Book Spotlight:
The Epic of Gilgamesh
Coming up:
- Overview
- Context (a damaged masterpiece, King Gilgamesh, and the monomyth)
- Core themes (mortality, humility, duty, masculinity, friendship)
- Writing style
- Who's it for?
- What gave me the fizz?
- Difficulty
(major spoilers ahead, but it's been out for a while . . . )
Overview
Assyriologist William Moran calls The Epic of Gilgamesh ‘a document on ancient humanism,’ but it’s also an adventure, an autobiography to warn future kings, and even the first book, the one to split history and define a new era of human knowledge.
This is the tale of a king who had it all, and yet was restless for more.
King Gilgamesh is a harsh but decisive ruler; he frees the city of Uruk from tyranny and raises it to new heights of wealth and status . . . only to replace that tyranny with his own. He is cruel, oppressive, and most monstrous of all, he rapes new brides on their wedding day, as if entitled to their virginity.
In response, the gods created a wild man to tame the tyrant king’s excesses—Enkidu. Though he proves weaker than Gilgamesh in their ensuing battle, Enkidu manages to knock him out of his oppressive patterns, and with a newfound respect for one another, the pair set out for fame and glory. They were to kill Humbaba, the forest guardian.
Their victory over the monster fast decays into tragedy.
Enkidu dies.
For the first time in his life, Gilgamesh is struck with a mortal fear—the fear of death, the fear of nothingness, the fear that no amount of power or wealth can delay. Through sheer denial, he couldn’t bring himself to bury the body of his fallen comrade until it started to rot; if he accepts that a great hero like Enkidu can die, then he accepts his own mortality.
If Enkidu cannot defeat death, how can I?
The once-proud Gilgamesh rejects his duty, kingship, and status, then spirals into chaos, into a crazed shell of his former self, fruitlessly seeking the promise of eternal life while rejecting all good counsel in the meantime. His skin is caked in grime, his body is wasted to a husk, and his face is chipped by the elements, unrecognisable as the king who brought glory to Uruk.
None of his effort ever paid off.
Uta-Napishti, the man who did find eternal life through a special divine favour, the man from whom Gilgamesh sought the secret . . . he scoffed at the king and gave him no solace - you will die like all the rest. Accept it.
Through desperation, anguish, and even a failed second chance, Gilgamesh learns that his peace is not found in the loose hope of immortality, but in what he already has: he returns to his city of Uruk to praise the might of its walls and his success as ruler.
Context
A damaged masterpiece
“Approach what lies ahead not as you might find the poems of Homer but as a book part-eaten by termites or a scroll half-consumed by fire. Accept it for what it is, a damaged masterpiece.”
At the bookstore till, you should ask for a discount with this read: you’re paying for about three-quarters of the original story, and the rest is buried thousands of miles away.
Jokes aside, it truly is a damaged masterpiece. Lines are distorted, words are missing, and entire chunks have eluded archeologists—even now, fragments of clay tablets still pop up during digs, so we might be able to read it all one day. Just not today.
King Gilgamesh
The semi-divine Gilgamesh ruled over Uruk, a city-state of Sumer. The walls were rebuilt and gilded in glory after his recent military triumphs, and similarly to other mystical figures like King Arthur or Achilles, Gilgamesh teetered between fantasy and reality.
The character archetype of Gilgamesh is also an early template for future heroes, again like the champions in Homeric poetry. This epic is truly the first ‘hero story,’ an immortal style that we still enjoy today, be they classical novels or corporate mass-market movies.
With Gilgamesh, you see where it all began.
The monomyth
If you know your Bible, Gilgamesh will wave reminders at every turn. Ok. That’s typical for a classical work - everyone references the Christian canon - but that familiarity is shattered when you realize the Bible was written over one thousand years after the Epic of Gilgamesh.
You’ll notice themes, stories, and characters which mirror their Biblical counterpart: the Garden of Eden reminds us of Enkidu, the man made from clay, and the story of Noah’s flood is almost identical to what Uta-Napishti went through in his Deluge.
This opens a rich conversation on faith, historicity, and mythology, but for now, the most important bit of context is the one to set the story in motion: the gods get annoyed at how noisy and numerous humanity gets - even daring to interrupt their godly nap time - so they send a flood to wipe them all out. Seems fair (. . . ?). Shortly after, their overkill became apparent—their sacrificial altars ran dry, and there wasn’t a soul to worship them, nor to prepare them a delicious banquet. The gods starved.
The Mother Goddess rebuilt humanity, but with new limits to control them. Fertility was hurt, stillbirth was introduced, and most important of all, people were now mortal. This new natural lifespan would be the terror to set Gilgamesh on his quest.
Core themes
Accepting mortality
I am afraid of death, so I wander the wild
Life is temporary. That’s what makes it meaningful. Every sunrise, every conversation, and every drop of sweat is precious because there are only so many left to experience, and that’s even if you believe in the afterlife—who knows exactly what awaits you? Equally, the idea of an end is terrifying; nobody wants to lose the most precious thing they hold.
