Outlook of Life and Death in Mesopotamia The Tigris and Euphrates rivers were necessary for the creation and success of civilization in Mesopotamia. The name Mesopotamia comes from the Greeks for the land between the rivers, which emphasizes the importance of a water source for an agricultural society. While the rivers were essential to creation of Mesopotamian civilization, it remained constant with the climate and geography of the region, one that was harsh and violently temperamental. The area that was necessary for agricultural survival was subject to extreme and unpredictable conditions ranging from drought to sudden and mass flooding. Life in Mesopotamia was precarious. The rivers were seen as an unpredictable force of nature that seemingly at whim both provided for the Mesopotamians as well as destroyed them. The hot, arid climate that made the process of agricultural production tenuous was often mixed with violent windstorms, flash flooding and torrential rain, all of which could lead to famine and destruction. The geography provided little natural protection from invaders that led to a seemingly perpetual state of warfare. The geography thus shaped Mesopotamian religion and their outlook on life and death as one that was harsh and unforgiving. The gods were connected to natural forces whose capricious character meant the gods could as easily provide for their people as they could chose to destroy it. The Penitential Prayer to Every God, Descent of Ishtar and Epic of Gilgamesh provides a glimpse into the Mesopotamian outlook of life and death. Questions: Examine the views of life, death and the gods in the following sources. 1. In what ways are the gods portrayed and how does that shape Mesopotamian outlook on life? 2. How is the afterlife described in Descent of Ishtar and Epic of Gilgamesh? 3. Based on these sources, what is the overall view of life, death and the gods in Mesopotamia and how do those views reflect the conditions of climate and geography of Mesopotamia?
Penitential Prayer to Every God This source provides a good example of the view Mesopotamians had of the gods. The author decides to pray to every god, including any that might be unknown, for committing offense towards the gods. He is unaware of what he did specifically to offend the gods, but the implication of this prayer suggests some negative circumstance has befallen him and he accredits it to displeasure from the gods. He asks for forgiveness, listing the ways he has attempted to atone for his unknown offense. The ending is equally illuminating as his situation is left unresolved to the reader. May the wrath of the heart of my god be pacified! May the god who is unknown to me be pacified! May the goddess who is unknown to me be pacified! May the known and unknown god be pacified! May the known and unknown goddess be pacified! The sin which I have committed I know not. The misdeed which I have committed I know not. A gracious name may my god announce! A gracious name may my goddess announce! A gracious name may my known and unknown god announce! A gracious name may my known and unknown goddess announce! Pure food have I not eaten, Clear water have I not drunk. An offense against my god I have unwittingly committed. A transgression against my goddess I have unwittingly done. 0 Lord, my sins are many, great are my iniquities! My god, my sins are many, great are my iniquities!... The sin, which I have committed, I know not. The iniquity, which I have done, I know not. The offense, which I have committed, I know not. The transgression I have done, I know not. The lord, in the anger of his heart, hath looked upon me. The god, in the wrath of his heart, hath visited me. The goddess hath become angry with me, and hath grievously stricken me. The known or unknown god hath straitened me. The known or unknown goddess hath brought affliction upon me. I sought for help, but no one taketh my hand. I wept, but no one came to my side. I lamented, but no one hearkens to me. I am afflicted, I am overcome, I cannot look up. Unto my merciful god I turn, I make supplication.
I kiss the feet of my goddess and [crawl before her]... How tong, my god... How long, my goddess, until thy face be turned toward me? How long, known and unknown god, until the anger of thy heart be pacified? How long, known and unknown goddess, until thy unfriendly heart be pacified? Mankind is perverted and has no judgment. Of all men who are alive, who knows anything? They do not know whether they do good or evil. 0 lord, do not cast aside thy servant! He is cast into the mire; take his hand. The sin which I have sinned, turn to mercy! The iniquity which I have committed, let the wind carry away. My many transgressions tear off like a garment! My god, my sins are seven times seven; forgive my sins! My goddess, my sins are seven times seven; forgive my sins! Known and unknown god, my sins are seven times seven; forgive my sins. From: "Penitential Psalms," Robert F. Harper, trans., in Assyrian and Babylonian Literature, R. F. Harper, ed. (New York, 1901).
