One of the many reasons why I am grateful for the Provo Great Books Club (see here and here) is because it helps me to finally read books that have always been on my reading list or to read books that I never would have read otherwise.
For example, it is likely that I never would have read the epic of Gilgamesh had it not been for the Provo Great Books Club. It was one of the many books that I have in my library that I meant to read someday, in part because of the strange title. But there are hundreds, if not thousands, of other books that I would have chosen to read before this one. Nevertheless, at the recommendation and urging of one of the most diligent members of the club, we read it.
Gilgamesh is one of the oldest surviving stories in the world, āa thousand years older than the Iliad or the Bible,ā as the interpreter of this edition, Stephen Mitchell, explains in his introduction. As soon as I finished reading Gilgamesh, I recorded my response via email to a few other members of the Provo Great Books Club:
I've never smoked mushrooms, but I'm willing to bet that reading Gilgamesh is better than any trip 'shrooms could give you. Yes, I finally read the book.
Rather than explain the details of the origins and translation of this strange and ancient Mesopotamian story (details that Mitchell outlines in his introduction), I would like to record a few of my own observations about it.
In some ways Gilgamesh resembles the Homeric epics (the Iliad and the Odyssey), and Beowulf, but in some ways it is unlike anything I have ever read. There is an epic hero named Gilgamesh whose incredible power and abilities are manifested through his various exploits in the city of Uruk, in the forest, and on a great journey. But Gilgamesh is in many ways very different from Achilles, Odysseus, Beowulf, or any other ancient hero.
For example, Gilgamesh is a 17-foot tall demigod and king of Uruk who reigned for more than 100 years. His mother was the goddess Ninsun, and he had a great relationship with the sun god Shamash too. But he was somewhat of a tyrant in the city of Uruk. He made slept with every new bride before she could sleep with her husband, and he antagonized his people so severely that they fervently prayed to the gods for relief.
The gods answered the prayers of the people of Uruk, but not in the way that they may have hoped for, nor in a way that makes much sense. In response to the prayers of the people for relief from Gilgameshās tyranny, the gods created another great hero, a double for Gilgamesh, a wild man named Enkidu. The gods could have expelled Gilgamesh from Uruk, or simply told him to stop sleeping with all of the women. Instead, the goddess Aruru, under direction of Anu, father of the gods, formed Enkidu from the dust of the ground:
Now go and create a double for Gilgamesh, his second self, a man who equals his strength and courage, a man who equals his stormy heart. Create a new hero, let them balance each other perfectly, so that Uruk has peace.
Mitchell writes that thus began āthe first great friendship in literature.ā
Enkidu is Gilgameshās doppelgƤnger, but he is also very different. As Mitchell also indicates in his introduction, Enkidu is Gilgameshās opposite:
Enkidu is indeed Gilgameshās double, so huge and powerful that when people see him they are struck with awe. But he is also Gilgameshās opposite and mirror image: two-thirds animal to Gilgameshās two-thirds divine. These animal qualities are actually much more attractive than the divine ones. Where Gilgamesh is arrogant, Enkidu is childlike; where Gilgamesh is violent, Enkidu is peaceful, a naked herbivore among the herds. He lives and wanders with them from pasture to pasture, and (as we learn later in the poem) he drives away marauding predators, thus acting as both sheep and shepherd. With his natural altruism, he is also the original animal activist, setting his friends free from human pits and traps. (Mitchell, Introduction, p. 11)
I enjoyed Mitchellās interpretation and commentary on this epic, even though he too often flirts with relativism. But one of the first things that immediately struck me about this ancient poem that wasnāt translated until the late 19th century is that Jean-Jacques Rousseau would have loved it. The great poet Rainer Maria Rilke loved it, but Rousseau died long before Gilgamesh was translated. Enkidu seems to me like a gigantic and more powerful version of Rousseauās noble savage.
For this and other reasons I was most interested in the story of Enkidu in the beginning, including his civilization under the love arts of Shamhat, and his service in the defeat of the forest monster Humbaba, as well as the Bull of Heaven, and then his tragic death. Whatever the Akkadian etchings on clay tablets were, they have been translated and interpreted to recount that when Shamhat began to practice her love arts on Enkidu, he made love to her for a week. Enkiduās erection lasted for seven days (which I suppose is longer than usual), and he was completely transformed by the process. Afterward, Shamhat brought him to Uruk to meet his double, Gilgamesh.
