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Scroll.in
5 days ago
- General
- Scroll.in
Living without the magnifying glass: A reflection on Nikos Kazantzakis's novel, ‘Zorba the Greek'
Is reason the ultimate guide to living a successful life? Are analysis and evaluation the surest paths to a better life? Should instincts and emotional responses be dismissed from human experience altogether? To such questions, the character Zorba in Zorba the Greek by Nikos Kazantzakis would offer a firm 'no.' In a world that celebrates logic, scientific progress, and intellectual achievement, Zorba, with all his raw instinct and emotional vitality, swims, walks, and dances – effortlessly and joyfully. Published in Greek in 1946 and later translated into English twice, Zorba the Greek is a rare novel. Its protagonist does not tell us how to live, he lives it – fully, freely, and deeply, unburdened by the weight of intellectualism, which, though powerful in its own domain, cannot alone help us understand life's meaning. The compass for a meaningful life Albert Camus, in The Myth of Sisyphus, famously argued that reason is just a tool – a way to grasp the observable and logical aspects of the world. But if one sees the world as more than just a collection of sensory impressions – if one believes in a deeper, mysterious layer beneath the surface – then reason alone is insufficient. At the heart of that mystery lies the question of life's meaning. Scientific reasoning, however powerful, is not equipped to unravel such existential questions. Zorba seems to understand this instinctively. He knows that reason is a tool, but not the compass for a meaningful life. Philosophy, especially metaphysics, tries to go further – seeking to understand life's meaning through speculation and abstract thought. But too often, it becomes entangled in endless intellectual conundrums, stripping life of its immediacy and joy. It chases understanding at the expense of experience. It is here, between the reasoning man and the metaphysical philosopher, that Zorba steps in – full of spirit, full of life. Alongside the men who falsely believe that reason can help them live, and those lost in the quagmires of metaphysics, there are others who thoughtlessly indulge in life's sensory pleasures. These individuals live carelessly, chasing excess and luxury, without ever contemplating the value of their existence. Between these extremes – the thinker, the philosopher, and the hedonist – Zorba stands apart. And, paradoxically, he lives the kind of life that each of them may secretly envy. Throughout the novel, Zorba delivers countless expressions of worldly wisdom – often as direct challenges to the scholarly, bookish knowledge. The Greek tradition divides knowledge into two realms: sophia and phronesis. Sophia is scholarly knowledge, acquired through study and instruction – knowledge from books and teachers. Phronesis, on the other hand, is practical wisdom – gained not through study, but through experience, through actual doing of things, through the act of living. Zorba is the embodiment of phronesis. His knowledge arises from experience, from fully immersing himself in the messiness and immediacy of life. He lives deeply, instinctively, without the filter of detached analysis that so often characterises the scholarly mind. While the men of Sophia, wrestle with abstractions, Zorba is already out in the world, realising those abstractions through work, song, dance, and love. Though unschooled and at times even brutish, Zorba understands how to live – joyfully, intensely, and appreciatively. He is not dulled by the weight of reason or the lens of scientific detachment. Because he does not see the world through intellectual filters, he sees it fresh every single day. The sea, the birds, the mountain – all reveal themselves to him as if for the first time, again and again. Through Zorba, Kazantzakis's novel glides across many philosophical ideas. Zorba often declares that he trusts only himself – because only his own actions are within his control. Others, he claims, are mere ghosts. Here we see a hint of Stoicism: the notion that we can control only our own behaviour. At the same time, we glimpse solipsism – the philosophical idea that the self is the only reality one can be sure of. Yet, Zorba is not a philosopher. He is simply a man who knows how to live, and in doing so, he becomes a living critique of all the philosophies that try to reduce life to formulas. A novel of ideas The novel is rich with ideas – serendipity, discovery, curiosity, and existential urgency. Zorba, with his undiminished wonder and grounded joy, feels like a prototype for today's mindfulness movement. But his mindfulness is not passive or aesthetic. He discovers joy not just in contemplation but also in effortful work. For Zorba, true happiness is paradoxical: it is to have no ambition, yet to work like someone who has every ambition in the world. What a contrast Kazantzakis presents – living without goals, yet working with full-hearted intensity. Zorba's effort is not directed at any objective; the goal of his life is simply living itself – living fully, immersively, moment by moment. Some readers might take issue with Zorba's religious outlook or his unorthodox behaviour. But his openness to experience – and his willingness to embrace risk – is a lesson in phronesis for anyone willing to pay attention. At one point in the novel, Zorba condemns the magnifying glass because it reveals all the worms in a cup of water. He urges his friend to throw it away, to stop analysing the water, and instead, to drink it. That is how Zorba lives: not through analysis, but through acceptance. He drinks life deeply, without fear of worms. Despite its philosophical richness, Zorba the Greek is not a difficult novel. It is warm, accessible, and filled with vitality. The novel is well worth the time and attention of any reader – especially if read immersively, with the same openness Zorba brings to life itself.
