The First Story Ever Written, The Epic of Gilgamesh

a short analysis

I’ve never asked a squirrel to tell me a story. I have never expected abstract thinking from a dolphin or assumed one could fabricate an entire new world of characters for me to imagine. Some would say that I could not expect these things from animals, that creativity, imagination, is a solely human capability. Even as some animals have been handed tools to make art with and proceed to do so - we can’t assume that their intention behind these pieces is artistic. We can’t ask them of their intention, and we can't enforce an artistic reading on their actions. Imaginative problem-solving and predictive reasoning can be seen quite impressively in animals like crows (Klump et al., 2019) or elephants (Pardo et al., 2024) but does that really correlate to imagination for imaginations sake? The ability to conceptualise other worlds, other lives, just to entertain ourselves.

I was a child, lying in my bed, listening to my dad tell me stories from the floor; living, changing, restless creations that came into existence in the moment the words left his mouth. They always had the opposite effect of a bedtime story. I was enamoured by them. I would stare at my blank ceiling at night recounting them in my mind. Seeing the worlds he would conjure up so clearly its like they were really there. I woke up. I ran off to school and daydreamed in class and when lunch came knees grazed by grass and hands clasped in friends hands; make believing we were anything and everything; pretend. pretend. pretend.

All this to say. Regardless of whether or not animals have the capacity to be creative or create art… I will always go to a human if I want a story. They’re definitely in my top 2 best storytelling species on the planet. And they have been for a long time. It’s likely that humans have been telling stories since gaining the ability to speak (Zipes, 2012). There’s something about our brains that crave knowledge, that enjoy discovering, that want more than what we can see with our pathetically limited eyes.

Oral storytelling has been a part of humanity for further back than we can possibly date. It is a large component of many civilisations. But who decided a story was something that could be written. What was the first story ever written down? When did humans decide to document their creativity in a tangible way.

5,500 years ago, the world began to write. It was the Sumerians, of course — who else — who began to use the written word. They developed Cuneiform, achieved by pressing different wedged shaped symbols into clay. It came about from a bureaucratic need to document administration, trade, and income. It wasn’t until 500 years after its inception in Sumer that writing was used for more religious or artistic purposes (Cooper, 2004). As time goes on the Sumerian written language grows and evolves and is soon able to record long accounts and legends like that of Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta. In which the creation of writing is actually documented. Although it is a legend and as such a fictionalised account this is still such a beautiful moment where we see the society who created the written word, recounting in writing, the moment it happened; In it a messenger goes to the lord of Kulaba to deliver a spoken message and is tasked with bringing one back - but is so tired the king writes it down for him instead.

[The King’s] speech was substantial, and its contents extensive. The messenger, whose mouth was heavy and tired, was not able to repeat it. The lord of Kulaba patted some clay and wrote the message as if on a tablet. Until then, there had been no putting words on clay. Now, under that sun and on that day, it was indeed so. (500-514, Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta)

With writing established as a poetic medium through which you could explore, you know, all things integral to humanity, god, love, food, the universe — it became quite evident in Sumerian culture. There are many hymns, poems, and laments written in the Sumerian language that have been uncovered. It’s hard to structurally define a Sumerian poem as they don’t follow our typical rules and regulations around rhyme and metre but nevertheless they are beautiful and you can’t deny their artistic nature.

The Epic of Gilgamesh is an ancient Sumerian tale, arguably the first of its kind, the first story ever written. It began of course, as a spoken story, passed down through generations.

It exquisitely weaves a tale of friendship, sacrifice, man and god. Themes that have burdened humanity, evidently since our beginning.

It was circa 2100BCE when someone, their name lost to time, decided to write it down in Sumerian Cuneiform. The first iteration of this story took place over 5 poems centered around the hero Bilgames. A lot of these poems are fragmentary and lack the typical continuation and plot development we would expect from a sequential story. But the tale was a well known one and this written account of it, as well as its spoken counterpart were kept around. Centuries later, when the Akkadian empire was expanding through the territory we get the same story written down in the Akkadian language — Bilgames becoming Gilgamesh.

This is when we get the ‘Old Babylonian Version’ of the text of which a few tablets have survived (Jastrow & Clay, 1920). The story, poems, and pursuits of our hero were well known cultural touchstones in ancient Mesopotamian life.

Our most complete version of the text, and its final form — which tends to be the one people refer to when discussing the Epic appears at around 1300BCE and is known as the ‘Standard Babylonian Version’ compiled and written by Sin-lēqi-unninni (George, 2008). This version is also referred to by its incipit or opening line; “He who Saw the Deep”. Older versions of this text, such as the Old Babylonian Version begin with a different line “Surpassing all other kings”. The effectiveness and importance of this change cannot be overstated. Both lines refer to our titular main character, Gilgamesh — but one holds him to the standard of king by virtue of his inherent heroism that we do not question, the other, imbues him with an intelligence, with a knowledge that is unique and incredible. Something that he has achieved. The first lines of both versions of this text will be discussed throughout this essay.

First, a summary an short of the epic itself;

TABLET I

The Epic opens on a description of the god-man Gilgamesh.

Who is there that can be compared with him in kingly status, and can say like Gligamesh, It is I am the king?

Gilgamesh was his name from the day he was born, two thirds of him god but a third of him human.

As King, he terrorises his city of Uruk - not out of malevolence necessarily, but out of what seems to be an insatiable sense of desire and power. He is unlike man in many ways, he cannot exist on their level. His mother the goddess Ninsun and his father, a defied king, (Jacobsen, 1989) he has no equal. The ‘Old Babylonian Version’ characterises him as more of a tyrant than the ‘Standard Version’ which credits him at least with building the city walls.

He built the wall of Uruk…

Go up on to the wall of Uruk and walk around, survey the foundation platform, inspect the brickwork!

(See) if its brickwork is not kiln-fired brick, and if the Seven Sages did not lay its foundations!

He is strong, and powerful, and heroic. But still his people suffer. He tires them out and exerts all their energy. It’s implied that he does through acts of sexual conquest or perhaps through contests and athletic competitions (Tigay, 2002). This characterisation of Gilgamesh recognises a truth in what we know of ancient Babylonian kings. (And modern tyrants). Hamurabi and Nebuchadnezzar II made copious demands of their subjects and this portrayal of Gilgamesh probably mirrors the way the Babylonian people felt the ambitions of a powerful ruler bring down a sort of tyranny on their people. It’s clear though that his behaviour is deemed ‘unkingly’ and it’s an issue. So much of an issue that the mother goddess Aruru is tasked with creating;

“a counterpart to engage the energies of Gilgamesh.”

