the legs; he was rooted to the spot, as if hypnotized. To the right of me was evidently a barracks barred by a sentry box before which a soldier in white skirts paraded back and forth.
There was nothing more to the scene than this, but for me it held the enchantment of a world I was yet to glimpse. Even before I had sailed for Crete I had been thinking of Persia and Arabia and of more distant lands still. Crete is a jumping off place. Once a still, vital, fecund center, a navel of the world, it now resembles a dead crater. The aeroplane comes along, lifts you up by the seat of the pants, and spits you down in Baghdad, Samarkand, Beluchistan, Fez, Timbuktu, as far as your money will take you. All these once marvelous places whose very names cast a spell over you are now floating islets in the stormy sea of civilization. They mean homely commodities like rubber, tin, pepper, coffee, carborundum and so forth. The natives are derelicts exploited by the octopus whose tentacles stretch from London, Paris, Berlin, Tokio, New York, Chicago to the icy tips of Iceland and the wild reaches of Patagonia. The evidences of this so-called civilization are strewn and dumped higgledy-piggledy wherever the long, slimy tentacles reach out. Nobody is being civilized, nothing is being altered in any real sense. Some are using knives and forks who formerly ate with their fingers; some have electric lights in their hovels instead of the kerosene lamp or the wax taper; some have Sears-Roebuck catalogues and a Holy Bible on the shelf where once a rifle or a musket lay; some have gleaming automatic revolvers instead of clubs; some are using money instead of shells and cowries; some have straw hats which they don’t need; some have Jesus Christ and don’t know what to do with Him. But all of them, from the top to the bottom, are restless, dissatisfied, envious, and sick at heart. All of them suffer from cancer and leprosy, in their souls. The most ignorant and degenerate of them will be asked to shoulder a gun and fight for a civilization which has brought them nothing but misery and degradation. In a language which they cannot understand the loudspeaker blares out the disastrous news of victory and defeat. It’s a mad world and when you become slightly detached it seems even more mad than usual. The aeroplane brings death; the radio brings death; the machine gun brings death; the tinned goods bring death; the tractor brings death; the priest brings death; the schools bring death; the laws bring death, the electricity brings death; the plumbing brings death; the phonograph brings death; the knives and forks bring death; the books bring death; our very breath brings death, our very language, our very thought, our money, our love, our charity, our sanitation, our joy. No matter whether we are friends or enemies, no matter whether we call ourselves Jap, Turk, Russian, French, English, German or American, wherever we go, wherever we cast our shadow, wherever we breathe, we poison and destroy. Hooray! shouted the Greek. I too yell Hooray! Hooray for civilization! Hooray! We will kill you all, everybody, everywhere. Hooray for Death! Hooray! Hooray!
The next morning I paid a visit to the museum where to my astonishment I encountered Mr. Tsoutsou in the company of the Nibelungen racketeers. He seemed highly embarrassed to be discovered in their presence but, as he explained to me later, Greece was still a neutral country and they had come armed with letters of introduction from men whom he once considered friends. I pretended to be absorbed in the examination of a Minoan chessboard. He pressed me to meet him in the café later in the day. As I was leaving the museum I got the jitterbugs so bad that I made caca in my pants. I thought of my French friend immediately. Fortunately I had in my little notebook a remedy against such ailments; it had been given me by an English traveler whom I met in a bar one night in Nice. I went back to the hotel, changed my clothes, wrapped the old ones in a bundle with the idea of throwing them in a ravine and, armed with the prescription of the English globetrotter, I made for the drug store.
I had to walk a considerable time before I could drop the bundle unobserved. By that time the jitterbugs had come on again. I made for the bottom of the moat near a dead horse swarming with bottle-flies.
The druggist spoke nothing but Greek. Diarrhoea is one of those words you never think to include in a rough and ready vocabulary—and good prescriptions are in Latin which e
I went back to the café with the big fellow—Jim he called himself—and listened to a long story about his life in Montreal where he had amassed a fortune, as a restaurateur, and then lost it all in the stock market. He was delighted to speak English again. “Don’t touch the water here,” he said. “My water comes from a spring twenty miles away. That’s why I have such a big clientele.”