Descent of Ishtar The main female deity of Mesopotamia was Inanna by her Sumerian name and later called Ishtar by the Akkadians. She was the goddess of fertility, life, love and sex. She was central in an agrarian society as fertility was necessary to the survival of the people. In early Sumerian society, the Sacred Marriage Rite was a central religious function of the priest king that took place annually to ensure the fertility of the land. The king would perform the ritual with a priestess as a representative of Inanna. The king would spend the night, where he consummated the marriage with the goddess, thus providing for the fertility of the land. In the numerous texts that contain Ishtar, the emphasis is often on her role as the provider of fertility, as well as chaos. When Ishtar descends into the underworld, fertility ceases to exist. Her sister Ereshkigal, the goddess of the underworld refuses to allow her to leave and without her presence, the world will die. In response, the gods create Asushunamir, or Good Looking, to trick Ereshkigal into freeing Ishtar. While their plan is successful, another must still take her place to maintain the balance of the underworld. Dumuzi, also known as Tammuz, one of her many lovers and current husband, was judged to not have sufficiently mourned her absence and was consequently chosen to take her place in the underworld. His distraught sister volunteered to take his place for half of the year during which Dumuzi would return to the world. The cycle of fertility, death and rebirth establishes the basis for the understanding of seasons in Mesopotamia. To the Land of No Return, the realm of Ereshkigal, Ishtar, the daughter of the Moon, set her mind. To the dark house, the abode of Irkalla, To the house which none leave who have entered it, To the road from which there is no way back, To the house wherein the entrants are bereft of light, Where dust is their fare and clay their food, Where they see no light, residing in darkness, Where they are clothed like birds, with wings for garments, And where over door and bolt is spread dust. When Ishtar reached the gate of the Land of No Return, She said to the gatekeeper: "O gatekeeper, open thy gate, Open thy gate so I may enter! If thou openest not the gate so that I cannot enter, I will smash the door, I will shatter the bolt, I will smash the doorpost, I will move the doors, I will raise up the dead eating the living,
So that the dead will outnumber the living." The gatekeeper opened his mouth to speak, Saying to exalted Ishtar: "Stop, my lady, do not throw it down! I will go to announce thy name to Queen Ereshkigal." The gatekeeper entered, saying to Ereshkigal: "Behold, they sister Ishtar is waiting at the gate, She who upholds the great festivals, Who stirs up the deep before Ea, the king." When Ereshkigal heard this, her face turned pale like a cut-down tamarisk, While her lips turned dark like a bruised kuninu-reed. What drove her heart to me? What impelled her spirit hither? Lo, should I drink water with the Anunnaki? Should I eat clay for bread, drink muddied water for beer? Should I bemoan the men who left their wives behind? Should I bemoan the maidens who were wretched from the laps of their lovers? Or should I bemoan the tender little one who was sent off before his time? Go, gatekeeper, open the gate for her, Treat her in accordance with the ancient rules." Forth went the gatekeeper to open the door for her: "Enter, my lady, that Cutha may rejoice over thee, That the palace of the Land of No Return may be glad at they presence." When the first gate he had made her enter, He stripped and took away the great crown on her head. "Why, o gatekeeper, didst thou take the great crown on my head?" "Enter, my lady, thus are the rules of the Mistress of the Underworld." When the second gate he had made her enter, He stripped and took away the pendants on her ears. "Why, O gatekeeper, didst thou take the pendants on my ears?" "Enter, my lady, thus are the rules of the Mistress of the Underworld." When the third gate he had made her enter, He stripped and took away the chains round her neck. "Why, O gatekeeper, didst thou take the chains round my neck?" "Enter, my lady, thus are the rules of the Mistress of the Underworld." When the fourth gate he had made her enter, He stripped and took away the ornaments on her breast. "Why, O gatekeeper, didst thou take the ornaments on my breast?" "Enter, my lady, thus are the rules of the Mistress of the Underworld." When the fifth gate he had made her enter, He stripped and took away the girdle of birthstones on her hips. "Why, O gatekeeper, didst thou take the girdle of birthstones on my hips?" "Enter, my lady, thus are the rules of the Mistress of the Underworld." When the sixth gate he had made her enter, He stripped and took away the clasps round her hands and feet. "Why, O gatekeeper, didst thou take the clasps round my hands and feet?" "Enter, my lady, thus are the rules of the Mistress of the Underworld."
