Gilgamesh and the Power of Narration

LlESBETH KORTHALS ALTES

GRONINGEN UNIVERSITY

Narratives, whether oral stories or forms of historiography and fiction, display ways to make
sense of the world and of human experience. ' Fiction, more specifically, offers the possibility to explore and test alternative values and courses of conduct through the representation
of hypothetical yet concrete cases. This paper rises to the challenge of reading the Gilgamesh epic through contemporary "models" for narrative analysis.
Obviously, this is a risky undertaking. As Gadamer observed, there is no hermeneutic
process that can enable one to jump over one's "prior understanding" {Vorverstndnis), or
sometimes, one's lack of it. In this case, I must confess complete ignorance as to the literary
genres and devices familiar to readers contemporary to the Gilgamesh epos during its long
Wirkungsgeschichte. So this paper will not claim any knowledge about the actual narrative
structure of the epic, about the way it was received, or about the role it played in the successive cultural contexts which saw its matire develop and settle. I can only present an
undoubtedly anachronistic analysis of the structures of meaning I read into this "text," thanks
to (among others) Foster's and Vanstiphout's compelling translations and editions.^
Two issues will be central: first, the narrative structure (the representation of action) as
the staging of a pursuit of values and of value conflict; second, the act and mode of narration itself as an exemplification and performance of the use and power of the words. My
approach is of necessity text-centered, since I lack all contextual knowledge.
Butand this is a necessary caveat at the outset of this analysiscan one even speak of
a "text" in this case? Distinguished Assyriologists have devoted much energy to the thorny
issue of whether it is legitimate to associate these tablets with the notion of "text," a term
that suggests coherence and closure. Alternatively, from a poststructuralist perspective, it is
tempting to associate the fragmentary, fragile, and variable "textuality" of such an epic with
the contention that in any case, there is no origin nor closure to any text whatever, but only
variants and dijfrance, as Derrida famously argued. In this view, the former issue is idle:
Coherence is nothing more or less than a normative decision of the reader, who tends to
naturalize any deviant message into as much coherence as possible. Such a deconstructionist
attitude may, however, appear frustrating to scholars dealing daily with gaps and variants,
and with under-determination rather than over-determination. At this stage and in this case,
it does seem more rewarding to see if, and how, "textual" coherence can be established,
without, however, losing sight of the impact of the individual's own conventions of reading.
As for the Gilgamesh epic being literature, there is no need to recall that literature, as we
know it today, is a young notion. And it is impossible to define what counts as literature by
identifying necessary and sufficient criteria, unless one limits oneself to a very precise cultural setting. Texts from other cultures and times that we now read as imaginative or fictional

1. Philosophical, anthropological, psychological as well as literary research on narrative has highlighted its
ethical and cognitive function. See, e.g., Paul Ricoeur, Martha Nussbaum, Mark Turner, and Jerome Bruner.
2. Quotations from the text will refer to the English translation and edition by Foster, indicating the tablet and
the lines.

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literature may have had different cultural functions than those we nowadays associate with
this notion. Anthropology, literary studies, and linguistic pragmatics, however, concur in
distinguishing a kind of narrative text which fulfills a specific function, whether or not it is
labeled as literature. Among all possible verbal forms of communication, some texts seem,
at least to some extent, to function as display, as speech act theory calls it, calling attention
to the text itself, to the speaker, and to the process of meaning-making.
In telling, a speaker is not only reporting but also verbally displaying a state of affairs, in such
a way that he invites his addressee(s) to join him in contemplating it, evaluating it, and responding to it. His point is to produce in his hearers not only belief but also an imaginative and affective involvement in the state of affairs he is representing and an evaluative stance toward i t . . . .
Ultimately what he is after, is an interpretation of the problematic event, an assignment of
meaning and value supported by the consensus of himself and his hearers. (Marie-Louise Pratt,
Towards a Speech Act Theory of Literature [1977], 136)