And so Enkidu is created from clay, as the first men were. He comes to life fully grown and without a mother's cries, created in silence in the forest. He was not born. He lives in an animal state; hairy and unclothed, ungoverned by presumably human worries and thoughts of family or Gods and wider social identity. He feeds with gazelles on grass and water and the poem compares him explicitly to the first men, dwelling far removed from civilisation, before the installation of sedentary society.

Aruru washed her hands, she took a pinch of clay, she threw it down in the wild. In the wild she created Enkidu, the hero, an offspring of silence…

All his body is matted with hair, he is adorned with tresses like a woman: he knows not at all a people nor even a country.

Feeding on grass with the very gazelles. Jostling at the water-hole with the herd, he enjoyed the water with the animals.

The Sumerians, as the first people to have transitioned from a hunter-gatherer lifestyle to a sedentary one are showing the importance they put on ‘civilisation’ and society in this one characters introduction. Enkidu is one of the old men of nature, he was raised by animals, he thinks like one.

Until he is discovered by a hunter. The hunter, coming across him in the wild is shocked at having seen this creation in the shape of a man, acting as an animal. He goes to the city of Uruk and brings back with him a prostitute, whose charms will surely lure Enkidu away from his habitat and make him a real man. When the animals return to drink at the waterhole Enkidu is among them. The hunter encourages Shamhat to use the tricks of her trade to entice Enkidu and seduce him. Which she does. Enkidu and Shamhat lay with each other, for one week. Enkidu’s sexual appetite is like the rest of him, animalistic and theres perhaps an intentional comedy in the exaggeration of this act.

When Enkidu is finally satisfied, he turns to once again rejoin the animals. But cannot. He is no longer one of them, he has lost some crucial innocence, he is seen as human, and the animals fear him.

The gazelles saw Enkidu and they started running, the animals of the wild moved away from his person.

Enkidu had defiled his body so pure, his legs stood still, though his herd was on the move.

Enkidu was diminished, his running was not as before, but he had reason, he [was] wide of understanding.

At the same time he has gained some broader knowledge. He has reason. He is human. He has sacrificed an animalistic kind of peace for a humanistic intelligence.

The concept of defilement through sexual experience is one that appears throughout human history and aligns with this seemingly widespread human belief that sexual knowledge brings the end of innocence. It’s fascinating to be able to trace this thread all the way back to the first story. It obviously parallels the biblical fall of man; Enkidu is fashioned from clay by the Gods and — just as Adam and Eve — forsakes his purity in discovering his sexuality. They fall out of the grace of god but in doing so are allowed to embrace their humanity — it’s a sacrifice that is inevitable in this thematic. Humanity must be achieved but to do so, purity must be lost.

Shamhat says that she will take Enkidu back to Uruk to meet King Gilgamesh. Enkidu, having only just become ‘human’ is desperate for a friend, an equal. Despite this though, given Shamhat’s explanation of the tyrannical Gilgamesh, Enkidu intends to get to Uruk and beat him in battle. She warns Enkidu that Gilgames is stronger than he is and that to challenge him, the sun god's favourite, is an act of blasphemy. Not only this, but the gods have arranged for Gilgamesh to have a premonition of Enkidu's arrival, in the form of two symbolic dreams — so he’ll be prepared.

Back in Uruk we see Gilgamesh does in fact have dreams. He comes to his mother in a state of confusion and describes the events of his dreams.

“O mother, the dream that I saw in the course of this night- the stars of the heavens appeared before me, like lumps of rock from the sky they kept falling towards me. I picked one up but it was too much for me, I kept trying to roll it but I could not dislodge it. The land of Uruk was standing around [it,] A crowd [was jostling] before [it,] They were kissing its feet [like a little] baby's; [I loved it] like-a wife and I caressed and embraced it. [I picked it up and] set it down at [your] feet, [and you, you] made it my equal.”

His mother, as many mothers are, is wonderful at interpreting dreams and explains to him;

“A mighty companion will come to you, the saviour of (his) friend: he is the mightiest in the land, his strength is as mighty as a lump of rock from the sky. You will love him like a wife, caressing and embracing him, he, being mighty, [will] often save you. [Favourable and precious] was your dream!”

In the first dream, what is often interpreted as a meteorite has fallen to earth near Gilgamesh. He tries to pick it up but cant budge it. A crowd gathers around it in awe. Gilgamesh manages to bring it to his mother, who “makes it his equal.” His mother predicts this means the coming of a friend who Gilgamesh will love like a wife and who will save him. In the second dream he sees a strange axe lying in the street, again the centre of the crowd's attention. He picks it up and takes it to his mother. He loves it like a wife and his mother makes it his equal. Again she predicts the coming of a friend whom Gilgamesh will love like a wife and who will be his saviour.

TABLET II

As the text continues in the second tablet, Enkidu marks his transition into humanity. Shamhat clothes him in part of her garments, shepherds offer him bread and beer. At first he simply doesn’t know how to respond.

[how to eat bread he had never] even [been taught,] [how to drink ale Enkidu did not] know.

Enkidu has never encountered human food and drink before. In earlier versions of the text Shamhat encourages him to eat and drink, which he does and promptly becomes drunk and starts to sing. This part marks his transition from beast to man, a barber shaves off his coat of animal hair, he uses scented oil to perfume his body in the Babylonian fashion. With each human luxury he sheds his animalistic past. But to truly fulfil his destiny he needs to go from the wild to the city. And confront Gilgamesh. Potentially cluing us in to the importance of urban centres in the Babylonian understanding of civilisation and humanity.

Arriving in Uruk, Enkidu hears of a wedding where Gilgames intends to deflower a bride in her nuptial bed before the bridegroom can consummate the marriage. Which is not very kosher. Enkidu is enraged by this and stands in the street to blocks Gilgamesh’s path. In lines that echo Gilgames's dreams, an admiring crowd gathers around Enkidu, fascinated by his strange appearance. Enkidu bars Gilgames from entering the house where the wedding ceremony is taking place and the two heroes finally battle in the streets of Uruk. They fight so that the ground rumbles and the doors shake on the hinges of the surrounding houses. But for once in both of their lives, each of them has an equal. Enkidu eventually submits to Gilgames's authority and, as was predicated, the two become friends. Finally presented with another who can rival them in strength and divinity.