When the seventh gate he had made her enter, He stripped and took away the breechcloth round her body. "Why, O gatekeeper, didst thou take the breechcloth round my body?" "Enter, my lady, thus are the rules of the Mistress of the Underworld." As soon as Ishtar had descended to the Land of No Return, Ereshkigal saw her and burst out at her presence. Ishtar, unreflecting, flew at her. Ereshkigal opened her mouth to speak, "Go, Namtar, lock her up in my palace! Release against her the sixty miseries: Misery of the eyes against her eyes, Misery of the sides against her sides, Misery of the heart against her heart, Misery of the feet against her feet, Misery of the head against her head - Against every part of her, against her whole body!" After Lady Ishtar had descended to the nether world, The bull springs not upon the cow, the ass impregnates not the jenny, In the street the man impregnates not the maiden. The man lies in his own chamber, the maiden lies on her side. The countenance of Papsukkal, the vizier of the great gods, Was fallen, his face was clouded He was clad in mourning, long hair he wore. Forth went Papsukkal before Ea, the king: "Ishtar has gone down to the nether world, she has not come up. Since Ishtar has gone down to the Land of No Return, The bull springs not upon the cow, the ass impregnates not the jenny, In the street the man impregnates not the maiden. The man lies down in his own chamber, The maiden lies down on her side." Ea in his wise heart conceived an image, And created Asushunamir, a eunuch: "Up, Asushunamir, set thy face to the gate of the Land of No Return: The seven gates of the Land of No Return shall be opened for thee. Ereshkigal shall see thee and rejoice at thy presence. When her heart has calmed, her mood is happy, Let her utter the oath of the great gods. Then lift up thy head, paying mind to the life-water bag: "Pray, lady, let them give me the life-water bag that water therefrom I may drink." As soon as Ereshkigal heard this, She smote her thigh, bit her finger: "Thou didst request of me a thing that should not be requested. Come, Asushunamir, I will curse thee with a mighty curse! The food of the city's gutters shall be thy food, The sewers of the city shall be thy drink.
The threshold shall be thy habitation, The besotted and the thirsty shall smite they cheek!" Ereshkigal opened her mouth to speak, Saying these words to Namtar, her vizier: "Up, Namtar, knock at Egalgina, Adorn the thresholds with the coral-stone, Bring forth the Anunnaki, seated them on thrones of gold, Sprinkle Ishtar with the water of life and take her from my presence!" Forth went Namtar, knocked at Egalgina, Adorned the thresholds with coral-stone, Brought forth the Anunnaki, seated them on thrones of gold, Sprinkled Ishtar with the water of life and took her from her presence. When through the first gate he had made her go out, He returned to her the breechcloth for her body. When through the second gate he had made her go out, He returned to her the clasps for her hands and feet. When through the third gate he had made her go out, He returned to her the birthstone girdle for her hips. When through the fourth gate he had made her go out, He returned to her the ornaments for her breasts. When through the fifth gate he had made her go out, He returned to her the chains for her neck. When through the sixth gate he had made her go out, He returned to her the pendants for her ears. When through the seventh gate he had made her go out, He returned to her the great crown for her head. "If she does not give thee her ransom price, bring her back. As for Tammuz, the lover of her youth, Wash him with pure water, anoint him with sweet oil: Clothe him with a red garment, let him play on a flute of lapis. Let the courtesans turn his mood." When Belili was stringing her jewelry, And her lap was filled with "eye-stones," On hearing the sound of her brother, Belili struck the jewelry on... So that the "eye-stones" filled the... "My only brother, bring no harm to me! On the day when Tammuz comes up to me, When with him the lapis flute and the carnelian ring come up to me, When with him the wailing men and wailing women come up to me, May the dead rise and smell the incense." From Ancient Near Eastern Texts translated by E.A. Speiser
Exploring Ancient World Cultures Essays on the Ancient Near East Storytelling, the Meaning of Life, and The Epic of Gilgamesh Arthur A. Brown Stories do not need to inform us of anything. They do inform us of things. From The Epic of Gilgamesh, for example, we know something of the people who lived in the land between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers in the second and third millenniums BCE. We know they celebrated a king named Gilgamesh; we know they believed in many gods; we know they were self-conscious of their own cultivation of the natural world; and we know they were literate. These things we can fix -- or establish definitely. But stories also remind us of things we cannot fix -- of what it means to be human. They reflect our will to understand what we cannot understand, and reconcile us to mortality. We read The Epic of Gilgamesh, four thousand years after it was written, in part because we are scholars, or pseudo-scholars, and wish to learn something about human history. We read it as well because we want to know the meaning of life. The meaning of life, however, is not something we can wrap up and walk away with. Discussing the philosophy of the Tao, Alan Watts explains what he believes Lao-tzu means by the line, "The five colours will blind a man's sight." "[T]he eye's sensitivity to color," Watts writes, "is impaired by the fixed idea that there are just