The Shape of Stories: Narrative Structures in Cuneiform Literature 9004537147, 9789004537149, 2023000920, 9789004539761

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The Shape of Stories

Cuneiform Monographs Editors t. abusch – m.j. geller j.c. johnson – s.m. maul – f.a.m. wiggermann

volume 54

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/cumo

The Shape of Stories Narrative Structures in Cuneiform Literature

Edited by

Sophus Helle Gina Konstantopoulos

leiden | boston

The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at http://catalog.loc.gov lc record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2023000920

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill‑typeface. issn 0929-0052 isbn 978-90-04-53714-9 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-53976-1 (e-book) Copyright 2023 by the Authors. Published by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Hotei, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink, Brill mentis, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Böhlau, V&R unipress and Wageningen Academic. Koninklijke Brill nv reserves the right to protect this publication against unauthorized use. Requests for re-use and/or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill nv via brill.com or copyright.com. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Table of Contents List of Figures and Tables vii Notes on Contributors ix 1

Introduction: Narratology and Cuneiform Cultures Sophus Helle and Gina Konstantopoulos

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part 1 Stitching a Story 2

Recurrent Structures in the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle Alhena Gadotti

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Transition and Cohesion in the Tale of Zalpa Robert Marineau

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Unreliable Foreshadowing in Divine Predictions Louise Pryke

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part 2 Medium and Emotion 5

Tablets as Narrative Episodes in Babylonian Poetry Sophus Helle

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Dynamics of Repetition in Akkadian Literature Selena Wisnom

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Charting Emotional Structure in Cuneiform Literature Gina Konstantopoulos

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Representing Time in the Kiutu Incantation-Prayers Beatrice Baragli

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144

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part 3 The Shape of the Past 9

Historical Explanation in the Babylonian Chronicles Ben Dewar

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The “Prehistory” of the Sumerian King List and its Narrative Residue 234 Gösta Gabriel

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Blank Space: Akkadian Metapoetics in the Bel-etir Narrative Claudio Sansone

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part 4 Excavating Narratives 12

In Search of Dumuzi: An Introduction to Hylistic Narratology 285 Annette Zgoll, Bénédicte Cuperly, and Annika Cöster-Gilbert Index

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Figures and Tables Figures 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5 7.6 7.7 7.8

11.1

Six core emotional shapes 148 Emotional structure in Lugalbanda in the Wilderness 155 The Rags to Riches pattern 156 The modified Rags to Riches pattern 157 The emotional structure of the two Lugalbanda stories 158 The Rags to Riches and Cinderella patterns 163 Gilgamesh’s Emotional Progression in the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh 174 Thorkild Jacobsen’s charting of the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh from The Treasures of Darkness (Jacobsen, 1976, 216). © Yale University Press, reproduced with permission. 175 Blank Space on K 1351, reverse. © The Trustees of the British Museum, reproduced here with their kind permission. 259

Tables 3.1 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4 6.5 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4 8.5 9.1

Types and sub-types of cohesion 57 Appearances of EnEl Motif A: Tiamat’s horde 121 Appearances of EnEl Motif B: Asking for help 124 Appearances of EnEl Motif C: Marduk’s proposal 125 Repeated motifs in Anzû 128 Repetition in Gilgamesh 130 Six core emotional shapes 147 Narrative and emotional structure in Lugalbanda in the Wilderness 151 Narrative and Emotional Structure in Lugalbanda and the Anzu 153 Narrative and Emotional Structure in Gilgamesh and Huwawa A 161 Narrative and Emotional Structure in the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh 171 Structure of Kiutu A 188 Order of Kiutu A 196 The story of the enemy spirit of the dead (l. 114–120) 197 The story of the man (l. 100–107) 198 Duration in Kiutu A 200 The action “profiles” of Elamite kings in abc 1 during the time of Sargon ii and Sennacherib 226

viii 10.1 10.2 10.3 12.1 12.2 12.3 12.4 12.5 12.6 12.7 12.8 12.9 12.10

figures and tables Selected phraseology of the earliest ob recension of the skl 239 Hylistic content of the skl 240 Reconstructed “prehistorical” hylistic strata of the skl 245 Overview of the paper 285 Overview of methodological steps 290 Extraction of hylemes, presented in order of appearance 309 Extraction of hylemes, presented in order of appearance 314 Hylemes, presented in order of appearance 316 Comparison of the variants 318 Transliteration and translation of text A, l. 1–4 321 Extraction of hylemes 322 Innana leaves her temples—Comparison of Erzählstoff Variants in Text A and B 327 Female relative laments the death of Dumuzi: Comparison between two versions of the same narrative material 328

Notes on Contributors Beatrice Baragli holds a Ph.D. in Assyriology from the Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich (2019) and is currently a postdoctoral researcher at the Martin Buber Society of Fellows, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Her interests mainly concern ritual, religious and literary texts from the second and first millennium bce. She currently works on Sumero-Akkadian bilingualism and especially on Late Sumerian from a grammatical and cultural perspective. She recently published Sonnengrüße. Die sumerischen Kiutu-Gebetsbeschwörungen at Brill (Ancient Magic and Divination 19). Annika Cöster-Gilbert is a PhD candidate in Ancient Near Eastern Studies at the University of Göttingen. In her doctoral thesis, she is investigating mythical Erzählstoffe in Old Babylonian ershemmas about the god Dumuzi. Bénédicte Cuperly completed her joint PhD in Ancient Near Eastern Studies at the University of Göttingen and at Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne University in 2021. In her dissertation, she provides an updated edition of the Sumerian poem Innana’s Descent into the Netherworld, as well as a new interpretation of its content relying on hylistic analysis. She currently teaches ancient history at Le Mans University. Ben Dewar is Associate Lecturer in Ancient Middle Eastern History at ucl. His research focuses on Mesopotamian historiography of the late second and early first millennia bce, with a particular interest in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions. His previous research has investigated subjects including Neo-Assyrian conceptions of alterity and violence (Iraq, Studia Orientalia Electronica), deviant spaces in Assyrian and Babylonian literary-historical texts (Avar), and the chronological and geographical structure of Assyrian royal inscriptions (Kaskal, State Archives of Assyria Bulletin). Gösta Gabriel heads the independent junior research group Mythische Literaturwerke der altbabylonischen Zeit als wissenspraktische Artefakte, which is based at Freie Universität Berlin. His research focuses on the reconstruction of ancient discourses that can be reconstructed from narrative and hymnal texts from Meso-

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potamia. In addition, he is concerned with the history of religion, mythology, science, and cuneiform writing. Among other things, he published the first overall interpretation of the so-called Babylonian Epic of the Creation (enūma elis—Weg zu einer globalen Weltordnung). The publication of his new edition of the Sumerian King List is in preparation. Alhena Gadotti is a Professor in the Department of History at Towson University, Maryland, USA, where she teaches classes on Mesopotamian, Egyptian and Mediterranean history. Her research focuses on Sumerian literature, representation of women in Sumerian literary documents and the Old Babylonian scribal curriculum. Her most recent monograph, Elementary Education in Early Second Millennium bce Southern Babylonia, in collaboration with Dr. Alexandra Kleinerman, came out in late 2021. Sophus Helle is a literary historian and translator. He specializes in the Babylonian epics, particularly Gilgamesh, and the works of the poet Enheduana, both of which he has translated into Danish and English. He holds a PhD in Comparative Literature from Aarhus University (2020) and is a postdoctoral student at Freie Universität Berlin, and his research interests include narrative structure, the history and nature of philology, authorship, gender and sexuality, and the epic genre. Gina Konstantopoulos is an assistant Professor in the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Cultures at the University of California Los Angeles. Her research focuses on demons, religion, and magic in ancient Mesopotamia, Sumerian and Akkadian literature, and the modern reception of the ancient Near East. Her monograph on the Sebettu-demons in Mesopotamia is under contract and forthcoming with Brill. Robert Marineau completed his PhD in Hittitology from the University of Chicago in 2020, with a dissertation titled, “The Literary Effects of Discourse Patterns in Hittite Texts.” He is currently a post-doctoral researcher on an onomastics research project for Tyndale House, Cambridge. He also is a part-time research assistant for the Hittite Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. His writing focuses mainly on literariness in ancient texts from Anatolia. Forthcoming articles include “Towards a Stylistics of Hittite: The ‘Poetic Function’

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in the Story of Appu” and “Visual Rhetoric: Physical Design for Semantic Stress on the Luwian Südburg Inscription.” Louise Pryke is an Honorary Research Associate at the University of Sydney. She is the author of Ishtar (Routledge, 2017), and Gilgamesh (Routledge, 2018). She is currently writing a cultural history of wind, from prehistory to pop culture, for Reaktion’s Earth series. Wind will be published in 2023. Claudio Sansone is a Humanities Teaching Fellow at the University of Chicago, where he received his Ph.D. in Comparative Literature and an m.a. in Classics. He received his B.A. Hons. in English from Trinity College Dublin. His work centers on affect and labor in premodern literary traditions, primarily Greco-Roman, Near Eastern, and Indian. Selena Wisnom is Lecturer in the Heritage of the Middle East at the University of Leicester. Previously she was a Lecturer in Assyriology at the University of Cambridge, a Junior Research Fellow in Manuscript and Text Cultures at The Queen’s College, Oxford, and an ahrc Cultural Engagement Fellow at The Oxford Research Centre in the Humanities. Selena is a specialist in the interpretation of Mesopotamian cultural sources, particularly poetry and divination. Her book Weapons of Words: Intertextual Competition in Babylonian Poetry was published by Brill in 2020, and she has published articles on a variety of literary topics. Annette Zgoll is a Professor of Ancient Near Eastern Studies and Director of the Seminar for Ancient Near Eastern Studies at the University of Göttingen, Spokesperson of the dfg Research Group 2064 strata: Stratification Analyses of Mythic Plots and Texts in Ancient Cultures, Director of the interdisciplinary Collegium Mythologicum Göttingen, Co-founder of the series Mythological Studies, and Member of the Göttingen Academy of Sciences and Humanities.

chapter 1

Introduction: Narratology and Cuneiform Cultures Sophus Helle and Gina Konstantopoulos

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Shaping Stories

Writing literature in the cuneiform world was an act of molding: wet clay was shaped into tablets and then re-shaped by the wedges written upon it. The meaning of a cuneiform tablet is created in the meeting between the material of which it is made and the form into which it is shaped. As a result, cuneiform is a peculiarly three-dimensional script, since its characters were not inked onto an unchanging surface but impressed into its body. The signs are not so much a set of lines as they are a dynamic interplay of light and shadow—as any Assyriologist knows, a tablet must be held at just the right angle against the light for the signs to show up clearly. Cuneiform was, of course, written on other media as well: it was etched into stone, as in the Assyrian reliefs, or carved into the bodies of kings, written directly on their statues. Scribes could also ply their craft on wax writing boards; few of these have survived, but they were likely common objects.1 Among these various media, however, clay alone possessed the unique ability to be both fixed and changing. Once complete, a finished tablet could be an incredibly durable object, and yet clay remained an immensely versatile and endlessly reusable material. That same finished tablet, if not yet dry, could be easily moistened and reshaped, so that new signs could be written upon it. This does not mean that clay was treated as a passive, meaningless material. The ancient scribes were highly attentive to the importance of clay, both in a practical and an ideological sense. They were adept at selecting the right kind of clay for the tablet they were producing, precisely assessing its purity and plasticity; and clay is depicted in several cuneiform texts as the material from

1 Writing boards appear to have been made of wood or ivory; the former have not generally survived the millennia. For an example of the latter, see mma 54.117.12a, b, a well-preserved example from the late Neo-Assyrian period. One panel of the Assyrian reliefs from Nineveh may depict a scribe using a writing board to record the post-battle spoils (bm 124955). Tablets were also made of more precious materials, including precious metals and lapis lazuli; see Pearce 2010.

© Sophus Helle and Gina Konstantopoul

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which the gods created humankind.2 The stuff of writing was thus imbued with significance, in that the scribes worked with a material that they, at least on a mythological level, saw themselves as being made of. The present collection of essays extends the metaphor of molding to the narratives told on these clay tablets, including literary, historical, and religious narratives. In the cuneiform world, narratives were often created by molding existing material into new forms. Well-known cuneiform compositions such as Gilgamesh, Atra-hasis, and Enuma Elish all draw on older myths, legends, and literary narratives, arranging them into new poetic structures and so conferring new meaning upon them.3 While some Assyriologists have viewed this reuse of stories as indicating a lack of originality among cuneiform poets, we would argue that the opposite is true: literary creativity does not consist in the production of material ex nihilo, but in the rearrangement of such material into inventive forms that transform its meaning and imbue it with new life.4 Just as the raw material of clay was crafted into tablets, the raw stuff (or, perhaps, Stoffe, as discussed by Zgoll, Cuperly, and Cöster-Gilbert in this volume) of stories could be shaped into new compositions, combined with each other to form new and distinct narratives. The image of molding existing matter into new forms also applies to historical compositions. The study of cuneiform historiography has often sought to deduce a “kernel of historical truth” from ancient compositions, such as chronicles or king lists, by identifying which of the events described in them might plausibly have happened and which should be discarded as fanciful embellishment.5 This approach has been subjected to sustained criticism, and while it cannot be abandoned entirely, it is currently being supplemented by analyses focused not on the content of the texts—that is, the past events described within them—but on their structure and form, examining how history was

2 For the material properties of clay, see Taylor and Cartwright, 2011; the creation of humanity from clay is recounted in, among others, Enki and Ninmah, l. 31; Atra-hasis i 211–213; and Gilgamesh i 101–102. 3 There is a general assumption that many of these literary texts, particularly Gilgamesh, derive from oral antecedents. Though this supposition is logical, if not likely, “ancient oral traditions are of course lost and unknowable” (George, 2007a, 458). There is direct evidence for the early, presumably oral, circulation of some texts, such as the notable depiction of Etana’s eagle-borne ascent to heaven in seals from the late third millennium; see Steinkeller 1992. 4 On cuneiform literature as devoid of originality, see especially the classic argument by Oppenheim, 1960; on cuneiform originality as residing instead in the inventive manipulation of traditional forms, see Hecker, 1977; Hallo, 2006, 100; and Helle, 2019. 5 The phrase “kernel of historical truth” was introduced by Liverani, 1993; on other historiographical approaches in cuneiform studies, see van de Mieroop, 1999.

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shaped by the ancient writers into a meaningful narrative.6 Far from being bound to a strict idea of objective truth, these historical narratives recognized the utility and power that lay in creative understandings and reinterpretations of the past. Later kings invoked notable figures and their deeds in dramatic retellings in order to highlight their own accomplishments and anchor their reigns in a deeper, if constructed, legitimacy.7 The chapters in this book ask how the stuff of stories—traditional material, cultural memory, religious myths, oral poetry, ritual practice, and more— was molded into the forms we now find. How were narratives structured in the cuneiform world? What patterns and principles, constraints and considerations guided the organization of literary material? As the example of the clay tablets shows, the analysis is not meant to suggest the easy separability of form and content. On the contrary, our point is that cuneiform narratives are best studied as the confluence of story-stuff and a series of rearrangements, which are as inseparable from each other as clay and its shape: without either of the two, there can be no tablet. Nor is the metaphor to be taken as implying the insignificance or passivity of the material that was shaped into narrative. The ancient scribes were highly attentive to the meaning of the literary, religious, and historical material with which they worked: as with the clay itself, this was a material of profound importance to them, and far from reorganizing it willy-nilly, they sought to draw out its deeper significance and unfold its wider implications. This collection of essays follows a long tradition of narrative interest in cuneiform studies (as detailed in section 3 below), which has convincingly shown that narratology is a promising framework for approaching the literary, religious, and historical heritage of the ancient Near East. Narratology is here understood as “the study of the logic, principles, and practices of narrative representation.”8 The field encompasses a wide range of theories, methods, and approaches, all dedicated to the study of narratives in their many manifestations. For cuneiform studies, narratology has several advantages. The study of narrative arcs complements the traditional focus on individual passages with analyses of large-scale structures and comparisons between texts, genres, and

6 See the references collected in the chapter by Ben Dewar; especially Waerzeggers, 2021. 7 In particular, we find that first-millennium Assyrian and Babylonian rulers tie themselves to the Old Akkadian kings, especially Sargon, of the late third millennium bce; see Eppihimer, 2019; Winter, 2000. The tactics of historical anchoring and literary reworking come together in the consistent echoes of the late third-millennium figure of Sargon’s daughter, Enheduana, that are found in the second and first millennia bce; see Konstantopoulos 2021. 8 Meister, 2014.

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corpora. It is also useful for bringing out the interaction between medium and message, by examining how narrative forms can modify, accentuate, or even subvert the narrative content. Further, a focus on narrative invites an engagement with broader theoretical frameworks, such as Russian Formalism or poststructuralist narratology, which may push the traditionally antitheoretical discipline of Assyriology into new and rewarding engagements with the ancient texts. It may also point us towards further interactions with theoretical frameworks beyond those used in this book. This book seeks to support and expand this ongoing development in cuneiform studies by applying narratological analyses to texts from a wide range of genres and periods in the ancient Near East. The case studies collected here span the spectrum of cuneiform cultures, engaging with texts from the Old Akkadian to the Hellenistic periods (c. 2300 to c. 100 bce), in the Sumerian, Akkadian, and Hittite languages, and belonging to a wealth of different genres: narrative poetry, religious rituals, historical chronicles, royal inscriptions, sardonic parodies, and more. Taken together, these essays reveal the range of ways in which the scribes and scholars of ancient Iraq shaped their stories—a range as broad and as intriguing as the many types of tablets or the various forms of the cuneiform script. In sum, our goal is to showcase narratology as a sophisticated, variegated, and flexible set of methods that can help us fulfill one of the core objectives of Assyriology: understanding how clay was molded into meaning.

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The Field of Narratology

Narratology has a rich and complex history, to which the present sketch cannot do full justice. Instead, we refer the reader to the helpful summaries and further reading provided by the Living Handbook of Narratology, an indispensable guide to the countless developments, theorists, subfields, and methods subsumed under the term “narratology.”9 But broadly speaking, it is helpful to distinguish between six main waves of narratological theory. The first is premodern narratology, a catch-all category for studies of narrative carried out before the formalization of the field in the twentieth century. Perhaps the bestknown exemplar of this phase is Aristotle’s Poetics, which includes a celebrated 9 The Living Handbook of Narratology can be accessed at www.lhn.uni‑hamburg.de. The following presentation is based on the historical summary given by Meister, 2014; available on the website under the entry “Narratology.” For other introductions to narratology, see Fludernik, 2009; Cobley, 2001; and Bal, 1985.

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definition of a narrative whole as that which has a beginning, a middle, and an end; and influential analyses of the structures and effects of Greek tragedy.10 The long tradition of narrative studies that followed in Aristotle’s footsteps began to crystallize into the discipline we now call narratology under the influence of Russian Formalism, an intellectual movement the flourished in Moscow and Saint Petersburg in the 1910s and 1920s. The aim of this loosely coordinated movement was to reach beyond a reductive understanding of literary works as solely an expression of their authors’ biographies; and to produce new, scientific, and systematically applicable methods for the study of literature. Narrative studies were a key part of this agenda. The most famous contribution of Russian Formalism to the study of narrative is the fundamental distinction between fabula and syuzhet, often translated as “story” and “plot.” Fabula refers to the “raw material” of the narrative, including a chronological sequence of events; syuzhet to the way this material is organized and presented in the work. Following the metaphor used above, they can be understood as the clay and the form of the tablet, respectively. Formalist critics such as Viktor Šklovskij understood syuzhet as a defamiliarization (ostranenie) of the events in the fabula, which by its very artifice sought to alert the reader to the literary nature of the work and invite the reader to reapproach the world with a new perspective.11 Meanwhile, starting with the critical writings of Henry James, the American tradition developed a different set of interests, focusing especially on the role of the narrator. Of particular importance was that which we would now term the perspective, diegesis, and focalization of the narrative: that is, from which point of view is the story being told, and how does that perspective affect the representation of events? The most influential idea developed by this narratological tradition is Wayne Booth’s notion of the unreliable narrator, describing a situation where the reader is meant to deduce that the narrator’s presenta-

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We note in passing the many contributions to the study of narrative in the Indian tradition, which have yet to receive the attention it deserves within the mainstream of modern narratology. Similar concerns surround, to some degree, the study of narrative within classical Chinese and Japanese literary traditions. The latter, in particular, may include narratives with climatic twists that need not necessarily derive from conflict, resulting in four-act narratives that are often described as “conflictless.” As Konstantopoulos discusses, the application of overarching patterns to narratives in earlier scholarship has often fallen into the pitfalls caused by employing a framework that either excludes material from nonWestern contexts or warps it to fit these foreign formats. Šklovskij, 1965.

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tion of events is somehow skewed or mendacious, yielding information both about the “true” course of events and about the character of the narrator.12 The fourth main wave of narratology was French structuralism, which flourished in the 1960s and 1970s, culminating in the publication of Mieke Bal’s Narratologie in 1977—a watershed event in the history of narratology, as it led to the broader popularization of the field.13 Inspired by the work of Ferdinand de Saussure and Claude Lévi-Strauss, literary critics set about applying to literary works the central insight of structuralism: that meaning is determined not by individual signs, but by the larger structure in which those signs are embedded. Since narratives are also sign-based systems of meaning-making, it followed that they too can be analyzed not just as a series of individually meaningful events and characters, but as a structure with a fixed set of rules and recurrent patterns. Tzvetan Todorov—who coined the term “narratology”— extended this analogy with Saussurian linguistics by identifying narrative as a sort of language, governed by grammar-like constants that could be detected in very different kinds of composition.14 Gérard Genette pursued this project further by developing a comprehensive set of analytical methods and technical terms that could be used to describe the structure of narratives in general.15 Genette’s system was intended as a universally applicable methodology that could be brought to bear on any story from any culture, and so serve as a framework of comparison between them. It was precisely this universal ambition that made structuralist narratology a target of criticism during the next wave of narratology: poststructuralist narratology. A key goal of the poststructuralist movement was to question the universalizing methods of structuralism, by showing that no such thing as a neutral, universal framework for describing all cultures could be constructed from within one culture, since knowledge is always embedded in and shaped by the historical, discursive, and political context from which it emerges. Any attempt to establish a transhistorical system of narrative was at best naïve and at worst politically suspect. To develop this point, poststructuralist critics applied the techniques of deconstruction to earlier narratological work, showing that their conclusions were based on questionable premises. For example, 12 13 14

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Booth, 1961. Bal, 1977. Todorov, 1969. Todorov later presented a genre-specific application of this approach in his structuralist investigation of the “fantastic,” a narrow genre he defined as resting between that of the uncanny and the marvelous; Todorov, 1975. This genre-specific approach was notably superseded by Vladimir Propp’s analysis of folktales through the lens of Russian formalism; Propp 1968. Genette, 1972.

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Jonathan Culler argues that the notion of a preexisting fabula out of which a syuzhet is generated by the author makes no sense. In fact, it could just as easily be the other way around: the author creates a syuzhet, based on which the reader reconstructs a fabula. Narrative therefore cannot be reduced to either plot or presentation, and as a result, stories come to characterized by an inherent tension between the two.16 This brings us to the sixth and ongoing wave of narratology, one marked by proliferation and dispersal. Over the past three decades, such a wealth of approaches and lines of inquiry have sprung up that it is now common to speak of “narratologies” in the plural.17 There has been a surge of feminist narratology, exploring gender as a constitutive element of narratives on par with, say, point of view; cognitive narratology, engaging with psychological research to examine how the human brain processes narratives; and digital narratology, which uses both digital tools to study traditional narratives and the traditional tools of narratology to study narratives in the digital sphere.18 Of these “new narratologies,” two in particular should be noted here. One is contextualist narratology, which studies narrative structures not as abstract phenomena, but as always located in a specific historical, cultural, political, generic, and practical context, without which neither the form nor the content of those narratives can be fully understood. The present book is an example of such an approach, as the essays collected here study narratives in relation to the cuneiform world from which they sprung, with each essay linking the narratives under study to a specific aspect of ancient cultures: the development of royal power in the third millennium bce (Gabriel), the omniscience attributed to Mesopotamian gods (Pryke), the medium of clay tablets (Helle), the performance of narrative in musical or ritual contexts (Wisnom and Baragli, respectively), and so on. The second approach to be highlighted here is transgeneric and transmedial narratology, which understands narratives as not exclusive to written texts, but as a feature of many different media and genres, from visual arts to music and computer games. Owing to this transmedial focus, many works of transgeneric narratology focus on modern works, which may cross over between many different types of media in creating a collective universe.19 This approach could 16 17

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Culler, 1981, chap. 9. The plural of “narratologies” was introduced by Herman, 1999. The use of the “classical” narratology as opposed to the “postclassical” narratologies is further and usefully surveyed in Nünning, 2003. Lanser, 1986. The proliferation of media franchising and expansive cinematic or comic universes has been paired with a rising interest in the use of transgeneric and transmedial narratologies to explore these collective universes; see Thon, 2016.

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be used, for example, to investigate the interaction between artistic representations of Etana’s ascent to the heavens and the later textual descriptions of the same myth. However, this approach features only sporadically in the present volume (even the studies of musical and ritual narratives noted above remain grounded in the close reading of written texts), but it has recently been pursued in another volume on narratives in the ancient Near East, Tales of Royalty.20 By combining a transgeneric blend of visual and written narratives with a contextualist focus on how those narratives were used to legitimize royal power, that collection highlighted the central role of narratives in ancient political life. This is but one of the many ways in which narratology can be useful for the study of cuneiform cultures, and in the next section, we turn to a brief survey of how narratives have been approached in the field of ancient Near Eastern studies.

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Narratological Studies in Assyriology

Though Assyriology is famously uneager to engage with theoretical approaches, narratology has long had its champions in the field. Perhaps the most vocal of these is Piotr Michalowski, who has defended the traditional approaches of formalist narratology over and against more “postmodern” developments within literary theory.21 Whatever the merits of that distinction, Michalowski’s defense is a telling example of how narratology—with its penchant for systematic and supposedly objective analysis—has often appealed more forcefully to philologists than other strands of Comparative Literature. Though it is our hope that Assyriology will further embrace other critical currents and interpretative approaches in its study of ancient literature, narratology does seem to be particularly promising as a first point of contact between philologists and the vast realm of literary theory and cultural criticism.22 The main bulk of narratological studies in Assyriology can be found in the analysis of individual texts, often in connection with an edition of those texts. When producing a new edition of a narrative work, it is customary to give at least a sketch of its plot and to note how it may be divided into sections,

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Wagner-Durand and Linke, 2020. Michalowski, 1996, 178–179. Engagement with other methodological frameworks is already evidenced by the “affective turn” found in works on emotion presented in two recently edited volumes; see Hsu and Llop-Raduà, 2020 and Kipfer, 2017. Though far from limited to the textual realm, awareness of similar affective methodologies can be found in work on the senses and sensory experiences in the ancient Near East; see Neumann and Thomason, 2021.

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and how those sections come together to form a dramatic entity: a notable example is the detailed narratological analysis included in Shlomo Izreʾel’s edition of Adapa.23 Other noteworthy analyses of single narratives include William Moran’s study of the structure of Atra-hasis and Gösta Gabriel’s interpretation of the various interlocking patterns in Enuma Elish.24 Some Assyriologists have carried out a series of such individual analyses, exploring the narrative structure of a succession of cuneiform works, such as Erica Reiner’s path-breaking volume, Your Thwarts in Pieces, Your Mooring Ropes Cut, which included narrative studies of Ishtar’s Descent, Nergal and Ereshkigal, Ludlul, and more; Jeremy Black’s study of the imagery and narrative of the Lugalbanda poems; and a series of articles by Herman Vanstiphout that explored the narrative structures of, among others, the Lugalbanda poems, Enuma Elish, and Gilgamesh.25 Gilgamesh has attracted more narratological studies than any other work of cuneiform literature, largely because it has attracted more studies in general. Vanstiphout delineates in detail the construction of the epic, including the symmetry around which it is organized and the circular structure that links its beginning and end—a circular structure also noted by Annette Zgoll, who links it to the majestic walls that encircle both the text and the city of Uruk.26 In his edition of the text, Andrew George delves into many aspects of the epic’s organization, and highlights two characteristic aspects of the Standard Babylonian version of Gilgamesh that make it particularly receptive to narratological analysis.27 The first is the question of the narrator, who may arguably be identified with Gilgamesh himself; the second is the mise en abîme of the Flood narrative in Tablet xi, namely the story within the story that is told by the sage Uta-napishti. These two topics, and the relation between them, have also the subjects of perceptive treatments by Michalowski, Liesbeth Altes, and Keith Dickson.28 Other aspects of Gilgamesh that have received narratological analyses include the focalization of specific scenes and the possibly unreliable narration of Uta-napishti, both discussed by Martin Worthington; and the representation of time, space, and movement, discussed by Sophus Helle, Laura Feldt, and Ulla Koch.29 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

Izreʾel, 2001. Moran, 1987; Gabriel, 2014. Reiner, 1985; Black, 1998; Vanstiphout, 2002 (Lugalbanda), 1992 (Enuma Elish), and 1990 (Gilgamesh). Zgoll, 2010. George, 2003; see also George’s exploration of genre in Gilgamesh (George, 2007b). Michalowski, 1996; Altes, 2007; Dickson, 2009. On focalization, see Worthington, 2011, as well as Wasserman, 2020, 135; on unreliable nar-

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Many of these studies engage with critical scholarship on genre. Vanstiphout conducted a series of investigations into this topic, arguing for the utility of genre analysis as a tool by which to further study cuneiform literary compositions. With cuneiform narratives spread out across a wide range of exemplars, sometimes covering a span that was literally millennial, Vanstiphout also considered how genre might develop and change over time in cuneiform contexts.30 These genre explorations continued with the 1995 meeting of the Mesopotamian Literature Group focused on this topic.31 Alongside these studies of single compositions and the broader works of genre analysis are a smaller but still significant set of studies of cuneiform narratives that either tease out patterns that recur across compositions or examine the differences between treatments of similar material. For example, Benjamin Foster notes that a surprising number of cuneiform texts end with a description of their own composition, a recurrent feature that can reasonably be identified as a narrative topos in cuneiform literature. Likewise, Helle points to a widespread similarity in Akkadian epics, arguing that most of them share the same narrative structure: a division into two acts, of which the second mirrors and expands the first. By contrast, A.J. Ferrara examines how Sumerian compositions order the cosmological time they depict differently, arranging their chronology in novel and often striking ways.32 Another focus of comparative studies are diachronic changes within one composition, as the narratives of various versions of the same story are contrasted so as to understand the developments that led from one to the other: examples of this approach include studies by Jeffrey Tigay, Jerrold Cooper, Daniel Fleming and Sara Milstein, and Tzvi Abusch.33 However, these studies have yet to integrate the insights developed over the last decades in the field of genetic criticism, that is, the study of how literary works come into being over time; the digital tools employed in this field would be a particularly welcome contribution to the study of cuneiform narratives.34 Recently, scholars such

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ration, see Worthington, 2020, especially chap. 20 and 21; on time and space, see Helle, 2021a and Feldt and Koch, 2011. Vanstiphout, 1986, 1999, and 2000. The proceedings of this meeting appear referenced in citations as forthcoming but were unfortunately never published. As aptly described by Andrew George, approaching the study of genre without this potential volume leaves one feeling “a little like Huwawa … immobilized, able neither to charge forward nor to kick backward” (George, 2007b: 39). Helle, 2021b; Foster, 1991; Ferrara, 2006. Similar to Foster, Ferrara also discusses different topoi of imagery in Sumerian literature (Ferrara, 1995). Tigay, 1982; Cooper, 1977a and 1977b; Fleming and Milstein, 2010; Abusch 2020. See the introduction in Hulle, 2022.