Yahoo
23-05-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Cecile Elstein obituary
My mother, Cecile Elstein, who has died aged 87, had a passion for natural objects and making things with found materials. She was a sculptor, printmaker and environmental artist, whose work was about experience and the response to relationships and environments through feeling, thought and action. 'Creativity works to adapt, repair and celebrate,' she said. 'Material methods of artistic production begin with observation, investigation, research and design.' Born in Cape Town, South Africa, Cecile was the elder child of Michael Hoberman, who ran a thriving coal-delivery business, and his wife, Ruth (nee Rappaport). Her younger brother, Gerald, became a photographer and publisher. Cecile went to Cape of Good Hope seminary, a girls' school in Cape Town, and studied sculpture with Lippy Lipshitz at the Michaelis School of Fine Art, and then in the studio of Nell Kaye in the late 1950s. Cecile was working as a lab assistant in Groote Schuur hospital when she met Max Elstein, a doctor, whom she married in 1957, aged 19. To escape apartheid they moved in 1961 to the UK, at first to London, where in 1965 Cecile became a pupil of the surrealist artist Catherine Yarrow. In 1970, the family moved to Southampton, where Cecile set up a life-drawing group. She studied sculpture and printmaking at West Surrey College of Art and Design in Farnham (now part of UCA, the University for the Creative Arts). In 1977, we moved to Manchester when Max took up the chair of obstetrics, gynaecology and human reproductive health at the university. Cecile set up her studio-workshop there, teaching 'awareness through art'. In 2001, she set up Didsbury Drawing, a life-drawing group based on a philosophy of non-interference. Cecile was influenced by the work of the philosopher Martin Buber and Albert Camus's The Myth of Sisyphus. She pursued accessible environments, empathy in design, and developed experimental methodologies. Between 1980 and 2019 she worked with Kip Gresham, a pioneering printmaker, at his Manchester and Cambridge workshops. In 1983, Cecile was granted a North-West Bursary award for Mandarah, a pneumatic artwork; it toured to Singapore international arts festival, representing Britain. In 1986, she was a prize winner at the Ninth British International Print Biennale, Bradford; her public artworks include a site-specific sculpture, Tangents (1997), at the Wimpole Estate, Cambridgeshire. Cecile also made commissioned portraiture, large abstract screen prints and 'art in environment' works, which are held and exhibited in public and private collections, including the Whitworth Art Gallery, Manchester, Manchester Cathedral, Manchester Academy of Fine Art, Salford University Gallery, and the Royal Northern College of Music. Cecile was an influential presence in Manchester's artistic and cultural life. Cecile and Max cared for my brother, Paul, who had multiple sclerosis, from the 1980s until his death in 1998. Cecile is survived by Max, me, six grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren.