five true colors. There is an infinite continuity of shading, and breaking it down into divisions with names distracts the attention from its subtlety" (27). Similarly, the mind's sensitivity to the meaning of life is impaired by fixed notions or perspectives on what it means to be human. There is an infinite continuity of meaning that can be comprehended only by seeing again, for ourselves. We read stories -- and reading is a kind of re-telling -- not to learn what is known but to know what cannot be known, for it is ongoing and we are in the middle of it. To see for ourselves the meaning of a story, we need, first of all, to look carefully at what happens in the story; that is, we need to look at it as if the actions and people it describes actually took place or existed. We can articulate the questions raised by a character's actions and discuss the implications of their consequences. But we need to consider, too, how a story is put together -- how it uses the conventions of language, of events with
beginnings and endings, of description, of character, and of storytelling itself to reawaken our sensitivity to the real world. The real world is the world without conventions, the unnameable, unrepresentable world -- in its continuity of action, its shadings and blurrings of character, its indecipherable patterns of being. The stories that mean most to us bring us back to our own unintelligible and yet immeasurably meaningful lives. The Epic of Gilgamesh opens with the convention of a frame -- a prologue that sets off the story of Gilgamesh's life. An unnamed narrator states, "I will proclaim to the world the deeds of Gilgamesh" (61). Thus the narrator introduces himself before he introduces the hero, and by doing so, welcomes us, as the imaginary listeners and actual readers, into the endless present of the telling of the tale. The deeds of Gilgamesh took place in the past. Having returned from his journey and resting from his labor, Gilgamesh, the narrator recounts, engraved the whole story on a clay tablet. What we are reading, then, is the transcription of an oral telling that repeats a written telling. On the one hand the frame helps verisimilitude. By referring to Gilgamesh's own act of writing, the narrator attempts to convince us that Gilgamesh was an actual king and that the story that follows is a true story. On the other hand, by calling our attention to the act of telling, the narrator reminds us that the truth of a story might lie in the very fact of its being a story -- the undeniable fact of its narration. To deny its narration would be to deny our own existence. Either way, the frame blurs the distinction between Gilgamesh's world, or the world of the tale, and our own. And yet there is an irony in the prologue of which the narrator himself seems unaware -- an irony that highlights our position as readers and not listeners. Praising Gilgamesh's accomplishments, the narrator invites us to survey the city of Uruk: "Look at it still today... Touch the threshold, it is ancient... Climb upon the wall of Uruk; walk along it, I say; regard the foundation terrace and examine the masonry: is it not burnt brick and good? The seven sages laid the foundations" (61). It seems as if the narrator is counting on the walls themselves to verify his story, while from where we stand in time and space, these walls are nowhere to be seen -- they have been buried for centuries. However, we could say that the writer of the clay tablets anticipates our distance from Uruk and asks only that we imagine the walls, the way all storytellers ask their audiences to imagine what they are about to hear. Our ability to imagine the walls -- our inability notto as we read the sentence that describes them -- once again makes the act of narration part of the story and forces us, as readers, into the world of the text. The story has been passed on from narrator to narrator to listener to reader -- from writer to reader to reader. Thus even before we begin to read this story about the death of a friend and the hero's failed attempt to find immortality, we are made aware of the passage of time that connects us even as it separates us. In the prologue we learn that Gilgamesh was two-thirds god and one-third man, and this knowledge is key to all that follows. Gilgamesh is a hero -- more beautiful, more courageous, more terrifying than the rest of us; his desires, attributes, and accomplishments epitomize our own. Yet he is also mortal: he must experience the death of others and die himself. How much more must a god rage against death than we who are merely mortal!and if he can reconcile himself with death then surely we can. In fact,
without death his life would be meaningless, and the adventures that make up the epic would disappear. In celebrating Gilgamesh -- in reading The Epic of Gilgamesh -- we celebrate that which makes us human. The story begins with the coming of Enkidu. As a young man and a god, Gilgamesh has no compassion for the people of Uruk. He is their king but not their shepherd; he kills their sons and rapes the daughters. Hearing the people's lament, the gods create Enkidu as a match for Gilgamesh, a second self: "`Let them contend together and leave Uruk in quiet'" (62). The plan works in several ways. First, Enkidu prevents Gilgamesh from entering the house of a bride and bridegroom; they fight and then they embrace as friends. Second, Enkidu and Gilgamesh undertake a journey into the forest to confront the terrible Humbaba. There they encourage each other to face death triumphantly: All living creatures born of the flesh shall sit at last in the boat of the West, and when it sinks, when the boat of Magilum sinks, they