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as Johannes Haubold and the members of the strata research group (whose findings are presented in this volume) have pursued an even more ambitiously comparative agenda, setting the structure of cuneiform narratives alongside those from other cultures, especially the early Greek epics.35 One focal area of interest for the study of ancient Near Eastern narratives has been the intersection between kingship, historiography, and storytelling: How was the narrative representation of the past connected with the politics of the present? We have already mentioned the recent publication of Tales of Royalty, but the confluence of these three topics has a longer history. Once more, Michalowski emerges as a particularly forceful advocate of this approach, as his studies have repeatedly emphasized the link between political power and historical narration.36 Similarly, Johannes Bach has employed the methodological apparatus of Genette to study the Assyrian royal inscriptions, tracing how they developed their narrative justification of Assyrian supremacy over time. As these examples show (and as the chapters by Dewar, Gabriel, and Sansone in this volume will further attest) the connection between political power and the plotting of the past can be a fascinating topic, but it also yields a methodological caveat: Ancient descriptions of historical events cannot be taken at face value, and scholars must always consider the political motives, ideological background, and historical context that determined how ancient scribes chose to narrate them.37 Just as the study of narrative can tell us about political power on earth, it can also be used to explore stories about the gods, including myths, cosmological conceptions, and religious practices. Indeed, royal and religious narratives often overlap: Gabriel’s aforementioned study of narrative patterns in Enuma Elish sought to show that each of those patterns is recruited in the service of the same project, namely, to affirm the universal kingship of Marduk, god of Babylon. Laura Feldt has also worked on the application of narratological theory to ancient Near Eastern myths, especially by applying Mieke Bal’s threefold division of narratives into fabula, story, and text to the epic Anzu and sev-

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Haubold, 2019; for the findings of the strata research group, see Zgoll, Cuperly, and Cöster-Gilbert in this volume. Comparisons between Babylonian and Greek epics of course have a long history, going back all the way to George Smith’s presentation of Gilgamesh in 1872, where the epic was compared to Homer by none other than the sitting prime minister, William Gladstone; The Times, 1872. What is innovative about these newer studies is that the comparisons are based on similarities and differences in narrative structure rather than content. Michalowski, 1983, 1996, and 1999. Bach, 2020; Civil, 1980; van de Mieroop, 1999; see also the papers collected in Kraus, 1999.

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eral Sumerian Ninurta compositions.38 Broadly speaking, there are two areas of religious studies where narratology has proven particularly promising. The first is the study of myths about Mesopotamian gods, demons, and demi-gods, especially the “hero narratives” that make up a substantial part of Sumerian and Babylonian literature.39 The second is the study of religious practices. For example, healing rituals can be conceived of as narratives in their own right since the actions and recitations of the ritual practitioner come together to form the story of the patient’s recovery (see Baragli in this volume). If rituals can be understood as narratives, then so can images, and indeed, scholars such as Irene Winter and Zainab Bahrani have employed narratological techniques to the study of ancient Near Eastern art.40 More recently, Elisabeth Wagner-Durand and Davide Nadali have brought the issue of narrativity back to the fore of Mesopotamian art studies, a topic previously discussed by Chikako Watanabe in her analysis of the Assyrian palace reliefs.41 As noted above in connection with transgeneric narratology, these studies are particularly attuned to the relation between visual narratives and royal power. That is not to say that visual narratives are to be treated as texts in other garbs; on the contrary, transgeneric narratology is particularly attentive to the way different media modify the narratives they are used to tell. The scholarship listed here is just a sample of the narrative analyses that have been brought to bear on texts and other artefacts from the ancient Near East: the survey is not meant to be exhaustive, but we hope that it illustrates the variety and usefulness of narratological perspectives on the cuneiform world. The present book seeks to continue this tradition and inspire future scholars to take up the narratological mantle. We conceive of the collection as a methodological toolbox, with each chapter exemplifying one way in which ancient narratives can be studied. These methods range from a word-by-word analysis of narrative coherence to considerations of intra- and inter-narrative links, musicology, materiality, affect, ritual, historiography, compositional history, self-conscious parodies, and the recurrence of mythical material. Though the chapters are all based on case studies and concrete analyses, each of them represents a specific way of working with narratives that could also be applied to other texts, periods, and corpora.

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Feldt, 2013, 2015, and 2020. See Michalowski, 2010 for a discussion of this within Sumerian epic texts. On the diachronic development of the hero narrative in cuneiform literature, see Wisnom, 2019. Winter, 1985 and 1981; Bahrani, 2002 and 2003, chap. 7. Wagner-Durand, 2019; Nadali, 2019; and Watanabe, 2004.

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Overview of the Volume

This book is divided into four parts, each of which asks a distinct set of questions about narratives in the ancient Near East. The question that recurs in the first part is this: “How do narratives connect events into larger wholes?” As several of the chapters stress (see, e.g., Marineau), the minimal definition of a narrative is a single change of state; but invariably, literary narratives consist of a concatenation of such changes into more complex compositions (a word that, tellingly, is derived from com-, “together,” and ponere, “to put”). The first three essays explore this narrative interweaving of actions, from the level of sentences to that of cycles. Chapter 1 examines the composition of the Sumerian Gilgamesh cycle. While the five poems that make up this cycle are often treated as stand-alone pieces, united merely by a shared focus on the heroic exploits of King Gilgamesh, Alhena Gadotti argues that the stories in fact constitute a coherent cycle, as there are narrative structures, recurring motifs, and literary parallels that cut across the five poems and interweave their stories to form a larger whole. To take just one example, Gadotti notes that the Euphrates repeatedly functions as a “bridge” between stories, and that it encircles the whole cycle by appearing at the opening of the first poem and at the end of the last. In chapter 2, we zoom in to study coherence as it is built up over paragraphs. The Hittite Tale of Zalpa is notorious for its apparent lack of cohesion: events follow one another rapidly and confusingly, leading from donkey sex to attempted incest in a few lines. Robert Marineau shows that the text does nonetheless establish a meaningful narrative cohesion, tracing the transitions found in grammatical markers and logical connections to reveal a fascinating story behind the apparently disjointed sentences. By contrast, chapter 3 examines cases where events do not cohere across a narrative. Louise Pryke proposes that we should understand divine predictions in narrative poems such as Gilgamesh or Adapa as a form of narrative foreshadowing, but crucially, the events often do not unfold as foreshadowed. Pryke asks what the poetic effect of these narrative discontinuities in cuneiform poetry might be: How are they used to shape characters and create suspense, and what can they tell us about the boundaries of divine knowledge in the ancient Near East? The chapters in the second part of the book turn to the question: “How were narratives shaped by the medium or context in which they were told?” In the first of these chapters, Sophus Helle looks at the medium of clay tablets, on which most surviving works of cuneiform literature are preserved, arguing that narratives which spanned more than one Tablet—especially epic poems

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such as Enuma Elish, Gilgamesh, and Atra-hasis—were consciously arranged with this division into Tablets in mind. Each Tablet constitutes an independent narrative episode that can, to an extent, be appreciated on its own, meaning that multi-Tablet stories can be understood as a series of small narrative arcs enclosed in a larger one. However, these epics were not just written on tablets—they were also, in all probability, performed, and Selena Wisnom explores the narrative consequences of that fact. Long, line-by-line repetitions are a major feature of Akkadian epic poetry, but these repetitions would have functioned differently if they were not meant to be read but to be heard, and Wisnom argues that we should therefore understand them through oral and specifically musical perspectives. The balance between variation and repetition that we find in the Akkadian epics is strongly reminiscent of later musical traditions, lending support to the widespread claim that there was a major oral component to Akkadian epic poetry. An important premise of this musicological approach is that it studies the texts as they would have impacted ancient audiences, and that premise is shared by the following chapter, which considers the emotional impact of cuneiform narratives. Stories are told not just to instruct or to edify, but also to elicit feelings, and Gina Konstantopoulos explores how this “emotional reception” would have shaped the telling of stories in cuneiform literature. How do the emotional structures of the stories interact with the narrative structures? How do the two sets of shapes align with, diverge from, or modify one another? While the orality of epic poetry remains open to discussion, there are also ancient texts that were without a doubt intended for recitation, including ritual incantation-prayers. Beatrice Baragli examines one genre of such incantations, known as the Kiutu, which were addressed to the sun god Utu. One of the defining characteristics of Kiutu incantations is that they were performed at a specific time of day, such as sunrise or sunset, matching the movement of the sun across the sky. Baragli traces the interplay between the different forms of time that come together in the text: the representation of time within the story, the chronological sequence of the events depicted in it, the time of its ritual performance, and the cyclical time of the sun’s path. The first two sections generally examine stories that we would today classify as literary, but in the ancient world, there was no hard-and-fast distinction between fiction and non-fiction, and genre distinctions in general are mostly modern impositions. The last chapter already showed that literary modes of analysis can be applied to ritual or “magical” texts, and the third section turns

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to historical narratives—such as chronicles, king lists, and royal inscriptions— that form the basis of ancient Near East historiography. These chapters ask the question: “How were narratives structures used to make sense of the past?” Ben Dewar offers a prime example of the narrative remolding of cultural memory by looking at a genre that is often considered to be the most reliable, neutral, and “objective” source of historical information for Babylonian culture: historical chronicles. But as recent research has made clear, these texts actually modify the events they chronicle to make them fit a narrative of Babylon’s dependency on support from Elam—a narrative that would have particularly useful after Babylon fell under the control of Elam’s successor, the Persian empire. Even a bare-bones list of events, with no appended commentary or value judgment, can thus be a powerful tool for reframing of the past into a story, imbuing history with meaning and direction. However, a historical text need not tell just one story, especially if it was composed over a long period of time: each recension can revise not just the information given in the text, but also the historical narrative encoded in its structure. Gösta Gabriel shows that this is the case with the Sumerian King List, as he excavates the successive layers that were added to the core of the composition. The result is a historical account that is layered in two senses of the word: it is layered in that several rounds of intervention can be detected within the final text, each telling its own implicit story about the structure of the past; and it is layered in that the vision of history which eventually emerged from these recensions conceives of the past as shaped by a hierarchy of agency, with gods above and kings below. The final chapter of this section claims that not only were ancient historiographical texts such as the Assyrian royal inscriptions shaped by narrative forms, but the ancient scribes were conscious of and able to comment on those forms. Claudio Sansone argues that one of the texts associated with the obscure figure Bel-etir can be read as a satirical representation of the narrative tropes and clichés of royal inscriptions, exposing the latter as a conventional genre whose form could be replicated even when its contents were scrambled and distorted for humorous purposes. By composing and circulating the Bel-etir texts, the scribes thereby subtly pointed to their own role as co-creators of a hegemonic, but ultimately artificial narrative of royal power. The volume closes with a presentation of a new methodology that can be used to analyze mythical and other narratives, not just in the ancient Near East, but across a wide range of corpora, media, cultures, and periods. Annette Zgoll, Bénédicte Cuperly, and Annika Cöster-Gilbert lay out a theoretical framework and a series of concrete steps aimed at reconstructing myths and other narrative materials that are reflected in texts and other media, by reconstructing the

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narrative’s chronological sequence of minimal action-bearing elements, called hylemes, and differentiating between separate narrative materials incorporated in one text. The three authors use the example of Dumuzi’s death, and specifically the search for his dead body, as a case study for the applicability of their method. They reconstructed myths about the death of Dumuzi as they were incorporated into two literary works, an ershema—a type of ritual lamentation—and the narrative poem Inana’s Descent, including two textual variants of the latter, comparing these myths and their presentations to understand how each of them reworks its constitutive elements in their own way. As the authors conclude, one of the main advantages of the new method of hyleme analysis is that it allows for the reconstruction of narrative material such as myths, and that it enables the researcher to compare myths as they are reflected in different kinds of texts on a solid methodological foundation.

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Conclusion and Further Research

We began by comparing narratives and tablets to highlight how form and content merge into text. At its core, narratology is driven by a desire to understand the interaction between the two: How do the events that are represented in a story and the form of that representation relate to one another? We find clay to be a particularly compelling image for thinking about this relation because of the almost proverbial malleability of this material. More than any other kind of stuff that we normally come across, clay allows for endless reshaping, as it can always be moistened and molded anew. The same plasticity applies to narratives. The human imagination and capacity for language—and our willingness to listen to what other humans have to say—allows us to tell a practically infinite number of stories, of stunningly disparate kinds and casts: from fables to thrillers, epics to anecdotes, cosmogonies to science fiction. Faced with this staggeringly large range of possibilities, one has to ask: Why did ancient authors, poets, scribes, and singers choose to tell these stories and not others, and why did they choose to tell them in these ways and not others? The answers to that question are almost as varied as the act of storytelling itself, and the present volume presents just a few possibilities, in the form of concrete case studies that correspond to different approaches to the study of narratives. If there are many ways of studying narrative, it is because narratives can be many things. In the case of cuneiform alone, a story could be a string of words, a musical performance, a magical event, a sequence of emotions, a clever joke, an arrangement of mythical material, a plot and its presentation,

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a logically connected series of events, a jaunt through the past, an explanation of the present, and a set of shadows on a lump of clay—or, as is most often the case, many of these at the same time. It is our hope that the approaches presented in this book will serve as a touchstone for further research on narratives in the ancient Near East and future uses of narratology (and narratologies). There are many questions pertaining to cuneiform narratives that remain unanswered, and we will highlight just a few of those that seem most pressing to us: How do cuneiform narratives compare to each other, specifically in terms of their treatment of perspective, the representation of time and space, the role of the narrator, the depiction of characters, and so on? How do visual and textual representations of the same narrative events differ, and what structural similarities are there between them? Are there diachronic changes not just in individual narratives like Gilgamesh, but in the modes of narration that were employed more generally (that is, how did storytelling overall change from the third to the first millennium)? How are cuneiform narratives best compared to those from other ancient cultures, not just ancient Greece, but ancient and medieval India, Egypt, China, Japan, and the Islamic world? How were the narratives of power and royal legitimacy composed and distributed beyond the scribal circles? How did narrative patterns, practices, and preferences shape ancient religion? And how might feminist narratology help elucidate ancient gender dynamics? Answers to all of these questions would greatly advance our understanding of the ancient Near East. But an equally valuable contribution of narratology to the field of Assyriology is that it provides a potential platform for dialogue with other disciplines that are likewise engaged in the study of stories, including Comparative Literature, World Literature, and other philological subdisciplines such as Classics, Egyptology, Indology, Sinology, Biblical studies, Islamic studies, Japanese studies, and so on. Narratology provides one way to build bridges between these and other disciplines. If Assyriology is to survive, it has no choice but to engage with other fields and participate in broader interdisciplinary conversations. What better way of doing so than through shared studies of the human knack for storytelling?

Acknowledgements It is our pleasure to thank the contributors to the volume, the anonymous reviewer, Emma de Looij, Katie Chin, Chance McMahon, and the organizers of the 65th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale in Paris, at which the papers collected here were first presented.

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Albright Centennial Conference, edited by Glenn M. Schwartz and Piotr Michalowski, 177–193. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Michalowski, Piotr. 1999. “Commemoration, Writing, and Genre in Ancient Mesoptoamia.” In The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts, edited by Christina S. Kraus, 69–90. Mnemosyne Supplements 191. Leiden: Brill. Michalowski, Piotr. 2010. “Maybe Epic: The Origins and Reception of Sumerian Heroic Poetry.” In Epic and History, edited by David Konstan and Kurt A. Raaflaub, 7–25. The Ancient World: Comparative Histories. London: Wiley-Blackwell. Moran, William. 1987. “Some Considerations of Form and Interpretation in Atra-ḫasīs.” In Language, Literature and History: Philological and Historical Studies Presented to Erica Reiner, edited by Francesca Rochberg-Halton, 245–255. American Oriental Series 67. New Haven: American Oriental Society. Nadali, Davide. 2019. “The Power of Narrative Pictures in Ancient Mesopotamia.” In Image–Narration–Context: Visual Narration in Cultures and Societies of the Old World, edited by Elisabeth Wagner-Durand, Barbara Fath, and Alexander Heinemann, 63–80. Freiburger Studienzur Archäologie und Visuellen Kultur 1. Freiburg: Institut für Archäologische Wissenschaften der Universität Freiburg. Neumann, Kiersten and Allison Thomason, ed. 2021. The Routledge Handbook of the Senses in the Ancient Near East. London: Routledge. Nünning, Ansgar. 2003. “Narratology or Narratologies? Taking Stock of Recent Developments, Critique, and Modest Proposals for Future Usages of the Term.” In What is Narratology? Questions and Answers Regarding the Status of a Theory, edited by Tom Kindt and Hans-Harald Müller, 239–277. Narratologia 1. Berlin: De Gruyter. Pearce, Laurie. 2010. “Materials of Writing and Materiality of Knowledge.” In Gazing on the Deep: Ancient Near Eastern and Other Studies in Honor of Tzvi Abush, edited by Jeffrey Stackert, Barbara Nevling Porter, and David. P. Wright, 167–179. Bethesda: cdl Press. Propp, Vladimir. 1968. Morphology of the Folktale. Translated by Laurence Scott. Austin: University of Texas Press. Reiner, Erica. 1985. Your Thwarts in Pieces, Your Mooring Ropes Cut: Poetry from Babylonia and Assyria. Michigan: Horace H. Rackham School of Graduate Studies at the University of Michigan. Šklovskij, Viktor. 1965. “Art as a Technique.” Translated by Lee T. Lemon and Marion J. Reis. In Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays, edited by Lee T. Lemon and Marion J. Reis, 3–24. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Steinkeller, Piotr. 1992. “Early Semitic Literature and Third Millennium Seals with Mythological Motifs.” In Literature and Language at Ebla, edited by Pelio Fronzaroli, 243–283. Quaderni di Semitistica 18. Firenze; Università di Firenze, Dipartimento di Linguistica.

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Taylor, Jon and Caroline Cartwright. 2011. “The Making and Re-Making of Clay Tablets.” Scienze dell’Antichità 17: 297–324. Thon, Jan-Nöel. 2016. Transmedial Narratology and Contemporary Media Culture. Lincoln, N.E.: University of Nebraska Press. The Times. 1872. “Chaldean History of the Deluge.” The Times, December 4, 1872. Tigay, Jeffrey H. 1982. The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Todorov, Tzvetan. 1969. Grammaire du Décaméron. The Hague: Mouton. Todorov, Tzvetan. 1975. The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre. Translated by Richard Howard. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Van de Mieroop, Marc. 1999. Cuneiform Texts and the Writing of History. London: Routledge. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1986. “Some Thoughts on Genre in Mesopotamian Literature.” In Keilschriftliche Literaturen: Ausgewähle Worträge der xxxii Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Münster 8.–12.7.1985, edited by K. Hecker and Walter Sommerfeld, 1–11. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1990. “The Craftmanship of Sîn-leqi-unninnī.” Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica 21: 45–79. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1992. “Enuma Elish as a Systematic Creed: An Essay.” Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica 23: 37–61. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1999. “The Use(s) of Genre in Mesopotamian Literature: An Afterthought.” Archiv Orientální 67: 703–717. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 2000. “‘I Can Put Anything in its Right Place’: Generic and Typological Studies for the Analysis and Evaluation of Mankind’s Oldest Literature.” In Aspects of Genre of and Type in Pre-Modern Literary Cultures, edited by Bert Roest and Fernand de Varennes, 79–99. comers Communications 1. Groningen: Styx Publications. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 2002. “Sanctus Lugalbanda.” In Riches Hidden in Secret Places: Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Memory of Thorkild Jacobsen, edited by Tzvi Abusch, 259–290. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Waerzeggers, Caroline. 2021. “Writing History Under Empire: The Babylonian Chronicle Reconsidered.” Journal of Ancient Near Eastern History 8, no. 1/2: 279–317. Wagner-Durand, Elisabeth and Julia Linke, ed. 2020. Tales of Royalty: Notions of Kingship in Visual and Textual Narration in the Ancient Near East. Berlin: De Gruyter. Wagner-Durand, Elisabeth. 2019. “Narration, Description, Reality: The Royal Lion Hunt in Assyria.” In Image–Narration–Context: Visual Narration in Cultures and Societies of the Old World, edited by Elisabeth Wagner-Durand, Barbara Fath, and Alexander Heinemann, 235–272. Freiburger Studienzur Archäologie und Visuellen Kultur 1. Freiburg: Institut für Archäologische Wissenschaften der Universität Freiburg.

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Wasserman, Nathan. 2020. The Flood: The Akkadian Sources; A New Edition, Commentary, and a Literary Discussion. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 290. Leuven: Peeters. Watanabe, Chikako E. 2004. “The ‘Continuous Style’ in the Narrative Scheme of Assurbanipal’s Reliefs.” Iraq 66: 103–114. Winter, Irene. 1981. “Royal Rhetoric and the Development of Historical Narrative in NeoAssyrian Reliefs.” Studies in Visual Communication 7: 2–38. Winter, Irene. 1985. “After the Battle is Over: The ‘Stele of the Vultures’ and the Beginning of Historical Narrative in the Ancient Near East.” Studies in the History of Art 16: 11–32. Winter, Irene. 2000. “Babylonian Archaeologists of the(ir) Mesopotamian Past.” In Proceedings of the First International Congress of the Archaeology of the Ancient Near East, Rome, May 18th–23rd 1998, edited by Paolo Matthiae, Alessandra Enea, Luca Peyronel, and Frances Pinnock, 1787–1800. Rome: la Sapienza. Wisnom, Selena. 2019. Weapons of Words: Intertextual Competition in Babylonian Poetry. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 106. Leiden: Brill. Worthington, Martin. 2011. “On Names and Artistic Unity in the Standard Version of the Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic.” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 21, no. 4: 403–420. Worthington, Martin. 2020. Ea’s Duplicity in the Gilgamesh Flood Story. London: Routledge. Zgoll, Annette. 2010. “monumentum aere perennius—Maerring und Ringkomposition im Gilgameš-Epos.” In Von Göttern und Menschen: Beiträge zu Literatur und Geschichte des Alten Orients; Festschrift für Brigitte Groneberg, edited by Dahlia Shehata, Frauke Weiershäuser, and Kamran V. Zand, 443–470. Cuneiform Monographs 41. Leiden: Brill.

part 1 Stitching a Story

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chapter 2

Recurrent Structures in the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle Alhena Gadotti

1

Introduction The plans are drawn at Enki’s place; The fates are allotted according to the gods’ decisions. From time immemorial, there has been wind. When did a person not hear from the mouth of their predecessors? They are above them, those kings … Above are the residences where they lived; [below] are their eternal abodes. […] were not built. […] those men were transformed. Where is Alulu, the king who reigned for 36,000 years? Where is Etana, the king who ascended to the heavens? Where is Gilgamesh, who, like Ziusudra, sought life? Where is Huwawa, who was seized into submission? Where is Enkidu, whose strength was not … in the country? Where are those kings, the vanguards of former days? (l. 1–14)1

So begins the Tale of the Early Rulers, a Mesopotamian story whose long textual history attests to its popularity from the Old Babylonian period (early second millennium bce) onwards.2 Its date of composition is unknown, but it was transmitted across the broader ancient Near East in the two main languages of the region, Sumerian and Akkadian. Its longevity and renown may be explained by its multilayered message—it is often classified as wisdom literature (typic-

1 This translation is based on the edition by Alster, 2005, 300–305, with references to previous literature; I follow the Sumerian text whenever possible. 2 For the Sumerian text, edition, and commentary, see Alster, 2005, 288–322, with previous literature.

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ally understood as documents conveying a universal moral teaching), though this label, like many others in the field of ancient Near Eastern studies, is reductive.3 The opening of the Tale of the Early Rulers neatly illustrates the themes explored in this chapter. First, the lines echo some of the underlying messages central to the stories about Gilgamesh: the setting of the scene in times immemorial; the role of the gods in everyday life; the importance of the past in shaping the present; and death, the eventual destiny of humankind. Second, as Alster noted, “[t]he whole text (…) consists of intertextual references, mostly to semi-mythological figures, or to proverbial wisdom.”4 As such, the composition exemplifies the interconnectedness of ancient Mesopotamian literary production.5 Finally, and more germanely to the present investigation, the authors of the Tale of the Early Rulers were keenly aware of the relations between Gilgamesh’s numerous adventures, as shown by the mention of traditional characters such as Ziusudra, Huwawa, and Enkidu.6 In this study, I explore the ways in which the Sumerian stories about Gilgamesh were deftly stitched together—to echo the title of this section of the volume—by scribes intent on creating a complex universe within which the stories about Gilgamesh could unfold. To do so, I provide an overview of the plotline of the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories, and revisit the extant evidence supporting the idea that these stories formed a cohesive work, which I have labeled the “Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle,” for which I provide a definition.7 This interpretation goes against the better known—and more widely accepted—view that these stories were composed and existed independently of each other.8 Finally, I examine two of several narratological devices that effectively tie these stories together, further demonstrating the cohesion of the tales: these include the role of locales and the use of mirroring scenes and characters.9 The chapter concludes that the stories about Gilgamesh were, already in their Sumerian ver-

3 Alster, 2005, 290–292. The title, A Tale of the Early Rulers, is used here for the sake of convenience, and is not meant to convey a generic classification of the text. The bibliography on wisdom literature is extensive; see Samet, 2020 for an up-to-date review with extensive references. 4 Alster, 2005, 294. 5 L. 11–12 of the Syro-Mesopotamian version in the edition by Alster, 2006, 314. 6 Mesopotamian literature is notoriously anonymous. This applies to all extant Sumerian stories about Gilgamesh, as well as to the Tale of the Early Rulers. 7 For further details, see Gadotti, 2014. 8 Gadotti, 2014. 9 Additional narrative strategies in the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle include the recurring use of traditional characters. Space constraints prevent their examination at this time.

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sion, an epic—specifically, an epic cycle. The analysis also adds to our modern understanding of the character Gilgamesh: as he journeys in the human and the divine realms where his adventures take place, as well as between these two spheres, the tension between the human and the divine parts of his identity is further developed, culminating in his death. As will be shown, the narrative features examined in this study went beyond the boundaries of a single text, anticipating the poetic mastery attributed to Sin-leqi-unnini, the editor of the Standard Babylon version of the Epic of Gilgamesh. Like this epic, the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories also display a ring structure, by which the mythical biography of the Urukean king is bookended by his experiences in the Land of the Dead and the role played by the Euphrates River in both Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld and the Death of Gilgamesh.

2

The Sumerian Gilgamesh Stories: An Overview

2.1 Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld (henceforth gen), which is preserved exclusively on Old Babylonian manuscripts, opens at the dawn of time.10 After An, Enlil, and Ereshkigal become gods of heaven, earth, and the afterlife respectively (l. 1–13), Enki, the Mesopotamian god of wisdom, undertakes a perilous journey on the Euphrates River to the netherworld. This trip affects the land of the living, to which the story then moves (l. 14–26). Along the Euphrates, the goddess Inana, patron deity of the city of Uruk, happens upon a halub-tree, which she rescues and tends (l. 27–40). The tree, however, is soon infested, and Inana’s pleas for help to the sun god Utu go unanswered (l. 50–90), but Gilgamesh helps Inana regain control of the tree (l. 91–143). Afterwards, Gilgamesh commissions a bed and a chair for Inana and a ball and stick for himself from the tree’s wood; and, with these playthings, forces his citizens to play an endless game (l. 144–160). When these objects fall into the netherworld, Enkidu, Gilgamesh’s servant, goes to retrieve them, becomes trapped there, and gains safe passage back to Uruk with Enki’s and Utu’s assistance (l. 161–243).11 Enkidu then relays to Gilgamesh what he saw in the netherworld, prompted by Gilgamesh’ incessant questions about the fate of various individuals (l. 244–306 and variants). The version of the story found in Nippur ends somewhat abruptly with the fate of the man who went up in smoke. The Ur version of the story 10 11

The most recent critical edition is Gadotti, 2014; see also the review by Attinger, 2015. In gen, Enkidu is alive, and not dead, when he returns from his journey to the netherworld. For discussion and evidence see Gadotti 2014, 83–91.

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depicts Gilgamesh and Enkidu’s return to Uruk, where Gilgamesh seems to set up a funerary cult for his parents, and ends with praise to Gilgamesh. According to the Meturan version, however, Gilgamesh is so appalled by humankind’s destiny in the afterlife that he decides to turn his attention to the land of the living (Meturan version, Mt2, l. 27–29), which is where the next story in the cycle begins. 2.2 Gilgamesh and Huwawa, Versions A and B Two versions of Gilgamesh and Huwawa exist (henceforth gh A and gh B), both preserved only on Old Babylonian tablets, and both pitting Gilgamesh and Enkidu against the guardian of the Cedar Forest, Huwawa.12 In order to establish eternal fame for himself, after having learned about the fate of humankind in the afterlife, Gilgamesh decides to travel to the Cedar Forest to cut down a tree. Because the deed is perilous, Enkidu suggests that Gilgamesh ask Utu for assistance (l. 1–33).13 Utu provides him with seven warriors who will guide him in the upcoming journey (l. 34–60). After having crossed seven mountain ranges (l. 61–62 and variants), Gilgamesh, who is also accompanied by Enkidu and a group of young men from Uruk, finds a suitable tree, which he fells (l. 63–66). This disturbs Huwawa, who launches an attack, swiftly defeating Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and their companions (l. 67–70). Enkidu attempts to dissuade Gilgamesh from further action, but Gilgamesh is confident in his valor and strength and proceeds with his plan (l. 71–119). Gilgamesh and Enkidu approach Huwawa, who warns them off. Undeterred, Gilgamesh manages to trick Huwawa by promising him that he will make his name renowned; he also offers his eldest sister, Enmebaragesi, as a wife and his youngest sister, Peshtur, as a junior wife, in exchange for Huwawa’s auras of power (l. 120– 144). As Huwawa despoils himself of the auras, he receives gifts from Gilgamesh while the young Urukeans cut down the tree (l. 145–149). A final confrontation ensues (l. 150–174), during which Gilgamesh and Enkidu debate about letting Huwawa go. Enkidu is merciless and, in a fit of rage, kills Huwawa, even as 12

13

Edzard, 1990 and 1991, is still the standard critical edition of gh A, while Edzard, 1993, is that of gh B. This is not the place to discuss the similarities, differences, and relation between the two compositions, which seem to have been understood by ancient scribes as independent poems. As George, 2003, 11, points out, “a major difference is one of plot”, since Gilgamesh appears more fearful of the confrontation with Huwawa in gh B. Civil, 2003 provides insight into some of the composition’s most complex passages. For the sake of convenience, this summary focuses on gh A. The relation between the Meturan ending of gen and the opening lines of gh A has been discussed elsewhere and will be reviewed below. See Gadotti, 2014, 88–90 and 104, with references to previous literature.