We sat there talking about the wonderful winters in Montreal. Jim had a special drink prepared for me which he said would do me good. I was wondering where to get a good bowl of thick soupy rice. Beside me was a man puffing away at a nargileh; he seemed to be in a stony trance. Suddenly I was back in Paris, listening to my occult friend Urbanski who had gone one winter’s night to a bordello in Montreal and when he emerged it was Spring. I have been to Montreal myself but somehow the image of it which I retain is not mine but Urbanski’s. I see myself standing in his shoes, waiting for a streetcar on the edge of the town. A rather elegant woman comes along bundled in furs. She’s also waiting for the streetcar. How did Krishnamurti’s name come up? And then she’s speaking of Topeka, Kansas, and it seems as if I had lived there all my life. The hot toddy also came in quite naturally. We’re at the door of a big house that has the air of a deserted mansion. A colored woman opens the door. It’s her place, just as she described it. A warm, cosy place too. Now and then the doorbell rings. There’s the sound of muffled laughter, of glasses clinking, of slippered feet slapping through the hall.
I had listened to this story so intently that it had become a part of my own life. I could feel the soft chains she had slipped around him, the too comfortable bed, the delicious, drowsy indolence of the pasha who had retired from the world during a season of snow and ice. In the Spring he had made his escape but I, I had remained and sometimes, like now, when I forget myself, I’m there in a hotbed of roses trying to make clear to her the mystery of Arjuna’s decision.
Towards evening I went round to the café to meet Mr. Tsoutsou. He insisted that I accompany him to his studio where he had planned to present me to the little circle of literati. I was wondering about the bowl of rice and how to get it.
The retreat was hidden away in the loft of a dilapidated building which reminded me forcibly of Giono’s Biblical birthplace in Manosque. It was the sort of den which St. Jerome might have created for himself during his exile in a foreign land. Outside, in the volcanic hinterland of Herakleion, Augustine ruled; here, amidst the musty books, the paintings, the music, was Jerome’s world. Beyond, in Europe proper, another world was going to ruin. Soon one would have to come to a place like Crete to recover the evidences of a civilization which had disappeared. In this little den of Tsoutsou’s there was a cross-cut of everything which had gone to make the culture of Europe. This room would live on as the monks lived on during the Dark Ages.
One by one his friends came, poets most of them. French was the common language. Again there came up the names of Eliot, Breton, Rimbaud. They spoke of Joyce as a Surrealist. They thought America was experiencing a cultural renascence. We clashed. I can’t stand this idea, which is rooted in the minds of little peoples, that America is the hope of the world. I brought up the names of their own writers, the contemporary poets and novelists of Greece. They were divided as to the merits of this one and that one. They were not sure of their own artists. I deplored that.
Food was served, and wine, and beautiful grapes, all of which I had to refuse. “I thought you liked to eat and drink,” said Tsoutsou. I told him I was indisposed. “Oh, come, you can eat a little cold fish,” he insisted. “And this wine—you must taste it—I ordered it especially for you.” The law of hospitality bade me to accept. I raised the glass and drank a toast to the future of Greece. Somebody insisted that I try the wonderful olives—and the famous goat cheese. Not a grain of rice in sight. I saw myself dashing for the bottom of the moat again beside the dead horse with the poisonous fat green flies.
“And what about Sinclair Lewis—surely he was one of America’s great writers?”
When I said no they all seemed to be highly dubious of my critical faculties. Who was a great American writer, then, they demanded. I said: “Walt Whitman. He’s the only great writer we ever had.”
“And Mark Twain?”
“For adolescents,” I answered.
They laughed, as the troglodytes had laughed at me the other morning.
“So you think Rimbaud is greater than all the American poets put together?” said one young man challengingly.