We find ways to meet our end with confidence: faith in God, reincarnation, the idea of a gentle never-ending sleep, or the idea of floating around as ghostly spectators, like we died in a match of Halo. Many forget death exists at all, and find comfort in the ignorance. At the root of them all is a sense of peace.
Where there’s no peace, people flee from death. They’ll invent 46-step longevity routines, save up money for cryo-preservation, or (more rarely) abandon their kingly post, kill some mythical creatures, and seek the secret to eternal life, just like our friend Gilgamesh. He saw how his friend and rival - the mighty Enkidu - could not escape death’s clasp, and it struck fear in him, for he could not come to terms with the inevitable.
For his friend Enkidu Gilgamesh did bitterly weep as he wandered the wild: ‘I shall die, and shall I not then be as Enkidu? Sorrow has entered my heart!’
Gilgamesh devolved from a proud and glorious king to a wretched beast who wandered the wild, hunting lions while drenched in sweat and smeared with grime.
He clad himself in their skins, he ate their flesh. Gilgamesh dug wells that never existed before, he drank the water, as he chased the winds.
When Gilgamesh finally meets Uta-Napishti, the flood survivor who was granted immortality, he asks a hopeful “how?,” only to be met with a brutal scold, a slap of reality, and a fate he can’t ever escape:
‘But you, you toiled away, and what did you achieve? You exhaust yourself with ceaseless toil. You fill your sinews with sorrow, bringing forward the end of your days.’
‘Man is snapped off like a reed in a canebrake! The comely young man, the pretty young woman– all too soon in their prime Death abducts them!’
'No one at all sees Death, no one at all sees the face of Death, no one at all hears the voice of Death, Death so savage, who hacks men down.’
Humility
Sumerologist Thorkild Jacobsen calls the Epic of Gilgamesh a story of learning to face reality, a story of “growing up.”
Gilgamesh has an immature hunger for something he can’t have. Fear and want drive him towards this mirage, and even though the gods warned him of the futility, arrogance kept his foot on the pedal—there was no such answer as “no,” and Gilgamesh would have what Gilgamesh wanted, even if it meant his throne was empty and his body in tatters.
Shamash grew worried, and leaning down, he spoke to Gilgamesh: ‘O Gilgamesh, where are you wandering? The life that you seek you will never find.'
Only through failure could Gilgamesh wake up to his folly and accept his mortal limits.
Embracing life and duty
The now-mature Gilgamesh saw how it was futile to defy death, and instead of losing his mind chasing a spectre, he assumes his proper duty and enjoys all the splendour that life has to offer.
'But you, Gilgamesh, let your belly be full, enjoy yourself always by day and by night! Make merry each day, dance and play day and night!'
'Let your clothes be clean, let your head be washed, may you bathe in water! Gaze on the child who holds your hand, let a wife enjoy your repeated embrace.'
It’s like an early, more cheerful wink at the memento mori philosophy, only instead of an ascetic approach, where one abandons earthly pleasures to prepare for death, the epic stresses the joy in mortality.
Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero pulsanda tellus—now is the time to drink, now the time to dance footloose upon the earth.
Aside from simple pleasures, Gilgamesh is pushed to embrace his duty: ruler of the city, herald of the people, and worship-master of the gods. He left his city headless, all to pursue a self-centered goal he could never reach, but now was the time to right that wrong.
Uta-Napishti urges once more:
'Let him cast off his pelts, and the sea bear them off, let his body be soaked till fair! Let a new kerchief be made for his head, let him wear royal robes, the dress fitting his dignity!'
(ok . . . he may have been a tyrant, but the principle still stands.)
Masculine friendship
'I will challenge him, for my strength is mighty, I will vaunt myself in Uruk, saying “I am the mightiest!” There I shall change the ways things are ordered: one born in the wild is mighty, strength he possesses.'
These are among the first words of Enkidu, the wild man who turned rational and self-conscious, somewhat like the Biblical Adam after he ate from the tree.
Enkidu had an intrinsic pull to friendship and rivalry—indeed, we all do. It’s why loneliness feels like a long ache in the gut, and why modernity is clouded by a bleak grey air of isolation. The internet pushes us into our bedrooms and real connection is rarer than ever.
Enkidu and Gilgamesh fight, eat, and sleep together. We see an image of true brotherly friendship, an image we are starved of today, and one that can inspire our own social life.
Enkidu
'My friend is one who is tested in combat, one who has been in battle has no fear of death.'
'You have been splashed in blood, so you need not fear death: go berserk, like a dervish fall into a frenzy. Let your shout boom loud like a kettle drum, may the stiffness leave your arms, the tremors your legs!'
Gilgamesh
'Take my hand, friend, and we shall go on together, let your thoughts dwell on combat! Forget death and seek life! The one who walks alongside is the prudent man.'
When Enkidu dies and the epic takes a sorrowful turn, we are shown the sensitive side of masculinity, the one hidden beneath the rugged exterior—quest and glory took a rest, and brotherly love was all that remained in that moment.