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the creature pleads for his life (l. 175–179). Afterward, Gilgamesh and Enkidu carry the decapitated head of Huwawa before the gods Enlil and Ninlil, and are harshly scolded by Enlil, who proclaims that Huwawa’s destiny was to be Gilgamesh’s comrade (l. 180–192). Finally, Enlil redistributes Huwawa’s seven auras by giving them to different beings, after which the composition ends praising Gilgamesh (l. 193–202). 2.3 Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven (henceforth gbh) is a poorly preserved composition detailing Gilgamesh’s conflict with Inana.14 It is attested on one Ur iii tablet and several Old Babylonian manuscripts. Its placement after gh in the cycle is based on the plot of the Standard Babylonian version of the Epic of Gilgamesh, where the story of the Bull of Heaven is narrated after Gilgamesh’s confrontation with Humbaba, the Akkadian version of Huwawa. gbh opens with a hymnic prologue celebrating Gilgamesh’s might in battle, after which the king of Uruk converses with his mother, Ninsumun. She advises Gilgamesh to carry out his kingly duties, which are listed in a fragmentary passage, and he begins to do so before being interrupted by Inana. The goddess tries to entice Gilgamesh with gifts that would ostensibly prevent him from completing his duties. Ninsumun advises Gilgamesh not to accept them, and Gilgamesh complies with his mother’s suggestion. This enrages Inana, who demands from An, her father, that she be allowed to release the Bull of Heaven to kill Gilgamesh. An is reluctant but ultimately agrees. Inana leads the Bull of Heaven to Uruk, where she allows it to wreak havoc among the people. At court, Gilgamesh is informed of these developments by his minstrel, Lugalgabagal, while feasting. Gilgamesh is initially dismissive of the warnings, but at Lugalgabagal’s prodding, he dons his weapons and ultimately manages to defeat the bull with the assistance of Enkidu and other warriors. The carcass of the bull is then apportioned between different people, with the horns manufactured into flasks to be used in Inana’s temple for libations. The composition ends by praising Inana.

14

The textual history of this composition is complex. Cavigneaux and al-Rawi, 1993, reconstructed two texts, a Nippur version and a Meturan version. George, 1999, combined the two, interpreting the two traditions as a single narrative. More recently, Klein and Sefati, 2020, have highlighted the differences between the Nippur and Meturan versions. For the purposes of the present study, one version is assumed; line numbers are not given due the difficulty of reconstructing a single composite text.

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2.4 Gilgamesh and Agga The position of Gilgamesh and Agga (henceforth ga) in the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle is pure guesswork.15 This story was not incorporated in the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh, and it is preserved exclusively on Old Babylonian manuscripts. ga is a short poem describing a conflict between Agga, king of Kish, and Gilgamesh, king of Uruk, which results in Uruk’s hegemony over Kish. The poem opens in medias res with emissaries from Kish visiting Gilgamesh’s court and demanding Uruk’s surrender (l. 1–7). Gilgamesh asks the elders’ and the young men’s assemblies of Uruk for advice. The elders advise in favor of surrender, while the young men vote for war, with the latter prevailing (l. 8–42). Gilgamesh readies for conflict as Agga lays siege to his city, and orders that one of his men volunteer to confuse Agga. Birhurturra offers his services and leaves the city (l. 51–62) but is immediately captured and beaten. As the steward of Uruk appears on Uruk’s city walls, Agga notices him and interrogates Birhurturra, asking him if that man is Gilgamesh. Birhurturra replies that he is not, claiming that if Gilgamesh were there, Agga would be swiftly defeated. The statement earns him another beating (l. 63–83). Gilgamesh himself then ascends to the city walls as his troops ready for battle. Meanwhile, Enkidu leaves the city to face Agga, who interrogates him too as to the identity of the man on the ramparts, and Enkidu confirms that the person is indeed Gilgamesh (l. 84–90). As Birhurturra had anticipated, Agga and his army find themselves overwhelmed and defeated (l. 91–99). Gilgamesh, however, spares Agga’s life, presumably to repay an old debt (l. 100–112). The composition ends, as abruptly as it began, with praise to Gilgamesh, lord of Kulaba (l. 113–114). 2.5 The Death of Gilgamesh The final Sumerian Gilgamesh story has not been much studied until recently.16 The discovery of four manuscripts at Tell Haddad (ancient Meturan) and the subsequent publication of the critical edition of The Death of Gilgamesh (henceforth dg) have allowed scholars to examine the structure of the composition, but comprehensive studies are still lacking.17 The following discussion is primarily based on Veldhuis’ reconstruction of the narrative.18

15 16 17 18

The critical edition is still Römer, 1980. See also the important review by Cooper, 1981; and the studies by Katz, 1987 and 1993; and Wilcke, 1998. Reedited in light of the discoveries at Meturan by Cavigneaux and al-Rawi, 2000, this text has also been studied extensively by Veldhuis, 2001. Cavigneaux and Al-Rawi, 2000. Veldhuis, 2001.

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dg opens with Gilgamesh on his deathbed (l. 1–18). While asleep, Gilgamesh dreams about his upcoming fate. The gods have convened to establish his destiny: despite his many achievements, and the fact that he is the son of the goddess Ninsumun, Gilgamesh must die.19 The description of the dream takes up most of the composition (l. 45–139) and once Gilgamesh awakes, the dream comes true (l. 140–217?). Ur-lugal, Gilgamesh’ son, builds a tomb for his deceased father by diverting the course of the Euphrates river (l. 235–260), thus allowing Gilgamesh to reach the afterlife safely (l. 260–end).

3

The “Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle”

There is ample evidence that at least five of the six extant stories about Gilgamesh (provisionally counting gb a and B as separate texts), mostly preserved on manuscripts from the Old Babylonian period, were conceived of as an epic cycle. Before reviewing the evidence, it is however necessary to define this label once again. As I explained elsewhere, defining epic and epic cycle is a notoriously challenging endeavor, complicated by the lack of Mesopotamian terminology and genre discourse.20 Nevertheless, by drawing upon a large body of scholarship pertaining to the Greek Epic Cycle, I settled on a definition of Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle that can be useful in the investigation of ancient literary texts.21 Specifically, I argued that the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle consisted of a series of individual tales related to each other on the base of their content and their overall structure, which in itself forms a ring.22 The evidence can be briefly summarized as follows:23 first, the cosmological prologue that opens gen also functions as a prologue for the entire Sumerian

19

20 21 22 23

Ninsumun, the “Lady of the Wild Cows”, was a minor deity in the Sumerian pantheon, primarily known as the mother of Gilgamesh. For her worship and attestations in Mesopotamian documents, see Wilcke, 1998–2001. Gadotti, 2014, 93–94. Ibid. 94–95. Ibid. 95–96 for further discussion. The following is a summary of the arguments first presented in Gadotti, 2014. ga continues to be elusive—an oddity in the broader landscape of the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories. This composition has attracted the attention of scholars for various reasons: it is the shortest of the Sumerian stories about Gilgamesh; it seems to make reference to actual historical practices (though see Cooper, 1981, 228–230; and Katz, 1987 and 1993, 11–14, for a critique of this approach); it mentions no divine intervention (see Katz, 1993, 4); and some of its sections remain obscure, despite the good state of preservation of the extant manuscripts (see e.g. Cooper, 1981).

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Gilgamesh Cycle; second, the presence of doxologies and colophons in the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories need not be taken as evidence against the cycle, but rather as a scribal cataloguing tool, which continued to be used also for the Epic of Gilgamesh—a composition which nobody would argue does not form a cohesive whole, and which does employ colophons. Third, the ending of gen according to the Ur tradition is a logical narrative precedent for the events narrated in gh A and B.24 The Meturan catchphrase confirms this point by directly linking gen and gh A. Furthermore, dg lists Gilgamesh’s deeds in a sequence that suggests an awareness that the Sumerian stories about Gilgamesh belonged together.25 Finally, Old Babylonian scribes were clearly copying the Sumerian Gilgamesh Stories at the same time as they were studying the Old Babylonian version of the Epic of Gilgamesh. In other words, at least in Nippur, scribes copied and studied stories about Gilgamesh at roughly the same time as they began composing—or copying—Akkadian stories about Gilgamesh, which they understood to be a series. It is therefore likely that the existence of a Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle ultimately inspired the creation of an Old Babylonian Akkadian Epic of Gilgamesh, from which Sin-leqi-unnini drew much of his material. This brief summary suggests that already in the Old Babylonian period— and most likely since as early as the Ur iii period26—Mesopotamian scribes

24

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Specifically, having realized the abysmal destiny of many ghosts in the netherworld, some of which result from a lack of funerary rites, Gilgamesh sets up proper rites for his parents and then turns his attention to the land of the living to establish an enduring fame for himself. dg ll. 52–60 and parallels read as follows: inim-ba ḫar-ra-an di-id-bi-a a-na-àm mea-bi / ĝišerin ĝiš dili kur-bi ga-an-e-dè / dḫu-wa-wa tir-bi-ta saĝ ĝiš ra-ra-za / na-dù-a ud ul-lá-šè me-gub-gub-gu-uš me-da ud-šè / é diĝir-re-e-ne ki ĝar-ĝara-ba zi-ud-sù-ta!-aš ki-bi-a saĝ im-ma-ni-ti / me ki-en-gi-ra-ke4 / ki ud-ba ḫala-me-eš-«sa» ud ul-li-šè / á áĝ-ĝá bi-lu-da10 kalam-ma-aš im-ta-a-ni / šu-luḫ ka-luḫ […] si mu-un-si-sá-e, “With regards to this matter: after you travelled all the extant roads, / after you brought down the cedar tree, the unique tree, from its mountain, / after you killed Huwawa in his forest, / they set up steles for future days, for days to come. / After you founded the temples of the gods, / you reached Ziusudra in his abode. After you brought down to the land the mes (sacred ordinances) of Sumer, which up to that time had been forgotten forever, / and the regulations and the rituals of the homeland, / you properly instituted the hand-washing and the mouth-washing (ceremonies).” The existence of at least one manuscript of gbh from the Ur iii dynasty strongly suggests that the process began during this period. The rulers of the Ur iii dynasty, in particular Shulgi, often highlighted their connection to the kings of Uruk (since the city was most likely their ancestral home) and especially to Gilgamesh, whom Shulgi depicted as his own brother (see e.g., Shulgi O).

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had collected Sumerian stories about Gilgamesh and organized them into their equivalent of an epic cycle.27 The narratological strategies discussed below further strengthen this argument.

4

The Narratological Strategies

Numerous narratological strategies were employed by the Mesopotamian scribes to ensure that the audience did not lose sight of the cohesion of the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories. In this chapter, I cannot present a full discussion of all of them; what follows is instead meant to be a point of departure for a more comprehensive discussion of the topic in the future.28 4.1 Locales The Sumerian Gilgamesh stories unfold in three major locales: the city of Uruk, which also plays a primary role in the Epic of Gilgamesh—and not discussed here due to space constraints; the Land of the Dead, which bookends the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle, appearing in gen and dg; and the river Euphrates, which similarly bookends the cycle, while also serving as a point of transition between the planes of existence that made up the Mesopotamian universe. These locales serve two main narrative functions. First, recurrent locales, and their position both in individual compositions and across the various stories, highlight how the numerous threads of the texts were woven together. Second, the recurring transitions between divine and human spheres bring out the inherent conflict that the character of Gilgamesh encapsulates, namely the incompatibility between immortality and the human experience: though born of a goddess, Gilgamesh must die, as dg reminds us (l. 78–79).29 To illustrate these two points, a few select examples are discussed below.

27 28

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I discuss the applicability of the label “epic cycle” to the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories in Gadotti, 2014, 93–99. The role of recurring traditional characters such as Enki and Utu, and the centrality of Uruk as a luxurious urban space—especially in contrast to the wilderness of the Cedar Forest—should not be underestimated. Equally important is the fact that, in the Sumerian stories, Gilgamesh moves between the three Mesopotamian realms—the land of the living, the land of the dead, and the world of the gods—thereby allowing the audience to experience and participate in each realm through Gilgamesh’s eyes. It is not surprising that the rulers of the Ur iii dynasty are believed by modern scholars to have been responsible for the “creation” of these stories. Shulgi and his three successors, Amar-Suena, Shu-Suena and Ibbi-Sin, claimed to be living gods, and they were therefore forced to reconcile the ideological contradiction between their divinity with their mortal-

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4.1.1 The Netherworld One of the most important locales in Gilgamesh’s mythical biography is the Land of Dead, which is governed by the goddess Ereshkigal. Direct and indirect references to the netherworld are found in two Sumerian Gilgamesh stories: gen, which in the present reconstruction opens the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle, and dg, which brings the cycle to its logical conclusion. Before examining how the netherworld operates on the macro-level of the cycle, I would be remiss if I did not emphasize that the netherworld also functions on the micro-level of the story as a unifying element in gen itself. The Land of the Dead appears in the prologue of the composition, which describes the creation and organization of the universe (l. 1–13) and details a specific episode concerning the netherworld that involves the Sumerian god of wisdom, Enki (l. 14–26). After disappearing from the composition for almost two hundred lines—a section that is held together by another of gen’s narrative “stitches,” the halub-tree—the netherworld reappears indirectly, through a hymnic interlude celebrating its queen, Ereshkigal (l. 200–205). Finally, the loss of the ball and stick that Gilgamesh manufactured out of the halub-tree prompts Enkidu’s journey to the netherworld (l. 177–180), and subsequent report on its decrees (l. 255–end). More importantly for the present investigation, however, the netherworld provides the Gilgamesh Cycle with a ring structure, meaning that the Land of the Dead plays a role analogous to the walls of Uruk in the Standard Babylonian version of the Epic of Gilgamesh.30 The cycle opens with a mythological prologue describing the organization of the world, as well as Enki’s dangerous journey to the netherworld by a river: ud an-né an ba-an-de6-a-ba den-líl-le ki ba-an-de6-a-ba dereš-ki-gal-la-ra kur-ra saĝ-rig7-bi-šè im-ma-ab-rig7-a-ba ba-u5-a-ba ba-u5-a-ba a-a kur-šè ba-u5-a-ba den-ki kur-šè ba-u5-a-ba lugal-ra tur-tur ba-an-da-ri den-ki-ra gal-gal ba-an-da-ri

30

ity. The character Gilgamesh, with whom they claimed kinship, was a perfect vehicle for this ideological discourse; see Michalowski, 2012. Extensively discussed by Tigay, 2002, the ring structure of the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh has often been revisited by later scholars; see, e.g., George 2003, 90–91; Dickson, 2009; Zgoll, 2010, and Sophus Helle in this volume.

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tur-tur-bi na4 šu-kam gal-gal-bi na4 gi gu4-ud-da-kam úr ĝišmá tur-re den-ki-ga-ke4 níĝ-bún-na du7-àm ì-šú-šú lugal-ra a ĝišmá saĝ-ĝá-ke4 ur-bar-ra-gin7 téš mu-na-gu7-e den-ki-ra a ĝišmá egir-ra-ke4 ur-maḫ-gin7 saĝ ĝiš im-ra-ra When An carried off the heaven, and Enlil carried off the earth, and, as for the Netherworld, they had bestowed it upon Ereshkigal as a dowry: When he had embarked, when he had embarked, when the father had embarked for the Netherworld, when Enki had embarked for the Netherworld, against the king the small ones were thrown, against Enki the large ones were thrown. Those small ones were (like) hammers, those large ones were (like) reed-crushing stones: the keel, the small boat, that of Enki, they covered; it was (like) thrusting turtles. Against the king, the water at the bow of the boat was proudly devouring it like a wolf. Against Enki, the water at the stern of the boat was mangling it like a lion. (l. 11–26)31 From this passage it emerges that the extant Sumerian Gilgamesh narratives open at the dawn of time and immediately focuses on the netherworld. The prologue of gen also situates the beginning of the story in the divine realm— where Gilgamesh’s life ultimately ends, as we shall see. While the purpose of Enki’s otherworldly journey is not made clear,32 the lines alert the reader to the central role that the netherworld plays not only in gen but, more importantly, in the cycle as a whole. Furthermore, they tie the opening of the cycle to its end, which comes in dg. As summarized above, the plot of dg revolves around Gilgamesh’s dream that foreshadows his death, as well as the resolution of the

31 32

Eclectic text and translation after Gadotti, 2014. See Gadotti, 2014, 14–21, for possible interpretations of this passage.

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dream. The final part of dg depicts the aftermath of Gilgamesh’s death: Urlugal, Gilgamesh’s son, builds a tomb for his father by diverting the course of the Euphrates River, after which Gilgamesh reaches the afterlife safely. Although the end of dg is not well preserved, this reconstruction seems to be confirmed by both the Meturan and the Nippur versions of the story. One manuscript from Nippur gives us some insight into the sequence of events:33 dgilgameš dumu dnin-sumun2-ka dereš-ki-gal-la-šè igi-du8-bi ba-an-lá dnam-tar kadra-bi ba-an-lá ddìm-pi-kug u6 /di\ ba-an-lá Gilgamesh, the son of Ninsumun, set out these audience-gifts for Ereshkigal, he set out these presents for Namtar. He set out these surprises for Dimpikug. (l. 8–11)34 A manuscript from Meturan further states that:35 […] en dgilgameš /ur-ra-a-ni\ ba-hul šag4-ga-a-ni ba-sàg nam-lú-ùlu níĝ-ĝá-a mu-un-sa4-a-ba alan-bi ud ul-la-ta ba-dím-dím é diĝir-re-e-ne zag-šè ĝar-ĝar-ra mu-bi dug4-dug4-ga nam-ba-e-da-ha-la-me-eš … dereš-ki-gal ama dnin-a-zu-ke4 zà-mí-zu dùg-ga […] Lord Gilgamesh rejoiced, he was delighted. Humankind, as many as are named, their statues have been fashioned since times immemorial,

33 34 35

Reconstruction and translation follow Veldhuis, 2001, 145–146; the translation has been slightly modified. Additional gods and religious officials are then listed as the recipients of Gilgamesh’s offerings. Reconstruction and translation follow Veldhuis, 2001, 145–146; the translation has been slightly modified.

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and established in chapels in the temples of the gods, so that their names, read aloud, shall not be forgotten. … Ereshkigal, mother of Ninazu, your praise is sweet! (l. 296–305) The final section of dg highlights the connection between proper funerary rites and a felicitous destiny in the afterlife—a lesson that Gilgamesh learned from Enkidu’s report about the condition of the spirits in the Land of the Dead.36 More to the point, it connects the end of Gilgamesh’s life-story to its beginning, by focusing on the realm of the dead, a place from which Gilgamesh spent most of his life trying to escape and in which he eventually came to reside and rule as a judge. 4.1.2 The Euphrates River The second locale that illustrates the interconnectedness of the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories is the Euphrates River. It operates on a macro-level—by providing cohesion to the entire cycle—as well as on a micro-level—by creating continuity within the individual stories. Like a snake slithering through the sand, the river moves across locales—including the netherworld and Uruk—thereby winding through different moments of Gilgamesh’s mythical biography and providing it with unity. The Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle begins and ends by focusing not only on the netherworld, but also on the Euphrates River, which functions as a vehicle moving the story forward. In gen, the river on which Enki undertakes his trip to the netherworld is most likely the Euphrates, as shown by the cosmic displacement triggered by Enki’s journey, which disturbs the halub-tree:37 ud-bi-a ĝiš diš-àm ĝišḫa-lu-úb diš-àm ĝiš diš-àm ĝištaskarin diš-àm gú ídburanun-na kug-ga-ka dù-a-bi ídburanun-na a na8-na8-da-bi á u18-lu úr-ba mu-ni-in-bur12 pa-ba mu-ni-in-suḫ ídburanun-na a im-ma-ni-ib-ra

36 37

Gadotti, 2014, 121–128. Gadotti, 2014, 14–21.

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At that time, there was a solitary tree, a solitary halub-tree, a solitary tree, a solitary boxwood tree, which had been planted on the bank of the pure Euphrates, which was drinking from the Euphrates. The might of the South Wind pulled out its roots and tore off its branches, the Euphrates beat water against it. (l. 27–31) The rationale for the presence of this river at the beginning of the story is clear. Not only does the journey of Enki to the Netherworld anticipate Enkidu’s travels described later in the composition.38 In addition, it further emphasizes the on-going negotiation among the different plans of existence that is an inherent part of the character “Gilgamesh”. Within the context of gen, the Euphrates connects the realm where the gods live and act—represented by Enki—with the realm of the living—where the halub-tree and Gilgamesh reside—and the realm of the dead—Enki’s destination. These three realms are fundamental to our understanding of Gilgamesh’s life, motivations, and role within Mesopotamian society as a liminal figure partaking at the same time of different identities: human king of Uruk and divine netherworld judge. The Euphrates River also plays a central role at the end of dg, as mentioned above. After Gilgamesh’s death his son, Ur-lugal, arranges a funeral and a tomb fit for a legendary king: en-e iriki-na-a zìg-ga ba-/ni\-du8 niĝir-e kur-kur-ra si gù ba-/ni\-ra unugki zìg-ga id2burununx-na kál bí-/in\-taka4 kul-aba4 ki z ì g-ga id2burununx-na a è-a unugki zìg-ga-a-bi a-ma-ru-kam kul-aba4 zìg-ga-a-bi dungu mu-un-ĝar-ra-àm murub4-ba itid 1-kam ba-ra-an-zal? ud nu-5-àm ud nu-10-àm id2burununx-na ĝál bi-in-taka4 a-ú-bi ba-an-è iškilala-bi dutu u6 dag di-dè ud-bi-a murub4 id2burununx-na-kam a-bi ba-da-zìg? ki-mah-bi na4 ba-da-an-du

38

Ibid. 21.

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The lord (i.e., Ur-lugal) raised a levy in his city, the herald sounded the horn in all the land. Levied Uruk opened the Euphrates, levied Kulaba emptied the Euphrates of water.39 The levy of Uruk was a deluge! The levy of Kulaba was a cloud! The middle of the month had passed by— five days had not passed, ten days had not passed— (before) they opened the Euphrates, emptied it of water, so that its shells could admire the sun. Then, in the middle of the Euphrates, its water was gone! He built this tomb of stone (…). (Meturan version, l. 239–250)40 A detailed description of Gilgamesh’s tomb follows, after which the text breaks off. It is, however, evident that the bed of the Euphrates is refilled so that the tomb disappears from view, forever hidden in the deep waters of the river. It is likely that the river burial here represents the riverine journey to the netherworld that is also attested in other Mesopotamian literary sources.41 The Euphrates River, therefore, bookends the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories just as the netherworld does; similarly to how the walls of Uruk provide the Standard Babylonian version of the Epic of Gilgamesh with a ring structure. The centrality of the river to Gilgamesh’s biography is further emphasized by one more appearance, also in association with death, in gh A. gh A opens with Gilgamesh’s decision to turn towards the land of the living “in order to establish [his] name here” (l. 6). He communicates this desire to his servant, Enkidu, who advises him to inform Utu, the sun god, of his plan, so as to gain the god’s support and assistance. Gilgamesh follows Enkidu’s suggestion, and further elaborates on his motive for seeking eternal fame:42 iriki-ĝá lú ba-úš šag4 ba-sìg lú ú-gu ba-an-dé šà-ĝu10 ba-an-gig bàd-da gú-ĝá im-ma-an-lá

39

40 41 42

The editors of the Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature prefer to render these lines in an imperative mood: “Unug, arise! Open up the Euphrates! Kulaba, arise! Divert the waters of the Euphrates!”, but the syntax does not seem to support this. Translation adapted from Veldhuis, 2001, 145. Horowitz, 1998, 353–358. For a discussion of this passage, see Taylor, 2010.

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ad6 íd íb-dirig-ge igi im-ma-an-sì ù ĝe26-e ur5-gin7 nam-ba-ak-e ur5-šè hé-me-a “In my city a man dies, and the heart is stricken, a man perishes, and my heart feels pain. I raised my head on the rampart, a corpse in the water was floating down the river—that is what I saw. I shall also become like that, just like that I shall be.” (l. 23–27) Jonathan Taylor has convincingly demonstrated that this passage is not about Gilgamesh’s fear of death per se, but about Gilgamesh’s fear of anonymity.43 Be that as it may, Gilgamesh’s realization comes from his observation of a corpse— or perhaps several corpses—floating in the river. Although Gilgamesh does not directly refer to the Euphrates, it is not far-fetched to suggest that this is the river he is contemplating as he considers humankind’s destiny from the top of Uruk’s ramparts. While brief, the present discussion has shown the skillful ways in which the Mesopotamian authors of the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle used locales to stitch together the individual stories about Gilgamesh. The locales, however, also operate on another level: they illustrate the careful negotiation between the human and divine worlds that allowed the Mesopotamian scribes to reflect on Gilgamesh’s ambiguous nature: he is a man born of a goddess; he is a god who must die. 4.1.3 Divine vs. Human Realms The transition between the divine and human realms permeates all but one of the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories—ga is the exception. As noted above, gen opens in a mythical realm, populated only by gods and seemingly outside of human space and time; and then transitions to the human world through the route of the Euphrates. The episode of the ballgame is entirely set in the human realm, but when the ball and the stick fall into the Netherworld, the action returns to the divine realm, specifically the Land of the Dead, which is ruled by the goddess Ereshkigal. While the Nippur version of the story maintains the focus on the divine realm through to the end, the Meturan and Ur versions shift the focus back to the human sphere—especially in the Ur version, which depicts Gilgamesh back in Uruk.44

43 44

See Taylor, 2010, 352–356; and Gadotti, 2014, 89–90. Gadotti, 2014. In this chiastic scheme, there is a clear connection between the beginning

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The shifts back and forth between the divine and human realms continue in gh. The story follows a logical progression of events and does not share the seemingly (though only seemingly) disjoined structure of gen and ga,45 and the plot moves across several changes in locale. It begins in the human realm, in Uruk, where Gilgamesh ponders his mortality while looking at the Euphrates. It then moves to a liminal area, the Cedar Forest, where Huwawa,46 who is beloved of the god Enlil and apparently immortal, resides.47 This is a world in which human presence is unwelcome, though not completely forbidden, as shown by Gilgamesh’s interaction with the guardian of the forest. From the Cedar Forest the action returns to Uruk, where it comes to an end in the presence of the god Enlil.48 In gh, the structure of the composition is thus flipped with respect to gen. Whereas gen moves from the mythical plane to the human plane and back, in gh the movement is human–mythical–human. One wonders whether this was a deliberate choice on the part of the scribes. Following the transitions between human and divine realms in gbh is more challenging, due to its poor state of preservation. However, after her confrontation with Gilgamesh, the goddess Inana travels from Uruk to the abode of the gods to talk with her father, An, and back again to Uruk to lead the Bull of Heaven to destroy the city. Here, then, the sequence echoes that of gh: from

45

46 47

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of the composition, which recounts an episode in the Netherworld (l. 14–26), and its end, where the decrees of the Netherworld are laid out (l. 255–end); with the middle of the text (l. 27–254) revolving around the halub-tree. Similarly, the chiastic structure allows for a shift in focus from the mythical realm to Uruk, emphasizing the two main representatives of this city: its patron goddess, Inana, and its most renowned king, Gilgamesh. In the case of gh, scholars have not felt the need to justify its internal coherence at all, since it is self-evident. More problematic is the relation between the two versions of gh, a topic which cannot be investigated here. Civil, 2003, 77, may have been right to postulate that “[a]s a living folktale, gh was constantly changing and this is reflected in its textual complexity.” For Huwawa/Humbaba, see George, 2003, 144–147; and Graff, 2012. According to the Sumerian stories, the Cedar Forest is firmly situated to the east of Uruk; see e.g., George 2003, 93, with bibliography. According to the various Akkadian versions of the Epic of Gilgamesh, the forest lies to the north-west of the city, specifically in what is today Lebanon: see George 2001, who offers a plausible explanation for this change in location. The fact that the location of the Cedar Forest may have been rooted in the historical realities of the Mesopotamian scribes does not prevent us from identifying it as a liminal zone and a domain of the gods: Enlil, after all, tasked a powerful guardian with protecting this region from human incursion. The end of the Sumerian version of the story is badly preserved, but it is generally assumed that Gilgamesh and Enkidu returned to Uruk, where they then confront the Bull of Heaven.

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the human to the mythical and back. However, a more in-depth discussion of gbh must wait until the reconstruction of the poem improves. In ga, as in gen, gh, and gbh, locales provide thematic cohesion, but in this case the action does not oscillate between human and mythical realms. Rather, the narrative is set in Uruk throughout, meaning that at first glance, ga does not display the fluidity of locales found in the other Sumerian Gilgamesh stories. However, a closer look reveals a subtle shift between two locales: inside Uruk—specifically within and on its city walls—and outside Uruk, where the Kish army is laying siege. More broadly, this shift creates a contrast between Uruk and not-Uruk, or Us and Them. In dg, locales operate on at least two levels. Strictly speaking, the events of the poem all take place in Uruk. Gilgamesh falls ill in Uruk;49 Gilgamesh dreams about the destiny that the gods have decreed for him in Uruk; Gilgamesh dies in Uruk; and Gilgamesh is buried in Uruk. However, in one sense the story does follow Gilgamesh as he journeys from the human realm to that of the gods—in his dreams. There, he can view, though not participate in, the assembly of the gods. He then wakes up in the human realm, where his dream is interpreted and where he dies. Finally, dg depicts Gilgamesh’s journey to the Land of the Dead, which also belongs to the divine sphere and in which Gilgamesh becomes a netherworld god. In dg, the reader thus follows Gilgamesh from life to death, reversing the journey undertaken in gen by Enki and Enkidu, both of whom return from the netherworld to the land of the living. What is remarkable about the alternation between human and divine realms that characterizes the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories is how closely it reflects the internal conflict that lies at the heart of the character Gilgamesh: he is of two worlds, as he is born of a goddess, but he is also tragically human, destined to die despite his divinity. In the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories, the inherent ambivalence of this figure is therefore amplified by the strategic use of locales. 4.2 Mirroring The use of narrative mirroring across individual poems provides further evidence for the existence of a coherent Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle. By using such elements as recurring secondary characters and other background elements, including the repetition of stock phrases, the authors of the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories further strengthened the interconnectedness of the stories, while also allowing each narrative to stand on its own. A few examples will suffice to illustrate this point.

