When Zorba returned one evening, he asked me anxiously:
'Is there a God - yes or no? What d'you think, boss? And if there is one - anything's possible - what d'you think he looks like?'
I shrugged my shoulders.
'I'm not joking, boss. I think of God as being exactly like me. Only bigger, stronger, crazier. And immortal, into the bargain. He's sitting on a pile of soft sheep-skins and his hut's the sky. It isn't made out of old petrol-cans, like ours is, but clouds. In his right hand he's holding not a knife or a pair of scales - those damned instruments are meant for butchers and grocers - no, he's holding a large sponge full of water, like a rain-cloud. On his right is Paradise, on his left Hell. Here comes a soul; the poor little thing's quite naked, because it's lost its cloak - it's body, I mean- and it's shivering. God looks at it, laughing up his sleeve, but he plays the bogy man: "Come here," he roars, "come here, you miserable wretch!"
"And he begins his questioning. The naked soul throws itself at God's feet. "Mercy!" it cries. "I have sinned." And away it goes reciting its sins. It receites a whole rigmarole and there's no end to it. God thinks this is too much of a good thing. He yawns. "For heaven's sake stop!" he shouts. "I've heard enough of all that!" Flap! Slap! a wipe of the sponge, and he washes out all the sins, "Away with you clear out, run off to Paradise!" he says to the sou. "Peterkin, let this poor little creature in, too!"
Nikos Kazantzakis, Zorba the Greek, Carl Widman (trad), faber and faber (2005)
A imagem é do filme inspirado no livro, Alexis Zorba, de 1964