are gone; but we shall go forward and fix our eyes on this monster. (81) While everlasting life is not his destiny, Gilgamesh will leave behind him a name that endures. "I will go to the country where the cedar is felled," he tells Enkidu. "I will set up my name in the place where the names of famous men are written" (70). Thus Gilgamesh turns his attention away from small personal desires to loftier personal desires -- desires that benefit rather than harm Uruk. We remember from the prologue that the walls of the city, made from the cedar taken from the forest, still stand in actuality or in imagination to proclaim Gilgamesh's fame, and the very first sentence of the epic attests to the immortality of his name. But the immortality of a name is less the ability to live forever than the inability to die. Third and most important, Enkidu teaches Gilgamesh what it means to be human; he teaches him the meaning of love and compassion, the meaning of loss and of growing older, the meaning of mortality. From its beginnings, Enkidu's story raises many questions on the nature of man. Created of clay and water and dropped into the wilderness, Enkidu is "innocent of mankind," knowing "nothing of cultivated land" (63). He lives in joy with the beasts until a trapper sees that Enkidu is destroying the traps and helping the beasts escape. The trapper needs to tame Enkidu just as the people of Uruk need to tame Gilgamesh, or to redirect his desires. As we read the story, we are not necessarily on the trapper's or the people's sides; we may identify more with the heroes -- with Enkidu and Gilgamesh. Civilization is less a thing than a process, the transformation of the primitive. Without the primitive, civilization would cease to exist. The Epic of Gilgamesh helps us see past the conventional classifications of "civilized" and "primitive" so that we might recall what each of us gains and loses in developing from one state of being to another. Would civilized man, if he could, go back to being primitive? Or, to put it another way, what does primitive man lose in the process of becoming civilized -- and what does he gain? What Enkidu gains is wisdom. The harlot -- brought to the wilderness to trap Enkidu -- stands for this wisdom and speaks for civilization, even as she stands also as an outcast and an object of sexual desire. Enkidu is seduced by the harlot and then rejected by the
beasts. This seems a dirty trick. Recognizing the corruption in himself, civilized man corrupts primitive man to weaken him and make him one of his own. Yet for Enkidu as for human beings in general, sexual desire leads to domesticity, or love. "Enkidu was grown weak," the narrator tells us, "for wisdom was in him, and the thoughts of a man were in his heart." The woman says to him, "You are wise, Enkidu, and now you have become like a god. Why do you want to run wild with the beasts in the hills?" She tells him about "strong-walled Uruk" and "the blessed temple of Ishtar and of Anu, of love and of heaven," and about Gilgamesh himself. Enkidu is pleased: "he longed for a comrade, for one who would understand his heart" (65). Ultimately, Enkidu's journey out of the wilderness and his adventure with Gilgamesh lead to his death, and, looking back in his sickness, Enkidu curses the walls of the city: "O, if I had known the conclusion!if I had known that this was all the good that would come of it, I would have raised the axe and split you into little pieces and set up here a gate of wattle instead" (90). He curses the trapper and the harlot, who had destroyed his innocence -- as if innocence were precisely innocence of death and without consciousness, or knowledge, or wisdom, there would be no death. Yet Shamash, the Sun God, reminds him that the loss of innocence brings recompense: Enkidu, why are you cursing the woman, the mistress who taught you to eat bread fit for gods and drink wine of kings? She who put upon you a magnificent garment, did she not give you glorious Gilgamesh for your companion, and has not Gilgamesh, your own brother, made you rest on a royal bed and recline on a couch at his left hand? Above all, Shamash reminds Enkidu that he will be mourned by the people of Uruk and that "When you are dead [Gilgamesh] will let his hair grow long for your sake, he will wear a lion's pelt and wander through the desert" (91). Hearing Shamash, Enkidu changes his curse to a blessing. Bitter as his death is to him, and to Gilgamesh, it gives meaning to his life, for it makes companionship a thing of consequence. When Enkidu tells Gilgamesh his dream of the Underworld, Gilgamesh responds, "we must treasure the dream whatever the terror; for the dream has shown that misery comes at last to the healthy man, the end of life is sorrow" (93). Enkidu is in the story to die. In his rage and despair, Gilgamesh must live with the death of his friend, and with the knowledge that "What my brother is now, that shall I be" (97). Afraid of this knowledge, even hoping to deny it, Gilgamesh goes on a search for everlasting life. Two-thirds god, he is able to go farther than the rest of us could go except by participating in the act of storytelling. In the repetition of passages, the story gives us not only a description but the sense of Gilgamesh's journey into the twelve leagues of darkness: "At the end of five leagues, the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him. At the end of six leagues the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him" (99). Gilgamesh speaks for us when he says, "Although I am no better than a dead man, still let me see the light of the sun" (100). And in the repetition of his own description of himself and recounting of what has happened to him, we feel his grief over the loss of his friend; we feel his aging, and the inevitability of our own grief and aging:
