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"This book is not a biography", wrote Kazantzakis in his introduction. "It is the confession of every man who (...) struggled, was much embittered in his life, and had many hopes."
His version of the synoptic Gospels is a masterpiece of literary expressionism indeed, a masterful display of writing skills ranging from a classical, old-school technique (reminding of the great 19th century novel) to an often modernist approach. What strikes the most here is obviously not the narrative; it's Kazantzakis' sense of aesthetics. Pure physiognomy, poetically, artistically exploited in order to paint an impressive fresco of a transcendental as well as exquisitely earthly Passion.
Kazantzakis' work is among the 'bêtes noires' of modern Christianity; one of those embarrassing books that seem to elude any attempt to unravel its mysterious, charming unorthodoxy.
It's neither heresy nor blasphemy really; although the Greek Orthodox Church is still treating both the book and the author as such, "The Last Temptation of Christ" is neither a serious doctrinal challenge nor a truly outrageous attack. What the religious authorities do dislike is the way Jesus of Nazareth embodies in an intense, physical way what the author perceives as a painful fracture between the Old and the New Testament, between Jewry and Christianity, thus re-opening a theological wound that, sadly, will never stop bleeding. In fact I found this book quite flattering for any Christian believer, whereas - were I Jewish - I would dream of having Kazantzakis' head delivered on a silver platter. Like Queen Herodias, one of my all-time faves.
The book starts with a heartrending depiction of the spiritual and political turmoil of Jesus' times. Israel was more than ever tormented by its inner contradictions as well as by the iron-fisted Roman government. The ancient messianic prophecies had been turned into mere ideology by rebels and zealots, whose (suicidal) violent reaction against the Romans and their sympathisers threatened to end up in a bloodbath that would destroy Israel once and for all.
In this overheated climate Jesus is a self-destructive, psychotic mystic who struggles to understand whether the voice he hears within himself is God's or Satan's. This Manichaean attitude is despised by Judas, a political activist involved in the ferocious Jewish guerrilla.
Jesus is desperately trying to escape God by building crosses for the Roman centurion, but God's will prevails over his weakness: his resistance wanes and the Son of the Carpenter realises what part he is to play in his life... and beyond.
I suppose there's no need to waste time and words telling the story, which is definitely well-known: what is worth talking about here is the way it is told.
I mentioned Expressionism and physiognomy as Kazantzakis' literary choices. When natural landscape and human feelings reflect and affect each other, that's Expressionism. When the characters are hunchbacked, dwarfish, limp, ugly, decrepit, and their behaviour is equally monstrous, well, that's physiognomy. Judas is possibly the best specimen, with his face divided in two halves, each with a different expression; but also a crowd of misshapen, demented monks; filthy villagers smelling of sweat and dung; crazy pilgrims wandering in the desert with rotting bodies and deranged minds. Even Christ's apostles are dumb, moronic, mean, opportunistic creatures whose ugliness is both moral and physical.
Kazantzakis' Jesus is the embodiment of a fracture: it's hard not to see him as such, when his human experience is the transition from a paralysing fear (the Jewish God is a ferocious man-eater devouring the believer's body and soul) to the most refreshing peace of the mind; from God's Anger to God's Love - or rather, God as the purest Love of all, embracing all mankind... including the Gentiles and the Roman enemy. Hence the fracture.
As for the Jews, they're blinded by their dreams of revenge and grandeur; their Messiah must be a military commander advocating violence and rage, not a preacher of joy and tenderness. Freedom is just a political matter: who cares about the soul when the body is afflicted by hunger, illness, injustice? That's a blindness neither Jesus can cure. The most painful temptation tormenting his soul is indeed the feeling of being fighting a nonsensical war, and the prospect of living a peaceful life as a father, husband (Mary Magdalene is always an easy target...), humble worker will haunt him to the end.
An interesting characteristic of Kazantzakis' writing style is the use of astonishingly incongruous words, although I can't fathom whether it is conscious or not: I mean, these 1st century AD men talk about friars, abbots, China, gunpowder... I felt a weirding, puzzling effect, the same feeling I get watching the denim trousers of the Roman soldiers in "Jesus Christ Superstar". It's not unpleasant at all, though; it adds an onyrical atmosphere I enjoyed both artistically and conceptually.
I'd really like to give this five stars, but there are two flaws that can't reasonably be overlooked.
Kazantzakis tends to mannerism: his characters seem to be on stage. Their gestures are often too emotionally charged, dangerously close to become stereotypes, as though acting in a Greek tragedy. Of course the Old Testament is full of melodramatic reactions - they were part of the ancient behavioural code; anyway, here they sound a bit repetitive and unseemly.
The plot is also excessively orchestrated, to the point of being (sometimes) too predictable; when it comes to his characters' actions Kazantzakis seems unable to let loose his visionary intellect.
However, this book is worth reading for the sake of it. It's an aesthetic pleasure that has nothing to do with faith or theology. After all, one doesn't need to be Catholic to enjoy the beauty of the Sistine Chapel.