This foregrounding of the combined cognitive, aesthetic, and ethical functions applies to
many stories in daily life as well as to literary narratives. Whatever the didactic, religious,
historical, community-building, or other objectives the Gilgamesh epic may have fulfilled,
I will argue that it very powerfully combines these cognitive, ethical, and aesthetic functions proper to "display texts."
NARRATIVE AS THE REPRESENTATION OF ACTION
What kind of questions can one put to a text from the perspective of narrative semiotics,
and more specifically, concerning the values and meanings involved in these actions?
Notwithstanding all the critiques regarding structuralism's "scientism," Greimas' theory of
narrative offers an interesting approach. ^ His model relies on an anthropological theory
of action, one close to that of philosophers of intentionality such as Ricoeur, and on the
sociology and psychology of action: There is action when there is a human or anthropomorphic subject who wants to achieve a goal or object, and there is narrative when this is
represented through verbal or other means. Like his structuralist contemporaries, Greimas
was fascinated by the idea of retrieving the grammaire profonde, the anthropological and
logical deep structures of narrative. His fascination led to a proliferation of analytical concepts. This may be one of the reasons that his theory was so easily forgotten. This is a pity,
as his work provides some interesting insights and analytical tools. Indeed, if one drops
the pretension of objectivity, his narrative model can be a useful heuristic grid from which
interpretation can proceed in different directionssociological, anthropological, ethical, or
ideological.
According to Greimas, the six roles involved in narrative are subject, object, dispatcher,
beneficiary, helper, and opponent. More interesting but less well known is the elaborate
model of plot that he devised. Any narrative can be described, he argues, as an encompassing
narrative program, defined by the quest for an object by a subject. Such a program often
takes the form of a conflict between two main antagonistic programs, and can involve subordinate actions. All narration representing action logically includes a four-step sequence in

3. See the various works co-edited by Courtes referred to in the bibliography. In the Dictionnaire, see mainly
the items "Action," "Narrativit," "Rcit," "Sujet," "Objet," and "Valeur." Consult also the didactic exposition of the
Groupe d'Entrevemes.

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which, however, not all four steps need to be explicit. First, the manipulation: before undertaking an action, the subject needs to have the will or the obligation to act ("vouloir-faire"
or "devoir-faire"). In this phase, some "instance"called by Greimas the "dispatcher" of
the will-to-act ("destinateur de la manipulation")sets values and goals for the subject to
accomplish. Second, the competence: before acting, the subject has to have or acquire the
competence to act (the "savoir-faire" and "pouvoir-faire"). This often leads to subordinate
actions in which this competence isor fails to beacquired. Third, the performance:
once the will, power, and knowledge to act are secured, the subject can actually undertake
action ("faire"). In this stage a narrative engages in descriptions of the actual performance
which can also be a failure. Fourth, the sanction: once the action is accomplished or has
failed, there follows an interpretation, either by the subject himself, now in the role of "destinateur de la sanction," or by other actors. (If the narrative does not feature a sanction, the
audience will fill in the gap.) What meaning and value are to be attributed to the achieved
state, and to the role of the subject ("l'tre-du-faire")?
The most interesting aspect of this model is that Greimas distinguishes between the
practical level of actionthe actual performance and the acquisition of competence it
requiresand its cognitive and axiological level. Manipulation and sanction are the stages
which provide the action with a frame of intelligibility and within which the values and
meanings at stake are formulated and often negotiated. His model relates action to values
and to the process of the making of meaning. This is one way to explain the role of narrative
in culture. In an exemplary and concrete way, calling for emotional and intellectual identification on the part of the audience, narratives display human motivation, values, and
meanings hterally in action. The development and outcome of the plot can, from this perspective, be interpreted as the dramatization of a conflict of values. Analysis along these
lines can give one an idea of the values and value conflicts, and of the schemes for constructing meaning, that a text presents. This can then be related to the cultural "imaginaire"
and the social context in which a narrative originates or is received. By this I do not mean
that there is a homology between what a text represents and that which characterizes a specific society and culture, but only that the text provides a basis on which to reflect on their
relationship (which can be one of reproduction, conflict, alternative, and so on). I will not
try to equal Greimas' systematicity, nor do I share his belief in the objectivity of his model.
In fact, it will be used here only very loosely, as a way to ask questions of the text, and will
be combined with whatever other narratological concepts appear useful.
One must again be aware of some difficulties. Narratives work on the basis of shared
knowledge between teller and audience. It is a thrilling experience to read a narrative like
the Gilgamesh Epic from such remote times and find oneself moved by it. But there is the
danger of "naturalizing" the strangeness of the text by too easily recognizing "common"
human interests and problems. This indeed can mean neglecting, to the benefit of a general
anthropological interest, historically specific ideological and ethical issues in a text, or
specific cultural representations and practices with which it stands in dialogue. Moreover,
many implied meanings and values inevitably remain obscure to us, as we do not belong to
the intended interpretive community. However, value systems tend to be expressed redundantly in epic narrative, surfacing in the plot by sketching an exemplary story, as well as in
the description of characters and their opinions (which features are valued, which not), in the
commentary of narrator and characters, and in valorizing or depreciating metaphors.
But the risk of anachronism remains. Stylistic devices such as repetitions may be interpreted as narrative emphasis, whereas they may in fact have just had a poetic function.
Finally, when one works with translations, however excellent these might be, these already