49

The causes of Gilgamesh’s illness are not given.

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When it comes to secondary characters, it is not surprising to find Utu, the sun god, often aiding Gilgamesh in his deeds. As the god of justice who sees all that happens on earth, and who is often depicted as helpful to humankind, the sun god is ideally suited to lend assistance to the king of Uruk.50 More puzzling is the relation between Gilgamesh and the royal house of Kish, represented in the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle by three characters: Agga, king of Kish; Enmebaragesi, king of Kish and father of Agga but also Gilgamesh’s sister; and Peshtur, sister to Gilgamesh and Enmebaragesi. Agga appears only in ga, where he is identified as the son of Enmebaragesi (l. 1), and it is therefore difficult to ascertain what role—if any—he played in the cohesion of the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories. However, the conclusion of ga does evoke a seemingly well-known relation between Agga and Gilgamesh that is lost to modern readers. Gilgamesh addresses Agga as follows: ag-ga ag-ga ag-ga ag-ga ag-ga

ugula-ĝu10 ag-ga nu-banda3-ĝu10 ensi2-ĝu10 ag-ga šagina-ĝu10 zi ma-an-šúm ag-ga nam-tìl ma-an-šúm lú-kar-ra úr-ra bí-in-túm-mu mušen kar-ra še bí-ib-si-si

“Agga, my overseer, Agga, my captain, Agga, my governor, Agga my general, Agga gave me breath, Agga gave me life; Agga accepted a fugitive in his embrace, Agga provided a fleeing bird with grain.” (l. 102–106) This section suggests that Agga once held a position of authority vis-à-vis Gilgamesh and aided him in a time of crisis. One might postulate the existence of a now lost story clarifying the origins of the complex relation between the royal houses of Uruk and Kish, and it is possible that the figures of Enmebaragesi and Peshtur belong to this tradition. The situation of Enmebaragesi is more complex, since this figure appears in Mesopotamian literature not only as the father of Agga and the king of Kish,51

50 51

For an overview of the sun god’s role in cuneiform cultures, see Krebernik, 2011. See ga, l. 1, as mentioned above. For Agga as son of Enmebaragesi, see also his entry in the Sumerian King List, l. 87–88. For Enmebaragesi as the king of Kish, see the same composition, l. 83–89: “Enmebaragesi, who forced the land of Elam to submit, became king. He ruled for 900 years” (en-me-en-barag-ge-si / lú ma-da elamki-ma / ĝeštukul-bi íb-ta-an-gam / lugal-àm mu 900 ì-ak). For a review of Enmebaragesi’s position in the

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but also, confusingly, as Gilgamesh’ sister. In the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle, she appears in this role in gh A, when Gilgamesh offers her hand in marriage to Huwawa:52 zi ama ugu-ĝu10 dnin-sumun2-ka a-a-ĝu10 kug dlugal-bàn-da kur-ra tuš-a-zu ba-ra-zu kur-ra tuš-a-zu hé-zu-àm en-me-barag2-ge4-e-si nin9 gal-ĝu10 nam-dam-šè kur-ra hu-mu-ra-ni-kur9-ra 2-kam-ma-šè in-ga-na-mu-na-ab-bé zi ama ugu-ĝu10 dnin-sumun2-ka a-a-ĝu10 kug dlugal-bàn-da kur-ra tuš-a-zu ba-ra-zu kur-ra tuš-a-zu hé-zu-àm pèš-tur nin9 bàn-da-ĝu10 nam-lukur-šè kur-ra hu-mu-ra-ni-kur9-ra-àm ní-zu ba-àm-ma-ra su-za ga-an-kur953 “By the life of the mother who bore me, Ninsumun, and my father, the bright Lugalbanda, where you live in the mountain, no one knows; where you live in the mountain, it should be known! I brought to the mountain my older sister, Enmebaragesi, as a wife for you!” (Gilgamesh) addressed (Huwawa) a second time: “By the life of the mother who bore me, Ninsumun, and my father, the bright Lugalbanda, where you live in the mountain, no one knows; where you live in the mountain, it should be known! I brought to the mountain my younger sister, Peshtur, as a junior wife for you! Give me one of your terrors, and I shall become your kinsman!” (l. 136– 144) One might be tempted to dismiss the entire episode as a scribal joke at Huwawa’s expense, or perhaps to explain it as a way of highlighting Sumer’s

52 53

historical tradition, see Michalowski, 2003, 196–199. For more on the Sumerian King List, see Gösta Gabriel in this volume. See e.g. Alster, 1992; Katz, 1995; Michalowski, 2003; and Shaffer, 1983. For the complexities of the term lukur, see Sharlach, 2008.

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cultural superiority,54 were it not for the fact that Peshtur, the younger sister, also appears in a very fragmentary passage of gbh:55 dpèš-tur nin9 [bàn-da …] dgilgameš2 an x […] ama ugu-ĝu10 /é? den-ki\ x […] dpèš-tur nin9 bàn-da é-a?-[ni …] Peshtur, [his younger] sister […] Gilgamesh … My mother who bore me in the temple (?) of Enki … Peshtur, the younger sister, in his house (?) … (l. 18–21) Peshtur’s role in this section of gbh is impossible to determine.56 Still, her presence in gbh suggests that, in the plotline of gh A, she is more than a mere stratagem to trick Huwawa. Indeed, there seems to be more than meets the eye to the relation between the ruling houses of Uruk and Kish. The details of these relationships might be lost to us, unless new stories come to light, but it is clear that these characters were used to strengthen the internal cohesion of the stories about Gilgamesh. Background elements, such as Gilgamesh’s weapons and trees, are also used to highlight interconnections among the various Sumerian Gilgamesh stories. This discussion will focus on Gilgamesh and his weapons, as Gilgamesh’ relationship with trees have been discussed extensively elsewhere.57 Suffice it to say here that the trees play a major role in Gilgamesh’s mythical biography. At least two and possibly three of his adventures gravitate around a specific tree—either the halub-tree or the cedar. Furthermore—as discussed immediately below—Gilgamesh tends to test his weapons against trees. As such, it appears that trees are another thread that stitches the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories together.58 When Gilgamesh readies himself for battle, he dons the same weapons when he prepares to cut down the halub-tree and when he attacks the Bull of Heaven:

54 55 56 57 58

See e.g., Michalowski, 2003, 206–207. Meturan version, manuscript Ma, reverse col. i, l. 99–102. Cavigneaux and al-Rawi, 1993, 100, seem to suggest that in this section Ninsumun and Peshtur might have assisted Gilgamesh. For Gilgamesh and the tree(s), see, among many others, Forsyth, 1981; Hansman, 1976; Shaffer, 1983; and Gadotti, 2014, 27–49, with additional bibliography. For an examination of the role of trees in the Akkadian epic, see Dickson, 2007.

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túgíb-ba-ru šag4-ba 50 ma-na-àm íb-ba-na ba-an-dù 50-àm 30 giĝ4 ba-ši-in-ak uruduha-zi-in-na-ni har-ra-an-na-ka-ni 7 gún 7 ma-na-ka-ni šu-ni-a ba-an-dab5 (gen l. 136–139) íb-ba-ru 50! ma-na-àm [íb-ba-na ba-an-dù] gír 7 gú-un 30 m[a-na-àm …] ha-zi-in-[na-ni har-ra-an-na-ka-ni](gbh Ma l. 93–95) He tied a fifty minas ibbaru-garment around his hips. He made the fifty minas look like thirty shekels. His bronze ax from his military campaigns, weighting seven talents and seven minas, he took into his hand. A recently published manuscript of gen provides another point of recurrence.59 According to this tablet, after donning his weapons, Gilgamesh practices for battle. This also happens in gh A, where Gilgamesh, having collected his weapons from the blacksmith, proceeds to test them before departing for the Cedar Forest. As the two compositions both state, ĝeš!kiri-ĝi-edin-na ĝìr-ni bí-gub! [ĝešesi ĝešha]-lu-úb ĝešhašhur ĝeštaskarin im-ma-ni-sàg?-ge?-eš He (Gilgamesh) went to the dark grove of the steppe, and felled [the ebony tree], the halub-tree, the apricot tree, and the box tree (l. 56–57)60 While scribal cross-contamination—or rather, cross-pollination—among stories should not be ruled out, it is not far-fetched to suggest that Gilgamesh possessed weapons of particular significance which he ritually donned for battle. Such a scenario is well attested for other heroes both in Mediterranean mythologies and in the Mesopotamian tradition, in particular with the warrior god par excellence, Ninurta/Ningirsu, who wielded personified weapons such as the mace Sharur, the “Smasher of Thousands.”61

59 60 61

Gadotti and Kleinerman, 2020. Gadotti and Kleinerman, 2020, 145. For Sharur, see Krebernik, 2009. The god Ninurta has been the subject of numerous studies, including Cooper, 1978; Streck, 2000; and Annus, 2002. For an examination of the relation between Gilgamesh and Ninurta, see Annus, 2002, 168–171.

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Conclusions

This analysis has highlighted the role that locales play in creating narrative cohesion among the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories. It has also provided a preliminary study of the ways in which mirroring—of scenes and characters—helped the authors of these compositions, as well as the scribes who copied them during the Old Babylonian period, create a web of voices and echoes that tied the stories together, even as they were physically singular entities. All Sumerian stories about Gilgamesh are interconnected through a system of textual allusions and interpolations. These include the presence of Enmebaragesi in gh and ga; the presence of Peshtur in gh and gbh; the description of Gilgamesh donning his weapons in gen and gh and of Gilgamesh going to battle in gh and gbh; and the summary of Gilgamesh’s achievements in dg. These references contribute to create cohesion among the stories (even ga, whose unusual plotline has always troubled scholars) and not just within individual ones, and they are, in my opinion, tantalizing evidence not only of the intertextuality of Sumerian literature but specifically of an awareness of the fact that these stories belonged together—and not only because they were all about Gilgamesh. Furthermore, an overarching cohesion is provided by the placement of the individual stories, which sets the stage for Gilgamesh’ adventures. gen opens and is for the most part set in the mythical world, with a brief interlude in Uruk. Similarly, while gh A and B are securely rooted in the realm of men, part of their action occurs in the liminal abode of Huwawa. gbh, too, oscillates between the mythical realm of the gods, where An, Inana, and the Bull of Heaven reside, and Uruk, where Gilgamesh rules. Conversely, ga and dg seemingly occur in the land of humankind, but they too operate on several levels. Throughout the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories, a careful negotiation between the human and the divine unfolds, mediated by the main character Gilgamesh, the son of a man and a goddess. As the narrative moves forward, the distance between these two planes widens until a break occurs in dg, where an irreconcilable gap between the two worlds emerges. The deliberate use of landscapes to convey this message is yet another example of the sophistication with which ancient scribes constructed their mythical narratives.

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Acknowledgements My thanks go to the editors of this volume, who read several drafts and helped me make this chapter stronger; to Dr. Alexandra Kleinerman, who reviewed several versions of the project; and to the anonymous reviewer who provided much valued feedback and aided me in reframing the chapter into its current form.

Bibliography Alster, Bendt. 1992. “Court Ceremonial and Marriage in the Sumerian Epic ‘Gilgamesh and Huwawa’”. Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 55: 1–8. Alster, Bendt. 2005. Wisdom of Ancient Sumer. Bethesda: cdl Press. Annus, Amar. 2002. The God Ninurta in the Mythology and Ideology of Ancient Mesopotamia. State Archives of Assyria Studies 14. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Attinger, Pascal. 2015. “Review of ‘Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and the Netherworld’ and the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle”. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 105: 235–265. Cavigneaux, Antoine, and Farouk N.H. al-Rawi. 1993. “Gilgameš et Taureau de ciel (šulmè-kam) (Textes de Tell Haddad iv).” Revue d’assyriologie 87, no. 2: 97–129. Cavigneaux, Antoine, and Farouk N.H. al-Rawi 2000. Gilgameš et la mort: Textes de Tell Haddad vi avec un appendice sur les textes funéraires sumériens. Groningen: Styx. Civil, Miguel. 2003. “Reading Gilgamesh ii: Gilgamesh and Huwawa.” In Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien: Festschrift für Claus Wilcke, edited by Walther Sallaberger, Konrad Volk, and Annette Zgoll, 77–86. Wiesbaden: Harrasowitz. Cooper, Jerrold S. 1978. The Return of Ninurta to Nippur. Rome: Pontificium Institutum Biblicum. Cooper, Jerrold S. 1981. “Gilgamesh and Akka: A Review Article.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 33: 224–241. Dickson, Keith. 2007. “The Jeweled Trees: Alterity in Gilgamesh.” Comparative Literature 59, no. 3: 193–208. Dickson, Keith. 2009. “The Walls of Uruk: Iconicities in Gilgamesh.” Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religion 9, no. 1: 25–50. Edzard, Dietrich Otto. 1990. “Gilgamesh und Huwawa A.I. Teil.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 80: 165–203. Edzard, Dietrich Otto. 1991. “Gilgamesh und Huwawa A. ii. Teil.” za 81: 165–233. Edzard, Dietrich Otto. 1993. “Gilgameš und Huwawa”: Zwei Versionen der sumerischen Zedernwaldepisode nebst einer Edition von Version “B.” Sitzungberichte der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften: Philosophisch-historische Klasse 4: 1–61.

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Forsyth, Neil. 1981. “Huwawa and His Trees: A Narrative and Cultural Analysis.” Acta Sumerologica 3: 13–29. Gadotti, Alhena. 2014. “Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld” and the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle. Berlin: De Gruyter. Gadotti, Alhena, and Alexandra Kleinerman. 2020. “A New Manuscript of Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netheworld.” In From Mari to Jerusalem: Assyriological and Biblical Studies in Honor of Jack Murad Sasson, edited by Annalisa Azzoni, Alexandra Kleinerman, Douglas A. Knight, and David I. Owen, 141–146. University Park: Penn State University Press. George, Andrew. 1999. The Epic of Gilgamesh: A New Translation. London: Penguin. George, Andrew. 2001. “Gilgamesh and the Cedars of Lebanon.” Archaeology and History in Lebanon 14: 8–12. George, Andrew. 2003. The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts. 2 vols. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Graff, Sarah B. 2012. “Humbaba/Huwawa.” PhD dissertation, New York University. Hansman, John F. 1976. “Gilgamesh, Humbaba and the Land of the Erin-Trees.” Iraq 38: 23–35. Horowitz, Wayne. 1998. Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Katz, Dina. 1987. “Gilgamesh and Akka: Was Uruk Ruled by Two Assemblies?” Revue d’assyriologie 81: 105–114. Katz, Dina. 1993. Gilgamesh and Akka. Groningen: Styx. Katz, Dina. 1995. “Enmebaragesi King of Kiš a Sister of Gilgameš?” Nouvelles assyriologiques brèves et utilitaires 1995, no. 2: 24, no. 29. Klein, Jacob, and Yizthak Sefati. 2020. “The Beginning of the Sumerian Epic ‘Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven’ and Its Possible Historical-Political Background.” In From Mari to Jerusalem: Assyriological and Biblical Studies in Honor of Jack Murad Sasson, edited by Annalisa Azzoni, Alexandra Kleinerman, Douglas A. Knight, and David I. Owen, 178–188. University Park: Penn State University Press. Krebernik, Manfred. 2009. “Šar-ur und Šar-gaz.” Reallexikon der Assyriologie 11: 84–86. Krebernik, Manfred. 2011. “Sonnerngott. A.I. In Mesopotamien. Philologisch.” Reallexikon der Assyriologie 12: 599–611. Michalowski, Piotr. 2003. “A Man Called Enmebaragesi.” In Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien: Festschrift für Claus Wilcke, edited by Walther Sallaberger, Konrad Volk and Annette Zgoll, 195–208. Weisbaden: Harrasowitz. Michalowski, Piotr. 2012 [2008]. “The Mortal Kings of Ur: A Short Century of Divine Rule in Ancient Mesopotamia.” In Religion and Power: Divine Kingship in the Ancient World and Beyond, 2nd edition, edited by Nicole Brisch, 33–45. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Römer, Willem. H.Ph. 1980. Das sumerische Kurzepos “Bilgamesh und Akka.” Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag.

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Samet, Nili. 2020. “Mesopotamian Wisdom.” In The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff, 328–348. Wiley Blackwell: Chirchester. Shaffer, Aaron. 1983. “Gilgamesh, the Cedar Forest and Mesopotamian History.” Journal of American Oriental Society 103: 307–313. Sharlach, Tonia. 2008. “Priestesses, Concubines and the Daughters of Men: Disentangling the Meaning of the Term Lukur in Ur iii Times.” In On the Third Dynasty of Ur: Studies in Honor of Marcel Sigrist, edited by Piotr Michalowski, 177–183. Boston: American School of Oriental Research. Streck, Michael P. 2000. “Ninurta/Ningirsu. A.I. In Mesopotamien.” Reallexikon der Assyriologie 9: 512–522. Taylor, Jonathan. 2010. “On the Interpretation of Two Critical Passage in Gilgamesh and Huwawa.” In Your Praise is Sweet: A Memorial Volume for Jeremy Black from Students, Colleagues and Friends. London: British Institute for the Study of Iraq, 351–360. Tigay, Jeffrey. 2002 [1982]. The Evolution of the Epic of Gilgamesh. Reprint. Mundelein: Bolchazy-Carducci Publishers. Veldhuis, Niek. 2001. “The Solution of the Dream: A New Interpretation of Bilgames’ Death.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 53: 133–148. Wilcke, Claus. 1990. “Lugalbanda.” Reallexikon der Assyriologie 7: 117–131. Wilcke, Claus. 1998. “Zur ‘Gilgameš und Akka.’” In dubsar anta-men: Studien zur Altorientalistik—Festschrift für Willem H.Ph. Römer zur Vollendung seines 70. Lebensjahres mit Beiträgen von Freunden, Schülern und Kollegen, edited by Manfred Dietrich and Oswald Loretz, 457–485. Münster: Ugarit Verlag. Wilcke, Claus. 1998–2001. “Ninsun.” Reallexikon der Assyriologie 9: 501–504. Zgoll, Annette. 2010. “momentum aere perennius—Mauerring und Ringkomposition im Gilgameš-Epos.” In Von Göttern und Menschen—Beiträge zu Literatur und Geschichte des Alten Orient. Festschrift für Brigitte Groneberg, edited by Dahlia Shehata, Frauke Weierhaüser and Kamran V. Zand, 443–470. Leiden: Brill.

chapter 3

Transition and Cohesion in the Tale of Zalpa Robert Marineau

1

Introduction

One of the challenges to studying cuneiform literature is the question of whether any of the texts correspond to modern notions of what constitutes a narrative. The majority of these texts were composed over two thousand years ago and many, including the Hittite text to be analyzed below, were composed over three thousand years ago. Given their chronological, linguistic, and cultural foreignness to modern scholarship, the assignment of modern labels such as “narrative” can be a difficult task and one prone to anachronism.1 As will be discussed below, the term “narrative” indicates a change of state across time within a text. This change should be observable even if some of the development is implicit rather than explicit. While such a change takes place in any narrative, there must also be continuity across the entirety of the story for it to constitute a single story.2 In other words, in spite of the changes that take place across a narrative text, there are also elements that remain unchanged. This essay will explore the suitability of applying the term “narrative” to the so-called Tale of Zalpa, a text written in the Hittite language, which utilizes the cuneiform script. It will do so by analyzing the linguistic mechanisms and techniques for its development. As mentioned, modern narratological theory agrees that for a text to be a narrative, it must recount “a change of state” of a person or a thing (see discussion below). The only way that a person or thing can have a change of state is through some minimum amount of narrative development. This means that a narrative will include linguistic elements of transition across a story arc. And yet the changes will not be so drastic as to make the end of the story unrecognizable in relation to the beginning of

1 It must be admitted that questioning the validity of applying the term “narrative” to an ancient text can seem overly pedantic for what may seem intuitively obvious. I argue, however, that every assumption modern scholars bring to an ancient text must be overtly assessed to determine their suitability in describing and interpreting ancient texts. 2 It is of course possible for there to be multiple plot lines within a single story, but this does not change the fact that there will be a recognizable connection between the beginning, middle, and end of a story. See, for example, Lanser, 2012, 1044 on “double plots.”

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the story. The essay will identify the means by which transition and continuity occur in the Tale of Zalpa, thereby allowing us to assess whether this text does in fact constitute a narrative as defined by modern narratological theory.3

2

Narrative and Discourse

While a typical narrative text may include various combinations of elements— a setting, a problem, rising action, a climax, falling action, a resolution, and a dénouement—at a bare minimum, a narrative will communicate “at least one change of state” of something or someone.4 As a paradigmatic example of a bare minimum narrative, narratologist Wolf Schmid uses the example, “The king died,”5 to illustrate how the change of state has at least three logical implications for what a narrative will include: (1) a temporal structure with at least two states, the initial situation and the final situation (the king alive and the king dead). (2) The equivalence of the initial and final situations, that is, the presence of a similarity and a contrast between the states, or, more precisely, the identity and difference of the properties of those states (being alive and being dead form a classical equivalence). (3) Both states, and the change that takes place between them, must concern one and the same acting or suffering subject (in our case this is the poor king).6

3 This question has been addressed by Holland and Zorman, 2007, 74–76 with a focus on the role of individual constituents of clauses within a narrative structure. The approach taken in this essay will focus on how clauses interact with clauses in the narrative development of the text. 4 Schmid, 2010, 2. 5 Schmid, 2010, 2–3 notes that this example was first proposed in a longer form by Edward Forster in 1927, “The king died and then the queen died,” and that Gérard Genette pointed out that it could be reduced to just “the king died.” 6 Schmid, 2010, 3. As implication (1) reveals, vis-à-vis the minimum narrative, the full process of the change of state need not be represented explicitly. The example of a minimum narrative, “the king died,” does not overtly include the fact that the king was, at some point, alive. However, no reader would be disturbed by the notion that first the king had to be alive before he could transition to the state of death, as represented in the narrative. Again, see Schmid, 2010, 3. An anonymous reviewer of this article pointed out that the example, “the king died,” as an example of a change of state, and therefore a narrative, seems to preclude the possibility of “the king went shopping” constituting a narrative. The distinction between these two examples, however, is overly demanding of the details. For one, the example, “the king died,” is offered as a paradigmatic example within a long tradition of using examples of violence in

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In reading a narrative, then, one encounters a change of state of one or more figures across a temporal sequence of events, and that change of state involves both a similarity and a contrast between the initial and final states. The development of such changes is typically referred to as “plot,” which “may be defined as the pattern or structure of textual events … the notion of a sequence of actions related by chronology.”7 The analysis of the plot will therefore include tracking how a story develops through a sequence of actions, where one or more states of being are left behind to arrive at a new state of being.8 In order to track the unfolding of the plot, one must be able to identify the incremental developments that reveal not only the change in state, but also the nature of that change. The presence of such incremental developments will typically be indicated by ‘transition markers,’ which can also be called “discourse markers.”9 Transition markers in the Tale of Zalpa indicate the beginning of new phases of the plot where actions, topics, and/or characters go through a new set of developments. While transition markers reveal the incremental developments within the story, the story also needs to have a level of continuity that spans the divides

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linguistic analysis (e.g., “she hit the ball”). Secondly, Schmid correlates the word “state” with “situation” in this citation. In the example, “the king went shopping,” there is a change in situation: The king was at one location and later was at a different location, performing an activity not previously underway. In other words, the change that must take place within a text for it to be properly considered a “narrative” can be internal, unfolding within the main character (e.g., from being alive to dead), or external, relating to what the main character does or has done to him or her (e.g., going from one location to another to perform a new activity). Lanser, 2012, 1044. Bal, 2017, 68 notes that a story is encountered as a linear thing: “one word or image follows another; one sentence or sequence follows another.” This does not mean that the elements of the story are always chronologically sequential, only that the elements are encountered in the order in which they are presented. For a discussion of “deviations in sequential ordering” in narrative texts, see Bal, 2017, 68ff. Discourse markers fulfill a wide range of functions, including “discourse connectors, turn-takers, confirmation-seekers, intimacy signals, topic-switchers, hesitation markers, boundary markers, fillers, prompters, repair markers, attitude markers, and hedging devices” (Jucker and Ziv, 1998, 1). While several of these are confined to oral discourse, others, especially “connectors,” “topic-switchers,” and “boundary markers,” occur in written Hittite texts. Jucker and Ziv also note that various other terms are used to refer to the linguistic items that the term “discourse marker” typically refers to. Also, the definition of the term “discourse marker” is not settled due to the wide variety of functions that these items can fulfill; see the discussion in Jucker and Ziv, 1998, 1–5; and Brinton, 1990, 46–48. For a useful discussion of linguistic typology of discourse markers, especially as it informs the interpretation of Sumerian texts, see Crisostomo, 2017, 50–53.

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created by transition markers.10 This is accomplished by the use of “ties,” which establish discourse cohesion. For the term “cohesion,” I follow the definition given by Michael A.K. Halliday and Ruqaiya Hasan: The concept of cohesion is a semantic one; it refers to relations of meaning that exist within the text, and that define it as a text. Cohesion occurs where the interpretation of some element in the discourse is dependent on that of another. The one presupposes the other, in the sense that it cannot be effectively decoded except by recourse to it. When this happens, a relation of cohesion is set up, and the two elements, the presupposing and the presupposed, are thereby at least potentially integrated into the text.11 One example of how cohesion takes place is the use of a referential pronoun: it can only be fully understood if the reader can identify the noun it refers to. Halliday and Hasan illustrate this kind of grammatical cohesion with instructions from a cookbook—“Wash and core six cooking apples. Put them into a fireproof dish”—explaining the example as follows: “it is clear that them in the second sentence refers back to (is anaphoric to) the six cooking apples in the first sentence” (emphasis in the original).12 The term that Halliday and Hasan use to label “a single instance of cohesion” is “tie.”13 A tie occurs when two elements in separate sentences are connected and should therefore be interpreted in light of the other. In the example from the cookbook, the second sentence is tied to the first by way of the anaphoric, referential pronoun. Throughout their book, Halliday and Hasan outline multiple linguistic features that can be used to create cohesive ties. Cohesion is accomplished partly through grammar and partly through vocabulary. Table 3.1 shows the two main types of cohesion, along with their corresponding sub-types.14

10 11 12 13 14

That is, logical implication No. 3 outlined by Schmid in the passage quoted above. Halliday and Hasan, 1976, 4. Halliday and Hasan, 1976, 2. Halliday and Hasan, 1976, 3. Halliday and Hasan, 1976, 5–6. Each of the four sub-types of grammatical cohesion have whole chapters dedicated to them (chapters 2–5, respectively); the two sub-types of lexical cohesion are discussed in chapter 6.

transition and cohesion in the tale of zalpa table 3.1

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Types and sub-types of cohesion

Grammatical cohesiona

Lexical cohesion

Reference Substitution Ellipsis Conjunction

Reiteration Collocation

a A method of cohesion that Halliday and Hasan do not discuss directly, but nevertheless describe, is the reiteration of a grammatical structure. In some cases, this kind of reiteration can be identified as grammatical parallelism: “it is a common feature not only of poetry but of many other kinds of discourse as well,” Halliday and Hasan, 1976, 19–20, § 1.3.2.

Cohesion by Reference is accomplished through, for example, anaphoric pronouns, as illustrated above. Substitution is similar to reference in that one linguistic item can stand in for something in the context. In the following interchange, “so” stands in for “(that) Barbara has left”: “Has Barbara left?—I think so.”15 Ellipsis is related to Reference and Substitution in that a linguistic absence is used to stand in for something in the context, or as Halliday and Hasan describe it, “substitution by zero.”16 One way this manifests is in verbal ellipsis in connected clauses, as in “Joan brought some carnations, and Catherine some sweet peas,” where the verb “brought” is left out of the “Catherine” clause.17 The “Catherine” clause can only be properly decoded by assuming the verb “brought” as it occurs in the preceding “Joan” clause. This form of cohesion is common in ane poetic parallelism. While there is a certain level of relatedness among the first three types of Grammatical Cohesion, the fourth is more different. For Halliday and Hassan, Conjunction includes grammatical conjunctions as well as sequential adverbs where either of these types of words create a semantic relation between the sentence in which one of them occurs and the sentence(s) immediately preceding it.18 Their example [5:1] g. is illustrative: “They fought a battle. Afterwards,

15 16 17 18

Halliday and Hasan, 1976, 90, example [3:2]. Halliday and Hasan, 1976, 142. Halliday and Hasan, 1976, 143, example [4:2]. See Halliday and Hasan, 1976, e.g., 227–231.

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it snowed.”19 The adverb “afterwards” in the second sentence is a tie creating a temporal connection (i.e., cohesion) between the two sentences. Lexical Cohesion is achieved in two ways: reiteration and collocation. These two are closely related. For Halliday and Hassan, reiteration can be accomplished through repetition of lexeme, the use of synonyms, the use of nearsynonyms, or the use of specific words with a corresponding superordinate word. In their examples [6:5] a-d, they highlight the use of “mushroom” to refer back to “mushroom” (repetition of lexeme), “climb” to refer back to “ascent” (synonym), “brand” to refer back to “sword” (near synonym), and “car” to refer back to “Jaguar” (“car” is superordinate of “Jaguar”).20 Collocation, following Halliday and Hassan’s description, can be understood as an extension of reiteration. Instead of the use of an exact lexeme or synonym or superordinate to refer back to—and tie to—some sort of antecedent, collocation involves the use of pairs of words that may be considered either opposites or words that are within a single semantic category. Examples they provide of opposites include “boy … girl, stand up … sit down, like … hate, wet … dry, crowded … deserted.”21 Examples they provide of words within the same semantic category include “Tuesday in one sentence and Thursday in another …; similarly dollar … cent, north … south.”22 By applying this system of discourse cohesion—through grammatical and lexical methods—to narrative analysis, I will show that cohesive ties create continuity within individual segments of a story and across the boundaries of transition markers, thus connecting each stage of development in a narrative. In this essay, I pay special attention to lexical cohesion, especially reiteration.23 I argue that in the Tale of Zalpa, there are two different forms of reiteration at play: (1) exact reiteration of lexemes and (2) reiteration of synonyms or nearsynonyms. These kinds of reiteration are used to create cohesion both within individual discourse units and across unit boundaries. Tracking the development of the story by noting both the ways in which transition occurs and the ways in which the narrative remains cohesive will enable a more nuanced understanding of the change that the characters undergo. This analysis will show that the Hittite Tale of Zalpa conforms to modern theory regarding what constitutes a “narrative text” and will demonstrate some of the techniques and mechanisms the Hittites utilized in the construction of one of their narratives.