"[W]hy should not my cheeks be starved and my face drawn?... Enkidu my brother, whom I loved, the end of mortality has overtaken him" (101). Beside the sea, Gilgamesh meets Siduri, "the woman of the vine, the maker of wine," who reminds him of the meaningfulness of being human. "Gilgamesh, where are you hurrying to?" she asks. You will never find that life for which you are looking. When the gods created man they allotted to him death, but life they retained in their own keeping. As for you, Gilgamesh, fill your belly with good things; day and night, night and day, dance and be merry, feast and rejoice. Let your clothes be fresh, bathe yourself in water, cherish the little child that holds your hand, and make your wife happy in your embrace; for this too is the lot of man. (102) If it is "life" the gods retain in their keeping, it is not human life, for human life depends on the passage of time and the possibility of death. Yet Gilgamesh still cannot rest. He continues his journey to Utnapishtim the Faraway, the only mortal to whom the gods have given everlasting life. With Urshanabi, the ferryman, Gilgamesh crosses the waters of death. Like Siduri, Utnapishtim asks Gilgamesh, "Where are you hurrying to?" (105), and in answer to Gilgamesh's question, "How shall I find the life for which I am searching?" he says, "There is no permanence" (106). But he reveals the mystery of his own possession of everlasting life. He tells Gilgamesh the story of the flood, of the time when the gods, unable to sleep for the uproar raised by mankind, agreed to destroy mankind, and would have succeeded had not Ea, one of man's creators, instructed Utnapishtim to build a boat and "take up into [it] the seed of all living creatures" (108). The story is familiar to us not only because it anticipates Noah's story in the book of Genesis, but because it is the story of life, the story of destruction and renewal. When Gilgamesh is ready to begin his long journey home, Utnapishtim, at the urging of his wife, reveals a second mystery of the gods. He tells Gilgamesh of a plant growing under water that can restore youth to a man. Gilgamesh finds the plant and picks it; he decides to take it to Uruk to give it to the old men. But as Gilgamesh bathes in the cool water of a well, a serpent rises up and snatches away the plant; immediately it sloughs its skin and returns to the well. Again this story is familiar to us, not only because we recognize this snake as a precursor of the more sinister one that appears in the Garden of Eden, but because we comprehend it as a symbol. In the Sumerian world, Ningizzida, the god of the serpent, is "the lord of the Tree of Life" (119). While Gilgamesh himself has lost the ability to live forever, or the opportunity to pass on this ability to the men of Uruk, it is enough that the snake recalls for us, in its sloughing of its skin, nature's pattern of regeneration. And with this dramatic statement of theme, Gilgamesh returns to the strong-walled city of Uruk, and the story itself returns to its beginning. Gilgamesh says to the ferryman, with whom he has made the journey home, "Urshanabi, climb up on to the wall of Uruk, inspect its foundation terrace, and examine well the brickwork; see if it is not of burnt
bricks; and did not the seven wise men lay these foundations?" We have taken the ferryman's place by passing the story on -- even if only to ourselves. The narrator tells us once again that Gilgamesh, worn out with his labor, "engraved on a stone the whole story" (117). And finally, with the death of Gilgamesh -- the end of the story and the end of the telling of it -- the text returns us to our mortal lives. Works Cited Sandars, N. K., trans. The Epic of Gilgamesh. London: Penguin, 1972. Watts, Alan W. The Way of Zen. New York: Vintage, 1957. Copyright 1996. Arthur A. Brown. This file may be copied for educational and personal use on the condition that the entire contents, including the header and this copyright notice, remain intact. It may not be sold for profit without the written permission of the author.
Excerpts from Epic of Gilgamesh For Enkidu, his friend, Gilgamesh Weeps bitterly, as he ranges over the steppe: 'When I die, shall I not be like Enkidu? Woe has entered my belly. Facing death, I roam over the steppe. To Utnapishtim, Ubar-Tutu's son, I have taken the road to proceed in all haste. When arriving by night at mountain passes, I saw lions and grew afraid. I lifted my head to Sin to pray. [The remainder of the column is fragmentary or broken away. When Gilgamesh next appears, he has arrived before a mountain.] The name of the mountain is Mashu. When he arrived at the mountain range of Mashu, Which daily keeps watch over sunrise and sunset- Whose peaks reach to the vault of heaven (And) whose breasts reach to the nether world below- Scorpion-men guard its gate, Whose terror is awesome and whose glance was death. Their shimmering halo sweeps the mountains That at sunrise and sunset keep watch over the sun. When Gilgamesh beheld them, with fear And terror was darkened his face. He took hold of his senses and bowed before them. A scorpion-man calls to his wife: 'He who has come to us-his body is the flesh of the gods!' His wife answers the scorpion-man: 'Two-thirds of him is god, one-third of him is human.' The scorpion-man calls to the fellow, Addressing (these) words to the offspring of the gods: 'Why hast thou come on this far journey? Why hast thou arrived before me, Traversing seas whose crossings are difficult? The purpose of thy coming I would learn.'