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form a first interpretative, and possibly naturalizing, layer. With these caveats in mind, I
present the following observations.
If one looks at the way the Gilgamesh Epic presents its plot, the prologue fulfils a key
function. It manipulates the reader into reading, promising her or him a story with a clear
point. In defining the point, it immediately names, and thereby foregrounds, the hero and the
object of this quest, directing the reader's attention (which could also fall on the story of
the friendship between Gilgamesh and Enkidu, for instance, leading to an interpretation of
the entire epic from this perspective). The object of the quest here receives both a material
definitionthe skilful building of the walls of Urukand an immaterial one, knowledge
and wisdom: "Full understanding of it all he gained" (I, 6), "was wise in all things" (I, 4).
This combitiation is not unexpected for a mighty ruler and is frequently encountered in
ancient epic (as in the Aeneid). The prologue also stresses that the beneficiary of both
aspects of the quest is ultimatelybeyond the individual Gilgameshthe collectivity.
In the subsequent narrative, however, the object of Gilgamesh's quest is progressively
qualified in a three-step definition, which prompts me to distinguish three stages, or programs, in the narrative: 1) the first section (Tablets I-VII) features a double object. On the
one hand this is defined as friendship with Enkidu, on the other, as fame and power. Interestingly, what will be the object of the second phase, immortality, appears explicitly only in
the prayer of Gilgamesh's mother, whereas the hero himself seems prepared to give up
his life for fame (II, 186-94)." 2) The second phase (Tablets VIII-XI) follows the death of
Enkidu, which means confrontation with mortality, and shows a decisive reorientation of
the action and a redefinition of its object. Gilgamesh sets out to achieve immortality (Tablets
IX-XI). 3) When this object appears definitely out of reach, with a last switch of object the
final lines of Tablet XI imply the third phase of the action. Fame and wisdom are what
counts, a view already explicitly announced in the prologue. Let us examine these stages in
some detail.^
THE FIRST NARRATIVE PROGRAM: THE CONQUEST OF FAME AND POWER

The trigger for the action, what Greimas calls the manipulation, comes from Gilgamesh
himself. There is no dispatching of the hero by any external dispatchergods or any human
authoritybesides himself. This autonomy of the human hero strikes me as a characteristic
feature of this epic. As for the action program, "something evil" is to be killed, a cedar tree
is to be cut down, both goals on the practical level (II, 145 and 159). Both also serve an
ultimate goal, to obtain name and fame, which belongs to the cognitive level ("If I fall on
the way, I'll establish my name," II, 192).^
In extensive verbal exchanges corresponding to the manipulation, the value of the object
is negotiated. Gilgamesh stresses that he will liberate the world from an evil monster, which
implies an opposition between Good and Evil, and suggests that his own undertaking is on

4. One could argue, however, that the friendship with Enkidu implies a form of immortality. Together the two
heroes form what feels like an invincible unity, defying time and imperfection. Any lack in one of them is compensated by the other, as with twins in some cultures.
5. I will leave out many episodes here, such as the development of Enkidu into a social human being and Gilgamesh's friend, and the flood, although they are all very important in outlining the values at stake in the universe
evoked by the text. I will also omit Tablet XII, although this model provides useful tools to analyze (dis)continuities
in the semantics and syntax of action and values.
6. Assyriologists have explained that to cut cedar trees is a demonstration of kingly power, but these meanings
are not made explicit in the text.