“Yes, I do. I think he’s greater than all the French poets put together too.”
This was like throwing a bomb in their midst. As always, the greatest defenders of French tradition are to be found outside France. Tsoutsou was of the opinion that they ought to listen to me at length; he thought my attitude was typical, representative of the American spirit. He applauded as one would applaud a trained seal after it has given a performance with the cymbals. I was somewhat depressed by this atmosphere of futile discussion. I made a long speech in bad French in which I admitted that I was no critic, that I was always passionate and prejudiced, that I had no reverence for anything except what I liked. I told them that I was an ignoramus, which they tried to deny vigorously. I said I would rather tell them stories. I began—about a bum who had tried to hit me up for a dime one evening as I was walking towards the Brooklyn Bridge. I explained how I had said No to the man automatically and then, after I had walked a few yards it suddenly came to me that a man had asked me for something and I ran back and spoke to him. But instead of giving him a dime or a quarter, which I could easily have done, I told him that I was broke, that I had wanted to let him know that, that was all. And the man had said to me—“Do you mean that, buddy? Why, if that’s the way it is, I’ll be glad to give you a dime myself.” And I let him give it to me, and I thanked him warmly, and walked off.
They thought it a very interesting story. So that’s how it was in America? Strange country…anything could happen there.
“Yes,” I said, “a very strange country,” and I thought to myself that it was wonderful not to be there any more and God willing I’d never return to it.
“And what is it about Greece that makes you like it so much?” asked someone.
I smiled. “The light and the poverty,” I said. “You’re a romantic,” said the man.
“Yes,” I said, “I’m crazy enough to believe that the happiest man on earth is the man with the fewest needs. And I also believe that if you have light, such as you have here, all ugliness is obliterated. Since I’ve come to your country I know that light is holy: Greece is a holy land to me.”
“But have you seen how poor the people are, how wretchedly they live?”
“I’ve seen worse wretchedness in America,” I said. “Poverty alone doesn’t make people wretched.”
“You can say that because you have sufficient…”
“I can say it because I’ve been poor all my life,” I retorted. “I’m poor now,” I added. “I have just enough to get back to Athens. When I get to Athens I’ll have to think how to get more. It isn’t money that sustains me—it’s the faith I have in myself, in my own powers. In spirit I’m a millionaire—maybe that’s the best thing about America, that you believe you’ll rise again.”
“Yes, yes,” said Tsoutsou, clapping his hands, “that’s the wo
“To Henry Miller!” said another, “because he believes in himself.”
I got back to the hotel in the nick of time. To-morrow I would surely start the rice diet. I lay in bed watching the men in shirt sleeves across the way. The scene reminded me of similar ones in dingy lofts in the vicinity of the Broadway Central Hotel, New York—Greene or Bleecker Street, for example. The intermediate zone between high finance and grovelling in the bowels of the earth. Paper box representatives…celluloid collars…twine…mousetraps. The moon was scudding through the clouds. Africa not far distant. At the other end of the island a place called Phaestos. As I was dozing off Mlle. Swedenborg knocked at the door to inform me that there had been a telephone call from the prefect of police. “What does he want?” I asked. She didn’t know. I was disturbed. The word police fills me with panic. I got up automatically to search my wallet for the permis de séjour. I examined it to make sure that I was en règle. What could that bastard want of me? Was he going to ask how much money I had on me? In out of the way places they always think of petty little things to harass you about. “Vive la France!” I muttered absent-mindedly. Another thought came to me. I slipped on my bathrobe and wandered from one floor to another to make sure that I could find the W. C. in a hurry if necessary. I felt thirsty. I rang and asked if they had any mineral water. The maid couldn’t understand what I meant. “Water, water,” I repeated, looking around in vain for a bottle to illustrate what I meant. She disappeared to return with a pitcher of iced water. I thanked her and turned out the lights. My tongue was parched. I got up and wet my lips, fearful lest a stray drop slip down my burning throat.