The Epic of Gilgamesh and its related ancient tales have long been a source of inspiration for me, often woven into my prose. Earlier this week, I had the pleasure of reading an essay by Andrew George, written in 2012, which I highly recommend to your attention: The Mayfly on the River: Individual and Collective Destiny in the Epic of Gilgamesh. As with all of George’s works, this essay is masterful, and it resonated with much of my recent work. By coincidence, his reference to the mayfly aligned perfectly with a sub-theme of a monograph I have been developing over the past several weeks.
Inspired by these reflections and my own experience with the loss of close friends, I chose to explore The Epic of Gilgamesh through poetry, marking a departure from my usual prose. Below, I offer a poem that captures a dream in which Gilgamesh contemplates the profound absence of Enkidu, his friend and companion, who met death as punishment for the transgressions he and Gilgamesh committed against the gods. The timeless relationship between Gilgamesh and Enkidu seemed to me a fitting metaphor for the sorrow that accompanies the loss of friends and the enduring nature of their memory.
An Audio Recitation of Donald S. Yarab’s The Dream of Gilgamesh
The Dream of Gilgamesh
In the shadows of my sleep, you came, Enkidu, my brother, carved from the heavens, The rock that fell to earth and struck me whole. But now the earth has claimed you, Silent is the storm of your breath, Felled like the great cedar, your might is no more. I reach for you, yet grasp but dust.
The gods whisper through the winds, Enkidu, you are beyond my reach, Though I call, your name echoes Through the empty halls of Uruk, A soundless shadow, a memory unmade.
In the dream, I see you on the plain, Your laughter rolls like thunder once more, Yet it is distant, swallowed by the sky. I run to you, but the earth swallows my feet, The horizon stretches and bends, And you fade, a shadow of stars, Leaving me to wrestle with the night.
Oh, Enkidu, my companion, my rock from the heavens, In life, you steadied me, made my heart whole. Now the world is too wide, The journey too long. What joy can be found in Uruk’s walls, Without your hand upon my shoulder? You lie beneath the river stones, And I am left to wander the desolate road alone.
Clay tablets. Story of Gilgamesh and Aga. Old Babylonian period, 2003-1595 BC. Sulaymaniyah Museum, Iraqi Kurdistan. (CC-BY SA 4.0. Dr. Osama Shukir Muhammed Amin).
Homer, even if the fictive creator of the Iliad and the Odyssey, is inseparable in the mind from those masterful and inspiring works of literature. Equally inseparable should be Sin-lēqi-unninni from the Epic of Gilgamesh.
Andrew George, whose engaging translation of the Epic of Gilgamesh is readily acknowledged by later translators of the epic as “a master class in philological precision and ingenuity,” has this to say about Sin-lēqi-unninni:
According to Babylonian tradition the [Epic of Gilgamesh] was the work of a certain Sîn-lēqi-unninni, a scholar from Uruk who was believed to have been a contemporary of Gilgamesh himself. However, Sîn-lēqi-unninni bears a name of a kind not found before the second millennium, so the tradition clearly preserved an anachronism. Instead, there is little doubt that Sîn-lēqi-unninni’s name was associated with the epic because he was the man who gave it its final, fixed form. Sîn-lēqi-unninni is thus one of the earliest editors in recorded history. From a comparison of the standard version of the first millennium with the older fragments we know that the person responsible for the standard version remodeled the poem. He provided it with a new prologue and recast the story to emphasize the theme of wisdom gained through suffering. Probably he was responsible for interpolating a version of the flood story, adapted from the old poem of Atra-hasis, and for appending to the epic as Tablet XII the rump of one of the Sumerian poems of Bilgames in an Akkadian prose translation. He left his mark also on the prosody, reducing variation in parallel and similar passages by combining their lines and repeating them verbatim to produce a text characterized by long sections of repetition where older versions had none. For this he often stands accused of damaging the poem’s literary qualities, but at the same time it can be argued that he introduced a profundity of thought that was probably lacking in the older versions.
Though the editorship of Sîn-lēqi-unninni probably changed the poem so radically that it is no wonder the Babylonians later named him as its author, it is clear from the multiple versions of the second millennium and from the existence of textual variants in the standard version of the first millennium, that he was not the only individual to leave his mark on the written epic. However, we know nothing of these others.
George, Andrew (2008) ‘Shattered tablets and tangled threads: Editing Gilgamesh, then and now.’ Aramazd. Armenian Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 3 (1). pp. 11-12.
George, perhaps, does an injustice to Sin-lēqi-unninni, by relegating him to the role of editor alone. Sin-lēqi-unninni was not mere scribe, nor compilator, nor even editor; rather, because of the number and weight of the substantive additions and structural changes he made to the epic, we may rightly view him as an ingenious co-creator of the ever-inspiring epic, such that modern publications could have a title page reading Sin-lēqi-unninni’s Epic of Gilgamesh.
The life that you seek you will never find: when the gods created mankind, death they dispensed to mankind, life they kept for themselves.
The Epic of Gilgamesh (2020), A. George, p. xlv
Two other translations of the poem in my library, both meritorious and worthy of note, include the recently published Gilgamesh: A New Translation of the Ancient Epic, by Sophus Helle (2021), which sought to strike a middle ground between George’s scholarly translation and the “translations of translations,” which can be used to described the other work in my library, Stephen Mitchell’s Gilgamesh (2004). Harold Bloom described Mitchell’s version of Gilgamesh as the “best I have seen in English” at the time it was published.