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the side of the Good.^ His argument is rejected by Uruk's elders, who judge his plans to be
dangerous and prompted by youthful temerity and ignorance (II, 259-61). Although the
section containing their explicit argumentation has been lost, it is implied, I feel, that they
would (themselves) represent the opposite attitude of caution and wise moderation. Gilgamesh's argument is also rejected by Enkidu. Originating in the world of nature himself,
he has a more intimate knowledge of the monster and mentions that slaying Humbaba
means transgressing the order of the gods, who had appointed him as guardian of the Cedar
Forest. But the text remains inconclusive: Neither the "evil" nor the "sacred" and protected
status of Humbaba is unambiguously established.
Interestingly, the later sanction of this action by the gods shows the same ambivalence.
There is no immediate expression of anger at what would qualify as transgression, nor is
the action clearly labeled as such by an authoritative character. Instead, his exploit makes
Gilgamesh appear "sexy" to the goddess Ishtar. In the end it does turn out, however, to be
a motive for punishment. Let us remark at this stage that, whereas many social values are
quite strongly and redundantly affirmed in this epic, the ethical categories of Good and Evil
and the role of the gods in guarding them are less explicitly established.
Let us examine the modalities of the competence for action at this stage: Gilgamesh's
already considerable "pouvoir-faire"his legendary strengthis greatly increased by association with Enkidu. In the world evoked by this text, support and power of course come
from arms and physical strength, as well as from the direct support of the gods. But courage,
enthusiasm, friendship, forms of individual psychological and spiritual power are at least
as crucial. In fact, the strength gained from friendship appears almost as effective as the
support of the gods.
The quest for fame and power leads to several related performances or embedded narrative programs, such as the killing of Humbaba, the cutting of the cedar, and after the rejection of Ishtar, the killing of the bull. All of these actions are steps towards the acquisition
of the object, fame, with the individual Gilgamesh (or the couple Gilgamesh/Enkidu) as the
beneficiary.
The performance is followed, as mentioned, by a strikingly fluctuating sanction. The text
first gives a positive judgment, from the perspective of the two heroes: mission accomplished, monsters slain, fame achieved, reward in the form of a woman (although, against
later convention, she is rejected). But soon the sanction appears negative, as seen in the
outcome of the action: death for the men of Uruk, chaos for the collectivity, and most importantly, death for Enkidu. All are explicitly related to the actions suddenly unambiguously
presented as transgressions.
This evaluative unsteadiness is also conspicuously displayed with respect to the dreams,
which for the characters involved fulfill a crucial function in understanding events and choosing a course of action. Thus they correspond to what Greimas would call the sanction and
manipulation framing their actions, with the gods as sender. Enkidu is apparently enabled
by whom or what: his origin in nature, his familiarity with the gods?to decipher dreams as
messages, but unlike Gilgamesh's mother, he fails in this interpretive performance. The text
presents a flagrant contrast between the dreams themselves and their translation by Enkidu,
turning the reader into a judge of his interpretative skills. The dreams appear at first very
gloomy. In awe Gilgamesh cries out, "the dream I had was very disturbing," and this not

7. Lexical and syntactic choices may be recognized by contemporaries as conveying values, but such nuances
tend to get lost and replaced hy others in translation.

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once but up to five times (Tablet IV). In three concise lines, Enkidu time and again is quick
to invert these premonitions into positive messages from the gods: "my friend, your dream
is favorable" (Tablet IV). One wonders how convincing this instance of wishful thinking
would have been for the various audiences in the past, or whether they read it, as I do, as
setting the stage for dramatic irony.
THE SECOND NARRATIVE PROGRAM: THE QUEST FOR IMMORTALITY

