(Port) Coquitlam Odysseus

Internet image, difficult to source to an original, showing a Marsh Arab village during the 1970s’ before the desertification caused by Saddam Hussein

This is the third and final (for now, anyways) blog post of my mini-series on the The Epic of Gilgamesh; the purpose of this post is to summarize, in ordinary language, the highly unusual degree of similarities between the familiar biblical flood “story” and the Gilgamesh “story.” (Both words are enclosed in quotations to alert the reader to the fact that the stories have each been stitched together from several different sources, each a variant of the original myth.)

Perhaps the most salient problem that the general reader of the Gilgamesh epic might notice is the fact that there is no apparent reason for the gods’ decision to send the Flood. This is in contrast to the biblical version, which makes a very big deal out of humankind’s wickedness, especially violence–and most especially murders. It all began with Cain, of course:

Hilarious cartoon from Donny Fort’s comic book “Forty Years.” The seated figure is Moses, the traditional author of the Pentateuch.

In Gen. 4, God refuses to allow anyone to kill Cain. (It’s a great pity he allowed Adam and Eve to raise Cain.) Specifically, God says that if anyone kills Cain, God himself will avenge Cain sevenfold. Only a few generations later, a descendant of Cain, Lamech, said to his two wives that he had killed a young man for hurting him; Lamech then audaciously claimed that God would avenge him seventy-seven-fold. The idea in the biblical text seems to be that murder was a big problem, and after the flood, God himself orders the surviving humans to institute capital punishment (Gen. 9:6 NRSV):

Whoever sheds the blood of a human,
by a human shall that person’s blood be shed;
for in his own image God made humankind.

The matter is not as clear in Gilgamesh, of course. There’s no obvious reason for the flood. The only hint comes when Ea reproaches Enlil, saying:

You, the sage of the gods, the hero,
how could you lack counsel and bring on the Deluge?

On him who transgresses, inflict his crime!
On him who does wrong, inflict his wrongdoing!

One might conclude, then, that where the gods are beyond human ken in Gilgamesh, the biblical God at least makes somewhat more sense insofar as he has a clearer reason for ordering destruction. Certainly, one could not imagine the biblical writers comparing God to a dog as the poet of Gilgamesh does.

Each story has a catastrophic, capital “F” Flood. Each features a hero with a boat who saves his family and the human race. Each, perhaps, may have a similar motivation on the part of the gods. The similarities go much beyond this, though.

In Gilgamesh, Ea instructs Uta-napishti to build a boat; the god specifies the length, the width, and the roof; additionally, Uta-napishti refers to the number of decks his boat had. Similarly, in Genesis 6, God instructs Noah on the dimensions of the boat: the length, width, height, and number of decks.

The duration of the flood in each story appears to be different, on the surface: seven days for the rain, and seven more while the boat was stuck on Mount Nimush. In the Genesis story, the rain lasts for forty days. Because 7 and 40 were numbers symbolizing completeness in the ancient Near East, this counts as a similarity rather than a difference.

In both stories, the boat lands on a mountain. In both, the hero sends out birds to see if it is safe to open up the doors. In Gilgamesh, Uta-napishti sends out a dove, a swallow, and a raven; when the last does not return as the first two had, he goes out of his boat. Similarly, in Genesis, Noah sends out a raven (subtle change by the biblical writers here!); the text appears to say that the raven did not come back in. Then Noah sends out a dove, which returns to him. Noah again sends out a dove, which returns with an olive leaf in its beak. Finally, Noah sends out the dove again, and when it does not return, he empties the ark.

Upon leaving the ark, Noah immediately, and very shrewdly, offers a sacrifice. The biblical text specifically says that God “smelled the pleasing odor.” Similarly, Uta-Napishti offers a sacrifice immediately after exiting the boat, and

The gods did smell the savour,
the gods did smell the savour sweet,
the gods gathered like flies around the man making sacrifice.

At this point in the story, the God of Genesis swears that he will never again send a flood to destroy humankind; the sign of this is his bow in the clouds. (One must remember that Yahweh was a storm-god; a literal ancient Near Eastern visual depiction of the bow of a storm-god can be seen in the Assyrian iconography of Ashur, a symbol that would in time come to be used for the Zoroastrian religion):

Image of the Assyrian god Asshur taken from Wikipedia

These same two elements occur also in the Gilgamesh story, although they are somewhat more difficult to spot. Belet-ili, after the flood, holds up her necklace with painted flies on it, a necklace that her husband had given her when they were younger. She exclaims:

O gods, let these great beads in this necklace of mine
make me remember these days, and never forget them!

What follows is the upbraiding of Enlil for bringing on the flood:

Instead of your causing the Deluge,
a lion could have risen, and diminished the people!
Instead of your causing the Deluge,
a wolf could have come up and diminished the people!