New Indian Express
23-05-2025
- Entertainment
- New Indian Express
Breaking the bond
'The first time she went away was on a Monday morning in July. I woke up to the sound of a gathering storm. It was six am'. This is how author Lopa Ghosh's novel Age Of Mondays (HarperCollins) begins, plunging the readers into a world of uncertainties. Throughout the novel, the author plays with this word to create a mood to tap into the uncertain times of the 21st-century. 'My novel challenges the fragile, often romanticised notion of childhood as idyllic. In truth, childhood is fraught with uncertainty and darkness—perhaps now more than ever, as we find ourselves in the heart of a polycrisis and a world steadily unravelling. Through the eyes of Narois, my ten-year-old protagonist, I try to explore what it might mean for children to inherit such a terrifying world. Will they still play, imagine, love? I believe they will and my novel is about that boundless resilience of survivors, about the deeply personal, intimate spaces of 'deep adaptation.' While Narois's specific challenges are not directly tied to global events, the sense of uncertainty that pervades her life, is but a reflection of these dark times," Ghosh notes. Although the book starts with a sudden disappearance, it does not confine itself to this event. Instead, it offers a nuanced take by diving deep into human psychology, the politics of a mother-daughter relationship, and most importantly, the journey from absurdity to hope. Means to an end As readers travel further with the novel, they dive deep into the character of mama-mon, Imon. The character has a lot of grey shades. She loves her child and shares a sweet mother-daughter bond with Narois, and through many political references, wants to prepare her child for a revolution to survive in this cruel world. Imon accuses her husband of living a double life, but never clearly defines what this double life is about, and keeps leaving her child on Monday mornings to teach her to survive in a cruel, motherless world. Her actions scar Narois; she tries to find the intention behind her mother's actions of leaving her every Monday and then coming back. 'Mama-mon has good intentions but she is ultimately a deeply flawed person. She wants her child to survive, be resilient. But in trying to thrust upon little Narois, her own interpretation of the world, she confuses the child and unwittingly creates insecurities and trauma. Accusations of double life that she levels against her husband are also hazy – they are based on how she perceives him and are evidently in contradiction with how Narois perceives her father,' adds Ghosh. Surviving it As her mother keeps leaving her, Narois tests her survival skills in the world; she finds Jugnus—a group of legendary healers and weather workers who help her fight her traumas—in the magical Jahanpanah forest. 'Albert Camus's The Myth of Sisyphus explores the absurdity of our incessant journey between hope and despair—and the possibility of finding meaning despite it. The journey towards hope never ends, even in the darkest of times. My novel is not about uncertainties and abandonment. Rather it is about how we survive, about fierce hope and endurance," Ghosh adds.
The Guardian
28-04-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Sara Pascoe: I Am a Strange Gloop review – motherhood as Sisyphean struggle
One must imagine Sisyphus happy. So goes the oft-quoted conclusion of Albert Camus' 1942 treatise The Myth of Sisyphus – comparing all of human existence to an endless struggle. Camus has also been playing on the UK comedian Sara Pascoe's mind, and she has a bone or two to pick with the French author in her show I Am a Strange Gloop; the name is an equally cerebral reference to a book by the philosopher Douglas Hofstadter. This new, deliciously constructed standup set overturns, examines and pokes at Pascoe's current run of very bad days – which started with the birth of her two children and has doomed her to a Sisyphean loop of wiping things down. But at least Sisyphus gets to roll his boulder, she cries! At least it happens outside! There's no wiping in sight! There are glancing disclaimers – Pascoe loves her children and considers them nothing short of miraculous, a gift facilitated by IVF – but these are just as quickly dismissed and forgotten as the hour becomes a funny but thrillingly relentless refusal to name a single positive thing about being a mother. Instead, she makes sharp comedic work out of the often unspoken and frequently downplayed disruptions that must be endured to effectively care for babies: the alarming amount of sleep deprivation that leads to Pascoe questioning her very sense of self. Is she her body? Is her body herself? Is she a gas that sits behind her eyes, waiting to escape? Then there's the never-ending housework and the changes to her body, which she vividly describes as 'a patina of stretch marks and varicose veins, covered in a crust of breast milk and squashed banana'. There's also the learned incompetence of her husband who, like many, won't contribute to chores because he claims they are simply too complicated to understand. Pascoe's husband is the Australian actor and writer Steen Raskopoulos, and she doesn't perform any obligatory politenesses for the local audience, instead highlighting the inequities still too often baked into contemporary marriages when it comes to mental load, childcare and housework. But the show isn't confessional or confrontational: it's conversational. The set tumbles out with Pascoe's endearingly scatty delivery. Early on she invites us to imagine we're at a lightly tipsy catch-up with a friend, and that sets the tone for her joyfully silly asides into dubious anti-aging interventions, the value of poetry, how the Bible could do with a rewrite, and references to comedy films from the 80s. There's a sense of catharsis: an expunging of injustices, late-night wonderings and drudgery. There's an edge of rebellion to Pascoe's simple refusal to glorify motherhood: it sidesteps the social rituals we've deemed acceptable for mothers, whose complaints – if they are ever aired – are often countered by an exaltation of benevolent love for children and partner that makes all the sacrifice worth it. Pascoe gives the audience permission to laugh, long and loud, and join in on that liberating rejection of the good mother act. Behind me, women kept saying to each other, between bursts of laughter, 'That's so true!' and 'Exactly!' What a gift Pascoe offers here to mothers in the audience – to have a space to place your selfhood first in a world that discourages exactly that. I Am a Strange Gloop is on in Perth on 2 May before touring across the UK from June