From Tablet IX through Tablet XI we have a redefinition of the object and a new narrative
program. The manipulation for this new undertaking seems to be motivated by the negative
outcome of the first performance, culminating in the loss of Enkidu. The contrast between
the two parts is sharply drawn, displaying a skilful mastery of literary techniques. The object
of the first program, fame and power, has apparently lost its attraction for Gilgamesh. Significantly, the object of this second quest shifts from revivifying Enkidu, his lost other half
(with both Enkidu and Gilgamesh as beneficiaries), to the conquest of immortality by Gilgamesh, motivated by his own fear of dying ("Enkidu, my friend whom I loved, is turned
into clay," X, 68, and then "I have grown afraid of death," X, 62). In this quest, Gilgamesh
appears to be the beneficiary.
On several occasions this section confronts Gilgamesh's motivating values with an alternative object, and thus an alternative action program and values. For instance, the tavern
keeper suggests another object and course of conduct. Humans cannot escape death, she
argues, so Gilgamesh should instead enjoy the boons offered to humans: food, well-being,
children, sexin brief, contentedness. Gilgamesh rejects this "manipulation" because he is
"heartsick for Enkidu" (X, 96). This can probably refer to his longing for his friend as well as
awe at Enkidu's exemplary fate. Similarly, in the encounter and discussion with Utanapistim,
who enjoys the coveted immortality, this "wise man" argues that Gilgamesh's life is not in
fact so dismal (X, 285ff.). He has been uncommonly favored by the gods ("you for whom
[the gods] have acted like fathers and mothers"), and should be grateful for his royal status
and accept death and the unpredictability of its arrival, as expressed in these beautifully
concise lines:
Dragonflies drift downstream on a river,
Their faces staring at the sun.
Then, suddenly, there is nothing. (X, 312)
Such sections where values and meanings of life and conduct are explicitly discussed
play a crucial role in the workings of a narrative. Indeed, the audience is invited to ponder
the different perspectives and implied values, and to reflect on its own standpoint.
In his quest for immortality, which again takes the form of a journey, Gilgamesh finds
helpers as well as opponents. But he himself is certainly his main opponent. This is highlighted in the narrative by redundant embedded actions. First it is mentioned that he himself
eliminates the "stone charms" which are to help him over the waters of death, as Ur-Shanabi
the boatsman does not fail to remind him, "your own hands have foiled you . . . they are
what I had with me in order to make the crossing" (X, 189, 195). Second, when Utanapistim
gives him one opportunity to demonstrate the perseverance needed for immortality, he falls
asleep instead of remaining awake. Thus Gilgamesh demonstrates what Utanapistim already
knew, that immortality is a gift he cannot receive, that he has the vouloir-, but not the
pouvoir-faire. Third, as if to rub in the lesson, when at last given access to the plant of
immortality, Gilgamesh is unable to keep it, being too easily distracted (IX, 213ff.).
The setting and plot elements are suddenly very down to earth: to sleep and to take a relaxing bath in such dramatic circumstances appears quite an inadequate response, to put it

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mildly. Indeed, with his last gift, the indication where to find the plant of immortality,
Utanapistim of course catches Gilgamesh's attention. The narration speeds up: "no sooner
had Gilgamesh heard this" than he jumps into the water with a stone around his foot. He
could have died on the spot in his hunger for immortality (XI, 291ff.). Although humor and
irony are difficult to establish without precise contextual knowledge, we may imagine that
these rather extensive episodes were experienced by the ancient audience as highly comical,
and served as a counterpoint to the "sublime" moments of unattenuated grief and drama;
or that they belong to different generic elaborations (comical versus "noble") of the same
material.
The sanction by Gilgamesh himself is negative. He recognizes his failure to conquer the
coveted object, immortality, but refuses to relinquish it, crying out with horror: "What then
should I do? . .. whither should I go now that the Bereaver has seized my flesh? Death
lurks in my bedchamber" (XI, 246-49).
How is this outcry to be received? The text, in my view, allows at least two readings, one
which shares in the pathos of the fear of death, and another which receives it as comical,
because, like the authoritative characters in the narrative, one would expect the king to
achieve wisdom and drop his dreams of immortality. All depends on the audience's adhesion
to the viewpoints offered by the text. As we will discuss in the next section, the focalization
onand withGilgamesh, as well as the pathos displayed make his experience accessible
from an inside perspective. But the external perspectives on him, those of the tavern keeper
and Utanapistim, are also powerfully represented and open for identification. The analysis
of how the tone and content of such passages vary in the different versions of the epic
might generate interesting hypotheses about the values of the respective intended reading
communities.
THE THIRD NARRATIVE PROGRAM: THE CONQUEST OF WISDOM