[The remainder of the column is broken away. In the next part that we have, Gilgamesh replies:] 'On account of Utnapishtim, my father, have I come, Who joined the Assembly of the gods, in search of life. About death and life I wish to ask him.' The scorpion-man opened his mouth to speak, Saying to Gilgamesh: 'Never was there, Gilgamesh, a mortal who could achieve that. The mountain's trail no one has travelled. For twelve leagues extends its inside. Dense is the darkness and light there is none. [The remainder is fragmentary or broken. Gilgamesh persists, and eventually the scorpion-man opens the mountain to him.] When Gilgamesh heard this, To the word of the scorpion-man he gave heed. Along the road of the sun he went When one league he had attained, Dense is the darkness and light there is none; He can see nothing ahead or behind. [Gilgamesh travels for eight leagues in total blackness. Beginning the ninth league, he feels the north wind fanning his face. He gradually emerges from the cave.] Shamash was distraught, as he betook himself to him; He says to Gilgamesh: 'Gilgamesh, whither rovest thou? The life thou pursuest thou shalt not find.' Gilgamesh says to him, to valiant Shamash: 'After marching (and) roving over the steppe, Must I lay my head in the heart of the earth That I may sleep through all the years? Let mine eyes behold the sun That I may have my fill of the light! Darkness withdraws when there is enough light. May he who has died a death behold the radiance of the sun!' [Again there is a break in the text. Gilgamesh is addressing Siduri, the ale-wife, who, according to the Assyrian text, 'dwells by the deep sea.'] 'He who with me underwent all hardships Enkidu, whom I loved dearly, Who with me underwent all hardships has now gone to the fate of mankind! Day and night I have wept over him. I would not give him up for burial-
In case my friend should rise at my plaint Seven days and seven nights, Until a worm fell out of his nose. Since his passing I have not found life, I have roamed like a hunter in the midst of the steppe. O ale-wife, now that I have seen thy face, Let me not see the death which I ever dread.' The ale-wife said to him, to Gilgamesh: 'Gilgamesh, whither rovest thou? The life thou pursuest thou shalt not find. When the gods created mankind, Death for mankind they set aside, Life in their own hands retaining. Thou, Gilgamesh, let full be thy belly, Make thou merry by day and by night. Of each day make thou a feast of rejoicing, Day and night dance thou and play! Let thy garments be sparkling fresh, Thy head be washed; bathe thou in water. Pay heed to the little one that holds on to thy hand, Let thy spouse delight in thy bosom! For this is the task of mankind!' [The text is too fragmentary for translation. When it resumes, Gilgamesh is responding to Urshanabi's questions. He again tells of Enkidu's death and his own search and asks how he can find Utnapishtim. Urshanabi warns him that, by breaking the 'Stone Things,' he has hindered his own crossing. But he agrees to guide Gilgamesh, and sends him off to cut poles. They set sail and soon come to the waters of death, where Urshanabi instructs Gilgamesh: 'Press on, Gilgamesh, take a pole, (But) let thy hand not touch the Waters of Death...!' Finally they reach Utnapishtim's island. Utnapishtim questions Gilgamesh, who repeats his long story again, concluding it as follows.] Gilgamesh also said to him, to Utnapishtim: 'That -now I might come and behold Utnapishtim, Whom they call the Faraway, I ranged and wandered over all the lands, I traversed difficult mountains, I crossed all the seas! My face was not sated with sweet sleep, I fretted myself with wakefulness; I filled my joints with aches. I had not reached the ale-wife's house When my clothing was used up. I slew bear, hyena, lion, panther, Tiger, stag, (and) ibex- The wild beasts and the creeping things of the steppe.