Gilgamesh introduces his new best friend to his mother;

“He is the mightiest [in the land]… [his strength is as mighty as a lump of rock from the sky, tall in [stature, majestic as a battlement.]”

His mother, does not rate Enkidu as she finds it strange he was birthed in silence and has no family. To which Enkidu is immediately reduced to tears.

They took hold of each other and… Gilgames [to] Enkidu he said a word, [saying:] “Why, my friend, [did your eyes] fill [with tears,]”

Enkidu said to him, “My friend, my heart was made to ache.. [...] Through sobbing… terror has entered my heart.”

Perhaps in an effort to distract Enkidu from his misery, Gilgamesh proposes that the pair make a glorious expedition to the Cedar Forest. The Cedar Forest is a faraway place, visited only at the greatest peril, but not a mythical location, for the various versions fix it firmly in the 'land of Ebla', which would be in modern day Lebanon.

Humbaba is the guardian of the Cedar Forest, appointed by the god Enlil. He is a powerful beast and Gilgamesh suggests the two of them go and defeat him. This doesn’t have the desired effect and Enkidu warns Gilgamesh that Humbaba is strong and a lethal enemy. To which Gilgamesh calls him a little bitch and tells him to live a little';

Why, my friend, [do you] speak like a weakling? With your feeble talk' you [vex] my heart! As for man, [his days] are numbered, all that ever he did is but [dust]

TABLET V

In Tablet Five the pair make it to the forest and meet its terrifying guardian, Humbaba. And so begins in earnest Gilgamesh’s continuous affronts to the Gods and godliness itself. The battle begins and is so intense — these three greater-than-human entities unleashing all their power — that it splits the forest apart creating the mountain ranges of Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon. The battle continues until the god Shamash sends thirteen winds down to disorient and blind Humbaba.

Samas roused agaisnt Humbaba the mighty stormwinds: South Wind, North Wind, East Wind, West Wind, Blast, Counterblast, Gale, Tempest, Typhoon, Hell-Wind, Icy Blast, Hurricane, Tornado.

Thirteen winds rose up and the face of Humbaba darkened he cannot charge forwards, he cannot kick backwards — and then the weapons of Gilgames did catch Humbaba.

Giving Gilgamesh the chance to strike the final blow. The great, fearsome Humbaba is reduced to pleading for his life, prepared to become Gilgames's slave just to stay alive. When that doesn’t work he turns to Enkidu and pleads with him to change Gilgamesh’s mind. Enkidu has no interest in keeping him alive instead encouraging Gilgamesh to kill Humbaba and to do it quickly before the god Enlil finds out what happened here. He’s the one who appointed Humbaba as the guardian of the forest and will not be pleased that his servant has been slaughtered; in fact Enkidu anticipates that all the gods will be angry, even Shamash, who helped Gilgamesh win the battle. Drunk with victory Enkidu seems to have disregarded his respect for the gods that made him a noble opposition to Gilgamesh in Tablet Two.

With Humbaba’s dying breath he curses our heroes;

“May the pair of them not grow old, apart from his friend Gilgames, may Enkidu have nobody to bury him!”

The implication for Enkidu is that he will remain without family. He was born without family, he will remain that way. He will have no one except his friend to look after his funeral and rites post mortem.

TABLET VI

The two god-defying heroes take off on a raft from the Cedar Forest and are sailing the waters when Ishtar, the patron goddess of Uruk, a goddess of love and war, spots them. She is immediately taken by Gilgamesh and wishes to marry him, perhaps she didn’t hear about his brutal affront towards the Gods.

The lady Istar looked covetously on the beauty of Gilgames: “Come, Gilgames, you be the bridegroom! Grant me your fruits, I insist! You shall be my husband and I will be your wife!”

Her words play on the conventional verba solemnia of a marriage proposal. She speaks as if she were a young man courting his betrothed, she tries to win his heart with the promise of gifts. She offers to send him her personal war chariot, pulled by lion monsters. She also promises that;

When you come into our house, doorway and throne shall kiss your feet.

The very structure and furniture of her home will welcome Gilgamesh as he enters.

[Gilgames] opened his mouth to· speak, [saying] to the lady Istar:

“[If indeed I were] to take you in marriage… [Will you feed me] bread fit for a god? [Will you pour me ale] fit for a king?… [Who ... ] would take you in marriage?

[You, ... that does not solidify] ice, an arkabinnu-door [that does not] block breeze and draught, a palace that massacres it’s warriors… a waterskin that [wets] him who carries it… a shoe that bites the foot of its owner!

What bridegroom of yours endured for ever? What brave warrior of yours is there [who] went up [to heaven?] Come,let me count [the numbers] of your lovers…

You loved the speckled allallu-bird, you struck him and broke his wing, (now) he stands in the woods crying, "My wing!"

You loved the lion, perfect in strength, seven and seven pits you have dug for him. You loved the horse, famed in battle, to him you have allotted whip, spurs and lash. You loved the shepherd, the grazier, the herdsman, who regularly piled up for you (bread baked in) embers, slaughtering kids for you every day…

You loved Isullanu, your father's gardener, who regularly brought you a basket of dates, daily making your table gleam… you struck him, you turned [him] into a dwarf…

And you would love me and [change me] as (you did) them?”

Gilgamesh’s rejects Ishtar's proposal via lengthy and scathing monologue. He is very aware that marriage to Ishtar would not be typical by any means. The marriage would surely lack the many comforts one would expect, feeding him, clothing him, taking care of him. Ishtar, the goddess of sex and war would make so unsuitable a wife, in his eyes that he can’t imagine anybody would dream of marrying her. Why would they? When she has had such an array of lovers in the past whose fates have ended up, not so favorably. Her first love she left broken hearted. Then an array of various bestial relationships, the allallu-bird, whose wing Ishtar broke, resulting in its characteristic call, the lion, whose fate is to be hunted with traps, and the horse, which is broken in for the service of men. She was in love with the shepherd, who she turned into a wolf, his fate to be chased by his own dogs.

And so, Gilgamesh asks her… if she were to love him, can he really expect to be treated differently? After being subjected to this long yet I suppose truthful barrage of abuse Ishtar, understandably reacts with anger. She runs off to complain to her father, the God Anu. Her father, with all the grace and conviction of man says;

“Ah, but did you not provoke? King Gilgames”

Ishtar’s blood is still coursing with rage so she pleads with her father;

“O father, give me, please, the Bull of Heaven, that I may slay Gilgames in his, dwelling. If you will not give me the Bull of Heaven, I shall smash the underworld together with its dwelling-place, I shall raise the nether regions to the ground. I shall bring up the dead to consume the living, I shall make the dead outnumber the living.”