19 20 21 22 23

Halliday and Hasan, 1976, 228. See Halliday and Hasan, 1976, 278. See Halliday and Hasan, 1976, 284–285. Halliday and Hasan, 1976, 285. Some of the other sub-types in both types also occur and will be noted where relevant.

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Overview of the Tale of Zalpa

The Tale of Zalpa was discovered in the ruins of the ancient Hittite capital, Hattusha. The main manuscript of the story, KBo 22.2,24 is a cuneiform tablet with two very different stories on each side.25 The obverse of the tablet tells of a queen giving birth to thirty sons and thirty daughters. The sons are set adrift in baskets on a river to be raised by the gods in the town of Zalpa. Their attempt to find their mother leads to a puzzling scene of donkey sex and possibly to incest between the brothers and sisters. Meanwhile, the reverse recounts a series of events where rebels from the town of Zalpa are chased down and defeated by the king of Hattusha.26 This structure led Heinrich Otten to remark that the obverse side of the tablet presents “mehr eine Sage” whereas the reverse contains “eine historische Erzählung”—implying that the two sides of the tablet do not constitute a single story.27 Because half the tablet is missing, the end of the story on the obverse is tantalizingly lost—in particular, it is not clear whether the main characters do commit incest! A duplicate manuscript gives the beginning of the story on the reverse, but it is too poorly preserved to enable a full understanding of its contents. The question of the relationship between the obverse and the reverse has been the subject of much speculation, as scholars have attempted to read each side in light of the other.28 This essay will confine itself to the obverse,

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This tablet is considered to be from the Old Hittite period (dated to approximately 1700– 1400 bce). For the Hittitological abbreviations employed here, see Güterbock, Hoffner, van den Hout, and Goedegebuure, 2019, ix–xl. For an edition of this text, see Otten, 1973. See also Holland and Zorman, 2007. Duplicate manuscripts include KBo 3.38+chds 3.169, kub 48.79, kub 23.23, KBo 26.126. See Košak, n.d., for cth 3.1. For an overview of the various themes and motifs of this text, see Haas, 2006, 2–26. For a discussion of individual motifs, see Holland and Zorman, 2007, 94–99; Watkins, 1995, 53; Watkins, 2004, 65–80; and Zorman, 2008, 861 fn. 3 and 4. Otten, 1973, 63. Ultimately, however, Otten rejects the view that the two sides record two unrelated stories, arguing instead that they are part of the same story, the primary cohesive tie being the place name Zalpa. See his summary of the text and discussion of his view in Otten, 1973, 63–66. Otten’s interpretation has received critique and other interpretations have been offered. See the following discussion. For an excellent discussion and critique of the various proposed solutions to the relation between the two sides, see Gilan, 2007, 307–313 and 2015, 189–204. For Gilan’s own view, that the obverse serves as an allegory for why too many princes in the land leads to problems, see Gilan, 2007, 313–318, especially 315; and Gilan, 2015, 204–207. While there are points to critique in Gilan’s view, which I will discuss in a future publication, his view nevertheless presumes that the obverse and reverse contain two stories with separate plots.

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without going into its relationship to the reverse.29 I focus on how the story on the obverse both holds together as a story (cohesion) and incrementally develops its plot, thereby revealing the change of state that the characters undergo (transition).

4

Discourse Transition in the Tale of Zalpa

In cuneiform texts, especially those found in Hattusha, discourse units and scene transitions can be marked by the use of an inscribed horizontal line that spans the entire width of the tablet or column.30 On the obverse of KBo 22.2, there is only one such horizontal line and, as will be seen, it correlates with just one of the four discourse transitions in the text. Without horizontal lines, discourse and scene transitions are instead marked with the following syntactical structure: a clause containing a verb of motion and no connecting particle at its beginning. As noted above, there are four occurrences of this structure on the obverse side, delineating five distinct discourse units in the preserved text. Three of these also include a temporal marker. All instances of this syntactical structure in the text indicate a transition. The following example illustrates a discourse transition marker that also includes a temporal clause (in bold), as well as the horizontal line noted above (marked by the symbol “§”): 4b [ding]ir didli-š⸗a dumu meš-uš a.ab.ba-az 5 šarā dāir š⸗uš šallanuškir § 6 mān mu ḫi.a ištarna pāir (no connective particle) nu [munus.lugal] namma 30 munus.dumu ḫāšta 7 š⸗uš apašila šallanuškat 4b–5 [The go]ds took up the sons from the sea and raised them. § 6 While the years passed, the [queen] again gave birth to thirty daughters. 7 She raised them herself.31

29 30 31

For a full translation of KBo 22.2, along with its damaged duplicate KBo 3.38, see Hoffner, 2003, 181–182. See Waal, 2015, 107. For her full discussion on both the vertical and horizontal inscribed lines in Hittite tablets, see pp. 85–118. The translation is based in part on the Chicago Hittite Dictionary, vol. Š, 526–527, s.v., š(u)-, b 3' a' 1".

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The sentence mān mu ḫi.a ištarna pair “While the years passed (lit. went)” following the horizontal line (§) marks the beginning of a new sequence. The sequence that told the fate of the thirty sons has stopped and the text transitions to the following unit where a new sequence about the queen having and raising thirty daughters begins. In this way, the text transitions from one discourse unit to the next as the narrative unfolds. The transitions create a sense of movement, leaving previous events behind to introduce new ones.

5

Discourse Cohesion in the Tale of Zalpa

While the discourse units are distinct, the units not only display an internal cohesion, but are also tied to each other. Below, I show that the choice of words and themes allows the narrative to progress in a logical fashion, and reveals subtle nuances in the kinds of changes that the characters undergo. The first two discourse units of the story have a very similar theme. Both are about the queen of the city of Kanesh, also known as Nesha, giving birth to thirty children: thirty sons in the first unit, thirty daughters in the second. Because of the similar theme, the lexemes of the units are also repeated. The verbs ḫaš-, “to give birth” and šallanu-, “to raise” occur in both units. Once again, the two units are divided by a horizontal line (marked below as §) and the transition is indicated by a clause with a verb of motion and without a connective particle32 (beginning in line 6). 1 [munus.lugal uru]Kaniš 30 dumu meš 1en mu-anti ḫāšta umma ši⸗ma 2 [kī]⸗wa kuit walkuan ḫāšḫun tuppuš šakanda šunnaš 3 nu dumu meš⸗šu andan zikēt [š]⸗uš íd-a tarnaš íd-š⸗a 4 ana a.ab.ba kur uruZalpuwa pēda[š] 32

Connective particles in Hittite function to link clauses together within a discourse and point to differing kinds of relationships between the linked clauses. See Hoffner and Melchert, 2008, 389ff., cf. also Halliday and Hasan, 1976, chapter 5 on “conjunction” as a method of cohesion. The lack of a connective particle, also referred to as asyndeton when no other conjunctive or disjunctive words occur, often indicates a disconnect from the preceding discourse. For discussion of asyndeton in Hittite, see Hoffner and Melchert, 2008, 401–405. The lack of connective particle in a clause containing a verb of motion in the Tale of Zalpa indicates, I argue, a departure from the preceding discourse sequence to mark the beginning of a new sequence.

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[ding]ir didli-š⸗a dumu meš-uš a.ab.ba-az 5 šarā dāir š⸗uš šallanuškir § 6 mān mu ḫi.a ištarna pāir nu [munus.lugal] namma 30 munus.dumu ḫāšta 7 š⸗uš apašila šallanuškat 1 [The Queen of] Kanesh gave birth to thirty sons in one year. She (spoke) thus: 2 “What is [this] walkuan (meaning unknown) I bore?” She filled a container with fat. 3 She placed her sons inside, [and] released them into the river. The river 4 carri[ed] (them) to the sea of the land of Zalpa. [The go]ds 5 took the sons up from the sea and raised them. § While the years passed, the [queen] again gave birth to thirty daughters. 7 She raised them herself. These two units constitute the setting of the story. All the main characters are introduced: the queen, the thirty sons, the gods, and the thirty daughters. A dilemma is also introduced: the queen sends away her thirty sons and the gods raise them, while the queen decides to raise her thirty daughters on her own. This is a divided family, and the following narrative reveals that the family division is the main problem that the story will address. Following the setting of the story, the main action begins. The first characters to move the plot forward are the thirty sons, as they set out to find their mother. The new discourse unit is again marked by a verb of motion and the absence of a connective particle. 7b dumu.nita meš ā[ppa] uru Nēša yanzi 8a nu anše-in nannianzi 7b The sons are going b[ack] to Neša. 8a They are driving a donkey. There is no temporal clause of any kind (such as mān “when,” as elsewhere in this text), so the time that has elapsed between the setting of the story and the return of the sons is unclear. Presumably, the sons are adults by this point. An unusual feature of this unit is the inclusion of the mode of transportation in line 8a. In most Hittite texts that describe people moving, the mode of transportation is not mentioned.33 The first sentence would have been suffi-

33

See, for example, the Annals of Hattushili i (cth 4) or the Ten-Year Annals of Murshili ii

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cient not only to signal a discourse unit transition, but also to account for the sons’ travels. The inclusion of the mode of transportation—driving a donkey— is unnecessary from the perspective of information communication. However, from the perspective of narrative cohesion, the inclusion becomes the main narrative tool for bridging the logical and logistical divide between the sons’ departure from Zalpa and their reunion with their mother in Kanesh. In the following discourse unit, beginning in line 8b, the donkey becomes the catalyst for the sons’ discovery of their mother’s identity and location. In other words, the mode of transportation in the third unit becomes the vehicle, both literally and literarily, of their discovery in the fourth unit. The beginning of the fourth unit is again marked by a verb of motion, a temporal marker, and the absence of a connective particle: mān uruTamar[mara] arir, “When they arrived in the town of Tamar[mara].” With this clause, the previous scene of travel has ended, and a new scene is set. Despite the unit transition, the unexpected theme introduced in the previous unit—the donkey— becomes the first topic of conversation when the sons arrive in Tarmarmara. This tie reveals the real reason for the mention of the donkey in the first place: to focus the audience’s attention on a feature that will be important for later development in the story. Since the donkey has been introduced, an audience would be unsurprised to find it becoming a topic of conversation. The fourth discourse unit unfolds entirely as a dialogue between the thirty sons and the people of Tamarmara. The unit contains five speeches: the first four are a conversation between the sons and the people of Tamarmara; in the final speech, the sons speak to themselves. Each speech may be considered an individual sub-unit within the larger dialogue. The speeches develop discursively, as each groups’ speech is cohesively tied to the other groups through both lexical and grammatical links. These ties within and across the speeches reveal that the dialogue is organized according to a “paneled” structure, where a unit of text is organized into smaller units that correspond to one another. According to Henry Parunak, the term “panel” is used “to indicate a section of text that has two more correspondents to another section.”34 In essence, paneling can be understood as form of parallelism, where instead of single words or sentences

34

(cth 61.1), which recount multiple conquests in various parts of ancient Anatolia and confine their descriptions of travel to the statement that the king “went” (pai-) to various locations. Translations of these texts can be found in Beckman, 2006, 219–222 and Beal, 2000, 82–90, respectively. Parunak, 1972, 62.

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being paralleled to other single words or sentences, a sequence of two or more sentences may be paralleled to other sequences of two or more sentences.35 In the dialogue, there are three such panels. The first two contain one speech from each of the two parties, the sons and the people of Tamarmara. The first panel runs from line 8c to 10 and the second from line 11 to 13b (the indented lines of text are the direct following the left aligned speech introduction formulas). Panel 1 8c nu taršikanzi 9 kāni⸗wa tunnakkiš inutten nu⸗wa [anše]-iš arkatta 10 umma lú meš uru lim kuwapit aumen nu anše-iš [ark]atta [ _ _ ] Panel 2 11 umma dumu meš ueš⸗a kuwapit aumen nu munus[-za? 1] dumu[.nita 1-šu? ḫ]āši 12 nu⸗zza anzaš 1-šu ḫāšta umma lú meš uru lim ā[š⸗ma] anze[l munus.]lugal uruKaniš 13 30 munus.dumu 1-šu ḫāšta ù dumu.nita meš merir Panel 1 8c And they began to speak: 9 “Look here, heat up the inner chamber, the [donkey] copulates.” 10 The men of the town (replied) thus, “Where(ver) we look, a donkey [cop]ulates” […] Panel 2 11 The sons (spoke) thus, “As for us, wherever we looked, a woman [be]ars [one?] son [at one time?]. 12 (But) she gave birth to us at one time.” Then the men of the town (said), “Yo[nder] is ou[r qu]een of Kanesh. 13 She gave birth to thirty daughters at one time. As for the sons, they disappeared.”

35

See the definition of parallelism in O’Connor and Greenstein, 2012, 997.

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The first two panels are distinct in that they are about different topics: the first is about the donkey copulating and the second about women giving birth. The first panel is internally cohesive via the repeated clause anšeiš arkatta, “the donkey copulates.”36 The second panel is more complex, but similarly cohesive, particularly given the three uses of the verb ḫaš- “to give birth.” In fact, in the second panel, there are multiple linguistic ties between the speech of the sons and that of the people of the city, which reveals a close connection between the two. First, there is a conceptual contrast between the sons’ first statement—ueš⸗a kuwapit aumen “as for us, where(ver) we look”— with the third statement of the people of the city—ù dumu.nita meš merir “as for the sons, they disappeared.” The verbs au-, “to see” and merr-, “to disappear” here function as antonyms, both related to visual perception. Second, each party’s second statement contrasts with the other’s: nu munus[-za? 1] dumu[.nita 1-šu? ḫ]āši, “a woman [be]ars [one?] son [at one time?],” contrasts with 30 munus.dumu 1-šu ḫāšta, “she gave birth to thirty daughters at one time.” Finally, the third statement of the sons corresponds to the first statement of the people of the city through their uses of the independent first-person pronoun, “to us” and “our”: nu⸗zza anzaš 1-šu ḫāšta, “She gave birth to us at one time” and ā[š⸗ma] anze[l munus.]lugal uruKaniš, “Yo[nder] is ou[r qu]een of Kanesh.”37 These ties of repeated lexemes and antonyms in the second panel reveal a chiastic structure: A, B, and C for each part of the sons’ speech; C′, B′, and A′ for each part of the people’s speech. The C and C′ statements are the most prominent, given the way the first-person independent pronouns make the topic more immediate to the speakers and relatable to an audience. The conversation is no longer a casual discussion of donkey sex, but a deeply personal revelation of the sons’ identity. Besides internal cohesion, the first two panels are tied to each other by means of a repeated clause with a contrastive topic, as well as by the conceptual inference of that repeated clause. The repeated clause is kuwapit aumen “where(ever) we look.” The first occurrence of the clause is spoken by the

36

37

The dictionaries gloss the verb ark- as “to mount, to cover, to copulate” (e.g., Kloekhorst, 2008, 203; Puhvel, 1984, 142; Hethitisches Wörterbuch, vol. A, 301) and also as “to climb” (“klettern” in Hethitisches Wörterbuch, vol. A, 301). It must be noted that the third statement of the sons also corresponds to the second statement of the people of the city: both clauses have the verbal phrase, 1-šu ḫāšta, “she gave birth at one time.” This correspondence, while true and relevant, is less salient than the connection between the sons’ third statement and the first statement of the people of the city. The contrastive topic marked using the independent pronoun, in my view, is hierarchically more prominent in the flow and interconnectedness of the speeches.

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people of the city (panel 1, l. 10b) and the second by the sons (panel 2, l. 11b).38 The conceptual inference of the two clauses is that the speakers consider what they see to be a normal or frequent occurrence. So, while the topics of the first two panels are different—one is about donkeys copulating and the other about women giving birth to one child at a time—the use of the phrase kuwapit aumen “where(ver) we look” implies a conceptual similarity between them: both are about normal, everyday occurrences. This conversation is used to set up a scenario in which the sons can bring up their non-normal situation: that there are thirty of them, born at the same time. The new topic prompts the people of the town to recall their queen. They say enough to convince the sons that their quest to find their mother is close to success. Indeed, the sons’ final speech in panel 3 constitutes the climax of the story, when the solution to the main problem of family separation is revealed. The final panel of the dialogue changes completely in style. This change is marked by a shift in how the speech is introduced, moving from Akkadian umma, “(spoke) thus” in the first two panels to Hittite ⸗za … karti⸗šmi piran mēmir, “they said to themselves” (lit., “they spoke before their hearts”) in the third panel. Panel 3 nu⸗zza dumu.nita meš karti⸗šmi 14 piran mēmir kuin⸗wa šanḫiškiueni umma⸗ni š⸗an uemiyauen 15a uwatten uru Nēša paiwani Panel 3 And the boys said to themselves, 14 said, “Whom are we seeking? Our mother! We found her. 15 Come! We will go to Nesha!” The paneled structure is meant to bring not only the dialogue, but the whole story up to this point, to a climax.39 The problem of the story is the separa38

39

The switch in topic, from the people of the city to the thirty sons, is marked by the first person plural independent pronoun ueš with the clitic conjunction ⸗a (ueš⸗a kuwapit aumen “as for us, where(ver) we look”). As mentioned above, the obverse of KBo 22.2 is broken just before it becomes clear whether or not the sons commit incest with their sisters (see above in “Overview of the Tale of Zalpa”). Because of the break, it is also uncertain how much further the story continues. If it continues much further, then this climax in lines 13b–15 may be only an initial climax in a story that could have more problems needing to be resolved.

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tion of the sons from their mother. The dialogue is the narrative vehicle by which the sons discover the identity and location of their mother, and its final panel describes that moment of realization. All that is left for the problem to be resolved is for them to go to Nesha and reunite with their mother. The final clause of the panel is thus also a marker that signals the end of the dialogue and previews the action of the following scene. An audience might expect the following action to resolve the problem and lead to a happy ending, but the next unit will turn these expectations upside down. Before turning to the final discourse unit of the preserved text on the obverse, a few features of the dialogue should be highlighted, as they not only reveal how the final unit is cohesively tied to the dialogue, but also how the dialogue has laid the semantic groundwork for the dramatic tension in that unit. In the final unit, the concept of perception becomes central to the narrative. Words related to perception were scattered throughout the dialogue scene, and so the words related to perception in the final unit constitute a tie that links the two adjoining units. Four different verbs related to visual perception occur in the dialogue scene: au-, “to see” occurs twice, while the verbs merr-, “to disappear,” šanḫ-, “to search,” and wemiya-, “to find” occur one time each. Further, there is one sentence that indicates mental perception, signaled in the introductory formula of the final speech: nu⸗zza dumu.nita meš karti⸗šmi 14 piran mēmir, “And the boys said to themselves,” or, more literally, “The boys spoke before their hearts.”40 As will be shown below, the concept of mental perception is a major theme in the final unit. The transition to the final unit is marked, once more, by a temporal conjunction, a verb of motion, and the absence of a connecting particle: 15b mān uru Nēša pāir “When they went to Nesha” (obv. 15b § 2). The narration following this transition marker is concise, as the highly anticipated family reunion is immediately thwarted by divine intervention. The rapidity with which the situation spirals out of control jolts the audience out of its expectations of a joyful reunion, leading instead to a disastrous sexual union (again, the indented text represents thought and/or speech within the unit).

40

This speech introduction formula indicates that the “heart” is an instrument for perceiving speech. The opposite is also true; that is, the heart is a source from which speech proceeds, and it can be connected overtly with the mind. For the connection between the “heart” and the “mind” as a source of speech that enables mental perception, see the parallel in kub 30.10 obv. 24'–25' (cth 373): [kinun]a⸗mu⸗za ammel dingir-ya šà-šu zi-šu ḫūmantet kardit kīnuddu nu⸗mu wašdul⸗mit 25′ [tēd]du n⸗e⸗z⸗(š)an ganešmi “[No]w let my god open his heart and mind to me with all (his) heart and tell me my sin (so that) I may recognize them” (translation from the Chicago Hittite Dictionary, vol. L-N, 258, s.v., mema- 4 g).

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16 nu⸗šmaš dingir didli-eš tamaīn karātan daīr nu ama⸗šunu 17 [dumu meš-u]š? natta ganešzi nu⸗zza dumu.munus meš⸗ša ana dumu.nita meš⸗ša paiš 18 [ù igi-]ziaš dumu meš nikuš⸗(š)muš natta ganeššir appizziyaš⸗a⸗ššan 19 [šà⸗šši?] [k]ūš⸗za nēkuš⸗(š)ummuš daškēuen[i] [n]u lē šaliktumari 20 [natta⸗at?] āra nu k[att]i⸗šmi šeš[teni lē? …] 16 The gods put in them another karāt. Their mother 17 is not recognizing [the sons?]. She gave her daughters to her sons. 18 As for the older sons, they did not recognize their sisters. As for the youngest, 19 [in his heart? (he spoke thus)]: [Th]ese are our sisters that we are taking! Do not touch (them)! 20 [It is not?] right! [Do not?] sl[eep?] with them! [… ] The central theme of this unexpected plot twist is mental perception, a theme introduced at the end of the dialogue in the preceding scene. After the unit transition marker, the next sentence indicates that the gods placed “another karāt” in the sons. What exactly a karāt is is unclear,41 but from the context it is apparent that this “other karāt” being placed in the sons makes them forget why they came to Kanesh/Nesha in the first place. Along with the double occurrence of the verb ganešš-, “to recognize,” the dramatic tension of this unit is thus centered on mental perception among all the people involved. Indeed, it is the theme of mental perception that creates strong cohesive ties within the unit. If the proposed restoration of šà-iš-ši at the beginning of line 19 is correct,42 there are a total of four words that refer to mental perception: karāt “(meaning unclear),” ganešš- “to recognize” (twice), and šà (Hittite ker-), “heart.” The gods’ action sets off a chain of events that might easily lead to disaster for the human characters. When the queen gives her daughters to her sons in marriage, the potential trouble becomes clear just two sentences later. However, from the standpoint of an audience, this trouble seems entirely avoidable. After all, the whole point of the sons traveling to Nesha was to find their mother, and

41 42

For a discussion, see Kloekhorst, 2008, 445, who notes the formal similarity with the Hittite ker- “heart,” as well as their shared Sumerographic writing (i.e., šà). My argument for restoration of šà-iš-ši (or the shorter šà-ši), “his heart” is based on the space that is available in the break, as well as the attested grammatical construction of the particle ⸗šan in a verbless clause with šà/ker- “heart.” See the Chicago Hittite Dictionary, vol. Š, 147, s.v., -šan B 2 g 3' b’.

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they were already aware that they had thirty sisters, since this was reported to them by the people of Tamarmara. While their mother did not recognize them—given the span of time since she sent them down the river, this is completely understandable, even if the gods had not interfered43—the sons should still have realized that they were being given their own sisters for wives by their mother. And yet, because of the gods’ action, most of the sons “did not recognize their sisters” ([ù igi-]ziaš dumu meš nikuš⸗(š)muš natta ganeššir, l. 18). This clause is highly dramatic, as it reveals that the sons were truly in danger of committing incest, and even more disturbingly, that the gods were to blame. While the majority of the sons do not recognize their sisters, the youngest son realizes the reality of their situation and attempts to alert his brothers. Whether or not his attempt is successful is unfortunately unclear since the tablet breaks at this crucial moment.

6

Cohesive Ties at a Distance

Besides the cohesive ties within the final unit and between that unit and the preceding one, there are also a number of ties between the final unit and the very first unit of the text. These ties consist of a repetition of two key lexemes.44 In both the setting and the final unit the common verbs dai-/tiya-, “to place, put (on),” and dā-, “to take” appear, and their context in the final unit reveal an ironic reversal of the setting, while also violating the audience’s expectations of a happy ending. The verb dai-/tiya-, “to place, put (on),” occurs in the first discourse unit as part of the sequence of clauses describing the birth of the sons and their release in the river. The queen is the agent of the verb, as she “placed her sons inside”45 some sort of basket or container lined with fat. Her action of “placing her sons inside” the container establishes the separation between her sons and herself. In the final preserved unit, the agent, object, and container of this act of “placing” have all changed, but the result is the same, namely the separation of 43

44 45

The present tense of the verb natta ganešzi, “she does not recognize,” in line 16 indicates that this sentence is not sequential or otherwise causally related to the gods placing “another karāt” in her sons. Rather, this is background information explaining why she gave her daughters to the thirty foreign men before her. For a different perspective on verbal tense in this text, see Holland and Zorman, 2007, 82–83, on the alternation of the preterite and present tenses. As noted above, this type of tie is discussed in Halliday and Hasan, 1976, 274–292, chapter 6. nu dumu meš⸗šu andan zikēt. The form zikēt is the imperfective form of dai-/tiya-. See Kloekhorst, 2008, 806–807.

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the sons from their mother: “The gods placed another karāt in them.” While the mother’s actions at the beginning of the story can be considered bad, even infanticidal, at the end of the text the blame for the family’s separation shifts to the gods, though its vehicle remains the same, the act of placing. In both cases, the sons are the passive and seemingly helpless victims of the act of placing— as its objects in the first scene and containers in the last. The verb dā-, “to take,” similarly occurs in both the setting and the final unit of the text. In the setting, the gods are the agent of the verb, as they rescue the sons: “The gods took up the sons from the sea.” Not only do they rescue the sons, they also proceed to raise them to adulthood. The action of “taking” at the beginning of the text is therefore wholesome and beneficial, but in the final unit it is quite different. The agent has shifted from the gods to the sons, the object has shifted from the sons to their sisters, and the result is anything but wholesome and beneficial: “The youngest son [(spoke thus) in his heart]: ‘these are our sisters we are taking!’” As the youngest son puts it: natta⸗at āra, “it is not right!”

7

Changes of State in the Tale of Zalpa

The cohesive ties in the story have at least two effects. First, they display continuity between one discourse unit and the next. Second, the ties draw attention to the changes that the characters experience through the course of the narrative. At the beginning of this essay, it was noted that for a text to be considered a “narrative” text, it will give an account of at least one change of state of at least one person or thing. In the Tale of Zalpa, several of the characters undergo changes of state, thereby revealing that this ancient text can be considered a narrative text based on definitions provided by modern theory. The story begins with the queen of Kanesh. The changes that she undergoes occur, or are implied, entirely at the beginning of the text: she was not pregnant, then became pregnant, then gave birth to thirty sons, then was not pregnant again, then became pregnant again, then gave birth again. Her active role in the story then ends, aside from her giving her daughters to her sons in marriage, an action whose significance she herself does not understand. While it is a tense moment in the narrative, it is not about her as a character. As for the thirty sons, they undergo the vast majority of the changes at the forefront of the narrative: they are born, abandoned by their mother, and raised by the gods, they then set out on a journey to reunite with their mother, discover

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that they have thirty sisters, are interfered with by the gods, unwittingly marry their sisters, and presumably undergo other changes that have not been preserved in the text. The thirty daughters undergo changes as well but are not the focus of the narrative action. The other main characters in the story are the gods. Their actions at the beginning of the text are benevolent, in that they rescue the sons from the river. However, the second time they appear, their actions are disturbing. They have shifted from benevolently raising the sons to preventing them from harmoniously reuniting with their mother and sisters. The motivation for this change is unclear. Did the gods disapprove of the queen for sending her sons down the river? Did they disapprove of the sons for leaving Zalpa in search of their mother? Or were they simply capricious? Regardless, without further information to go on, it appears that the gods are responsible for the incestuous marriage of the sons to their sisters. However, depending on the timing and effect of the youngest son’s injunction not to touch their sisters, once the rest of the sons become aware of the incestuous situation, they would then bear some responsibility as well. None of this is certain, since the tablet breaks off before the outcome is clarified.

8

Summary

This essay has analyzed inductively the structures and patterns of the Tale of Zalpa in order to determine if it contains elements that conform to modern narratological theory of what constitutes a “narrative” text. As noted above, modern theory has identified the core feature of a narrative as communicating a change of state of something or someone.46 Focus was placed on two aspects of discourse analysis that correlate with the three logical implications Schmid developed on the basis of a minimum narrative text. The three logical implications regarding what a narrative text will contain can be summarized as follows: a temporal structure across which one state will transition to another state, conceptual relatedness of the beginning state and the final state, and that the transition from one state to another must occur to the same character or subject.47 The focus on discourse cohesion pointed to

46 47

See especially the discussion of Schmid, 2010, at the beginning of this essay. Schmid’s, 2010, articulation of these three logical implications appears at the beginning of this essay.

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the second and third logical implications: that the nature of the change of state was conceptually correlated to the initial state (e.g., the sons were separated from their mother then later reunited with her) and that this change of state occurred to the same characters (e.g., the sons). The focus on discourse transition pointed to the first logical implication: the transitions revealed a temporal sequence that revealed an initial state or situation that was later replaced with a final state or situation. The focus on discourse transition and cohesion, in addition to revealing that the Tale of Zalpa conforms to the modern understanding of what is a “narrative” text, also highlighted the mechanisms and techniques for narrative development within this ancient text. Narrative transitions were marked by verbs of motions in clauses that lacked a connective particle and often included an overt temporal marker as well. These transition markers served to signal the beginning of a new narrative sequence thereby leaving the previous sequence behind. While transitions from one narrative sequence to another occurred throughout the text, these sequences were shown to be both internally cohesive and tied to each other primarily through the use of lexical cohesion via reiteration. Cohesion that spanned discourse transitions revealed that one discourse unit could introduce a theme that would be developed further in the following unit. This kind of cohesion can probably be characterized as a sort of “tail-head linkage,” which Antoine Guillaume defines as “a discourse pattern which consists in repeating, at the beginning of a new sentence, the main verb of the preceding sentence for discourse cohesion.”48 Instead of referring strictly to how two sentences are connected, I suggest the term “tail-head linkage” can be applied more broadly to connected discourse units or sequences as seen in the Tale of Zalpa. Discourse units can be linked not only to other adjoining units, but also to units that are separated from them by some distance. The final preserved discourse unit alludes to the initial setting by means of verbal repetition, emphasizing that the circumstances of the setting have been turned upside down. We can therefore say that the setting of the text lays the groundwork for the reversal of expectations that takes place in its final preserved unit.49

48 49

Guillaume, 2011, 109. Cf. the second logical implication of what a narrative text will do as articulated by Schmid, 2010, at the beginning of this essay.

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In sum, the Tale of Zalpa contains all expected elements of what a “narrative” text will contain and do. Other cuneiform texts should be similarly analyzed for these elements as well as for the mechanisms and techniques for how they express them. I argue that such analysis will enable more comprehensive theories of narratological trends and styles of various cuneiform cultures. This kind of analysis will also ensure that any new theories will be grounded on the inner workings of the texts.

