Gilgamesh translated by Stephen Mitchell.
New York: Free Press, a Division of Simon and Schuster, 2001.
$24 — 290 pp.

“And yet we build houses, make contracts, brothers divide their inheritance, conflicts occur – as though this human life lasted forever. The river rises, flows over its bank and carries us away like mayflies floating downstream: they stare at the sun, then, all at once, there is nothing.”

— Gilgamesh, Book X

Somewhere in my benighted childhood, when I used to spend the majority of my waking hours reading “funny books,” I made a transition from comics to mythology.

Instead of Superman and kryptonite, there was Achilles and his fatal heel; instead of Captain Marvel’s “Shazam!,” there was King Arthur’s Excalibur. Eventually, I realized that most of my superheroes in comic books owed their character (and their origin) to Greek, Norse and/or Celtic mythology anyway. In fact, most of them were just simplistic versions of the ancient originals.

Eventually, I became addicted to the Greek demigods –— mythical characters like Hercules and Perseus who had supernatural powers, but were mortal — they could die. For me, their appeal was magnified beyond the entire DC legion of immortals because of this singular flaw. When I read the passage in the Iliad in which Achilles says the gods on Mount Olympus are jealous of him because he has a quality that they can never have, I was delighted. “Because I can die,” he says, “I am capable of nobility and courage. How can a being that cannot die be capable of that?”

So, it was not Zeus or Apollo who thrilled me, but their doomed victims — the ones that shook their fists in defiance and died for it. Venus is sexy, but at heart she is a cruel, selfish hussy. Eurydice, Helen and Daphne risked their lives and lost. Cassandra walks into Agamemnon’s palace knowing she would be murdered, and King Arthur rides to Mount Baden despite a dream which told him that he would not return. All, like Achilles, attain a nobility that is denied the invincible gods.

I was no longer a young man when I discovered Gilgamesh, a work that has the dubious honor of being the oldest known epic in existence (over 3,000 years). All of the numerous versions recount the adventures of a doomed hero, King Gilgamesh of Uruk, who undertakes a desperate quest for immortality. In the past 20 years, I have read a dozen translations — all significantly different. Each version has been literally pieced together from thousands of fragments (11 cuneiform tablets). Originally discovered in 1853 in the ruins of Nineveh, the text exists in both Sumerian and Babylonian.

Now comes Stephen Mitchell’s translation, a version that gives this ancient myth a profound poignancy and grandeur. In addition, Mitchell perceives Gilgamesh as a cautionary tale with modern parallels. Consider this: Gilgamesh’s tragic fall results from his arrogance and political aggressions. The king of Uruk invades a foreign country, oppresses its people and attempts to force his own system of government on them. Due to this rash action, Gilgamesh loses his alter ego (and dearest friend), Enkidu. His quest for immortality (and the return to life of Enkidu) fails and the intractable certainty of his own demise follows.

But there is a deeper tragic beauty in Mitchell’s translation. As a young ruler, Gilgamesh becomes notorious for his pride, cruelty and sexual excesses. When the gods (or fate) send Enkidu to Uruk, Gilgamesh changes. As his friendship with Enkidu deepens, he becomes more humane, compassionate and generous. When his aggressions on a foreign country bring about his friend’s death, the reader is left with a curious anomaly. Gilgamesh’s new-found knowledge and humanity lead to his own tragic fall. It is as though fate made it necessary for him to “understand” himself and others before he can die. At best, such knowledge merely makes his demise more heartbreaking.

It well may be that Gilgamesh could serve as a warning to the Bush administration. Certainly, there is a disturbing aptness to such an interpretation – especially since the shattered texts were found in an archeological site in Iraq. However, this tale’s grim moral embodies more than George Bush’s fate. It speaks to all of us. The Old Testament (younger by two thousand years than Gilgamesh) echoes a similar dire truth: “Man cometh up like a flower and is cut down.”

(Gary Carden is a writer, storyteller and lecturer whose book, Mason Jars in the Flood, was recently named Book of the Year by the Appalachian Writers Association. He can be reached at gcarden498@aol.com.)