The Bull of Heaven, identified by the constellation Taurus (Black et al., 1998) is a heavenly animal with which Ishtar intends to kill Gilgames. If she doesn’t get the bull she threatens to release the dead from the underworld so that they overwhelm the living and consume them. The threat of the risen dead plays on a universal human fear, one very commonly explored in Babylonian literature.

Anu relents, allowing Ishtar full control over the bull of heaven. She leads the bull down to the city of Uruk, where its fiery presence withers the vegetation and evaporates the waterways. Each great snort of its breath makes a huge pit in the earth which hundreds fall through. Including Enkidu. Could Humababa’s curse be coming true? No. He’s unreasonably large so he climbs back out and wrestles the bull by its horns and overpowers it using a technique illustrated in Babylonian art; holding the tail while pushing down on the hock.

While Enkidu holds the Bull in this position Gilgamesh stabs its neck with his dagger. And with the the heroes have killed another devine beast. They hold a banquet to celebrate their victory, not over just the Bull of Heaven, but the goddess Ishtar as well.

TABLET VII

Enkidu awakes, the morning after the party, full of dread, having had a dream. In it he saw Shamash and the great gods, Anu, Enlil and Ea, all together, furious at the heroes for killing both Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven. They decide that as punishment for these offences, one of the pair must die. Enlil says it must be Enkidu.

As Gilgames was listening to the words of Enkidu, his friend, [swiftly and soon his] tears were [flowing.] Gilgames opened his mouth to speak, saying to Enkidu… “Why, my friend, did your heart talk profanities? Though there is much fear, [the dream] was precious… To the one who survived grieving was left, the [deceased] left sorrow to the one who survived."

After hearing about Enkidu’s dream Gilgamesh is distraught saying that the real pain of death is not the pain of the deceased, but it is the sorrow left behind to the living. And he is full of sorrow knowing his friends death is imminent. As dawn breaks Enkidu watches his last sunrise with tears in his eyes and curses the hunter who first saw him in the wild and inadvertently brought him into the world of humanity and to his death as well as Shamhat, the woman he lay with. By seducing him in the wild, she deprived him of the strength and purity he was created with. His anger and vitriol is aimed then, not directly at her and the hunter but at this painfully human feeling of loss of innocence. Of needing to come to terms with one's own mortality. Of being aware of death in a way animals are not. Enkidu gained wisdom, he became human, he found an equal. But now everything he has gained can be lost. So fragile is the human condition.

As Enkidu lies on his deathbed he tells Gilgames of another dream he had the night before.

“Quite something, my friend, (was) the dream I saw during the course of this night! the heavens thundered, the earth responded, with me standing (there) between them. There was a man, his expression was grim, his face was like that of an Anzu-bird. His hands were a lion's paws, his claws an eagle's talons, he took hold of my hair, he was too strong for me. I struck him so he sprang back like a skipping-rope, he struck me and capsized me like a raft. Like a mighty wild bull he trampled over me, ’Rescue me, my friend!’ I called to you But you were afraid of him.

[He struck] me, he turned me into a dove. [He bound] my arms like (the wings of) a bird, to lead me captive to the house of darkness… to the house which those who enter cannot leave, on the journey whose way cannot be retraced; to the house whose residents are deprived of light, where dust is their sustenance, their food clay.”

Enkidu is describing his own death and descent into the underworld. The monster, an angel of death overpowered Enkidu, whose cries for help went unheeded by a terrified Gilgames and turned him into a bird in order to take him down under. (A pretty fascinating detail when compared to the Babylonian practice of clothing the dead in feathers). It’s an incredibly moving and eerie insight into death through the eyes of the living. The residents of the underworld see no light, they’re existence is not hellish, its worse. It’s dull. They survive off dust and clay. After recounting his dream, the last of Enkidu’s strength is depleted and he lingers for twelve days on his deathbed.

And so Humbaba’s curse comes true… for Enkidu.

TABLET VIII

Gilgamesh mourns his friend.

At the very first light of dawn, Gilgames [was mourning] for his friend: ”O Enkidu, [whom] your mother, a gazelle, and your father, a wild donkey, [created,] whom the wild [asses] reared with their milk, and the animals [of the wild taught] all the pastures! May the paths, Enkidu, [of] the Cedar Forest [mourn] you, and not ... by day or night! May the elders of the populous city of Uruk mourn you!… May the holy Euphrates mourn you…”

The literary structure of Gilgamesh’s lamentation for Enkidu is deliberately presented as a crescendo of grief, describing the effect of his death on everyone, from the widest sphere of the various people of Uruk, to the closest tortured anguish of his best friend, Gilgamesh himself. The mourners include inanimate parts of the natural world, the 'paths of the Cedar Forest', the paths Enkidu tread untamed, still living in the wild, along with the mountains, meadows and rivers. The animals of the forest who Enkidu knew in his youth mourn for him, the people of Uruk mourn for him. And Gilgamesh mourns for him;

“I shall mourn Enkidu, my friend, like a professional mourning woman I shall lament bitterly. The axe at my side, in which my arm trusted, the sword of my belt, the shield in front of me…

a wicked wind has risen up against me and robbed me. my friend Enkidu, a mule on the run, donkey of the uplands, panther of the wild! We (it was) who joined forces and climbed the [uplands,] seized the Bull of Heaven and [killed it,] destroyed Humbaba, who [dwelt in the Cedar] Forest. Now what sleep is it that has seized [you?] You have become unconscious and cannot hear [me!]”

But he would not lift [his head;] he felt his heart, but it was not beating any more. He covered (his) friend, (veiling) his face like a bride.

Enkidu is remembered as Gilgamesh’s most treasured possession, a trusty weapon, a beautiful garment that has been taken from him by death, the invisible thief. Gilgamesh goes through the burial process which he later recalls he only allowed after seven days and nights of weeping.

“[I shall lay you out on a great bed,] on a bed [of honour I shall lay you out.] I shall set you [on a restful seat, the seat to (my) left,] the princes of the earth [will kiss your feet.] I shall make weep for you the people [of Uruk, I shall make them sob for you:] the people so bonny [I shall fill full of grief for you,] And I, after you are gone [I shall have] myself [bear the matted hair of mourning,] I shall don the skin of a [lion] and [go roaming the wild.]”