The dismal sanction by Gilgamesh at the end of Tablet XI takes the form of an explicit
questioning of the value of his undertakings: "for whom, Ur-Shanabi, have my hands been
toiling . . . For myself I have obtained no benefit" (X, 315-17). A gloomy conclusion indeed
for an entire epic, hardly one which would then offer the foundation for the exemplary and
didactic working claimed in the prologue. Considering the detail of all the other stages
of the action, its end is puzzlingly abrupt, even laconic, and its meaning mostly implicit.
According to contemporary literary conventions, we would now expect a coda with an
overall sanction in which the hero comes to insight, and in which the ultimately triumphant
values are made clear. The narrator, however, leaves the final words to Gilgamesh himself,
who in a sense substitutes a gesture for a lesson. By pointing to the city walls and calling
to witness precisely the character who witnessed his failures, Gilgamesh implies rather than
formulates a switch in values. These are now fame and kingly pride in local constructive
achievement to the benefit of the community, instead of an anxious quest for individual
immortality. He is no longer portrayed as the haggard wandering lost soul, but speaks as
the proud king:
Go up, Ur-Shanabi, pace out the walls of Uruk . . .
These and a half square miles is the measure of Uruk! (XI, 327-33).
The question remains as to why this final reversal receives such laconic treatment and
lacks the psychological detail or the spectacular mise en scene we find elsewhere in the
epic. Apart from the down-to-earth possibility that a section is missing, one argument could
be that the audiences could be expected to know the outcome. Another, aesthetic, argument
could be made that this laconism expresses a narrative distance which mirrors the beginning

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of the epic, where the audience "sees" Gilgamesh from afar: he is the king, mighty, inaccessible above all others, free to act as he chooses. It is indeed only with the arrival on stage of
Enkidu that Gilgamesh becomes personalized and humanized, among other means through
the narrative perspective, which hovers close above the hero, his deeds, and his emotions.
Symmetrically, in the end the narrative perspective again recedes, setting Gilgamesh back in
his inaccessibility as a king, halfway between mankind and the gods. Through this technique,
the narrative of his deeds can function on a double level: first, as a founding myth, presented
for re-actualization and worship; second, as a story of human experience, offered for identification, involving emotional reactions of recognition and humorous distancing of the alltoo-familiar. This hypothesis would also explain the different emotional and stylistic registers
we find in this epic: elevated, if not sublime, versus familiar, even comical. Research into
different stages and versions of this epic, setting them in relation to contextual knowledge
about attitudes towards gods and kings, could strengthen or weaken this hypothesis.
I conclude this rapid analysis of the narrative structure with a few remarks. First, concerning the characteristics of the representation of action: who in this epic defines the
goals, the meanings, and evaluations of the action (manipulation and sanction)? It is mainly
the subject himself, occasionally corrected by "wise people" he encounters, but mainly corrected by "life" (death) itself. There are a few authoritative norm-keepers. Gilgamesh's
mother, into whose role I have not delved, seems to be one, as are perhaps the other two
women, Shamhat and the tavern-keeper. Utanapistim is certainly another, whose authority
is guaranteed through recognition by the gods as "nearly" one of them. The king himself
is portrayed as far from the incarnation of the Law. He is rather the first to break the rules,
although the narrative is precisely about his learning to respect boundaries, just as Enkidu had
to learn to be human. The law-setter is himself placed within his quest for the right values,
and like the gods themselves, he is prone to mistakes and revision of his values.
As for the values that the narrative presents as centrally at stake, one could stress the main
oppositions: nature versus culture, physical force and cunning versus wisdom, personal
welfare versus communal welfare, friendship versus loneliness. But this kind of opposition is
rather limited. In my reading, the text does not set these values in such clear-cut opposition.
There are moments of preference and clear choices, but the narrative as a whole hardly
stages the definitive rejection of one of the poles. If one considers the pattern of desire that
the text's rhetoric seems to convey,^ the narration of this journey moves its audience from
identification with a lustful and energetic youth, through his longing for eternity, to the final
acceptance of death and the appreciation of whatever human achievement one can reach.
Every stage is depicted in its own attractiveness and merit, although there is a claim of progression in wisdom.
The narration exploits the two levels of action-representation. The practical level of "real"
action is described in vivid detail (such as the penetration of the terrifying forest, territory
of the monster; the confrontation with him, and the slaying). But the perspective of consciousness and reection is at least as well developed. The frequent evocation of perceptions
and emotions such as fright, love, or hope, gives a strong emotional and axiological coloring
to the action. This is an important rhetorical aspect, since the narrative thus catches (and
may have caught) the audience's imagination as well as its emotional and moral adherence.
The analysis brings out in this narrative both the continuity in causality and temporality
and the gaps therein. The issue of narrative coherence is of course an important one for texts
that have been retrieved in fragmentary form and with variants. In this case, in Tablets I
8. An interesting notion coined by Wayne Booth, in Booth 1988.