His version of the synoptic Gospels is a masterpiece of literary expressionism indeed, a masterful display of writing skills ranging from a classical, old-school technique (reminding of the great 19th century novel) to an often modernist approach. What strikes the most here is obviously not the narrative; it's Kazantzakis' sense of aesthetics. Pure physiognomy, poetically, artistically exploited in order to paint an impressive fresco of a transcendental as well as exquisitely earthly Passion.
Kazantzakis' work is among the 'bêtes noires' of modern Christianity; one of those embarrassing books that seem to elude any attempt to unravel its mysterious, charming unorthodoxy.
It's neither heresy nor blasphemy really; although the Greek Orthodox Church is still treating both the book and the author as such, "The Last Temptation of Christ" is neither a serious doctrinal challenge nor a truly outrageous attack. What the religious authorities do dislike is the way Jesus of Nazareth embodies in an intense, physical way what the author perceives as a painful fracture between the Old and the New Testament, between Jewry and Christianity, thus re-opening a theological wound that, sadly, will never stop bleeding. In fact I found this book quite flattering for any Christian believer, whereas - were I Jewish - I would dream of having Kazantzakis' head delivered on a silver platter. Like Queen Herodias, one of my all-time faves.
The book starts with a heartrending depiction of the spiritual and political turmoil of Jesus' times. Israel was more than ever tormented by its inner contradictions as well as by the iron-fisted Roman government. The ancient messianic prophecies had been turned into mere ideology by rebels and zealots, whose (suicidal) violent reaction against the Romans and their sympathisers threatened to end up in a bloodbath that would destroy Israel once and for all.
In this overheated climate Jesus is a self-destructive, psychotic mystic who struggles to understand whether the voice he hears within himself is God's or Satan's. This Manichaean attitude is despised by Judas, a political activist involved in the ferocious Jewish guerrilla.
Jesus is desperately trying to escape God by building crosses for the Roman centurion, but God's will prevails over his weakness: his resistance wanes and the Son of the Carpenter realises what part he is to play in his life... and beyond.
I suppose there's no need to waste time and words telling the story, which is definitely well-known: what is worth talking about here is the way it is told.
I mentioned Expressionism and physiognomy as Kazantzakis' literary choices. When natural landscape and human feelings reflect and affect each other, that's Expressionism. When the characters are hunchbacked, dwarfish, limp, ugly, decrepit, and their behaviour is equally monstrous, well, that's physiognomy. Judas is possibly the best specimen, with his face divided in two halves, each with a different expression; but also a crowd of misshapen, demented monks; filthy villagers smelling of sweat and dung; crazy pilgrims wandering in the desert with rotting bodies and deranged minds. Even Christ's apostles are dumb, moronic, mean, opportunistic creatures whose ugliness is both moral and physical.
Kazantzakis' Jesus is the embodiment of a fracture: it's hard not to see him as such, when his human experience is the transition from a paralysing fear (the Jewish God is a ferocious man-eater devouring the believer's body and soul) to the most refreshing peace of the mind; from God's Anger to God's Love - or rather, God as the purest Love of all, embracing all mankind... including the Gentiles and the Roman enemy. Hence the fracture.
As for the Jews, they're blinded by their dreams of revenge and grandeur; their Messiah must be a military commander advocating violence and rage, not a preacher of joy and tenderness. Freedom is just a political matter: who cares about the soul when the body is afflicted by hunger, illness, injustice? That's a blindness neither Jesus can cure. The most painful temptation tormenting his soul is indeed the feeling of being fighting a nonsensical war, and the prospect of living a peaceful life as a father, husband (Mary Magdalene is always an easy target...), humble worker will haunt him to the end.
An interesting characteristic of Kazantzakis' writing style is the use of astonishingly incongruous words, although I can't fathom whether it is conscious or not: I mean, these 1st century AD men talk about friars, abbots, China, gunpowder... I felt a weirding, puzzling effect, the same feeling I get watching the denim trousers of the Roman soldiers in "Jesus Christ Superstar". It's not unpleasant at all, though; it adds an onyrical atmosphere I enjoyed both artistically and conceptually.
I'd really like to give this five stars, but there are two flaws that can't reasonably be overlooked.
Kazantzakis tends to mannerism: his characters seem to be on stage. Their gestures are often too emotionally charged, dangerously close to become stereotypes, as though acting in a Greek tragedy. Of course the Old Testament is full of melodramatic reactions - they were part of the ancient behavioural code; anyway, here they sound a bit repetitive and unseemly.
The plot is also excessively orchestrated, to the point of being (sometimes) too predictable; when it comes to his characters' actions Kazantzakis seems unable to let loose his visionary intellect.
However, this book is worth reading for the sake of it. It's an aesthetic pleasure that has nothing to do with faith or theology. After all, one doesn't need to be Catholic to enjoy the beauty of the Sistine Chapel.