TABLET IX

And he does. Gilgamesh is wandering the wild mourning his friend as he vowed to do. He kills a lion and wears only its skin to protect him from the elements. He grows his beard long. In a way he emulates his dead friend. One morning he wakes from a terrifying dream in which he was contemplating his own mortality in the face of Enkidu’s death.

For his friend Enkidu, Gilgames was weeping bitterly as he roamed the wild:

“I shall die, and shall I not then be like Enkidu? Sorrow has entered my heart. I became afraid of death, so go roaming the wild… I am on the road and travelling swiftly. I arrived one night at the mountain passes, I saw some lions and grew afraid…”

[Gilgames] arose, he awoke with a start: it was a dream! [ ... in the] presence of the moon he grew happy to be alive.

After his contemplation he realises that he cannot, in fact, deal with the concept of death. And goes in search of Üta-napisti, the man who survived the flood sent by the gods to wipe out humanity and became the only mortal granted everlasting life. The Flood, you may have heard of. It was a popular metaphor for human destruction in Sumerian and Babylonian literature. And echoes or rather is echoed in the biblical story of Noah’s Ark.

Many generations would have experienced the terrible consequences of widespread flooding in a region like southern Mesopotamia and the myth held a special relevance to human experience. Üta-napisti survived this flood and was given the gift of immortality. He lives in the far-off place where the sun rises, a place where no mortal has ever ventured. To find him, Gilgamesh must travel through the Path of the Sun.

Shamash, the god of the sun, uses it every night when he travels back to where he has to rise from in the morning. The tunnel, will take him 24 hours to walk through and the way is completely dark. Darker than any mortal can survive. He begins the walk. He can’t see in front of him or behind him in the total darkness. The hours pass slowly, he struggles for breath in the heat. Hour upon hour the wind blows in his face and the darkness grows denser. As the 24th hour approaches, it finally begins to lighten.

The darkness was dense, [and light was there none] it did not allow him to se what was behind him.]

[At twelve double-hours] he came out before the sun.

[......] there was brilliance: upon seeing, the trees of the gods, he went straight (up to them). A carnelian (tree) was in fruit, hung with bunches of grapes, lovely to behold. A lapis lazuli (tree) bore foliage, in full fruit and gorgeous to gaze on.

This tablet is essentially an epic race with the sun. Sunrise and sunset take place at the opposite ends of the earth and if the Path of the Sun means the route between the two extremes, this race must have been equal to the entire diameter of the earth. Given that it takes him an entire 24 hours to complete, he must have started before dawn and raced the literal sun; the sun god Shamash to the end of the tunnel. Really an astonishing feat of endurance even for the greatest of heroes. His constant and repeated looking back and inability to discern what was behind him is perhaps Gilgamesh checking that the sun was not catching up with him. And when finally he breaks forth from the darkness, the text states explicitly that he does so before the sun does. Gilgamesh has beaten Shamash to the far end of the Path of the Sun. What he finds on the other side is a beautiful landscape, a garden where the trees are made of precious stone and their fruits are jewels.

TABLET X

Tablet Ten introduces Siduri, the keeper of a tavern by the edge of the ocean. She sees in the distance, a wandering, pitiful, Gilgamesh, exhausted and perhaps mentally traumatised from his day long race with the sun through the darkest mountain;

Gilgames came wandering, and [.......:] he was clothed in a pelt, [he was imbued with menace. He had the flesh of the gods in [his body,] but there was sorrow in [his heart.]

Taking him for a delinquent — one she would want to avoid as the owner of a bar — she locks her doors and hopes he passes by with haste. Which he does not. Gilgamesh tells her about Enkidu, the adventures the two had and their victories. Siduri asks how it is that such a great hero could look so wasted and desolate, wandering the wilderness clad only in a lion's skin. He responds;

“My friend Enkidu, a mule on the run, donkey of the uplands, panther of the wild,] my friend, whom I love so deeply, who with me went through every danger, the doom of mankind overtook him, for six days and seven nights I wept over him.

I did not give him up for burial, until a maggot fell from his nostril. I grew fearful of death and so roam the wild. The case of my friend was too much for me to bear, so on a distant road I roam the wild.

Μy friend Enkidu, whom I love, has [turned to] clay. [Shall not I be like] him and also lie down, never to rise again, through all eternity?”

I think this is one of the most beautiful and heart breaking moments of the entire story. When Gilgamesh the hero is reduced to a hopeless wanderer, unsure of why he goes on living when his best friend has been sent back to the earth from which he came. What purpose is he supposed to serve when it seems like all he’s brought to the world is suffering? We have seen the hero become weak. He couldn’t even bear to bury Enkidu until he started to rot in front of him. The realisation that he, too, must die has filled him with such terror that he is driven forward on a relentless quest, for eternal life he doesn’t even think he deserves.

Siduri, perhaps just eager for Gilgamesh to move on explains that to find who he is looking for, Gilgamesh will have to seek out Ur-sanabi, the boatman who helped Uta-napisti cross the Waters of Death. He finds Ur-sanabi in a forest nearby, cutting timber. Ur-sanabi asks Gilgames why he looks so wretched and Gilgamesh explains how Enkidu's death awoke in him a dreadful realisation of his own mortality and he must help him continue his quest for Uta-napisti. The two cross the waters of death, a river with currents so intense and strong they need 300 oars which can only be used once as they break with the waves.

Despite mortals not being allowed to cross these waters, the two reach the shore and again Gilgamesh is asked, this time by the famed, God-like Üta-napisti why he looks so awful. Gilgames yearns for an end to his grief, and believes he will find this in eternal life.

“May they bar the gate of sorrow, may they seal its doorway”

Üta-napisti spoke to him, to [Gilgames:] "Why, Gilgames, do you constantly [chase] sorrow? You, who are [built] from the flesh of gods and men,

Üta-napisti responds with a monologue calling Gilgamesh a useless king. He is not upholding the two fundamentals of Mesopotamian kingship; providing for the people of his kingdom and maintaining a trust and a connection between gods and men. By wandering the world on his futile quest, Gilgamesh is fulfilling neither role. His words seem to underline the theme of this second half of the epic, in which Gilgamesh tries everything to outrun his destiny. Unsuccessfully. Üta-napisti tells him again that this relentless quest in search of immortality has achieved precisely the opposite, it has drain his energy and bringing about the end to his life.

“[You,] you kept toiling sleepless [and] what did you get? You are exhausting [yourself with] ceaseless toil, you are filling your sinews with pain, bringing nearer the end of your life.”