Bibliography Bal, Mieke. 2017. Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative. 4th Edition. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Beal, Richard H. 2000. “The Ten Year Annals of Great King Murshili ii of Hatti (2.16).” In Context of Scripture, volume 2: Monumental Inscriptions from the Biblical World, edited by William W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger, 82–90. Leiden: Brill. Beckman, Gary. 2006. “Historical Texts i: Annals of Ḫattušili i.” In The Ancient Near East: Historical Sources in Translation, edited by Mark W. Chavalas, 219–222. Malden: Blackwell Publishing. Brinton, Laurel J. 1990. “The Development of Discourse Markers in English.” In Historical Linguistics and Philology, edited by Jacek Fisiak, 45–71. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Cohen, Yoram. 2002. Taboos and Prohibitions in Hittite Society: A Study of the Hittite Expression natta āra (“not permitted”). Texte der Hethiter 24. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag C. Winter. Crisostomo, Jay C. 2017. “The Sumerian Discourse Markers u4-ba and u4-bi-a.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 69: 49–66. Gilan, Amir. 2007. “How Many Princes Can the Land Bear?—Some Thoughts on the Zalpa Text (cth 3).” In vi Congresso Internazionale di Ittitologia Roma, 5–9 settembre 2005, edited by Alfonso Archi and Rita Francia, 305–318. Rome: Istituto di studi sulle civiltà dell’Egeo e del Vicino Oriente. Gilan, Amir. 2015. Formen und Inhalte althethitischer historischer Literatur. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter. Guillaume, Antoine. 2011. “Subordinate Clauses, Switch-Reference, and Tail-Head Linkage in Cavineña Narratives.” In Subordination in Native South-American Languages, edited by Rik van Gijn, Katharina Haude, and Pieter Muysken, 109–139. Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company. Güterbock, Hans G., Harry A. Hoffner Jr., Theo P.J. van den Hout, and Petra M. Goedegebuure, eds. 2019. The Hittite Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago: Š. Chicago: Chicago University Press.

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Haas, Volkert. 2006. Die hethitische Literatur: Texte, Stilistik, Motive. Berlin: De Gruyter. Halliday, Michael A.K. and Ruqaiya Hasan. 1976. Cohesion in English. London: Longman Group. Hoffner, Harry A. 1997. The Laws of the Hittites: A Critical Edition. Documenta et Monumenta Orientis Antiqui 23. Leiden: Brill. Hoffner, Harry A. 2003. “The Queen of Kanesh and the Tale of Zalpa (1.71).” In Context of Scripture: Volume 1 Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World, edited by William Hallo and K. Lawson Younger, Jr., 181–182. Leiden: Brill. Hoffner, Harry A., and H. Craig Melchert. 2008. A Grammar of the Hittite Language. Languages of the Ancient Near East 1. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Holland, Gary B. and Marina Zorman. 2007. The Tale of Zalpa: Myth, Morality, and Coherence in a Hittite Narrative. Pavia: Italian University Press. Jucker, Andreas H., and Yael Ziv. 1998. “Discourse Markers: Introduction.” In Discourse Markers: Descriptions and Theory, edited by Andreas H. Jucker, and Yael Ziv, 1–12. Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing Company. Kloekhorst, Alwin. 2008. Etymological Dictionary of the Hittite Inherited Lexicon. Edited by Alexander Lubotsky. Leiden Indo-European Etymological Dictionary 5. Leiden: Brill. Košak, Silvan. n.d. “Konkordanz der hethitischen Keilschrifttafeln (v. 1.993).” Accessed May 11, 2020. http://www.hethport.uni‑wuerzburg.de/HPM/index.php. Lanser, Susan S. 2012. “Plot.” In Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics, edited by Roland Greene and Stephen Cushman, 1044–1046. Princeton: Princeton University Press. O’Connor, Michael P. and Edward L. Greenstein. 2012. “Parallelism.” In The Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics, edited by Roland Greene and Stephen Cushman, 997–999. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Otten, Heinrich. 1973. Eine althethitische Erzählung um die Stadt Zalpa. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Parunak, Henry. 1978. “Structural Studies in Ezekiel.” PhD dissertation, Harvard University. Puhvel, Jaan. 1984. Hittite Etymological Dictionary, vol. 1: Words Beginning with A. Berlin: de Gruyter. Schmid, Wolf. 2010. Narratology: An Introduction. Translated by Alexander Starritt. Berlin: de Gruyter. Waal, Willemijn J.I. 2015. Hittite Diplomatics: Studies in Ancient Document Format and Record Management. Student zu den Boğazköy-Texten 57. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. Watkins, Calvert. 1995. How to Kill a Dragon: Aspects of Indo-European Poetics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Watkins, Calvert. 2004. “The Third Donkey: Origin Legends and Some Hidden Indo-

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European Themes.” In Indo-European Perspectives: Studies in Honour of Anna Morpurgo Davies, edited J.H.W. Penney, 65–80. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Zorman, Marina. 2008. “cth 3: The Conquest of Zalpa Justified.” In vi Congresso Internazionale di Ittitologia Roma, 5–9 settembre 2005, edited by Alfonso Archi and Rita Francia, 861–870. Rome: Istituto di studi sulle civiltà dell’Egeo e del Vicino Oriente.

chapter 4

Unreliable Foreshadowing in Divine Predictions Louise Pryke

1

Introduction

This chapter explores the role of foreshadowing as a literary technique in cuneiform narratives. In well-known Akkadian and Sumerian stories such as the Epic of Gilgamesh, Inanna’s Descent to the Netherworld, and Adapa and the South Wind, major future events are preceded by a speech from a divine character outlining the shape of things to come. However, not all divine counsel appears to align well with later events—projected conflicts unfold in unanticipated ways, and divine directions may omit key points for navigating future quests. If divine signaling of future events does not always provide a reliable preview of things to come, what other functions might it serve in literary narratives? This chapter considers how the incomplete knowledge of future proceedings is used to give structure to characters, relationships, and stories, create suspense, and test the boundaries of wisdom and divinity.

2

An Atmosphere of Foreshadowing

Although the focus in this chapter is on divine speeches, foreshadowing takes on many forms in cuneiform narratives.1 Indeed, the cuneiform world is suffused with foreshadowing. This atmosphere of foreboding is established through a mixture of prophecies, predictions, and prefiguring, creating a dynamic interplay between the narrative past, present, and future.2 1 Although a subject of continuing debate among literary theorists, in Genette’s terminology, “foreshadowing” is a type of temporal prolepsis giving implicit advance mention of future elements, as opposed to the more explicit advance notice (1980). The lack of certainty involved in this type of advance telling is then a key element that defines foreshadowing. 2 This chapter is concerned with the appearance of predictions in cuneiform narrative literature. It is nevertheless worth noting abundant library of divinatory and prophetic practices from genres outside of narrative in the broader catalogue of cuneiform texts. For an overview of divinatory disciplines, see Koch, 2011, with a focus on extispicy and omen astrology. Koch notes that the surfeit of textual evidence indicates the high importance of divinatory practices in the cuneiform cultures in the first and second millennium (2011, 447).

© Louise Pryke, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004

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Divinity is not a prerequisite for giving advice on future events or obstacles. In Tablet i of the Standard Babylonian version of the Akkadian Epic of Gilgamesh, the eponymous hero sets a trap for the wild man Enkidu, using Shamhat as bait.3 Three times it is predicted that Shamhat’s kuzbu (which can loosely be understood as “charisma”) will alienate Enkidu from his herd (i 142–145, 162– 166, 180–187). Just as foreshadowed by Gilgamesh and the hunter, the encounter with Shamhat does indeed cause Enkidu’s herd to abandon him (i 188–200).4 Shamhat herself foreshadows critical elements of future events. She warns Enkidu of Gilgamesh’s privileged position in the eyes of Shamash, Anu, Enlil, and Ea and somehow knows that Gilgamesh has had dreams foretelling his companion’s arrival (i 238–244). Shamhat’s warning of the gods’ partiality in Gilgamesh’s favor subtly presages Enkidu’s death in Tablet vii, where a council of deities selects Enkidu over Gilgamesh to receive lethal punishment for their shared transgressions in the preceding tablets. Later in the narrative, in Tablet ii, Enkidu gives a speech warning of the dangers of Gilgamesh’s proposed quest against Humbaba (ii 274–286), which is repeated with some embellishment by the elders of Uruk (ii 287–299), meaning that before Gilgamesh has approached his mother with the plan to travel to the Cedar Forest, the risks of the proposed journey have been foregrounded in the story, providing an emotional context for Ninsun’s dismayed reaction to her son’s plan (iii 35–110). The diversity of the kinds of foreshadowing used in texts from varying historical and cultural periods precludes a complete analysis here. Instead, this chapter provides a brief overview of the use of the literary technique of foreshadowing through divine speech, though further analyses of specific stories, periods, and genres may provide more nuanced results.5

3

Divine Omniscience or Best-Guess Hypothesis?

Foreshadowing relates to knowledge of future events, even if said knowledge is imperfect or inaccurate. The imprecise nature of information given through prefiguring encourages engagement with the limitations and complexity of

3 The use of foreshadowing to provide context for the meeting between Gilgamesh and Enkidu is discussed in Helle, 2016, 29. 4 George, 2003. 5 Cunningham, 2011, for example, discusses the literary device of the flashforward to future events in dreams while considering narrative techniques in Sargon and Ur-Zababa, reflecting the diverse potential applications of foreshadowing in cuneiform literature.

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knowledge. This chapter’s focus on shadowy prefiguring in divine speeches raises questions about the connection between divinity and omniscience in cuneiform literature. The link between storytelling and religion in antiquity is a burgeoning area of study,6 but it is clear that literary techniques such as foreshadowing are used to explore and even test the boundaries of divinity in narratives. Deities in cuneiform literature are often presented as having the ability to foresee future events.7 Indeed, omniscience is traditionally one of the main traits associated with divinity in Mesopotamian religion.8 So, if deities are shown giving unreliable descriptions of future events, how does that align with the characterization of divine wisdom in narrative?9 Mesopotamian deities are generally presented as possessing greater wisdom than humans, but the limitations of divine knowledge remain difficult to quantify precisely. Cuneiform narratives provide many examples of deities showing incomplete foresight. A brief example comes from Tablet vi of Gilgamesh. The deities Ishtar and Anu give speeches in Tablet vi foreshadowing the battle between Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and the Bull of Heaven. Anu displays his divine foresight in warning that the presence of the Bull of Heaven on earth will lead to environmental destruction, for which Ishtar must prepare (vi 101– 105). This warning proves accurate when the Bull’s descent from the heavens causes sinkholes and a drought. However, neither Anu nor Ishtar appear to know the outcome of the coming battle. Instead, the goddess’s speech raises the expectation of a swift victory, which is later subverted by the death of the Bull (vi 82–95). At other times, deities show more complete foreknowledge of narrative events, but the source of this knowledge remains unclear. In the Standard Babylonian Etana Epic, Shamash tells Etana that he must find a pit containing an eagle, and the bird will give him the plant of birth. The predicted sequence of events follows directly in the text, aligning neatly with the divine advice (ii 141–

6 Kindt, 2016. 7 Rochberg, 2016, 61, notes that Mesopotamian deities knew the future, but “lived in a world of future contingencies, not fixed determinism.” This future flexibility may also be seen in omen texts, as noted recently by Annus, 2010, 23, who describes a “conditional future” as opposed to “irrevocable determinism.” 8 Vanstiphout, 2009, 15–40. 9 Of course, this question is at least partially reliant on the assumption of a systematic approach to Mesopotamian religion that is reflected in myths and legends. Recent explorations have shown this assumption may oversimplify the relationship between cuneiform narratives and religion. See for example Weeks, forthcoming.

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150).10 What remains unstated in the text is whether Shamash is foreseeing the events of the narrative, or using superior divine wisdom to draw a best-guess hypothesis for Etana’s likely path to success.11 Recent scholarship has problematized the traditional assumptions about the omniscience of Mesopotamian deities. While various deities are often described as “knowers of all,”12 their wisdom shows some limitations and nuance that makes it difficult to define.13 Indeed, divine knowledge can best be described as nebulous in nature, and that indefinable quality makes it an ideal match for the literary technique of foreshadowing.

4

Shadowy Foreknowledge

The etymology of “foreshadow” is immediately useful to our purposes: foreshadowing is a shadow thrown before an object,14 which helps to describe the frequently less-than-accurate nature of narrative previews. Rather than giving either a clear prediction that is repeated in perfect detail or a prolepsis into the future, foreshadowing has a different function: it provides a shadowy foreknowledge that implies a necessarily imperfect prefiguring.15 The use of foreshadowing—in place of more precise predictions or prophecies—draws attention to the ways in which the narratives “always begin in the murk of too-little information.”16 Foreshadowing provides an imperfect representation of what might come to pass, meaning that it often creates a mood or atmosphere rather than a detailed picture.17 Because of the more general nature of foreshadowing, it may be viewed as broadly representative of Mesopotamian literary narratives. Stories in cuneiform literature may be structured to build anticipation or hint at significant future events, but the ominous 10 11 12 13 14 15

16

17

Haul, 2000. As a solar deity, Shamash is naturally “all-seeing”; see Pettazzoni, 1956, 79. For example, Ninsun is said to be “clever … wise … she knew everything”; en-qet mu-da-at ka-la-ma i-de (i 260 and passim); George, 2003, 554–555. See Worthington, 2019, 311, for useful examples. Evans, 2019. Evans, 2019. The topic of prefiguration in ancient religious texts has occasioned a great deal of scholarship, notably in exegeses of the Hebrew Bible (see for example Kazhdan and Carr, 1991). As with the technique of foreshadowing, the use of symbolism and allegory in narrative prefiguring allows room for interpretation. Evans, 2019. I am most grateful to Dr. Jedidiah Evans of the University of Sydney for his useful discussions of foreshadowing in narrative theory, and his commitment to transdisciplinary discourse. Evans, 2019.

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mood of foreboding produces the sense of knowledge of events to come, rather than certain information about the future.18 In Tablet x of the Standard Babylonian version of Gilgamesh, the hero receives ominous advice from the goddess of beer and wisdom, Siduri. Gilgamesh asks whether it is possible to cross the ocean and meet Utanapishtim, and says that if it is not possible, he will return to roaming the wild.19 Siduri informs Gilgamesh that there is no way for anyone but the sun god Shamash to cross the Waters of Death (x 79–84). Siduri is not shown to be omniscient; her knowledge has its limitations (for example, she is temporarily uncertain of the identity of her heroic visitor). While she states she does not know whether it is possible to cross the Waters of Death, she is able to direct Gilgamesh to the boatman Ur-Shanabi, who possesses the required knowledge and skills for this endeavor. Siduri’s speech foreshadows trouble ahead, but the information she provides is not wholly accurate and leaves room for uncertainty. It is unclear whether Siduri’s response reflects a lack of knowledge, or its non-disclosure. At the same time, by warning of the extreme dangers that lie ahead, Siduri heightens the suspense, and Gilgamesh’s heroic character is emphasized.20 As her speech foreshadows future narrative events, it suggests gaps in Siduri’s awareness. But despite the limits of her divine knowledge, the relationship between speaker and addressee remains hierarchical: Siduri may not know everything, but she knows more than her royal visitor. While no clear solution is presented, the audience is left with the sense that Ur-Shanabi may be the key to Gilgamesh’s success, which provides an emotional background for their meeting in the next scene.

5

Narrative Structure and Foreshadowing

Foreshadowing creates a temporal focalization by contrasting the current narrative time with glimpses of a still-unknown future. Hints of things to come placed at an early stage in the narrative create a sense of suspense, expectation, and excitement in the audience.21 This effect is most noticeable in advice 18 19 20

21

Evans, 2019. Variations in Siduri’s role and speech in the context of different versions of Gilgamesh have been analyzed in Abusch, 2015, 59–88. See Durand, Römer, and Langois (eds.), 2011, on the difficulty of using the term “hero” in the context of Mesopotamian literature, especially given its capacity to reflect different meanings in different historical periods and contexts. The word “audience” is used in this chapter as a term of convenience, in awareness that very little is known about the ancient context and audience of cuneiform literature. Wor-

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regarding insurmountable obstacles or dangerous adversaries that lie ahead for the protagonist. At the same time, audiences may judge how well the story’s events are conforming to expected plans: the preview gives a point of comparison with which to gauge whether events are unfolding as they have been prefigured. Structurally, previews signpost key events. They describe future happenings of great significance to the story. By outlining the shape of a story arc, previews give the audience clues about which events are most important. Narrative structuring also provides literary cohesion to the story, allowing for a closer integration of the motifs and themes that are essential to its meaning.22 Divine foreshadowing in cuneiform narratives orients the audience to the story’s flow and provides useful exposition. By presenting the perspective of the deity and revealing the shape of events from a new standpoint, the audience gains new knowledge about what is at stake and a useful context for understanding future action.23 Through presenting information in the form of divine speech, the text switches between the narrator’s and the characters’ account of the action, whether present or potential. This allows different perspectives on the story’s events to be juxtaposed, giving the text a polyphonic quality.24 For example, the Old Babylonian Sumerian myth of Inanna and Ebih presents the perspectives of different deities on the same future conflict. This myth also shows a hierarchical relationship in terms of the relative wisdom of speaker and addressee. In the story, Inanna decides to make war against a mountain for not showing her respect. When she announces her plan, the elder deity attempts to dissuade Inanna from the conflict, telling her that what she proposes is impossible. He describes the grandeur and fearsomeness of the mountain, saying: lu2-tur-ĝu10 kur-re al bi2-du11 ša3-bi a-na ab-ak ki-gub dingir-re-e-ne-ke4 ni2 huš im-da-ri hur-saĝ-ĝa2 me-lam2-bi huš-a ki-sikil dinana saĝ nu-mu-un-de3-ĝa2-ĝa2

22 23 24

thington, 2020, 105–110, argues that the ancient audiences for the Gilgamesh Epic cannot be assumed to “know it all” about the narrative through oral story-telling traditions that accompanied written manuscripts. Sasson, 2005, 227–228. Sasson notes the narrative device of the journey as one of the main structural devices in ancient Near Eastern epics. De Jong, 2014, 60–65. The musical term “polyphonic” was influentially applied to narrative by Bakhtin, 1984, to describe the appearance of multiple voices within a single text.

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My young one, you have longed for the mountain—what is the reason? … The dwellings of the gods are covered in fearsome terror … The mountain range is one of terrifying radiance—young maiden Inanna, you will not be able to oppose it.25 The warning from An in this text is more forceful than the one Ishtar receives before taking on Gilgamesh in his eponymous text, where she has the considerable advantage of being accompanied by the Bull of Heaven.26 While the mountain is annihilated by Inanna, Gilgamesh manages at least temporarily to forfend the dangers presented by the goddess. Inanna and Ebih inverts the expected hierarchy of knowledge in the narrative: the addressee, Inanna, is shown to have a more accurate sense of her ability to defeat the mountain than the speaker, An. An’s speech foreshadows danger, but future events remain unclear. An’s assessment that Inanna faces extraordinary risk highlights the magnitude of her achievement later in the narrative, and her bold and impetuous character.

6

Words of Wisdom

Divine speeches that foretoken events to come are often given as a form of instruction. For the literary figures involved, and perhaps even for the story’s audience, wholly accurate descriptions of the future would have been of optimal use. But even incomplete, fallible reports delivered in divine speeches disclose the speaker’s perspective and can reveal a perceived lack of knowledge in the addressee. In the myths of Adapa and the South Wind and Inanna’s Descent, the contrast in perspectives between speaker and addressee tells us about the nature of their relationship and their respective characters. Foreshadowing creates a contrast between what is known and what is not, and between the speaker, the listener, and the audience. In this way, foreshadowing may highlight the uneven status of humans and deities, or the differences in per-

25 26

Attinger, 1998, lines 112, 116, 128; see also the discussion of this passage in Delnero, 2011, 138; Inanna and Ebih is also listed as etcsl 1.3.2. Karahashi, 2014, 117 compares the two conflicts and notes the influence of the deity’s character on her choice of battle. She views the mountain as less provocative than the hero, which may explain An’s reticent approach to the battle. Neumann, 2015, 38 notes that the issue of An’s reticence has largely confused scholars, and also observes the goddess’s ambitious nature in this and other myths.

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spectives, values, and competencies among gods. In both myths, the dangers involved in future events and the relationship between the speaker and the listener are illuminated through divine speech. At the same time, the exact shape of these future events, and their outcomes, remain cloaked in mystery. In Adapa and Inanna’s Descent, the use of foreshadowing in divine speech emphasizes the hierarchical divide between the speaker and the listener. Both Adapa and Ninshubur are required to place their trust in the deities they serve, as they follow their divine instructions without a clear picture of future events. In both narratives, the loyalty of the recipients of divine speech is a decisive element of the story, holding life or death consequences for the protagonists.

7

Adapa

The often murky connection between foreshadowing and knowledge in Mesopotamian literature is clearly seen in the myth of Adapa and the South Wind. The story of Adapa and the South Wind has survived in a number of versions in fragmented form,27 and despite much scholarly analysis, there is no consensus on the meaning of the narrative. Early in the story, Ea gives advice to the myth’s eponymous protagonist after he curses the wind and fractures its “wing” (fragment B, l. 5–34).28 As an interesting side note, the south wind, which provides the catalyst for the narrative of Adapa, has a distinctive character in Mesopotamian literature. Unlike the east wind, which is sometimes linked to prosperity, the south wind had a fearsome reputation. The malign power of the south wind is shown in its frequent description as the “evil wind,”29 and through its association with wind demons.30 Whether or not the wind’s bad reputation justifies Adapa’s assault, his actions go beyond what is expected of mortals, and so Anu summons Adapa to heaven. Ea instructs Adapa on how to conduct himself there: he must display mourning behavior to earn the good graces of the gods at the door, Tammuz and Gizzida, and refuse the food and water of death, which would kill him. Ea’s advice helps Adapa impress Anu, who then offers him the divine food and 27

28 29 30

An excellent overview of the tangle of Adapa texts can be found in Konstantopoulos, 2022, 148–149. As noted by Konstantopoulos, the narrative structure of the story alters between the Sumerian and Akkadian versions (2022, 148). The Akkadian version of Adapa is used in this chapter. Izʾreel, 2001, 16–19. Talon, 1990, 46–47, observes that the noted power of the South Wind makes its absence more alarming. Hutter, 1999, 520.

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water of life which would make him a deity. Adapa, however, is faithful to Ea’s instructions not to eat in heaven, and so returns to earth a mortal. Adapa has been described as a “multivalent literary work which supports, even encourages, multiple readings,”31 so it is perhaps natural that there is no scholarly consensus about the purpose and meanings of this narrative.32 The myth is certainly concerned with exploring the distinction between humans and deities, particularly in terms of the limits of mortality and wisdom,33 although the nature of this emphasis is not fixed across the different fragmentary versions.34 Ea’s advice foreshadows the liminality of the heavens, a place where life, death, mortality, and immortality will be shown to be in delicate balance for the mortal traveler. The speech emphasizes the extraordinary quality of Adapa’s visit there and aligns well with Ea’s broader characterization as a deity who assists individuals finding themselves in precarious situations.35 The ominous nature of Ea’s speech, however, appears to offer a misleading sense of things to come. Parts of Ea’s advice are accurately borne out in the events that follow, as the deity’s instructions on dealing with the heavenly gatekeepers, Tammuz and Gizzida, do prove effective. However, Ea’s warnings about receiving divine hospitality in heaven seem less clear-cut, and this ambiguity is reflected in the range of scholarly responses to the narrative.36 Jacobsen saw self-interest in the divine misdirection of Adapa, and suggested that Ea may have known Adapa would be offered the secret to eternal life in heaven.37 In this interpretation, the god of wisdom’s words deliberately steer the hero away from immortality. For others, such as Liverani and Sasson,38 Ea’s warning to Adapa is thought to be genuine, but his knowledge about Anu’s choice of actions is incorrect or, perhaps, incomplete. The uncertainties in the scholarly debate can be partly attributed to the ambiguous nature of the text. As is often the case in cuneiform literature, the structure of the story offers no narrative obtrusion that explains the significance of the events that are unfolding. Instead, the audience is presented with a juxtaposition between the imperfectly prefigured events described in a divine 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

Sanders, 2017, 36. Cavigneaux, 2014, 40. Izreʾel, 2001, 123; Talon, 1990. Milstein, 2016. Milstein, 2016, 82–83. A useful bibliography of the scholarly discourse on Ea’s advice to Adapa may be found in Konstantopoulos, 2022, 151, fn. 46 and 47. Jacobsen, 1930, 201–202. Liverani, 2004, 5–9; Sasson, 2008, 4.

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speech and the events relayed by the narrator. Where the two descriptions do not align, the audience must engage with the ambiguities of the poem, and perhaps consider the limits of human wisdom within the text—and beyond it. It is worth considering to what degree the ambiguity in Ea’s speech may reflect his characterization in the narrative and the broader literary tradition. In his analysis of the myth, Sasson has argued that Ea’s message to Adapa is an amphibolous pun on the Akkadian word for “death” and “human being.”39 Ea’s speech in Adapa uses words with the same spelling and pronunciation that can be interpreted to hold parallel meanings. This aspect of the deity’s speech is particularly interesting when considered alongside Worthington’s recent analysis of Ea’s ambivalent oracle to Utanapishtim in the Gilgamesh Epic, which also reflects a bitextual (or at times, tritextual) sense.40 Considered in this light, the double meaning within the “oracle” that Ea provides to Adapa suggests a tradition of identifying the god of wisdom with ambivalent predictions involving wordplay in cuneiform literature. Although Ea’s advice does not give a clear picture of the journey ahead, his speech provides a context for Adapa’s actions in heaven. Despite his ability to inflict damage on the wind, Ea’s speech shows that Adapa will be dangerously out of his element in the journey ahead. His dependence on Ea’s instructions (however misguided) emphasizes the limits inherent in his mortal nature.

8

Inanna’s Descent

Foreshadowing is particularly ominous in Inanna’s Descent to the Netherworld. In this narrative, the plucky goddess of love presages her own death in the Netherworld in a speech given to her servant and companion, Ninshubur. The goddess’s divine instructions outline the dangers of the trip ahead, but events are not presented with complete certainty. Inanna instructs her companion on how to respond if she is rejected by the three deities from whom she is to seek help, but these rejections are not yet presented as inevitable in the text (l. 28– 72).41 The solution to the future problem of Inanna becoming trapped in the Netherworld is also left unclear. The mutual devotion between Inanna and Ninshubur is illuminated through the description of future events in the speech. The speech provides a context 39 40 41

Sasson, 2008, 4. Worthington, 2020. For an edition of Inanna’s Descent to the Netherworld see Sladek, 1974 and etcsl 1.4.1. The line reference above follows the etcsl edition.

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for Ninshubur’s later actions in diligently mourning the goddess and seeking assistance for her rescue. As these events have been instigated and presaged by Inanna, the narrative focus remains on the goddess rather than her companion. The emphasis on appropriate mourning behavior in Inanna’s speech foregrounds the theme of grieving and funerary rites in the story.42 The goddess’s instructions provide a model of mourning behavior at an early point in the narrative. This then sets up an unflattering contrast with Dumuzi’s inappropriate response to Inanna’s death at a later stage and foreshadows the conflict between Inanna and her lover. Further into the story, future events are once more prefigured through a divine speech prior to a journey to the Netherworld. This time, Enki gives instructions to the beings he creates to rescue the goddess. As with the directives Inanna issues to Ninshubur earlier in the story, Enki gives both beings detailed advice. Enki’s speech, however, presents a future without alternatives, and gives a clear outcome for the narrative’s focal problem of securing Inanna’s return. The use of foreshadowing in Inanna’s initial speech highlights the difficulties surrounding her future revival. Her ability to foresee the danger ahead raises the stakes in the narrative, while the remaining uncertainty creates an atmosphere of suspense. Her choice to proceed despite the risks she has so clearly outlined shows her to be bold, ambitious, and rash. While Inanna’s actions are daring, she is aware of the dangers ahead and takes effective steps to address them. The accuracy of the goddess’s assessment of future events makes her imprisonment in the Netherworld appear almost intentional, and her decision to give Ninshubur a critical role in her revival is validated by later events.43 While Ninshubur’s conduct is critical to the goddess’s release, she is shown to follow Inanna’s instructions, reinforcing the hierarchy between the protagonists. Enki’s prefiguring of the deity’s resurrection allows the audience to appreciate the cleverness of his plan, and so the wisdom of the deity is emphasized.

42 43

Pryke, 2017, 104–105. Zgoll, 2020, has recently argued that Inanna’s death may be viewed as allowing for the special powers of the Netherworld to be brought to the upper world, adding a further sense of intentionality to the events of the story.

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Conclusion

The use of foreshadowing in divine speeches frequently provides a fuzzy outline of significant episodes before the event occurs, with many details remaining incomplete or even inaccurate. In place of detailed descriptions of future events, foreshadowing gives a sense of the stakes involved in central events, building tension in the narrative. Foreshadowing reveals the wisdom of Ea and the impetuousness of Inanna, as well as the nature and complexity of key relationships between characters. While ostensibly focused on revelations about the future, foreshadowing instead casts a clear light on the story’s characters and how they connect with one another in the narrative present and past; the narrative future remains undefined. Through foreshadowing, the communication of information about future events allows for the exploration of the boundaries of divine and human knowledge. Foreshadowing narrative events though divine speech gives both the audience and the story’s hero a kind of rough map of the journey ahead. The information is less useful for ascertaining the shape of the story to come than it is for understanding the narrative’s scale and the status of the hero. Despite the frequent presence of divine foreshadowing in cuneiform narratives, the audience, along with the mythic hero, must continue the literary journey to find out how the story will unfold.

Bibliography Abusch, Tzvi. 2015. Male and Female in the Epic of Gilgamesh: Encounters, Literary History, and Interpretation. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Annus, Amar. 2010. “On the Beginnings and Continuities of Omen Sciences in the Ancient World.” In Divination and Interpretation of Signs in the Ancient World, edited by Amar Annus, 1–18. Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Attinger, Pascal. 1998. “Inana et Ebiḫ.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und vorderasiatische Archäologie 88: 164–195. Bakhtin, Mikhail Mikhaĭlovich. 1984. Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, edited and translated by Caryl Emerson. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Black, Jeremy A., Graham Cunningham, Esther Flückiger-Hawker, Eleanor Robson, Jon Taylor, and Gabor Zólyomi. 1998–2006. The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature. Oxford. (http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/). Cavigneaux, Antoine. 2014. “Une version sumérienne de la légende d’Adapa (Textes de Tell Haddad x).” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und vorderasiatische Archäologie 104, no. 1: 1–41.