[The remainder of the tablet is fragmentary and broken, except for the conclusion to Utnapishtim's response.] 'Do we build houses for ever? Do we seal (contracts) for ever? Do brothers divide shares for ever? Does hatred persist for ever in the land? Does the river for ever rise (and) bring on floods? The dragon-fly leave (its) shell That its face might (but) glance on the face of the sun? Since the days of yore there has been no performance; The resting and the dead, how alike they are! Do they not compose a picture of death, The commoner and the noble, Once they are near to their fate? The Anunnaki, the great gods, foregather, Mammetum. maker of fate, with them the fate decrees, Death and life they determine. (But) of death its days are not revealed.' Gilgamesh said to him, to Utnapishtim the Faraway: 'As I look upon thee, Utnapishtim, Thy features are -not strange; even as I art thou. My heart had regarded thee as resolved to do battle, Yet thou liest indolent upon my back! Tell me, how joinedst thou the Assembly of the gods. In thy quest of life?' Utnapishtim said to him, to Gilgamesh: 'I will reveal to thee, Gilgamesh, a hidden matter And a secret of the gods will I tell thee:...' [Utnapishtim's revelation is the flood narrative.he was made immortal, he says, through the intervention of the gods after he managed to survive the great flood which destroyed Shurippak.) 'But now, who will for thy sake call the gods to Assembly That the life which thou seekest thou mayest find? Up, lie down to sleep For six days and seven nights.' As he sits there on his haunches, Sleep fans him like a mist. Utnapishtim says to her, to his spouse: 'Behold this hero who seeks life! Sleep fans him like a mist.' His spouse says to him, to Utnapishtim the Faraway: 'Touch him that the man may awake,
That We may return safe on the way back whence he came, That through the gate he left he may return to his land.' Utnapishtim says to her, to his spouse: 'Since to deceive is human, he will seek to deceive thee. Up, bake for him wafers, put (them) at his head, And mark on the walls the days he sleeps.' And just as he touched the seventh, the man awoke. Gilgamesh says to him, to Utnapishtim the Faraway: 'Scarcely had sleep surged Over me, When straightway thou dost touch and rouse me' Utnapishtim says to him, to Gilgamesh: 'Go, Gilgamesh, count thy wafers, That the days thou hast slept may become known to thee: Thy ftrst wafer is dried out The second is leathery, the third is soggy; The crust of the fourth has turned white; The ftfth has a mouldy cast, The sixth (still) is fresh coloured. As for the seventh, at this instant thou hast awakened.' Gilgamesh says to him, to Utnapishtim the Faraway: Gilgamesh and Urshanabi boarded the boat, They launched the boat on the waves (and) they sailed away. His spouse says to him, to Utnapishtim the Faraway: 'Gilgamesh has come hither, toiling and straining. What wilt thou give him that he may return to his land?' At that he, Gilgamesh, raised up (his) pole, To bring the boat nigh to the shore. Utnapishtim says to him, to Gilgatnesh:, Gilgatnesh, thou hast come hither, toiling and straining. What shall I give thee that thou mayest return to thy land? I will disclose, 0 Gilgainesh, a hidden thing, And... about a plant I will tell thee: This plant, like the buckthorn is its... Its thorns will prick thy hands just as does the rose, If thy hands obtain the plant, thou wilt attain life.' No sooner had Gilgamesh heard this, Than he opened the water-pipe, He tied heavy stones to his feet. They pulled him down into the deep and there he saw the plant. He took the plant, though it pricked his hands. He cut the heavy stones from his feet. The sea cast him up upon its shore. Gilgamesh says to. him, to Urshanabi, the boatman: 'Urshanabi, this plant is a plant apart,
Whereby a man may regain his life's breath. I will take it to ramparted Uruk, Will cause... to eat the plant! Its name shall be "Man Becomes Young in Old Age." I myself shall eat (it) And thus return to the state of my youth.' After twenty leagues they broke off a morsel, After thirty (further) leagues they prepared for the night. Gilgamesh saw a well whose water was cool. He went down into it to bathe in the water. A serpent snuffed the fragrance of the plant; It came up from the water and carried off the plant. Going back it shed its slough. Thereupon Gilgamesh sits down and weeps, His tears running down over his face. He took the hand of Urshanabi, the boatman: 'For whom, Urshanabi, have my hands toiled? For whom is being spent the blood of any heart? I have not obtained a boon for myself. For the earth-lion have I effected a boon! And now the tide will bear (it) twenty leagues away! When I opened the water-pipe and spilled the gear, I found that which had been placed as a sign for me: I shall withdraw, And leave the boat on the shore!' After twenty leagues they broke off a morsel, After thirty (further) leagues they prepared. for the night. When they arrived in ramparted Uruk, Gilgamesh says to him, to Urshanabi, the boatman: 'Go up, Urshanabi, walk on the ramparts of Uruk. Inspect the base terrace, examine its brickwork, If its brickwork is not of burnt brick, And if the Seven Wise Ones laid not its foundation. Onc "sar is city, one sar orchards, One sar margin land; (further) the precinct of the Temple of Ishtar. Three sar and the precinct comprise Uruk.' Translation by E. A. Speiser, in Ancient Near East Texts (Princeton, 1950), pp. 72-99, reprinted in Isaac Mendelsohn (ed.), Religions of the Ancient Near East Library of Religion paperbook series (New York, 1955) PP. 47-115; notes by Mendelsohn