Üta-napisti reminds us, and Gilgamesh, of the suddenness of death , of the immortality of the human race and of the unbridgeable gulf that separates the living and the dead, he gives the reason why men die: some time, long ago, the great gods and the mother goddess came together and distinguished, for the first time, the difference between the mortal and the immortal. They decided that only gods would live forever; men were always destined to die and the time of their death could not ever be certain.

A very similar message was imparted to Gilgames in the ‘Old Babylonian Version’ of the epic by the wise ale-wife:

You cannot find the life that you seek: when the gods created mankind, for mankind they established death, life they kept for themselves.

The point is that man must die, for no other reason than such is the fate determined for his kind by the gods. Even the greatest of men and the mightiest of kings must accept that their lives are subject to the whims of still mightier forces, for it is not within the power of any human being to escape man's place in the divinely ordained scheme of things. All who live must also die.

TABLET XI

This is not, unfortunately, what Gilgamesh has come all this way to hear. He is underwhelmed by Üta-napisti, the mythological survivor of the Flood. He was expecting a giant, maybe one he would have to fight to hear the secret of his eternal life.

“As I look at you, Uta-napisti, your form is not different, you are just like me, you are not different at all, you are just like me. I was fully intent on doing battle with you, [but] in your presence my hand is stayed. How was it you attended the gods' assembly, and found life?”

It’s becoming more and more evident that Gilgamesh’s tactic of fighting any obstacle in his way is not as effective as it was at the beginning of our story. He cant just throw his sword at this problem. Üta-napisti decides to tell Gilgamesh the mystery of the gods that granted him eternity. He tells the famous myth of the great Flood that, early in human history, had almost wiped out mankind. And we get a story within a story;

A long time ago in the city of Suruppak, when the gods dwelt among men, they decided to bring about a great Flood. The gods swore not to tell anybody of their plan, but while taking the oath Ea, who was quite fond of humans decided to tell his favourite, Üta-napisti. He instructed him to tear down the palace and build an ark, leaving all material goods behind and caring only to preserve life in all its variety. When he finished the ark Üta-napisti put all his riches on board, exactly what he was told not to do plus all his family, and, in order to preserve life and society, the various species of animal and people skilled in different crafts.

The deluge begins. And the violence of the storm frightened even the gods, they left their homes on earth to take refuge in the highest part of heaven. The mother goddess was first to realise how bad the flood was and is filled with regret, wondering how she could have destroyed her children like this, the human race, her own creation, now drifting lifeless. The other gods began regretting their decision when they grew weak without the worship of the people.

When the waters subsided Üta-napisti opened the ark and saw a flooded wasteland with no survivors. He broke down and wept. He then released three birds, a dove, a swallow and a raven. The dove and swallow returned to the ark, having found no place to land; the raven, however, found food and did not return. Knowing there was land near Üta-napisti unloaded the ark and made a sacrifice to the gods.

Enlil came down and finding the ark and his plan for the complete extinction of mankind thwarted, he became very angry. Ea defends the mortal that he broke all the rules to save and says to Enlil that if Üta-napisti was able to survive the flood he must be magnificently intelligent and worthy of being saved. And so;

“Enlil came up into the boat, he took hold of my hands and brought me out. He brought out my woman, he made her kneel at my side, he touched our foreheads, standing between us to bless us: ‘In the past Uta-napisti was (one of) mankind, but now Uta-napist and his woman shal be like us gods!’”

Úta-napisti concludes his story by asking: who will convene a divine assembly to immortalise Gilgamesh? The answer, of course, is nobody. Üta-napisti possesses no secret of everlasting life. He had immortality thrust on him in circumstances, that will never be repeated.

“But now, who will bring the gods to assembly for you, so you can find the life you search for?”

Gilgamesh falls into a deep sleep at hearing this, one which is undisturbed by his usual symbolic dreams. He sleeps for one whole week. Each day Üta-napisti’s wife bakes him another loaf of bread. When he wakes, he sees the bread and knows he has been a slave to sleep. Confronted with his human limitations, he realises that if he cannot withstand sleep, he has no hope of conquering death. He knows at last that he cannot escape the fate of men; already the angel of death has hold of him and wherever he goes death will be lurking in the shadows.

“How should I go on, Uta-napisti? Where should I go? The Thief has taken hold of my [flesh.] In my bed-chamber Death abides, and wherever I might turn [my face], there too will be Death.”

Üta-napisti curses Ur-sanabi, the boatman for bringing Gilgames across the Waters of Death, a barrier that was clearly meant to be impassable by mortal men. In this way the poem eradicates the possibility of any future wanderer repeating Gilgames's feat.

Before going home, Gilgamesh is bathed by Ur-sanabi, dissolving all trace of the marks left on the hero by his journey. He is shedding the hero role, one he fought so hard to keep. He cannot sustain it and his clean body and fresh, spotless clothes are symbols of his journey ending. Of him returning to the city as a man. Mortal.

Uta-napisti concedes that he has one last mystery to reveal. There is a plant Gilgames can find which contains the properties of rejuvenation. Or a return to youth. Not immortality, but a close second. This seems to undermine the entire monologue Üta-napisti just gave about Gilgamesh needing to accept his mortality but this moment is worth looking at as another test to see if he has in fact accepted his fate.

Gilgamesh finds the plant but uncertain of Üta-napisti’s motives, decides to take it back to Uruk and test it on an old man. Excited at the prospect of repeated rejuvenation, Gilgames sets out with Ur-sanabi to journey home to Uruk. On the way home he sees a pool of cool water and refreshes himself with a bath, distracted, he doesn’t notice a snake emerge from a hole in the ground and, smelling the fragrance of the plant, carries it away. As it slithers away it discards its old skin and becomes young again.

A snake smelled the fragrance of the plant, [silently] it came up and bore the plant off; as it turned away it sloughed a skin.

Seeing at once that the plant truly works and having its possession irretrievably denied him, Gilgamesh breaks down in tears. Again he has come so close to eternity just for it to be snatched from him.

Then Gilgames sat down weeping, the tears streaming down the side of his face. ... [He spoke] to Ur-sanabi the boatman: “(For whom) of my (kind), Ur-sanabi, did my arms grow exhausted, for whom of my (kind) ran dry the blood of my heart? Not for myself did I establish a bounty, (for) the "Lion of the Earth" I have done a favour… Had I only turned away, and left the boat on the shore!”

