Knowing little about Kazantzakis, I bought this book expecting a standard saint's life. Instead, I found myself reading the story of a man who comes across as more than a little crazy and certainly not transcendentally saintly. The narrative is firmly rooted in earthly things and even Francis's visions have a physicality about them which renders them far from mystical. This lack of overt spirituality, however, is not detrimental to the novel, for indeed it is intended to be a novel, not a book of religious instruction or inspiration.
Perhaps it's greatest strength is the soothing cyclical nature of the story. One journey follows another, illness often strikes with similar symptoms, hunger alternates with the occasional discovery of a scrap of bread, just as the seasons punctuate the tale with their harsh extremities of heat and biting cold. The more one reads, the more familiar the pattern becomes and out of the human suffering described there arises something which transcends it - a kind of certainty that the pattern will repeat itself and a familiarity which is gently comforting.