The country Spyros thought he was returning to no longer exists. Manos Katrakis, whose body carried the scars of history (from Nazi Occupation to the Makronisos concentration camp) and was at the time battling late-stage cancer, offers an unparalleled swan song. One of the most beloved figures of Greek theatre stands, with haunting dignity, against the desolate landscape. His emaciated frame and gaunt face commanding the infinite depth of each image.
Ithaca is a circle with many perimeters and no centre. The Greek narrative has always been one of travelling, traversing, searching for the way home. Cavafy writes from Alexandria, Seferis writes from Cairo and then London, Kavvadias spends a life at sea, Kazantzakis documents his journeys in great detail. ‘Ithaca’ then becomes a space of shadows for the self. Modernity has made the nostos elusive and unlocatable. Without a point of orientation we beat on in the boundless liquid landscape where coming and going, Troy and Ithaca, have melted into each other. Spyros recognises ‘Argos’, his beloved dog, but there is no ‘Eurycleia’ (the wet nurse who knows of Odysseus’ childhood hunting wound) to recognise him.
‘Εγώ είμαι’ he finds the strength to utter. ‘It is me.’ It also means ‘I am.’ The declaration of one’s existence as the final remains of identity hovering before the threshold of self. Suspended in aporia he remains silent. He has sailed to the end of History.
‘I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free.’
[ Nikos Kazantzakis’ epitaph ]