I felt, as I listened to Zorba, that the world was
recovering its pristine freshness. All the dulled daily things regained the
brightness they had in the beginning, when we came out of the hands of God.
He was approaching the widow’s garden. The air was full of
the scent of lemon blossom and honeysuckle. At that moment, from the orange
trees in the garden, the nightingale began to pour out its heart-rending song
in notes as clear as spring water. It sang and sang in the darkness with
breath-taking beauty. Zorba stopped, gasping at the sweetness of the song.
Faces change, crumble, return to earth; but others rise to
take their place. There is only one dancer, but he has a thousand masks. He is
always twenty. He is immortal.
Death had entered my life with a familiar and well-loved
face, like a friend come to call for you and who waits patiently in a corner
until you have finished your work.
I was happy and relieved, as though a burden had been lifted
from me. I was like a woman holding her new-born baby.