Turning to Ur-sanabi he sobs bitterly that all his labours have come to naught, the only benefit of his toil and pain accruing to a lowly reptile. He wishes he had never crossed the ocean, for all it has brought him is disappointment time and time again. Üta-napisti had no secret of immortality for him to learn. He could not conquer sleep. He failed to keep secure the precious plant of rejuvenation. The limitations of his own mortal condition are thus cruelly and incontrovertibly revealed to him.

Finally Gilgamesh and Ur-sanabi arrive in Uruk.

Gilgamesh’s story ends the way it began;

Gilgames spoke to him, to Ur-sanabi: “Go up, Ur-sanabi, on to the wal of Uruk and walk around, survey the foundation platform, inspect the brickwork! (See) if its brickwork is not kiln-fired brick, and if the Seven Sages did not lay its foundations! One sar is city, one sar date-grove, one sar is clay-pit, half a sar the temple of Istar.”

These closing lines reveal in Gilgamesh an acceptance that he will make do with the immortal renown brought him by building the city's wall.

For the Babylonians the city was the one institution without which civilisation was impossible. It was also eternal, built by the gods and inhabited by men, more ancient than memory and enduring into an unknown future. Uruk, vast in expanse and manifestly ancient, is a symbol of the archetypal Babylonian city. By this means Gilgamesh symbolises with sublime skill the four areas of activity that most preoccupy human life on earth. The city proper; the domestic dwellings where men establish their households and raise their families; the date-groves (kir) represent with their archetypal crop the agricultural activity and produce that nourish the human race; the clay-pits (ess), whence came the clay for making mud bricks and modelling rough terracotta figurines and plaques, symbolise man’s creativity as builder and craftsman; and the great temple precinct of Ishtar stands for man’s spiritual and intellectual endeavours.

These four activities express the whole of human life: procreation, food production, manufacturing and mental activity. All are enclosed within the great city's walls. The final line tells its audience a self-evident truth: gaze on the city, consider the generations that surround you and learn that human life, in all its activities, is collective and not individual. Individual cities, of course, could rise and fall but their human populations lived on.

The plain implication is that though men are mortal, mankind is immortal. No man can live for ever, not even the greatest of heroes and mightiest of kings, but there will always be men on this earth, for life itself is eternal.

THE STATES OF BEING

There is a separation taking place here between three seperate life forms. ANIMAL, MAN, GOD. There’s almost a fourth, but it’s explicitly denounced. We almost get ANIMAL, MAN, KING, GOD — but our Standard Babylonian Version of the text presents us with a Gilgamesh who, while is a King and has certain responsibilities he must uphold, is no greater than the mortal man he was born as. Gilgamesh, may be a king but first and more importantly, he is human.

So we have our beings imbued with life; animal, man, god. The Epic details the difference between the three, creating its own animal kingdom and classifications. It draws clear boundaries between these states of being, and much of the narrative revolves around what it means to move between them — or to try to.

ANIMAL

Animals represent the natural state, allegedly incapable of the same level of consciousness that we as sophisticated intelligent human beings are so lucky to have. They are not “civilised” but they live in balance with the world, untouched by cities, language, mortality, or morality for that matter. This peaceful existence is shown to us when Enkidu is created — “In the wild… an offspring of silence.”

He runs with gazelles, drinks from rivers, and lives without shame or awareness. Him and the animals do not fear death because they do not comprehend it. The Epic tells us of the general sentiment the Sumerians and Akkadian’s had toward what makes man different animal, society. Humanity is social and it express its sociality in the form of cities (Helle, 2019). Babylonian culture was an urban culture. Cities like Uruk, Babylon or Ur were the outlines of society and the walls built to keep them inside also worked to keep the creatures roaming the wild and by extension their animalistic nature, out.

But what happens when you divorce humans, who if you’ll recall are actually a part of this world, from their nature?

I’m sure you feel it. Your separation from nature. The pain in your chest that starts with the four walls around you and the bright lights above you, brighter than the sun. Blocking the dirt from your feet. And the air from your lungs. Keeping you safe. Keeping you human. Where does it end? We’ve outdone ourselves, with what we’ve been able to create and how well we’ve been able to forget that we are animals; but then theres the call of the wild. If you could step outside and reconcile with estranged mother nature and ask for forgiveness for abandoning her, if you knew you would be forgiven — would you run back to into her arms? Or would you be too scared. Would it mean more to you to know that you are different. Better, wiser, you are not an animal. You’re worth more, right? — prove it.

Gilgamesh, dissociated from nature is restless with this separation. Cleaving a divide between the animalistic ways of nature he built the walls of Uruk to keep it all out! He is a tyrant and though he brought civilisation, he sacrificed a piece of nature to gain it.

To balance the scales, Enkidu is birthed from the wild. Bring me a man of total wildness to combat the height of civilisation. This doesn’t work though does it — because Enkidu falls for the allure of humanity. The moment he sleeps with Shamat he loses an integral part of his nature. The desires for sex, social connection, and knowledge, entice him into a human experience — an agreed social contract. He looses Eden. Shamhat teaches him human things like eating bread and drinking beer. And when he goes to fight Gilgamesh, to balance nature’s scales, nature loses. Enkidu is plied from his connection to the wild and submits to Gilgamesh, tamed.

This makes the betrayal even more heartbreaking when Enkidu and Gilgamesh journey to the Cedar Forest to destroy it. Their killing of Humbaba is symbolic of the human intrusion on nature, destruction for the sake of progress. The Sumerians carried out major deforestation of oak and cedar trees in the forests around Syria and Lebanon, and this episode of our heroes destroying the forest is clearly representative of the civilisations destruction and triumph over wilderness vast forests (Oelschlaeger, 1991). The most egregious severance between man and animal is when Enkidu, drunk with power, with the promise of humanity, kills another wild being. Like a domesticated wolf sicced on other wolves. An animal turned into a weapon against its own nature. That doesn’t end well for him. He feels a physical pain and being separated from nature but that doesn’t stop him from killing the Bull of Heaven. His annihilation of his own kind is a form of self annihilation and the Epic takes the stance that when humans deny themselves their nature, the call of the wild, their animal origin pain will follow (Barron, 2002).

To be human is to rise above the animal state, but also to bear the burden of that elevation.