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through XI we have what appears to be a fairly coherent narrative. The episodes are quite
strictly linked temporally and causally. Prolepses and analepses establish continuity in time
and action, the prologue gives retrospective unity to the story, dreams and premonitions
function as prolepses, creating expectations with respect to events and actions and their
meaning and consequences. The same holds for the causal structure. As we have seen,
sanctions, often in the form of a summary of the meaning of an undertaking, form the
manipulation for a new performance. Thus the threads of various events are tied together.
Even the psychological coherence seems fairly strong, an aspect which I cannot develop
here, and which of course has to be approached with utmost caution, as it is again very much
a matter of the attitude of the reader, and of culturally biased interpretation. Equivalence
patterns, on the micro- and macro-structural levels, in the form of strict repetition, of opposition and parallelism of themes and motives, reinforce this sense of unity. Thus the second
big undertaking, the descent into the underworld, mirrors the first quest of the double hero
in overcoming the distance to the mountains versus the distance over seas, both impenetrable
for normal beings. We may consider all the oppositions constructing the second quest as a
mirror of the first, and so on. And very importantly, with its cyclical structure, in which the
end echoes the prologue, the text achieves a strong sense of ending, as Frank Kermode
would have called it.
STRUCTURES OE NARRATION
Just as the analysis of the representation of action can lend insight into the value positions implied in a narrative, so can the examination of the act of narration, the telling itself.
Rhetorical narratology is concerned with questions such as who speaks, who perceives, how
voices and perspectives are embedded, thus setting them into (evaluative) polyphonic perspective.' How do the represented discourses insure effectivenessaesthetically, emotionally, and intellectually? And, more generally, how is communication itself represented, as
well as organized, or "performed," between author/narrator and audience?
Since the epic, like the novel later, is characterized by its polyphonic structure, it is
instructive to examine whose perception, interpretation, and evaluation are considered
tellable, and what different value-positions can be constructed. (This might subsequently
be related to other manifestations of these speaking positions in the surrounding culture.)
Let us look at the enunciation structure represented in Gilgamesh. Although it is suggested
that Gilgamesh himself wrote down his heroic deeds ("engraved all his hardships on a
monument of stone," I, 10), the epic features a narrator standing outside .of the narrated
world (what Genette would call a "heterodeigetic narrator"). After the prologue, there are few
direct addresses to the audience, and as far as I can judge, no reference to an oral context
of performance. Quite to the contrary, as we have seen, the acts of writing/inscribing and of
reading, and the material medium on which the text is inscribed are powerfully set forward:
"take up and read from the lapis tablet" (I, 28). Writing clearly is associated with the
founding gesture and has a lasting effectiveness. The text is written on clay, the same kind
of material as forms the city walls, of which it constitutes iiterally and figurally the foundation, as it is hidden in the "foundation box of copper" (I, 25).
The function of the narrator is to tell and explain, but for the most part he refrains from
explicit ideological comment and judgment, leaving this function to the other characters, or
more implicitly, to the ironic effects of narrative montage and of a character who exhibits
9. See, e.g., Michael Kearns 1999.

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Journal ofthe American Oriental Society 127.2 (2007)