It seems clear, then, that the gods will never allow another flood on this scale; furthermore, they have a sign in Belet-ili’s necklace to remind them, just as God’s rainbow comforts Noah.

The details are far too many and too specific for there to be a merely coincidental relationship between these texts, and non-prejudiced scholars are unanimous in making the biblical version dependent on the older Gilgamesh version, just as the story found in the eleventh tablet of the epic was adapted from earlier stories of the hero Atrahasis.

What really gets me, though, is that so many fundamentalist Christians persist in viewing the Flood story in a literal way, as though all the billions of kinds of organisms could fit into a box smaller than a city block. Not only are they scientifically naive, they have missed the biblical writers’ points. (These do not interest me here, but essentially their points may be observed in the differences between the Genesis and the Gilgamesh versions.)

Line for line, I prefer the Gilgamesh version. Its poetry is outstanding; the mostly-prose Bible version, in contrast, was cobbled together from multiple sources, one of whom was the infamous “P.” “P,” the “Priestly writer,” was concerned with sacrificial procedures, geneologies, lists, and calendrical information; his contribution to the story mainly is the note about seven pairs of “clean” animals for every pair of “unclean” animals in Noah’s ark. P could write masterful text (see Gen. 1), but he was not really a writer of stories. On the other hand, P was following the Gilgamesh text as his starting point, so perhaps we should be grateful to him, even if he and the other biblical writers ended out making the story into a mere morality tale.
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Note: The index of my journal entries on ancient and classical literature may be found here.

Image of a modern Marsh Arab house in traditional style taken from A Cultural Atlas of Mesopotamia and the Ancient Near East, by Michael Roaf (Facts on File, 2000)

Before my most recent re-reading of the Epic of Gilgamesh, I never realized just now well-integrated into the story of Gilgamesh the Flood story was. There are verbal elements in tablet XI that correspond to elements in the other parts. The story of the Flood is made by the editor to fit in with the quest for eternal life.

It is important to note that the story of the Deluge, which certainly lies behind our familiar Bible version (more on that below), was itself a re-working of an older myth whose central character was named Atrahasis, a name-turned epithet that was left unmodified to describe the hero Uta-napishti.

The whole point of Gilgamesh’s quest to Uta-napishti, of course, is to find eternal life. At the very beginning of the story, we find Gilgamesh lording it over his people and busy building his city. Knowing full-well that the life span of humankind is so brief, he resolves to make a name for himself by killing Humbaba, the guardian being of the Forest of Lebanon. It is only after the death of his friend Enkidu that Gilgamesh begins to dread death and seek immortality.

When he meets Uta-napishti, Gilgamesh seems to have finally learned his lesson: namely, that violence does not always pay: “I look at you,” he says to the immortal patriarch with amazement,

Your form is no different, you are just like me,
you are not any different, you are just like me.

I was fully intent on making you fight,
but now in your presence my hand is stayed.
How was it you stood with the gods in assembly?
How did you find the life eternal?

(more…)

Line drawing of a cylinder seal impression by Joanna Richards, taken from “The Epic of Gilgamesh,” translated by Andrew George (Penguin Books, 2003)

Although I have read the most famous part of the Epic of Gilgamesh–the flood story many times, I experienced unusual pleasure upon returning to this first epic odyssey in its entirety. This is due in no small part to the many advances that have been made in Assyriology, these advances being due to the discovery of new texts and copies, and to continued research by the scholars who specialize in ancient Near Eastern languages. One of the newest, most up-to-date translation in English, is the volume translated by Andrew George for Penguin Classics (The Epic of Gilgamesh, 2003).

This particular translation includes not only the so-called Standard Version from Ashurbanipal’s library in Nineveh (7th century BCE), but also other important textual finds, as well as a collection of Sumerian literature centering around the person of Gilgamesh. The volume features a lengthy introduction that is most helpful (although it is a bit jarring to see the term “manuscripts” used for the clay tablets inscribed with a stylus and baked in the oven; anyone with background in Akkadian or Sumerian winces immediately). Even better are the numerous ancient illustrations and copies of inscribed tablets reproduced in the text, and the helpful time chart. There is also a map that shows the locations of several ancient sites referred to in the text.

The story of Gilgamesh, of course, was composed orally, perhaps around 2200 BCE, six hundred years after the historical Gilgamesh lived. The earliest profusion of Gilgamesh texts dates to the first half of the 18th century BCE; the stories were edited into an epic structure by the poet and scholar Sin-liqqe-uninni around four hundred years before the Assyrian recension that showed up in Ashurbanipal’s library.

The story was inscribed on clay tablets, of which there are eleven, with related material being added to a twelfth. The most famous tablet is the eleventh, which works into the Gilgamesh tale a first-person account of the survival of humanity from a biblical-style Flood.

(more…)

Unspeakably difficult times, actually. I can’t elaborate. But I need to do something.