MAN

Man. Seperate from animal, a higher being, a less innocent one. One that must determine its own meaning and become aware of its own mortality. But man is fundamentally limited in ways that the gods are not. What sets humans apart is not just their intelligence or cities — it’s their awareness of death. Enkidu and Gilgamesh both struggle with the knowledge that they are destined to die. This anxiety drives nearly every major conflict. The finite amount of time we have on earth compared with our highly intelligent capacity to grasp the vastness of the universe inspires in all a little bit of an ‘existential crisis’.

The opening line of this Epic, the incipit: “He who saw the deep”. This line introduces Gilgamesh as a man who has brushed against divine knowledge — but not because he is part god, because he has suffered, he’s questioned and endured in ways that stretch the human condition to its limit. His character development is defined by his desire to transcend his human limitations. Driving a stake deeper into the chasm he’s created in the natural order. His story is emblematic of a very human search for meaning. People are ambitious, because what else is there to be. We’ve been burdened with immense cognitive abilities but what is there to do with them? We seek fame, knowledge, we write stories, fall in love, and question our place in the universe. But we cannot escape our mortality. And all these marks we make on the earth, all these people we love, we do this knowing it will end. We do this because it will end.

In past versions of the text our opening line “Surpassing all other kings” places Gilgamesh above the rest of humanity — a king better than all the others, perhaps closer to godliness than any other mortal could hope to be. But our version sees Gilgamesh deny divinity countless times; he defies the gods by killing Humbaba, he rejects marriage with the goddess Ishtar, he runs on foot through the path of the sun, beating the sun god himself. He doesn’t “see the deep” in the way a god might, dispassionately and eternally. And his perception isn’t shallow like an animal’s. His ‘sight’ is uniquely human — he has lived through loss, grief, love, and fear. He’s triumphed and failed, because of his ambition, because of his need for something more he has taken himself to the edge of death, faced incredible failure, felt immeasurable love for Enkidu and then excruciating pain at has death. And he returns from his journey — a clear allegory for life within the human condition — with an understanding that no god could teach him and no animal could comprehend.

By the end of the story Gilgamesh is human. He is us. We see the deep. That is our gift, as humans. We fight to understand something no god or animal ever could. The gods don’t need to fear death, so they don’t have to live an impassioned life. It means nothing to them, to run out of time, to need to confess your love because you don’t know if you’ll get the chance again, to jump into the water not knowing whats underneath because YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE.

“Seeing the deep” is the apex of human potential, not a transgression into godhood. It reinforces the idea that humanity, though bounded by death, is defined by its capacity to seek, to learn, to feel.

GOD

You are handsome, Enkidu, you are just like a god, why do you roam the wild with the animals?

Shamhat says this to Enkidu as she teaches him to be human.

This line shows us the hierarchy of life in the universe. If animals are on one end of the spectrum, then the Gods are their very opposite. They hoard life for themselves and are the only beings capable of immortality. Despite having eternity to work on themselves, the gods act, almost childish. They fight, take offence, and change their minds — usually at the expense of mortals. Ishtar has a meltdown when Gilgamesh rejects her. The gods, bored with humanity, send the flood, then immediately regret it. They bestow immortality on Üta-napisti, but refuse to do the same for Gilgamesh.

When he seeks out Üta-napisti, Gilgamesh is essentially asking: Can I absorb the god-life force? Can I become like you? But the answer is no. The flood survivor tells him immortality was a fluke — “a secret of the gods” not meant to be shared. Even when he’s given the plant of youth, it is stolen, underscoring that divine power is always just out of reach for mortals.

Their immortality is not something they’ve earned — it’s innate, elemental. And they have actively decided that they are the only ones who will ever have it.

To those reading The Epic of Gilgamesh hoping to find the secret of immortality unfortunately it does not offer that. What it does offer you is something much richer; the dignity of death, the sacredness of memory. And that's something the gods won't ever have.

sources;

Abusch, T. (2001). The development and meaning of the Epic of Gilgamesh: an interpretive essay. Journal of the American Oriental Society, 614-622.

Al-Rawi, F. N., & George, A. R. (2014). Back to the Cedar Forest: The beginning and end of Tablet V of the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgameš. Journal of Cuneiform Studies, 66(1), 69-90.

Barron, Patrick. (2002). The separation of wild animal nature and human nature in Gilgamesh: Roots of a contemporary theme. Papers on Language and Literature. 38. 377-394.

Black, J., Green, A., & Rickards, T. (1998). Gods, demons and symbols of ancient Mesopotamia: An illustrated dictionary. British Museum Press.

Cooper, J. S. (2004). Babylonian beginnings: the origin of the cuneiform writing system in comparative perspective. The first writing: Script invention as history and process, 71-99.

Edzard, D.O. and Jacobsen, T. (1990) The harps that once...: Sumerian poetry in translation. Journal of the American Oriental Society, 110(1), 119.

George, A.R. (1999) The Epic of Gilgamesh The Babylonian Epic Poem and Other Texts in Akkadian and Sumerian. London: The Penguin Press.

George, A. R. (2003). The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts. United Kingdom: Oxford University Press.

George, A. (2008). Shattered tablets and tangled threads: Editing Gilgamesh, then and now. Aramazd. Armenian Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 3(1), 7-30.

Harrison, R. (1992). Forests: The Shadow of Civilization. Chicago: University of Chicago.

Hayes, J. L. (1990). A manual of Sumerian grammar and texts. Undena Publ.. 266.

Jacobsen, T. (1989). Lugalbanda and Ninsuna. Journal of cuneiform studies, 41(1), 69-86.

Jastrow, M., & Clay, A. T. (1920). An old Babylonian version of the Gilgamesh epic: on the basis of recently discovered texts. Yale University Press.

Klump, B. C., Cantat, M., & Rutz, C. (2019). Raw-material selectivity in hook-tool-crafting New Caledonian crows. Biology letters, 15(2).

Oelschlaeger, M. (1991). The Idea of Wilderness, from Prehistory to the Age of Ecology. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Pardo, M. A., Fristrup, K., Lolchuragi, D. S., Poole, J. H., Granli, P., Moss, C., ... & Wittemyer, G. (2024). African elephants address one another with individually specific name-like calls. Nature Ecology & Evolution, 1-12.

Spar, Ira. (2009). “Gilgamesh.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Storr, W. (2020). The science of storytelling: Why stories make us human and how to tell them better. Abrams.

Tigay, J. H. (2002). The evolution of the Gilgamesh epic. Bolchazy-Carducci Publishers.

Zipes, J. (2012). The cultural evolution of storytelling and fairy tales: Human communication and memetics. The Irresistible Fairy Tale, 1-20.