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Cunningham, Graham. 2011. “Hero and Villain: Analyses of Sargon and Ur-Zababa.” In Narratives of Egypt and the Ancient Near East: Literary and Linguistic Approaches (ola 189), edited by Fredrik Hagen, 81–96. Leuven: Peeters. Delnero, Paul. 2011. “‘Inana and Ebiḫ’ and the Scribal Tradition.” In A Common Cultural Heritage: Studies on Mesopotamia and the Biblical World in Honor of Barry L. Eichler, edited by Grant Frame, Erle Leichty, Karen Sonik, Jeffrey H. Tigay, and Steve Tinney, 123–149. Bethesda: cdl Press. Durand, Jean-Marie, Thomas Römer, and Michael Langlois, eds. 2011. Le jeune héros: Recherches sur la formation et la diffusion d’un thème littéraire au Proche-Orient ancient. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 250. Fribourg: Academic Press Fribourg. Genette, Gérard. 1980. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. George, Andrew R. 2003. The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts, 2 volumes. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Haul, Michael. 2000. Das Etana-Epos: Ein Mythos von der Himmelfahrt des Königs von Kiš. Göttinger Arbeitshefte zur altorientalischen Literatur 1. Göttingen: Seminar für Keilschriftforschung. Helle, Sophus, 2016. “Emotions in Gilgamesh: Desire, Grief and Identity in the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh.” Unpublished ma thesis, University of Copenhagen. Hutter, Graz M. 1999. “Lillith.” In Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible (ddd), edited by Karel van der Toorn, Bob Beking and Pieter W. van der Horst, 520–521. Leiden: Brill. Izreʾel, Shlomo, 2001. Adapa and the South Wind: Language has the Power of Life and Death. Mesopotamian Civilizations 10. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Jacobsen, Thorkild. 1930. “The Investiture and Anointing of Adapa in Heaven.” The American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures 46, no. 3: 201–203. Jong, Irene J.F. de, 2014. Narratology and Classics: A Practical Guide. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Karahashi, Fumi. 2004. “Fighting the Mountain: Some Observations on the Sumerian Myths of Inanna and Ninurta.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 63, no. 2: 111–118. Kindt, Julia. 2016. “The Story of Theology and the Theology of the Story.” In The Theologies of Ancient Greek Religion, edited by Julia Kindt, Esther Eidinow, and Robin Osborne, 12–34. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kazhdan, Alexander, and Annemarie Weyl Carr. 1991. “Prefiguration.” In The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, edited by Alexander Kazhdan. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Koch, Ulla Susanne. 2011. “Sheep and Sky: Systems of Divinatory Interpretation.” In The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture, edited by Karen Radner and Eleanor Robson, 447–469. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Konstantopoulos, Gina. 2022. “‘These Are of the Mouth of Ea:’ The Divine Origin of

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Incantations and the Legitimation of the Exorcist’s Craft.” In Uses and Misuses of Ancient Mediterranean Sources: Erudition, Authority, Manipulation, edited by Chiara Meccariello and Jennifer Singletary, 141–161. seraphim 12. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Liverani, Mario. 2004. “Adapa, Guest of the Gods.” In Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography, edited by Zainab Bahrani and Marc Van De Mieroop, 3–23. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Milstein, Sara J. 2016. “A Second Wind: Revision through Introduction in Adapa.” In Tracking the Master Scribe: Revision through Introduction in Biblical and Mesopotamian Literature, edited by Sara J. Milstein, 76–109. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Neumann, Hans. 2015. “Sumerische Mythen und Epen.” In Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen, edited by Pascal Attinger, Bernd Janowski, and Daniel Schwemer, 1–67. Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments, Neue Folge 8. Münich: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Pettazzoni, Raffaele. 1956. The All-Knowing God: Researches into Early Religion and Culture. London: Methuen. Pryke, Louise M. 2017. Ishtar. Gods and Heroes of the Ancient World. London and New York: Routledge. Pryke, Louise M. 2019. Gilgamesh. Gods and Heroes of the Ancient World. London and New York: Routledge. Rochberg, Francesca. 2016. “Foresight in Ancient Mesopotamia.” In Foresight, edited by Lawrence W. Sherman and David Allan Feller, 157–175. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sanders, Seth L. 2017. From Adapa to Enoch: Scribal Culture and Religious Vision in Judea and Babylon. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 167. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Sasson, Jack M. 2005. “Comparative Observations on the Near Eastern Epic Traditions.” In A Companion to Ancient Epic, edited by John Miles Foley, 215–232. Malden, Mass.: Blackwell. Sasson, Jack M. 2008. “Another Wrinkle on Old Adapa.” In Studies in Ancient Near Eastern World View and Society, edited by R.J. van der Spek et al., 1–9. Bethesda: cdl Press. Sladek, William R. 1974. “Inanna’s Descent to the Netherworld.” Phd Dissertation, Johns Hopkins University. Talon, Phillipe. 1990. “Le mythe d’Adapa.” In Studi epigrafici e linguistici sul Vicino Oriente 7, 43–57. Vanstiphout, Herman. 2009. “Die Geschöpfe des Prometheus, Or, How and Why Did the Sumerians Create Their Gods?” In What Is a God? Anthropomorphic and NonAnthropomorphic Aspects of Deity in Ancient Mesopotamia, edited by Barbara N. Porter, 15–40. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Van der Toorn, Karel. 2018. God in Context: Selected Essays on Society and Religion in the Early Middle East. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 123. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

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Weeks, Noel. Forthcoming. “Systematisation in Mesopotamian Religion.” Worthington, Martin. 2019. Ea’s Duplicity in the Gilgamesh Flood Story. London: Routledge. Zgoll, Annette, 2020. “Condensation of Myths: A Hermeneutic Key to a Myth about Innana and the Instruments of Power (me), Incorporated in the Epic angalta.” In Dealing with Antiquity—Past, Present, and Future, Proceedings der 63. Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale Marburg 2017, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 460, edited by Walter Sommerfeld, 427–447. Münster.

part 2 Medium and Emotion

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chapter 5

Tablets as Narrative Episodes in Babylonian Poetry Sophus Helle

1

Introduction

Perhaps the best-known fact about Babylonian epics is that they were told on clay tablets, but the narratological consequences of that fact remain unstudied. If a story is to be told on more than one Tablet, it must be divided into parts, which will often acquire their own structure and progression: each Tablet may thus come to function as a self-contained episode in the overall narrative.1 However, the literary significance of the Tablets has been obscured by the medium through which we study them today. When philologists read Babylonian epics—as translations, transliterations, hand copies, or photographs— they mostly appear on the pages of a book; so that when we reach the end of one Tablet, we turn the page and another begins.2 As a result, we often treat the epics’ arrangement into Tablets as a largely inconsequential subdivision of a coherent narrative, like the chapters in a novel.3 But the material quality of cuneiform tablets invites a different perspective. Each tablet is its own physical object, a separate piece of clay, and as such, a far more independent entity than a chapter would be. The way ancient scholars treated the Tablets further illustrates their relative independence. Ancient catalogues refer to the Akkadian epics not as epics, but as “series” (iškāru), meaning compositions that spanned more than one Tablet: “the series of Gilgamesh,” “the series of Etana,” and so on.4 The divisibility of the poems into Tablets was thus reflected in the very name they were given. Further, ancient libraries did not always hold entire series, but often contained only select Tablets from each composition. Ancient scribes must therefore have regarded the Tablets as meaningful literary entities that it would make sense to

1 Following Assyriological convention, I use “tablets” to refer to the physical objects and “Tablet” for the subdivisions of the narrative. 2 Inter-Tablet boundaries are arguably erased even more fully in online presentations of the text, where the continuous scroll hardly registers the transition from one Tablet to the next. 3 See e.g., Leichty, 1964, 148, who likens tablets to “chapters in a book.” 4 See e.g., the Catalogue of Texts and Authors, section 6, l. 10–14; Lambert, 1962, 66–67.

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copy, store, and study on their own.5 I would thus argue that we should understand the Tablets of Babylonian epics as episodes in a series, each of which can be and once was studied individually. A similar point was already made by Anne Kilmer, who, when discussing the visual emplacement of specific verses on their respective Tablets, referred to the ancient scribes as “tablet designers”; and by Herman Vanstiphout, who noted in 1990 that, when a new edition of Gilgamesh would become available, “[i]t will be fascinating to work out in detail how every tablet, and consequently every song, also presents its own structure, or, in other words, how every tablet is a structured whole in itself.”6 I do not deny that Tablets were grouped into stories, or that those stories evince patterns and internal references that cut across individual Tablets. Especially when it comes to well-known compositions such as those examined below, Gilgamesh and Enuma Elish, the ancient scribes almost certainly approached the individual Tablets with at least a basic and possibly an extensive knowledge of the entire story. There is some evidence that literary texts were copied from memory, indicating that the scribes were not reliant on the clay tablets in front of them for their understanding of the poem as a whole.7 But that does not invalidate the claim that tablets could be structured as separate episodes to be slotted into that narrative whole. Episodes in modern tv series, for example, typically function as both self-standing stories and parts of an overall arc; when rewatching a series, knowledge of the overall plot need not detract from one’s appreciation of the individual episode’s storyline. The difference I am proposing is thus one of degree, not kind: of course, the Tablets were not entirely independent of the compositions to which they belonged, but I would suggest they were relatively more independent than what modern scholars have generally assumed. In other words, there is no reason to abandon the study of composition-wide narrative structures in Akkadian poetry, but these studies should be supplemented by analyses of what the Tablets are also doing on their own. As narrative episodes, Tablets are both parts and wholes, both elements in a series and self-standing entities. The latter role is not necessarily the most important of the two, but it is the one to which least attention has been paid so far, meaning that we can now fruitfully consider what happens when we temporarily isolate single Tablets for closer inspection. What new aspects of the narrative come

5 Robson, 2011, 570. On the storage of literary tablets, see the essays collected in Barjamovic and Ryholt, 2019. 6 Kilmer, 2006, 209; Vanstiphout, 1990, 48, fn. 14. 7 See e.g., Delnero, 2012; Robson and Stevens, 2019, 343–347.

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to the foreground? Does the structure of the part seamlessly reflect that of the whole, or can a single Tablet undermine the message of the composition to which it belongs? In the following, I examine two examples of Standard Babylonian poetry whose division into Tablets is far from coincidental: Gilgamesh, the story of the king of Uruk who searched in vain for eternal life; and Enuma Elish, the story of how Marduk became king of the gods and defeated the primordial goddess Tiamat. I first show that Gilgamesh highlights the borders between Tablets by mapping them onto physical borders in the story itself, and then turn to Tablet i of Enuma Elish, showing that the relation between this Tablet and its epic is anything but straightforward. Finally, I consider a series of complicating factors that lend nuance to my argument, but my overall conclusion will be unchanged: When we consider the Tablets of Akkadian series as self-standing entities, new narrative structures are brought into relief. As will become clear from the discussion below, the perspective proposed here is best applied to the Standard Babylonian versions of literary texts, whose composition can be dated to the late second or early first millennium bce. The structure of Old Babylonian works (that is, works from c. 1900–1600bce) can be much messier and more varied than their Standard Babylonian successors. For example, some Sumerian compositions from the Old Babylonian period are preserved on both a multi-column tablet and on several single-column tablets, known as imgiddas, complicating the argument for the Tablets’ independence. It is therefore possible that the narrative structures uncovered in this essay emerged from—or were at least reinforced by—the editorial rearrangement of cuneiform literature that took place towards the end of the second millennium bce. As argued by Nils Heeßel, this process is best understood as a serialization of an existing corpus, in which older compositions were reshuffled, reorganized, and made into series whose Tablet boundaries were, unlike those of Old Babylonian works, relatively fixed.8 Recurrent and meaningful Tablet divisions may have existed before this time, but I suspect that the role of Tablets as narrative episodes became stronger, more consistent, and more poetically effective during the literary serialization of the late second millennium.

8 Heeßel, 2011.

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Gilgamesh

The Standard Babylonian epic Gilgamesh tells the story of the eponymous king of the city of Uruk, who in the first half of the story meets and befriends the wild man Enkidu, and with him kills the monster Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven. In the second half of story, Enkidu dies, throwing Gilgamesh into a profound grief that eventually leads him to seek out the immortal sage Utanapishti, and demand that Uta-napishti reveal to him the secret of eternal life. But the sage disappoints him, and instead tells him the story of the Deluge, which Gilgamesh then brings back to Uruk.9 Like many cuneiform compositions, the literary history of Gilgamesh is outstandingly long.10 The earliest preserved version of the story date to the Ur iii period (21st century bce) and took the form of a cycle of interconnected poems about the hero.11 In the Old Babylonian period, the stories about Gilgamesh were crafted into a single epic, comprising an unknown number of Tablets. Over the next millennium, the Akkadian epic was reshaped as it circulated across the “cuneiform cosmopolis” of the wider ancient Near East, from Hattusha through Ugarit to Megiddo, before being revised and edited into the Standard Babylonian version of the epic that is today the best known and best preserved version.12 The Standard Babylonian version—whose creation has traditionally been attributed to the incantation priest Sîn-leqi-unnenni13— consists of eleven Tablets, with a twelfth Tablet serving as an appendix. The twelfth Tablet, which consists of one of the older Sumerian poems abbreviated and translated into Akkadian, is clearly distinct in both storyline and style from the preceding eleven, but its inclusion throws new light on some of the same themes treated in the main narrative, including death and the afterlife.14

9 10

11 12

13 14

The original text of Gilgamesh is quoted from the edition by George, 2003; the translation is my own. On the literary history of the epic, see Tigay, 1982; George, 2003, chap. 1; and Helle, 2021, chap. 1. On the Old Babylonian epic, see also the dissenting voice in Fleming and Milstein, 2010; and the response in George, 2010. For the narrative structure of the Sumerian Gilgamesh cycle, see Alhena Gadotti in this volume. I have adapted the term “cuneiform cosmopolis” from the “Babylonian cosmopolis,” in van de Mieroop, 2016; who in turn bases it on the “Sanskrit cosmopolis” described by Pollock, 2006. On Sin-leqi-unnenni as the editor of the Standard Babylonian version of Gilgamesh, see George, 2003, 28–33; see also the caveat in Helle, 2022. On the status of the twelfth tablet as an appendix, see George 47–54, with references to previous literature.

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One of the most remarkable features of the Standard Babylonian version of Gilgamesh is its circular structure, which is made clear by the appearance of the Walls of Uruk at both the beginning and the end of the story, effectively encircling the text just as the Walls encircle the city.15 When we reach the end of the epic, we find the same description of the Walls we had read in the prologue, inviting us to return to the beginning and read the story anew. The literary borders of the text are thus mapped onto physical borders within the story, in an effective conflation of content and form. But crucially, this conflation is found not only in the epic, but also in its individual Tablets. Take Tablet v. It begins with Gilgamesh and Enkidu standing at the entrance of the Cedar Forest, entranced by both its allure and its dangers. The Tablet ends with the heroes leaving the Cedar Forest as they sail down the Euphrates, meaning that the entire plot of Tablet v unfolds within the forest. When Gilgamesh enters the forest, we enter the Tablet; when he leaves the forest, we leave the Tablet. A similar structure is found in Tablet x, which begins with the phrase “Shiduri was an innkeeper who lived by the seashore” (x 1).16 When we reach the end of Tablet x, we find ourselves on another seashore, that of Uta-napishti’s island. The story of the Tablet unfolds between those beaches, as Gilgamesh struggles to cross the Waters of Death that lies between them: the edges of the sea are the edges of the text. The same conflation of content and form applies to Tablets iv and ix, both of which begin with Gilgamesh leaving Uruk and end with him arriving at a forest: the Cedar Forest in Tablet iv and the garden of Jeweled Trees in Tablet ix. Conversely, in Tablet vi, we begin in the Cedar Forest and end back in Uruk. In these cases, the spatial borders are not symmetrical, as they were in Tablets v and x, but the Tablets are still clearly delineated on either side by spatial boundaries. But spatial borders are not the epic’s only way of marking the division into Tablets. Tablet iii begins with the advice spoken by the elders of Uruk to the intrepid hero as he sets out on his quest (iii 1–12), and ends with that same advice repeated verbatim (iii 215–227), just as the epic as a whole begins and ends with the repeated description of the Walls of Uruk.17 Arguably, Tablet viii is marked not by spatial but by temporal borders. The Tablet describes Gilgamesh’s grief for his friend Enkidu and the latter’s burial, and we are later told that it took Gilgamesh six nights and seven days to allow for the

15 16 17

See e.g., Zgoll, 2010. dši-du-ri sa-bi-tum ša2 ina sa-pan tam-ti aš2-bat; George, 2003, 678. On the role of repetition in Gilgamesh, see Selena Wisnom in this volume.

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burial to take place. It is possible, though not certain, that the Tablet should be understood as comprising one full week of grief.18 In short, rather than letting the story flow smoothly from one Tablet to the next, the structure of the epic invites us to pause at each transition and consider the Tablets as delimited episodes with their own narrative boundaries. These boundaries can be marked in several ways, including: – the depiction of space, as in Tablet iv (from Uruk to a magical forest), Tablet v (inside the forest), Tablet vi (from the forest to Uruk), Tablet ix (from Uruk to another magical forest), and Tablet x (across the ocean); – speech, as in Tablet iii (the repeated speech of the elders that brackets the Tablet); and – time, as in Tablet viii (the week of grief). This leaves five Tablets unaccounted for. Two of these, Tablets ii and vii, have large lacunae in both their opening and closing sections, making it difficult to say precisely how their stories were delimited. However, both are clearly focused on one pivotal narrative arc: the encounter between Gilgamesh and Enkidu and Enkidu’s death, respectively. Further, Tablet xii easily stands apart from the others; as noted above, it is a sort of appendix that is narratively disjunct from the main epic. We are left with just two Tablets: i and xi, the first and last Tablets of the epic proper. It is not surprising that the narrative structure of these two Tablets is less clear than the others, since they must also bracket the entire epic: as noted above, they are connected by the repeated description of the Walls of Uruk at the beginning of Tablet i and the end of Tablet xi. But that is not to say that they are entirely without narrative structures of their own.19

18

19

See the discussion in George, 2003, 486. On the literary importance of the six nights and seven days in the epic, including their transformative effect on the main characters, see Moran, 1995. Note that the description of the Walls of Uruk is spoken by the narrator in tablet i and by Gilgamesh himself in tablet xi. Since Walker, 1981, 194, most scholars have assumed that Gilgamesh is to be understood as the narrator of his own story, though he tells it in the third person—a shift marked by Gilgamesh’s repetition of the narrator’s words at the end of the text. According to Michalowski, 1999, 80, this self-narration is something that Gilgamesh learns from the story Uta-napishti tells about himself in tablet xi: by listening to Uta-napishti’s account of his role in the Flood, Gilgamesh realizes the power of storytelling and sets about using that same power for himself, by composing “an autobiography that mimics the one told to Gilgamesh by Utanapishtim”—that is, the epic itself. Note also that xi begins with Gilgamesh commenting on how similar Uta-napishti is to him: “I look at you, Uta-napishti, and your body is no different, you are just like me!” (xi 2–3); a-na-aṭ-ṭala-kum2-ma ūta-napišti (i ud-zi) / mi-na-tu-ka ul ša2-na-a ki-i ia-ti-ma at-ta; George, 2003, 702. Accordingly, one could see the plot of tablet xi as revolving around the likeness and differences between the two characters: it begins by explicit noting their similarity, reveals

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Notably, the ending of Tablet i is the clearest available evidence that Gilgamesh’s division into Tablets changed between its Old Babylonian and Standard Babylonian versions. Though the Old Babylonian Gilgamesh is much less fully preserved than its later recension, enough about it is known that we can show that it draws the dividing lines between the Tablets differently. Towards the beginning of the epic, Gilgamesh has two ominous dreams that foreshadow Enkidu’s imminent arrival: this scene appears at the beginning of Tablet ii in the Old Babylonian version, but at the end of Tablet i in the Standard Babylonian version.20 The difference is not vast, but it is significant. It suggests that, in reshaping older narrative material, the editor of the Standard Babylonian version—who, as noted above, has traditionally been identified as Sîn-leqiunnenni—deliberately divided that material according to new principles, like pre-prepared cookie dough being cut into new shapes.21 What, then, is the import of this rearrangement? George argues that overall, Sîn-leqi-unneni’s editorial interventions and especially the addition of the prologue “changed the thrust of the entire poem, placing emphasis on the hero’s acquisition of wisdom and self-knowledge.”22 To take but one telling example, the opening couplet of the later recension declares that Gilgamesh “knew the ways and learned all things.”23 But that is not the impression one is left with from the description of the hero that follows the prologue: here, he appears to be a thoughtless tyrant abusing his subjects, a far cry from the wise and allknowing ruler we were led to expect. Karen Sonik has recently argue that the epic conceives of kingship as a dangerous force to be moderated by the advice of wise councilors: without such advisers, the emotional excess of kings like Gilgamesh would be allowed to run rampant, with devastating consequences for their subjects.24 And indeed, the necessity of councilors is precisely what Gilgamesh himself highlights after the dreams that presage Enkidu’s arrival: “I’ll have a friend and adviser, a friend and adviser I’ll have” (i 296–297).25 These words are spoken at the very end of the Tablet; only three lines follow them,

20 21

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their difference as Gilgamesh fails to achieve immortality, and ends with their similarity reinforced again as Gilgamesh mimics Uta-napishti’s autobiography. On this sequence of events in both the Old Babylonian and Standard Babylonian version, see now George, 2018. For other studies of how Gilgamesh was reshaped between the Old Babylonian and Standard Babylonian version, see Tigay, 1982; Cooper, 1977; Abusch, 2015, chap. 3; Fleming and Milstein, 2010; and George, 2018. George, 2003, 32; a similar sentiment is found in Beaulieu, 2007. al-ka-ka-ti i-du-u2 ka-la-mu ḫa-as-su, George, 2003, 538, and 2007, 239. Sonik, 2020. ib-ri ma-li-ku a-na-ku lu-ur-ši / [lu-u]r-ši-ma ib-ri ma-li-ku a-na-ku; George, 2003, 556.

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rounding off the episode. By placing the scene at the end of Tablet i (rather than the beginning of Tablet ii), the editor of Standard Babylonian version highlighted the narrative arc that unfolds across this Tablet: because he has no advisers to keep him in check, Gilgamesh’s abuses his subjects, making them pray for relief to their gods, who create Enkidu, the adviser whose arrival is announced to Gilgamesh at the Tablet’s end. Ultimately, we cannot know whether this and the other changes that shaped the Standard Babylonian version of Gilgamesh were carried out by one brilliant redactor or by several scholars working together, or perhaps building on each other’s contributions across generations.26 Later Babylonian scribes would attribute the serialization of Akkadian literature to a small set of celebrated scholars, such as Sîn-leqi-unneni, Esagil-kin-apli, and Sidu; but these may well have been figures of myth.27 But whoever he, she, or they were, the narrative structure examined above suggests that the editor(s) of the Standard Babylonian Gilgamesh knew from the outset that the text would be written on a series of Tablets, and so made deliberate use of that material constraint: the story was consciously planned so that it could be divided into episodes.

3

Enuma Elish

The relation of a Tablet to its series is, fundamentally, that of part to whole, but things are not always that simple. Famously, a whole can be more than the sum of its parts, but a single part can also resist its integration into the whole. This is the case with Tablet i in Enuma Elish. Focusing on the entire epic and focusing only on Tablet i yields two strikingly different readings of the same events. In this section, I argue the structures unfolding across an entire epic and those unfolding within each of its Tablets do not overwrite one another: they exist side by side and can fruitfully be read against each other. The story of Enuma Elish concerns the elevation of Marduk, god of Babylon, to universal kingship.28 It begins by describing how the two primordial seas Tiamat and Apsû create the gods by mixing their waters together. But soon, the young gods disturb their cosmic progenitors with their loud noise, leading

26

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As noted by van de Mieroop, 2016, we should not underplay the possible contributions to Babylonian literature by scholars and scribes working outside the Babylonian heartland, that is, in the wider cuneiform cosmopolis that stretched across the ancient Near East. See also Sasson, 2013. See Helle, 2022, with references to previous literature. The original text of Enuma Elish is quoted from Lambert, 2013; the translation is my own.

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Apsû to resolve on murdering them all. However, Ea, the god of wisdom, manages to incapacitate and kill him, and uses Apsû’s body to create his own watery dwelling. In this dwelling, Ea fathers the god Marduk, whose childish play again disturbs Tiamat with its noise. Following in Apsû’s footsteps, Tiamat decides to destroy the gods, and raises an army of monsters to do so. One by one, the senior gods attempt to stop her, but they all fail. Marduk then proposes to subdue her but demands universal kingship in return—which the desperate gods readily grant him. Marduk promptly defeats Tiamat and uses her body to create the universe, shaping her limbs into mountains, rivers, and plains. He then creates humankind to be the gods’ servants and establishes the city of Babylon at the center of the new world order. The text ends with an enumeration of the fifty names that the gods bestow on Marduk in appreciation, each of which represents a new cosmic function and divine destiny. The seventh and final Tablet of Enuma Elish ends with an epilogue celebrating the composition of the epic itself. Enuma Elish draws on a wealth of older compositions, including Anzu, god lists, and the Ugaritic myth of the god Baal’s combat against a cosmic sea.29 The epic’s date of composition is a matter of debate, but it is most often placed at the end of the second millennium bce, coinciding with the ascendancy of Marduk in the Babylonian pantheon.30 The elevation of Marduk among the gods explicitly mirrors the political elevation of the state of Babylon in the human realm, and every element of the text is carefully constructed to highlight Marduk’s greatness. It is, therefore, all the more striking that the first Tablet of the epic—if considered on its own—seems to do the opposite. The opening scene of Enuma Elish describes a world in which names and destinies did not yet exist: “When heaven on high had not been named, and the earth below not given a name … when none of the gods had been brought forth, had not been given names and had not decreed destinies …” (i 1–2, 7–8).31 At the end of the epic, this namelessness will be replaced by the fifty names and fifty destinies that are assigned to Marduk; the beginning and end of the epic are thus linked by a narrative reversal that leads from an initial absence of names and destinies to a superabundance of them.32 A similar reversal also

29 30 31 32

Seri, 2014; Wisnom, 2019, chaps. 2–4. Lambert, 2013, 248–277. e-nu-ma e-liš la na-bu-u2 ša2-ma-mu / šap-liš am-mat-tum su-ma la zak-rat … e-nu-ma ilī (dingirmeš) la šu-pu-u ma-na-ma; Lambert, 2013, 50. This is one of several reversals that unfold across the epic: another leads from an initial state of unbounded fluidity, as Tiamat and Apsû intermingle their waters, to the highly structured and hierarchical universe that Marduk creates.

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unfolds within Tablet i, but here, it is much more menacing in tone. At the end of the Tablet, the primordial goddess Tiamat creates a horde of monsters and assigns the Tablet of Destinies to their leader Qingu, who then uses the Tablet of Destinies to fix the fate of the monsters, as expressed in the Tablet’s last lines: “He decreed destinies for the gods her sons: ‘May the working of your words quench fire and your amassed poison subdue the strong.’” (i 160–162).33 The opening scene is thus linked to both the end of Tablet i and the end of the epic by the same reversal, from the absence to the ascription of fates. Both part and whole chart a similar progression, yielding a minor narrative arc enclosed in a much larger one. Crucially, in the epic as a whole, this arc leads to a positive result, as it makes Marduk the supreme deity of the universe, but if we limit our perspective to Tablet i, it leads to an undeniably negative outcome: an army of unstoppable monsters is unleashed against the gods. The division of the Akkadian epics into Tablets means that two sets of narrative structures, those pertaining to the whole and those pertaining to the part, will coexist at any given time, and an event can thus have both a negative and a positive significance at the same time, depending on whether it is contextualized in one or the other frame. A crucial example is Marduk’s birth. In the larger scheme of things, Marduk’s birth is certainly a good thing; if anything, for a Babylonian audience it was the good thing, leading as it did to the creation of cosmic order and the supremacy of Babylon. But taking the first Tablet of Enuma Elish on its own, Marduk’s birth reads differently: it is because of his birth and the chaos he causes that Tiamat becomes the main antagonist of the story. The youthful Marduk plays with the winds given to him by his grandfather Anu, disturbing Tiamat and so driving her to evil.34 A direct line of causality leads from Marduk’s birth to Tiamat’s murderous intentions. Lines 105–108 describe Marduk whirling the winds that Anu gave him: he lets them carry dust and make waves, and so “roils Tiamat” (i 108).35 The very next lines describe Tiamat’s confusion and consternation, after which an unidentified group of deities seize on her frustration and convince her to kill the older gods, avenge Apsû, and put an end to Marduk’s burdensome behavior (i 109–124).36

33 34

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an ilī (dingirmeš) mārīšu (dumumeš-šu) ši-ma-[ta] iš-ti-ma / ep-ša pi-i-ku-nu girra (dgibil6) l[i-n]i-ḫa / im-tuk-‹nu› kit-mu-ru ma-ag-ša-ru liš-rab-bi-ib; Lambert, 2013, 58. Based on an analysis of the metrical structure, Johannes Haubold likewise argues that the scene of Marduk’s birth contains discordant notes, indicating that his birth will lead to disaster before it leads to triumph (personal communication). u2-dal-laḫ3 ti-amat; Lambert, 2013, 56. On the theme of noise as a motivation for violence, see Michalowski, 1999; and Heffron, 2014.

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Consider the development of Tiamat’s character in Tablet i. At the beginning of the Tablet, she is identified as a creative force (mummu) and as the primordial mother who gave birth to the gods (i 4); but at the end of the Tablet, she has become a danger to the cosmos, birthing monsters and equipping them with poisoned fangs, magic spells, and terrifying armor. Before Marduk’s birth, Tiamat resists her husband Apsû’s call for violence, chiding him for his wicked plans (i 41–46); but after Marduk’s birth, she herself turns to violence, harboring precisely the murderous thoughts that she had previously opposed. In other words, if we isolate the narrative of Tablet i, it charts a progression that is unmistakably negative. A creative Tiamat is replaced by a cruel Tiamat, a dearth of destinies is replaced by monsters destined for triumph, and a peaceful mixing of waters is replaced by opposing armies. And at the precise midpoint of this narrative, we find Marduk’s birth, which takes place in l. 80–82 of the Tablet’s 162 lines:37 this, in short, is the turning point of the Tablet’s etiology of chaos and cruelty. In Enuma Elish as a whole, the order of the gods eventually triumphs, and the monsters are defeated. Whereas Marduk is born midway through Tablet i, Tiamat is killed midway through the epic, in the fourth of its seven Tablets: the battle between Marduk and Tiamat begins with Tiamat’s challenge, which is spoken in l. 73–74 of the Tablet’s 146 lines. Tablet i and the epic thus use Marduk’s birth to tell two entirely different stories. In Tablet i, it is a cause for distress; in the epic, it is a cause for celebration. I propose that we understand this kind of ambiguity as a narrative counterpoint, meaning that the various narrative structures coexisting in any one passage come into a dynamic relation with one another, sometimes clashing and sometimes coinciding. The most important lesson to be drawn from this example is that focusing on a single Tablet does not preclude an understanding of the series as a whole: both levels of analysis should be kept in mind at the same time, since a Babylonian scribe would undoubtedly have been conscious both of the entire series and of the single tablet in front of them. But why would Enuma Elish, a text that seems thoroughly intent on celebrating Marduk’s greatness from start to finish, undermine that message in its very first Tablet? I would suggest three possible reasons. The first is dramatic effect. As Gina Konstantopoulos argues in this volume, a key element of narrative craftmanship is the emotional structure of the story— the ups and downs through which readers and characters are made to move—

37

See Kilmer, 2006, 209.