…on technology. I’ve always thought that netbooks were silly; why pay $300 for a netbook when another two hundred can get you a full-fledged computer? (That said, I consider myself unable to adapt to anything other than a “dumb” phone.) Similarly, 2010 may be called by some “the year of the eBook,” but there’s no way paper-based books will ever stop being printed. (The BBC article also questions whether Kindle-readers–and I mean the people–will be able to engage in the kind of deep questioning of the text that conventional readers do. It’s not that intelligent readers won’t use Kindles, just that they will never abandon conventional books.)

I’m under the strictest of orders from my wife to grow it back.

The Empress Hotel

The day before my friend Ian departed Vancouver, we went to Victoria. Unfortunately, a mechanical problem caused one of the ferries to be taken out of commission, a fact which led to a three hour wait to leave the mainland. This fact, the cause of which we learned only when too late–on the ferry–led us to return earlier so as not to lose place to the rush of people leaving Victoria on the Friday. This meant that we actually had less than one hour of time in Victoria proper, a regrettable occurrence, but at least we did get to see a bit of Victoria.

The Empress, the famous hotel shown above, is where Queen Elizabeth has stayed.

The Empress was designed by Francis Rattenbury, also the architect of the provincial parliament buildings. It is said that the colourful Rattenbury entered his sketch in the design competition under a pseudonym as he was a teenager at the time. Rattenbury’s buildings are among the most beautiful and historic in the province. The next several photographs show the parliament buildings. “Splendor sine occasu” apparently means “splendor undiminished,” and is the provincial motto. I regret that I didn’t get a really good picture this time of the Parliament Buildings as a whole, but there are a few good ones at the link given above.

Fountain (above)

Spendor sine occasu (above)

The next picture shows part of a statue of Victoria, after whom both Regina and Victoria are named:

Victoria Regina

The Latin “Regina,” of course, still shows up on Canadian coins on the obverse side, in an abbreviated version of “By the grace of God, Queen.” Oddly, I think most Canadians would be surprised to know that the male equivalent, “Rex” once stood in this same position on Canadian coinage for half a century.

The Rose Garden at UBC

My friend Ian’s recent visit was a good excuse to take a few pictures of the beautiful UBC campus. The campus is so large that it could be described as sprawling; notwithstanding, there is much beauty in the place.

The next photo shows some leaves that catch my attention everyday on route to the bus stop. They are bright pink in real life–possibly even brighter and more pink than in this photograph.

The last picture shows a building that is across the lane from the Nitobe Memorial Garden:

Evening with a friend in Minnekhada Regional Park

Earlier this month, the family had the pleasure of my good friend Ian’s company for one week. I always remain very grateful for Ian’s friendship, a friendship that I count among the best parts of life. These pictures were taken in Minnekhada Regional Park while on the path leading to the High Knoll.

The Blue Heron is one of my favorite birds. I once saw one as it methodically hunted fish in river channel. It swallowed fish many times. I didn’t see this one catch anything, though.

The next picture is the sort of “fun” thing I like to take a picture of every now and then:

While I enjoy taking pictures, Ian takes photography very seriously. I’ve always enjoyed watching him set up a picture, and I sometimes manage to find a good shot of Ian and his camera in action.

Finally, although I did not get a good picture of it, I saw a small, brown, and very beautiful frog. I wouldn’t know if this was a “tree frog,” but it was far from water.

The Upper Marsh of Minnekhada Regional Park

Yesterday I had the pleasure of having Chae Young and Telemachus along for a walk in Coquitlam’s Minnekhada Regional Park. This was a place that I had frequented parts of throughout my boyhood and adolescence, and the trails, marshes, hills, road, and trees have always been very special to me; sometimes they have figured in my more memorable dreams.

Yesterday we went from the parking lot on Quarry Road to the Low and High Knolls. The Low Knoll, unfortunately, had its view obstructed by a growing tree. (As important and lovely as trees are, it’s always nice when they don’t block the view from the top of a mountain or hill that’s already covered with them.) Fortunately, no such difficulty is encountered on the High Knoll. Part of the view, which takes in Maple Ridge, Surrey, and Coquitlam, is shown below:

The coastal rainforest is, of course, a thing of beauty:

There are all sorts of examples of Nature’s beauty, vitality, and power:

The roots of the upturned tree in this next picture are not shown in their entirety. They reminded me of a simile in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: “And Gawain waited, stood like a stone, / Or the stump of a tree tied to the ground / By a hundred tangled roots.”

The next photograph shows the beautiful colour of a fallen tree’s wood:

Minnekhada Park, then, is a wonderful place, and I do recommend it. Even with a three-year-old present (though sometimes on my back), we managed to do both the High Knoll and the Low Knoll in less than 2.5 hours, making it a very short hike by any standard. I hope to return again often in the coming years.