It’s interesting to note how involved Gilgamesh was in Enkidu’s funeral: in the bronze age, mourning rituals were traditionally led by women, and although it’s speculative, the misery of Gilgamesh may have obliged him to ignore that tradition and pay a more vivid tribute.
'I shall weep for Enkidu, my friend, like a hired mourner-woman I shall bitterly wail!'
Writing style
When you rewind to the beginning of literature, it’s no wonder the writing style is . . . different.
Our Babylonian librarians forgot to scan the epic into Google Drive, so we only have them to blame for the missing parts - and yet - the epic remains readable—even when entire passages are splintered, you have no issue following the story.
I feel it adds a flavour of mystery and grandeur, as if you’re dusting off the newly-unearthed tablets yourself.
What we can read is almost melodic. It’s written in verse, which gives it a natural beat—it conjures scenes of an Ancient Greek play, or a ring of drummers keeping pace around a bonfire while the chants ring in the background.
As usual in Bronze Age verse, there’s lots of repetition—select phrases and passages pop up many times throughout the book, as if Gilgamesh tried to reach a word count.
It’s not done out of laziness, but because epic poetry was performed orally before the advent of writing; performers had no script, so they would memorise the entire story as taught by their more experienced peers. The repetitive parts are there to lighten their memory load and make the poem easier to perform, like the chorus in a song.
In general, you can expect long passages of drama and action. Here, Gilgamesh and Enkidu fight Humbaba in the cedar forest:
Gilgamesh went forward on the advice on his friend, nine times he smote bedrock, the mountain broke up. He launched like a lion a brutal attack, and Enkidu pounced like a puma.
They seized hold of Humbaba in the midst of the forest, his terrible auras did fill the forest. They grabbed is auras in their hands, Humbaba bellowed, on his own account howling:
'I shall lift them up and climb to the sky! I shall smite the ground so they fall to the Ocean Below!'
Who’s it for?
If you embark on the lifelong quest through history’s most influential works - like say, the Western Canon - Gilgamesh is the first step in that road. It’s the beginning of literature. To see where it all began is reason enough to give it a read.
Beyond interest in the themes above, I’d recommend this to anyone interested in the history of religion. To see familiar stories like Noah’s ark, the Deluge, and the Garden of Eden reflected hundreds of years before they manifested as scripture is surreal—what does this mean for the Abrahamic religions ? How do they connect? Is it all a coincidence, or is there something deeper? Gilgamesh never keeps to himself, but opens a discourse that on the heart of civilization itself.
What gave me the fizz?
'Go, my son, and fetch Shamhat the harlot, her allure is a match for even the mighty!'
'When the herd comes down to the water-hole, she should strip off her raiment to reveal her charms. He will see her, and will approach her, his herd will spurn him, though he grew up among it.'
Early in the book, Gilgamesh sends a prostitute to “subdue” Enkidu, who was causing trouble for a local hunter. The prostitute Shamhat lures Enkidu in with her beauty, then makes love to him over the course of two weeks. This bonding makes him human—intelligence and rationality replace his rough edges, and the wild animals he once ate beside no longer accept him.
Their meeting reflects the ‘man versus nature’ conflict. Like Adam and Eve, who once lived as carefree animals in paradise, Enkidu ‘falls’ with them, and meets the burden of humanity, with all the pain, responsibility, and self-consciousness that comes with it.
Enkidu’s transformation is also an analogy for romance. It was not force which tamed Enkidu’s coarse character, but a woman’s love. Thousands of years later, it still rings true. Young men in the peak of their masculine vitality are grounded by women, where their maturity blossoms under the new responsibility.
-
This segment was funny.
May you have the same self-confidence as Gilgamesh.
Gilgamesh spoke a word to the serving girls of his palace:
‘Who is the finest among men?
Who the most glorious of fellows?’
‘Gilgamesh is the finest among men!
Gilgamesh the most glorious of fellows!’
-
Gilgamesh lost his chance at eternal life, but then again - here we are - writing about him. Some still sing his story like the poets of old—Peter Pringle on Youtube has fantastic renditions from the book, especially his performance of Gilgamesh’s lament for Enkidu, where you truly understand the king’s anguish. This isn’t just music, but history.
Difficulty
“The Gilgamesh epic is one of the very few works of Babylonian literature which can be read and enjoyed without special knowledge of the civilization from which it sprang.”
Gilgamesh is an approachable myth. It deals with universal human themes which we can all relate to, with no technical jargon or high-philosophy concepts you need to work through before you can enjoy the epic.
-
The real difficulty is in the mechanics of reading—lots of the play is missing, and unless you’re a connoisseur of lost ancient works, it’ll be an odd first impression. Some parts can get you lost, but you’re given more than enough to understand the overall story, and like with all fiction, it gets more readable once you find a rhythm.
The host of mythical terms, references, and deities may startle you too, as if you are moving along without context, but fear not—the important names make themselves clear, and the introduction does a great job at catching you up with the lore.