Gilgamesh is a well I go to for reflection and creative thought repeatedly. This is not surprising, as The New York Review of Books concisely notes that Gilgamesh inspires reflection and creativity on a multiplicity of levels:
In the century and a half since its rediscovery, however, and especially since World War II, Gilgamesh has made up for lost time. It has been translated into at least two dozen languages and been the inspiration for countless works of theater, film, poetry, fiction, and visual art. Musical responses to Gilgamesh include several operas, a ballet, hip-hop, jazz fusion, and an ear-pummeling track called “Gilgameš” by the Greek extreme metal band Rotting Christ.
Gilgamesh has also been acclaimed as the earliest work of ecological literature and included in The Columbia Anthology of Gay Literature as a founding text of queer writing, for its treatment of the relationship between Gilgamesh and his wild-man friend, Enkidu. The cultural energy of Gilgamesh shows no sign of dimming; the novelist Naja Marie Aidt describes it as a “fireball” that “has torn through time,” constantly in a process of reentry to the present.
New York Review of Books (October 20, 2022), “A Fireball from the Sands,” by Robert Macfarlane.
Some of my favorite more recent creative endeavors include two musical works. The first is a Lament on the Death of Enkidu, set to music and sung in Akkadian, based on the poetry of the epic. Peter Pringle, the creator, notes that he was helped along in his pronunciation of the Akkadian by Dr. George. It is simply stunning. Take a moment to listen and reflect on your mortality.
Gilgamesh’s Lament for the Death of Enikidu
The second is a nod to the ecological message that many find in the epic related to the consequences of the indiscriminate felling of the cedar forest in Lebanon. As explained in the New York Review of Books:
During the UK’s pandemic lockdown, [Robert] Macfarlane cowrote an album with the singer-songwriter and actor Johnny Flynn, Lost in the Cedar Wood. They collaborated on lyrics, sharing photos of notebook pages while in their respective homes, and Flynn would set them to music. “It felt like a wild wonder, to be able to feed words into the Johnny Flynn Song Machine and get a demo back a few days later!”
In addition to daily life in lockdown, the album is inspired by the Epic of Gilgamesh: “We wanted to write something both ancient and urgent,” said Macfarlane. “At the heart of Gilgamesh is the story of an unwise ruler, Gilgamesh himself, taking his axe to the Sacred Cedar Wood and felling these extraordinary trees. A few months after we began work on it, the Fairy Creek calamity started to unfold on Vancouver Island, with the premier of British Columbia, John Horgan, allowing the logging of the old-growth cedar forest there, including trees up to 2,000 years old.” Lines like “It was the first of the tellings/Of all of the fellings” (from the song “Tree Rings”), while unfortunately evergreen, took on a particular significance.
New York Review of Books (July 10, 2021), Ramblin’ Man. Robert Macfarlane, interviewed by Willa Glickman.
Johnny Flynn and Robert Macfarlane’s Tree Rings
To circle back to the beginning, this remarkable creativity is very much, I believe, the result of the creativity and authorship of the ancient editor of the Epic of Gilgamesh, Sîn-lēqi-unninni. He deserves more credit for the depth and reflection which is inspired by the ancient epic in its most familiar form. Let us celebrate his memory every time we read the epic or enjoy any of its derivative inspirational works.
Gilgamesh and Akka, by Dina Katz (Library of Oriental Texts, Vol. 1, STYX Publications, 1993), explores the short narrative poem in standard literary Sumerian which tells the tale of Gilgamesh of Uruk’s war against Akka of Kish.
GILGAMESH
In the tale, Akka of Kish demanded physical labor from the people of Uruk “to finish the wells, to finish all the wells of the land.” Gilgamesh, in response, asked the elders of Uruk for permission to wage war against Kish. The elders denied Gilgamesh permission to wage war against Kish, at which point Gilgamesh took his case for war to the able-bodied men of Uruk directly:
Since Gilgamesh, the Lord of Kulaba
had placed his trust in Inanna,
He did not take to heart the words of his city’s elders.
Gilgamesh before the able-bodied men of his city again
Laid the matter, seeking for words:
‘To finish the wells, to finish all the wells of the land,
To finish all the shallow wells of the land,
To finish all the deep wells with hoisting ropes,
Let us not submit to the house of Kish,
Let us smite it with weapons.’
The convoked assembly of his city’s able-bodied men answered Gilgamesh:
‘As they say: To stand up, and to sit down,
To protect the king’s son,
And to hold back the donkeys,
Who has breath for that?
Let us not submit to the house of Kish, Let us smite it with weapons.’
Gilgamesh and Akka, Lines 15-29 (Trans. Dina Katz)
The tale records that Gilgamesh and his able-bodied men went on to wage successful war against Akka and Kish.
Katz identified the passage that I am so enamored of, and which I quoted at the beginning of this post, as “puzzling.” She noted that a previous scholar felt that the expression was likely a “common saw” [i.e., a common Sumerian saying] whose meaning was lost to us. She noted, however, that the verbs “to stand” and “to sit” were often associated with the participants of the public assembly. It would appear, from the context, that the expression suggests having no more need or patience for further discussion due to appropriate consideration having been given (as in an assembly), pressing exigent conditions (as in a security situation), or exasperating circumstances (as in corralling or guiding donkeys).
Herman L. J. Vanstiphout, in reviewing Katz’s work in “A New Edition of Gilgamesh and Akka” (Journal of the American Oriental Society, vol. 119, no. 2, American Oriental Society, 1999, pp. 293–96) generally approved of Katz’s scholarly contributions and, with respect to the translation of the particular passage, took exception only with the wording regarding holding back the donkeys. He conceded that translating the line as “to hold back” “might surely be all right in a general sense” but seemed to suggest that something along the lines of “to hold the reins” may have been (more?) appropriate. For my part, I find the translation endearing, and intend to invoke the phrase regarding the donkeys, as translated, however perplexing it may seem, whenever I seek to end a discussion and perhaps give exasperated approval to a request in which I am in agreement.
Northcoast Antiquarian 