On his way to meet Gilgamesh, Enkidu felt something stir deep within his heart, āa longing he had never known before, the longing for a true friend.ā Again, I think that Rousseau would have loved this account that preceded the great Greek philosophers by at least a millennium, in part because the friendship between Enkidu and Gilgamesh seems quite different from the kind of friendship that Aristotle praised.
The first encounter between Gilgamesh and Enkidu might be described as a strange combination of violence and homoeroticism. Enkidu was upset when he discovered that Gilgamesh slept with each one of the new brides in the city of Uruk, but as Mitchell rightly points out, we canāt be sure exactly why he was upset. As Gilgameshās perfect match, Enkidu was filled with virile rage and he desired to challenge Gilgamesh. Shamhat advised Enkidu to set aside his aggression, but Enkidu could not be placated. The first meeting between Enkidu and Gilgamesh reminds me of a pair of alpha male gorillas in combat, or of some interactions that I have seen in the world of business and academia. Mitchell describes it in memorable terms:
When Gilgamesh arrives, the two heroes seize each other, butting heads like wild bulls, careening through the streets, crashing into walls, and making a house tremble. The confrontation could hardly be more primal, stripped down to the element of male pride. Enkiduās anger is beside the point. There are no principles to be upheld, no justifications and counterjustifications. The battle is as silly as a schoolyard fight, yet there is something beautiful about its energy. There is also a deeply erotic element in it. This is not a fight to the death, as in the Iliad or Beowulf. It is a fight at the end of which each man will be able to say to his opponent, āNow I know you,ā or even (as Jacob said to his angel), āI will not let thee go, except thou bless me.ā It is an entrance into intimacy, and as close to lovemaking as violence. (p. 23)
There are primal elements in this bizarre friendship between Gilgamesh and Enkidu that Rousseau might have used to enhance his theories of the state of nature. In some ways Iāve noticed the same phenomenon in my own experiences with my brothers and with other male friends (experiences that I hope are more indicative of Aristotelian friendship than of anything else): there are moments of tension and even physical aggression that then abate and melt into a stronger friendship once the problems are resolved. Then again, none of my friends or brothers is 17 feet tall, and to my knowledge, none of them are demigods or demibeasts.
There is much more in this fascinating tale to savor: the battle against the forest monster Humbaba, the killing of the Bull of Heaven, the goddess Ishtarās tantrum, Enkiduās death, Gilgameshās journey to the end of the world, etc. In fact, one of my favorite parts of the epic of Gilgamesh is when Gilgamesh plunges into the depths of the sea to obtain a mysterious plant that guarantees perpetual youth to whomever partakes of it, and then, when he accidentally forgets about the plant, a snake takes it away. After losing his best friend and perfect match Enkidu who was cursed and died from a severe illness, and after learning from an ancestor at the end of the earth that death is inevitable for all, the plant of eternal youth seemed like a final blessing and positive note on which to end the tale. But Gilgamesh left the plant on a rock, and a serpent snatched it. Thus Gilgamesh returned empty-handed to Uruk.
If my reflections on this Mesopotamian myth have not inspired you (in the spirit of LaVar Burton of Reading Rainbow fame) to read the epic of Gilgamesh, perhaps the prologue of the poem itself will help:
He had seen everything, had experienced all emotions, from exaltation to despair, had been granted a vision into the great mystery, the secret places, the primeval days before the Flood. He had journeyed to the edge of the world and made his way back, exhausted but whole. He had carved his trials on stone tablets, had restored the holy Eanna Temple and the massive wall of Uruk, which no city on earth can equal. See how its ramparts gleam like copper in the sun. Climb the stone staircase, more ancient than the mind can imagine, approach the Eanna Temple, sacred to Ishtar, a temple that no king has equaled in size or beauty, walk on the wall of Uruk, follow its course around the city, inspect its mighty foundations, examine its brickwork, how masterfully it is built, observe the land it encloses: the palm tree, the gardens, the orchards, the glorious palaces and temples, the shops and marketplaces, the houses, the public squares. Find the cornerstone and under it the copper box that is marked with his name. Unlock it. Open the lid. Take out the tablet of lapis lazuli. Read how Gilgamesh suffered all and accomplished all.