his ethos through deeds and words. It is up to the reader to judge. What makes this text so
lively is the frequent staging of different voices in direct speech, not only those of the main
characters, hut also those of secondary figures, each receiving an expressive personal style,
especially in lexical register.
Like the voice structure, focalization is multiple. This has a complicating effect on characterization. At first, it is the narrator who tells the readers ahout Gilgamesh, describing his
deeds and character, hut later we have the point of view of othersof his friend Enkidu, of
a goddess whose fancy he has caught, of a tavern keeper, of wise Utanapistim, whose not
always favorable perspective the text gives in detail. This results in a multi-facetted picture of
the hero, as an object for worship as well as the hutt of laughter, an object of admiration as
well as a figure eliciting pity and compassion. He is an all-too-human superman.
This epic highlights different aspects of the power of words. '^ It features a lot of argument and deliheration. In contrast to the first part, in which fighting is relied upon to solve
problems, later on conflicts and dilemmas are resolved rather hy reason and communication,
illustrating the civilizing power of words. It is through the undoubtedly effective combination
of sex and words that Shamhat seduces Enkidu into becoming a member of human society
and trading nature for cultureor rather bending nature into culture. It is through reason
that a god turns Enkidu's curse of his seducer into a blessing, by teaching him to find the
just measure in the power of words. Interestingly, the one exception is the king, who seems
incapable of listening to the voice of reason. In the Utanapistim episode, this incapacity is
taken to its limits, until Gilgamesh cannot avoid admitting reason.
The gods themselves appear to share with humans this striving for rationality. The text
shows them involved in a similar progressive learning of the value of reason and restraint
of impulse. This is illustrated by the story of the flood, where "sweet-voiced Belet-ili," one of
the gods, laments her own unreflective support of the angry decision by the gods to drown
the world. The text voices the gods' regrets for an action that proved too radical, and a transgression of their duty to protect "their/my own people," and set an example of moderation.
Hence the importance of the code of conduct which is then formulated, with moderation and
rational behavior as prominent values. These are precisely the values that Utanapistim holds
up for Gilgamesh.
To come to a conclusion, it is striking how well one of the first "literary" texts that have
been found fits Robert Musil's characterization of fiction as a Morallaboratorium. It offers
its audience the occasion to live out, emotionally and rationally, alternative and contradictory ways of experiencing different "patterns of desire," instead of simply pushing the plot
towards a clear resolution. Although it does become clear that the quest for personal gratification must gradually give way for what is good for the community, this is not presented
as a self-evident truth, but as the result of an experience, conducted in time, a time of life, and
for the audience a time of reading or listening. The walls of the city, and, I would suggest,
the contrat social, rest literally and figuratively on the narration, which is a re-enactment of
a progressive insight. Relying on a powerful narrative technique, both the beginning and the
end of the narrative indeed have a strong performative dimension.

10. I lack the space here in which to analyze the discourse from a speech-act perspective, though this could certainly contribute to the determination of value positions, since in this epic, as in drama, things are often done
through words. For instance, who can talk how to whom? Apparently, women can talk freely to men, and a tavern
keeper does not change her language when she realizes that she is talking to the king. Human beings talk to the gods
respectfully, but also familiarly, on equal or even superior footing, as in the scene where Gilgamesh scorns Ishtar.
But then, this is no report of actual social relations, but imaginative fiction.

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In the prologue, the reader is present on the spot at the walls of Uruk, next to the boatman
who has witnessed Gilgamesh's final trials. The present and the locus of reading are suggestively claimed to coincide with the actual present of narration. "We" are thus to take hold
of the copper box with the tablets that hold the story, and to open it. At the end, it is Gilgamesh himself who is on the spot where the storyand its readingstarted. The walls he
had erected bear concrete and historical witness to his wisdom and speak his fame, confirming the rightness of the narration's, and his own, conclusion. Through the almost eerie
sense of participation that reading offers, even over a huge gap in time wereaders of the
second millennium CE.cannot but confirm this conclusion, through the sheer act of reading
the claim of narrator and character. Our reading "performs" Gilgamesh's immortality, and
our emotional adherence "proves" the rightness of his ethical insight.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Editions of Gilgamesh
Foster, Benjamin R. 2001. The Epic of Gilgamesh. New York: Norton.
Vanstiphout, H. 2001. Het epos van Gilgamesh. Nijmegen: Sun, 2001.
Other
Booth, Wayne. 1988. The Company We Keep: An Ethics of Fiction. Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ.
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Bruner, Jerotne. 1986. Actual Minds, Possible Worlds. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Univ. Press.
Greimas, A. J., and Joseph Courtes. 1975-76. The Cognitive Dimension of Narrative Discourse. New
Literary History 7: 433-47.
. 1979. Dictionnaire raisonn de la thorie du langage, vol. I. Paris: Hachette.
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Groupe d'Entrevemes. 1979. Analyse smiotique des textes. Introduction, Thorie, Pratique. Lyon:
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Hamon, Philippe. 1984. Texte et idologie. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France.
Keams, Michael. 1999. Rhetorical Narratology. Lincoln: Univ. of Nebraska Press.
Nussbaum, Martha. 1990. Love's Knowledge: Essays on Philosophy and Literature. Oxford: Oxford
Univ. Press.
Pratt, Mary Louise. 1977. Towards a Speech Act Theory of Literature. Bloomington: Indiana Univ.
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Ricoeur, Paul. 1984. Temps et rcit, vol. Il: La configuration dans le rcit de fiction. Paris: Seuil.
. 1987. Life: A Story in Search of a Narrator. In Facts and Values, ed. M. C. Doeser and
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Turner, Mark. 1996. The Literary Mind. Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press.