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and ancient Near Eastern literature is no exception.38 The emotional “dip” at the heart of Tablet i serves as a counterpoint to Marduk’s later rise to power: the disorder he stirs makes the universal order he establishes at the end of the epic all the more impressive. This structure is not unlike what Konstantopoulos, drawing on Kurt Vonnegut, would term the “man in hole” pattern, in which an initial stasis is followed by adversity but ultimately results in triumph. The contrast between the narrative arc of Tablet i and that of Enuma Elish would thus reinforce, through poetic contrast, the scope of Marduk’s eventual success. The second reason pertains to the many allusions to the god Enlil that are scattered across Enuma Elish.39 In proclaiming Marduk king of the gods, Enuma Elish was contending with the previous head of the pantheon, Enlil. Among the many ways in which the epic subtly dethrones Enlil is the naming of Marduk: he is given fifty names, because fifty was the divine number associated with Enlil. By receiving fifty names, Marduk implicitly receives Enlil’s power too. It is possible that Marduk’s negative characterization in Tablet i was meant to suggest a comparison with Enlil, specifically his appearance in the Flood myth—an intertextual connection explored by Selena Wisnom.40 In the Flood myth as told in Atra-hasis and Gilgamesh, it is Enlil who causes the Deluge, but the catastrophic flood soon grows out of his control and becomes a threat to the entire cosmos, and the other gods later chide him for his thoughtless behavior. Marduk’s toying with winds and waves in Tablet i of Enuma Elish, which results in a monstrous threat to the cosmos in the form of Tiamat’s army, is structurally similar. But unlike Enlil, Marduk is able to reassert control of the threat he created, by defeating Tiamat. One possible reading of this scene is to take Marduk’s behavior in Tablet i as an allusion to Enlil—setting the stage for Marduk to outdo Enlil on every possible count through the rest of the story. The third possible reason is that the criticism of Marduk was intentional: that Marduk’s negatively inflected position in Tablet i was consciously devised by the author(s) of Enuma Elish to reflect badly on the god they were otherwise exalting. This is the most difficult of the three possibilities, but it would have numerous cross-cultural parallels across literary history. In “The Two Voices of Virgil’s Aeneid,” Adam Parry argued that Virgil wove a dissenting voice into his otherwise programmatic exaltation of Augustus’s rule.41 The two voices of the text reflect, respectively, a “public” laudatory and a “private” critical view of the emperor for whom the epic was composed; unsurprisingly, the critical 38 39 40 41

See Konstantopoulos in this volume. See Wisnom, 2019, chap. 3, with references to previous literature. Wisnom, 2019, chap. 3. Parry, 1963.

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voice is much more subtly and indirectly expressed than the laudatory one. Likewise, Stephen Greenblatt proposes an ongoing dynamic of subversion and containment in Shakespeare’s political plays and in many other texts: according to Greenblatt, hegemonic discourse generates its own subversive, critical dissent in order to suppress them all the more forcefully.42 It is possible—far from certain, but at least possible—that the author(s) of Enuma Elish integrated a subversive perspective on Marduk into the arc of Tablet i, if only to then contain, suppress, and invalidate that perspective through the narrative force of the following events. Finally, Jennifer Finn has suggested that stories about Marduk were used by first-millennium scholars to express critical views of royal power: negative literary portrayals of Marduk, the king of the gods, could serve as coded critiques of the human king.43 Might such counter-discursive tensions be found already in Enuma Elish?

4

General Considerations

In this essay, I have argued that we should always consider the shape of Tablets in our study of Babylonian poetry. Tablets constitute self-standing narrative units and are often well-delimited entities in the overall plot, and we can therefore analyze the compositional principles of each episode in relative isolation, studying the Tablets as works of literature in their own right. None of this is meant to deny that Tablets were also parts of a broader whole. The division into Tablets is a formal literary device on par with the division of a poem into verses, couplets, and stanzas; just as ancient composers thought about how a poem could be fitted into verses, so did they think about how a narrative could be fitted into Tablets. In Gilgamesh, for example, the thresholds encountered in the plot were made to coincide with the thresholds between Tablets. Likewise, just as ancient composers could bring out poetic contrasts and parallels when they combined verses into couplets, so could they arrange Tablets to highlight tensions between part and whole, as in Tablet i of Enuma Elish. These conclusions apply not just to Gilgamesh and Enuma Elish, but to any Akkadian poem that is told on more than one Tablet.44 A telling example is Ludlul Bel Nemeqi, the story of a pious man who suffers undeserved hardship before Marduk bestows his

42 43 44

Greenblatt, 1988. Finn, 2017. The following notes reflect the discussion at the workshop on which this volume is based. I thank all the participants for their insightful comments.

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grace on him: the four Tablets of the poem describe, respectively, the sufferer’s social expulsion, his physical suffering, his physical recovery, and his social reintegration, in a neat symmetrical structure.45 However, in trying to correct the general tendency to underestimate Tablets, one risks overstating their importance. There is no doubt that the epics were also conceptualized as meaningful wholes: to take just one example, series tend to comprise a number of Tablets that is somehow significant in the sexagesimal system—twelve in Standard Babylonian Gilgamesh, seven in Enuma Elish, five in Erra, three in the Old Babylonian versions of Anzu, Etana and Atra-hasis— suggesting that they were seen as a “rounded” entity. This is the case also for non-literary compositions, such as the medical treatise Sagig, which consists of 40 Tablets (40 being the divine number of its alleged author, the god Ea). Nonetheless, each Tablet in a series can have different lengths—Tablet vi in Gilgamesh runs to 183 lines, Tablet xi to 328 lines—so clearly, there was also significantly flexibility to structure each of them individually.46 Further, the division between Tablets was not immutable, and it could vary greatly between different recensions of the same series. The story of Atrahasis was told on three Tablets in the Old Babylonian version, but on as many as twelve Tablets in its Late Babylonian version.47 However, as the example of Gilgamesh’s dreams shows, this kind of adaptation does not negate the importance of Tablets: on the contrary, it should make us even more alert to which aspects of the text were highlighted by the rearrangement. Though the first-millennium version of Atra-hasis is poorly preserved, the broad narrative strokes that we can reconstruct at present do show that the series began by alternating between conflict and resolution.48 Tablet i takes us from the initial creation of world order to the revolt of the Igigi gods; tellingly, its last line begins with the word “battle” (qablu).49 Tablet ii presents the solution to that conflict, namely the creation of humankind. Tablet iii traces how that solution in turn becomes a problem, as humanity grows to unsustainable numbers, and Tablet iv opens with Enlil gathering the gods to address the issue. The narrat45 46 47

48 49

I thank Eli Tadmor for reminding me of Ludlul’s tabular structure. I thank Eckart Frahm for bringing these points to my attention. George and al-Rawi, 1996, 147, estimate that there were “at least ten or eleven” tablets in the first-millennium version of Atra-hasis as it was copied at Sippar. Given the aforementioned preference for sexagesimally “round” numbers, twelve seems to me a likelier candidate. The following reconstruction of the plot is based on George and al-Rawi, 1996. A new edition of Atra-hasis is being prepared by Nathan Wasserman and Michael Streck. qa2-ab-lu i-ru-ṣa ab-ba-a-ba dEn-lil2, “battle came up to the gate of Enlil,” i 117'; George and al-Rawi, 1996, 160.

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ive of Atra-hasis was thus arranged to emphasize its almost Hegelian structure, with conflicts leading to resolutions that lead to new conflicts. The recurrent connection between Tablet boundaries and narrative structures is unlikely to be coincidental, or even just the result of the material constraints of clay tablets. We must assume that cuneiform authors and editors were inspired by one another, adapting the clever use of Tablets found in existing compositions when making new ones. I suggested above that the narrative significance of Tablets became an especially widespread feature of Akkadian poetry during the serialization of Standard Babylonian literature in the late second millennium bce: after that time, new stories (and new versions of old stories) likely had to abide by this principle if they were to meet the literary expectations of the time. It should be kept in mind, however, that while the transitions between Tablets would have been clear when they were read as separate objects, they may have been less apparent when the epics were performed orally, as most probably were.50 Unfortunately, we know little about the performance of Akkadian poetry, so we cannot tell whether the texts were always recited in their entirety or also in episodic sections, as was the case with the Homeric epics.51 Our only clue is a late, unusual, and probably unrepresentative source, namely a Seleucid text claiming that Enuma Elish was recited during the akitu or “New Year’s Festival” in Babylon. On the fourth day after the spring equinox, a priest would recite the poem before Marduk’s statue, “[from] beginning to end.”52 This specification suggests—but certainly does not prove—that it was not always the case that texts were recited from beginning to end, and that they could also be recited in shorter excerpts. But whether those excerpts would have corresponded to the Tablets, or whether the text would have been split up differently in oral performance, we do not know. A final complication concerns the intended audience of the epics.53 If we assume the audience to be human, then they could only read or listen to one Tablet at a time. But several Akkadian epics are explicitly addressed to the gods, who in their omniscience could contemplate all Tablets at once. In Enuma Elish, the anonymous author, who refers to himself only as “the first one” (maḫrû) recites the text to Marduk before he presents it to the human public

50 51 52 53

See the references collected by Selena Wisnom in this volume. For the narrative consequences of the delimited recitation of the Homeric epics, see Ford, 1997. [iš-tu re-š]i-šu2 adi qītīšu (til-šu2); quoted in Lambert, 2013, 6. I thank Gösta Gabriel for this point. I thank Gösta Gabriel for raising this point.

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(v 157–158).54 Of course, the limited, sequential understanding of the narrative imposed on the human mind does not apply to the all-knowing gods, whom Babylonian authors may well have regarded as their primary audience.

5

A Cliffhanger

I end my essay with one last example, from the end of Tablet vi in Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh and Enkidu have returned to Uruk, triumphant after their killing of the Bull of Heaven. They have held a party with the other young men and have then gone to sleep. The very last lines of the Tablet read: “Enkidu got up to interpret (his) dream and said to his friend:” (vi 182–183). And then the Tablet ends. The following catchline gives us the first line of the next Tablet: “Why, my friend, were the great gods in counsel?” (vii 1).55 If modern readers want to know the answer to Enkidu’s anxious question, they can simply turn the page and keep reading. The ancient scribes, however, would have had to procure the next Tablet: perhaps it was on their shelf, but since ancient tablet collections did not always include the entire series, they may have had to look in their neighbor’s library, or perhaps in another city. Breaking the plot mid-sentence turns the transition between Tablets into the ancient equivalent of a cliffhanger, an extreme form of enjambement that leaves the audience suspended in uncertainty, yearning for more. If we treat Tablets as random subdivisions of a story that was chopped up without consequence, we miss the force, allure, and poetic courage of such a moment of suspense.

Acknowledgements I would like to thank the anonymous review and my wonderful co-editor Gina Konstantopoulos for their helpful comments on this article.

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A similar scene is found in Erra, where the author Kabti-ili-Marduk first recites the epic to the god Erra, who had revealed the story to him (v 42–43). Erra then blesses those who will listen to and circulate his epic, and the first members of this imagined audience are other gods (v 49–50), followed by human kings, singers, scribes, and scholars (v 51–56). it-be2-e-ma dEn-ki-du3 šu-na-ta i-pa-šar / iz-zak-ka-ra a-na ib-ri-šu2 / ib-ri aš2-šu2 me-nama-a im-tal-li-ku ilū (dingirmeš) rabûtu (galmeš); George, 2013, 630.

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Bibliography Abusch, Tzvi. 2015. Male and Female in the Epic of Gilgamesh: Encounters, Literary History, and Interpretation. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Barjamovic, Gojko and Kim Ryholt. 2019. Libraries before Alexandria: Ancient Near Eastern Traditions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Beaulieu, Paul-Alain. 2007. “The Social and Intellectual Setting of Babylonian Wisdom Literature.” In Wisdom Literature in Mesopotamia and Israel, edited by Richard J. Clifford, 3–19. Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series 36. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Delnero, Paul. 2012. “Memorization ad the Transmission of Sumerian Literary Compositions.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 71, no. 2: 189–208. Finn, Jennifer. 2017. Much Ado About Marduk: Questioning Discourses of Royalty in First Millennium Mesopotamian Literature. Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Records 16. Berlin: De Gruyter. Fleming, Daniel E. and Sara J. Milstein. 2010. The Buried Foundation of the Gilgamesh Epic: The Akkadian Huwawa Narrative. Cuneiform Monographs 39. Leiden: Brill. Ford, Andrew. 1997. “The Inland Ship: Problems in the Performance and Reception of Homeric Epic.” In Written Voices, Spoken Signs: Tradition, Performance, and the Epic Text, edited by Edbert J. Bakker and Ahuvia Kahane, 83–109. Center for Hellenistic Studies Colloquia 1. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. George, Andrew R. 2003. The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition, and Cuneiform Texts. Oxford: Oxford University Press. George, Andrew R. 2007. “The Gilgameš Epic at Ugarit.” Aula Orientalis 25: 237–254. George, Andrew R. 2018. “Enkidu and the Harlot: Another Fragment of Old Babylonian Gilgamesh.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 108, no. 1: 10–21. George, Andrew R. and Farouk N.H. al-Rawi. 1996. “Tablets from the Sippar Library vi. Atra-ḫasīs.” Iraq 58: 147–190. Greenblatt, Stephen. 1988. Shakespearean Negotiations: The Circulation of Social Energy in Renaissance England. The New Historicism 4. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Heeßel, Nils P. 2011. “‘Sieben Tafeln aus sieben Städten’: Überlegungen zum Prozess der Serialisierung von Texten in Babylonien in der zweiten Hälfte des zweiten Jahrtausends v. Chr.” In Babylon: Wissenkultur in Orient und Okzident, edited by Eva Cancik-Kirschbaum, Margarete van Ess, and Joachim Marzahn, 171–195. Topoi 1. Berlin: De Gruyter. Heffron, Yağmur. 2014. “Revisiting ‘Noise’ (rigmu) in Atra-ḫasīs in Light of Baby Incantations.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 73, no. 1: 83–93. Helle, 2021. Gilgamesh: A New Translation of the Ancient Epic. New Haven: Yale University Press. Helle, Sophus. 2022. “Narratives of Authorship and Cuneiform Literature.” In Author-

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ship and the Hebrew Bible, edited by Sonja Ammann, Julia Rhyder, and Katharina Pyschny, 17–35. Forschungen zum Alten Testament. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Lambert, Wilfred G. 1962. “A Catalogue of Texts and Authors.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 16, no. 3: 59–77. Lambert, Wilfred G. 2013. Babylonian Creation Myths. Mesopotamian Civilizations 16. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Leichty, Erle. 1964. “The Colophon.” In Studies Presented to A. Leo Oppenheim, edited by Robert D. Biggs and John A. Brinkman, 147–154. Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Michalowski, Piotr. 1990. “Presence at the Creation.” In Lingering over Words: Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Literature in Honor of William L. Moran, edited by Tzvi Abusch, John Huehnergard, and Piotr Steinkeller, 381–396. Harvard Semitic Studies 37. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Mieroop, Marc van de. 1999. “Commemoration, Writing, and Genre in Ancient Mesopotamia.” In The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts, edited by Christina S. Kraus, 69–90. Leiden: Brill. Mieroop, Marc van de. 2016. “A Babylonian Cosmopolis.” In Problems of Canonicity and Identity Formation in Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia, edited by Gojko Barjamovic and Kim Ryholt, 259–270. Carsten Niebuhr Institute Publications 43. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press. Moran, William L. “The Gilgamesh Epic: A Masterpiece from Ancient Mesopotamia.” In Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, vol. 4, edited by Jack M. Sasson, 2327–2336. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Kilmer, Anne D. 2006. “Visualizing Text: Schematic Patterns in Akkadian Poetry.” In If a Man Builds a Joyful House: Assyriological Studies in Honor of Erle Verdun Leichty, edited by Ann K. Guinan et al., 209–221. Cuneiform Monographs 31. Leiden: Brill. Parry, Adam. 1963. “The Two Voices of Virgil’s Aeneid.” Arion: A Journal of Humanities and the Classics 2, no. 4: 66–80. Pollock, Sheldon. 2006. The Language of the Gods in the World of Men: Sanskrit, Culture, and Power in Premodern India. Berkeley: University of California Press. Robson, Eleanor. 2011. “The Production and Dissemination of Scholarly Knowledge.” In The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture, edited by Eleanor Robson and Karen Radner, 557–576. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Robson, Eleanor and Kathryn Stevens. 2019. “Scholarly Tablet Collections in FirstMillennium Assyria and Babylonia, c.700–200bce.” In Libraries before Alexandria: Ancient Near Eastern Traditions, edited by Barjamovic, Gojko and Kim Ryholt, 319– 366. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sasson, Jack M. “Prologues and Poets: On the Opening Lines of the Gilgamesh Epic.” In Beyond Hatti: A Tribute to Gary Beckman, edited by Billie Jean Collins and Piotr Michalowski, 265–277. Atlanta: Lockwood Press.

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Sonik, Karen. 2020. “Gilgamesh and Emotional Excess: The King Without Counsel in the sb Gilgamesh Epic.” In The Expression of Emotions in Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia, edited by Shih-Wei Hsu and Jaume Llop Raduà, 390–409. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 116. Leiden: Brill. Tigay, Jeffrey H. 1982. The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1990. “The Craftmanship of Sîn-leqi-unninnī.” Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica 21, 45–79. Walker, C.B.F. 1981. “The Second Tablet of ṭupšenna pitema: An Old Babylonian NaramSin Legend?” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 33, no. 3–4: 191–195. Wisnom, Selena. Weapons of Words: Intertextual Competition in Babylonian Poetry. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 106. Leiden: Brill. Zgoll, Annette. 2011. “monumentum aere perennius—Mauerring und Ringkomposition im Gilgameš-Epos.” In Von Göttern und Menschen: Beiträge zu Literatur und Geschichte des Alten Orients. Festschrift für Brigitte Groneberg, edited by Dahlia Shehata, Frauke Weierhäuser, and Kamran V. Zand, 443–470. Cuneiform Monographs 41. Leiden: Brill.

chapter 6

Dynamics of Repetition in Akkadian Literature Selena Wisnom

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Introduction: Familiarity Breeds Content

Repetition is an extremely common feature of Akkadian poetry, particularly in the first millennium bce. Repeated lines, words, and passages as well as syntactic parallelism are so integral to first-millennium literary style that a clear distinction can be drawn between Old Babylonian (c. 18th century) and Standard Babylonian (c. 11th century) versions of the same compositions based on these features.1 Sumerian literature also displays many of these features, which have been the subject of much discussion in relation to a possible oral background.2 Yet despite its popularity in ancient Mesopotamia, repetition is not much loved by modern readers. When repeated passages come up, we tend to skim and turn the page rather than reading the repetitions carefully for a second or third time. Scholars have not tended to view them positively either,3 sometimes preferring the “freshness” of Old Babylonian style, which has shorter lines and more variation, to what seems to us a “homogenized” Standard Babylonian one, which has longer lines and more word-for-word repetition.4 Discussions of repetition in cuneiform literature have so far mostly focused on whether it is a feature of orality,5 with only a few studies devoted to its literary qualities.6 Yet, however unappealing repetition may be to modern literary tastes, its preval1 Vogelzang, 1996, 169; 1986. 2 See the essays in Vogelzang and Vanstiphout, 1992. 3 E.g., Gilbert, 2012, 144, describing the repetition in Gilgamesh: “its insistent weight crushes the life out of the narrative,” though she argues that this portrayal of Gilgamesh as “dead while alive” emphasizes the need for his quest for life. 4 E.g., Cooper, 1977b; 1977a, 39. For a view of how this homogenization can render virtuosity more visible, see Worthington, 2011. 5 See Vogelzang and Vanstiphout, 1992. 6 Vanstiphout, 1992; 1983, analyzes the effects of patterns in Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta and in Enmerkar and Ensuhkeshdanna; Vogelzang, 1996 discusses the types of repetition that occur in literary texts; Gilbert, 2012, 144 and 153 links repetition in Gilgamesh with Freud’s ideas of the “death drive,” a compulsion towards an inanimate state, and of mastery, whereby repetition allows a subject to gain control over unpleasant experiences; Wasserman, 2021 reflects on poetic aspects of enumeration in Akkadian and English poetry.

© Selena Wisnom, 2023 | doi:10.1163/97890

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ence in ancient texts is undeniable. Instead of skipping it or considering it as something primitive, we ought to try to perceive repetition’s aesthetic qualities in order to understand how and why it enjoyed such popularity in our texts. Some forms of repetition are very popular in modern artistic forms, namely poetry and music. Repetition on a small scale, that is of sounds and phrases, is extremely common in lyric poetry, while repetition on many different levels is a staple feature of music. What these two forms have in common is that they are designed to be listened to, since lyric poetry has a strong aural dimension and is often written to be read out loud.7 We know that some Akkadian poetry was intended to be performed: the Babylonian epic Enuma Elish, for example, ends with the declaration, “here now is the song of Marduk!” (i-⸢na⸣-[an]-⸢na ⸣am-ma za-ma-ru ša2 dMarduk(amar.utu), v 161),8 while another epic, Erra and Išum, also refers to itself as a “song,” at the end (za-ma-ru, v 49) and promises protection for “the singer who sings it in lament” (lu2nāru(nar) ša2 i-ṣar-raḫu, v 53).9 Other poems, such as Anzû and Old Babylonian Gilgamesh contain hymnic prologues, implying that they too could have been written with performance in mind, since hymns are intended to be sung. I therefore suggest that we should try to analyze repetition in these poems from the point of view as a listener hearing them recited out loud rather than as a reader looking at them on a page or a tablet. In an article analyzing the poem of Atrahasis from a musical perspective, Anne Kilmer pointed out that “it could also be suggested that the repetitive nature of Mesopotamian epic poetry is largely a product of its musical nature. That is, unlike prose narrative where repetition is relatively limited or even out of place, musical performance demands it.”10 As we will see, cognitive psychology supports this point and provides new perspectives on the value of repetition. The musicologist David Huron has applied findings from cognitive psychology to music with striking results that will form the basis of my analysis.11 Crucially, Huron has shown that familiarity increases an audience’s enjoyment of a

7 8

9

10 11

For the importance of sound in lyric, see Culler, 2017, 173–185. The performance is tied to its ritual context. The poem was recited as part of the Babylonian New Year festival in front of the statue of Marduk, described in a cultic commentary known as the Marduk Ordeal with the verbs “to speak” and “to sing”: “Enuma Elish, which is spoken before Marduk in the month of Nisan” (e-nu-ma e-liš ša da-bi-ib-u-ni ina igi den ina iti.barag i-za-mur-ú-šú-ni); see Livingstone, 1989, 84, no. 34, l. 34; and 88, n. 35, l. 28. Citing the same compositions, van der Toorn, 2007, 13, argues that ordinary people would only have known of the Akkadian literary classics from sung performance: “Who but a few would have read the Gilgamesh epic?” Kilmer, 1996, 127. Huron, 2013.

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piece of music, and familiarity can be instilled by repetition. When something is familiar, it is easy for our brains to process; this is dubbed “processing fluency” by psychologists. Processing fluency “induces positive feelings towards familiar stimuli,” meaning that we are inherently disposed to like something we have heard before.12 However, too much familiarity can also lead to habituation: if we hear something too many times, we simply get used to it, and it ceases to be interesting. Familiarity does breed contempt, as the old saying goes, but it also breeds content, in the sense of enjoyment. In order to harness the advantages of processing fluency while avoiding the dullness of habituation, one must optimize the number of repetitions and the spacing found between them. Analyzing the spacings and relationships between repeated passages in Akkadian poems will therefore help to shed light on their effects. Related to processing fluency is “the exposure effect,” the phenomenon that people exhibit a preference for stimuli they have encountered before.13 This has been known since the 1960s and has been tested, for example, with subliminal messaging. Western test subjects were shown pictures of Chinese characters and asked them which ones they preferred, with certain characters having flashed up so quickly that they were not detectable by the conscious mind.14 The unconscious, however, detects it, and the mere fact of having seen certain characters before correlated with people’s reported preferences. Our subconscious minds, then, like familiarity, seemingly by default. Yet this automatic response can be consciously overridden. A meta-analysis of studies on this phenomenon showed that when participants were aware that they had been repeatedly exposed to some stimuli more than others, they chose the more novel stimuli as their favorite.15 However, when asked some days later, they had forgotten about the repeated exposure, and chose the more familiar stimuli instead.16 This means that “the preference for novelty is a conscious override of an underlying disposition to prefer the familiar.”17 This may explain why modern audiences dislike repetition when they see it on a page. We are highly conscious that what we are reading is a repeated passage, and then make the decision to skip forward. However, when we listen, we can’t visually skip

12 13 14 15 16 17

Huron, 2013, 8. Zajonc, 1968. Unpublished study by Monahan, Murphy, and Zajonc in 1997, reported in Berkowitz, 2000, 30. Bornstein, 1990. Discussed by Huron, 2013, 15. Huron, 2013, 15.

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forward or back—we do not know in that moment just how many lines are going to be repeated, so we have no choice but to simply experience it in the moment.18 I have been talking about the aurality of listening rather than the orality of speaking, which are of course related phenomena. Much has been written about whether or not repetition in cuneiform poetry is a result of an oral tradition, but the current consensus is that only aurality can be demonstrated in these texts, not orality.19 It is difficult to disentangle oral and written traditions, since, as Jerrold Cooper has pointed out, poetry can be intended for recitation regardless of whether it is composed orally or in writing—both are channeled towards the same end.20 Oral and written traditions can influence each other, and in the case of cuneiform poetry, it is impossible to trace the direction.21 In the Ur iii period, for instance, there is evidence of scribes working with musicians at the court of Shulgi to produce royal hymns, meaning that either or both professions could have been responsible for stylistic choices.22 As Paul Delnero has shown, the types of mistakes found in Old Babylonian manuscripts of Sumerian poems show that the texts were memorized, and that the liter-

18 19

20

21

22

Ong, 2012, 39. Reported by Izreʾel, 1992, 155, as the result of the conference “Mesopotamian Epic Literature: Oral or Aural?” Vanstiphout, 1992, 263, concludes that repetition does not point towards oral composition, but the texts do show a great number of “vocal” characteristics on all levels. Vogelzang, 1992, 269, remarks that “All written literature can be recited, just as every oral text can be written down … it will be almost impossible to find sound evidence to demonstrate that a certain story was once orally composed.” Cooper, 1981, 227. Cooper, 1992, 114–115, later asserted that most Old Babylonian literature was composed for musical performance, while Alster, 1992, 26, suggested that oral literature must have influenced written literature because the oral tradition would have been known to everyone, while the scribal tradition was restricted to an elite group. E.g., Black, 1992, 91; Cooper, 1992, 109–110. Goody, 1987, 117, encapsulates the problem when he says, “I may compose a sonnet in my head if I have that particular ability, but no one doubts that the sonnet form is an invention of literate culture.” Ong, 2012, 11, points out that once oral literature has been written down, it is difficult for it to be perceived as oral any more without seeing it through the lens of a text-based experience, which must also have been true for the Mesopotamian scribes writing down any literature that was originally oral. Izreʾel, 1992, 160 and 178, points out that parallelism, a feature typically thought of as oral, is used systematically in the Babylonian Theodicy, a poem which must have been composed in writing because of its cuneiform acrostic (which only works in writing); and further, that formulae are heavily used in Akkadian written texts, meaning that this commonly used criterion for orality does not apply in Mesopotamia; Izreʾel 1992, 192. As Izreʾel acknowledges, Finnegan, 1997, 130, had already shown that parallelism is typical of written literature as well as oral. See Alster, 1992, 47–49.

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ary tradition is not primarily dependent on written copies.23 It is important to remember that cuneiform tablets represent only a fraction of what existed in the culture, and that even the scribes who wrote the tablets were part of a largely oral world. Most of the stories they heard and most of the teaching they gave and received would have been oral, and not everything was written down. Although it is easy to assume that repetition and parallelism originally came from an oral context rather than a scribal one, how are we to explain the fact that repetition increases in the first millennium, in comparison with Old Babylonian versions of the same text?24 The anthropologist Jack Goody argued that repetition is actually more characteristic of schools aiming to preserve a tradition than of a living oral one, since schools emphasize the act of copying and verbatim memory, while oral traditions emphasize creative and improvisatory retellings.25 One of the foremost authorities on orality, Ruth Finnegan, has pointed out that repetition is characteristic of all poetry, written as well as oral, because of its pleasing literary effects (the “aesthetics of regularity”), and so it cannot be used as a distinguishing measure.26 Orality is thus not a sufficient explanation for the repetition in our texts. But aurality may be. What are then the effects of repetition in Akkadian literature? I will limit myself here to a particular kind of repetition, that is, the repetition of whole lines and passages.27 Repetition of individual words and sounds is very common, but this is also the case in modern poetry, and so is rarely a cause for complaint: it is repetition on the macro level which needs rehabilitating. From an aural perspective, repetition makes a composition easy to follow,28 “keeping the listener on track,” as Walter Ong, a leading figure in the study of orality, puts it.29 An important study by Marianne Vogelzang brings out some of repetition’s literary effects in cuneiform poetry: it heightens tension, increases the importance of a particular episode, builds to a climax;30 and it can highlight

23 24

25 26 27

28 29 30

Delnero, 2012. Vogelzang, 1986. See also the contention in Cooper, 1981, 227, that the Sumerian compositions that use the most formulae are royal hymns and post-Old Babylonian Emesal texts: “both genres that are unquestionably composed in writing.” Goody, 1987, 184–185. Finnegan, 1977, 130–131. Izreʾel, 1992, 178, highlights the relevance of this statement to the exact or almost exact repetition of whole passages. See Vanstiphout’s Type A, “repetition of whole blocks, found abundantly in our material,” and Type B, “a series of identical actions expressed as a unit and in identical terms”; Vanstiphout 1992, 248–252. Alster, 1992, 24. Ong, 2012, 40, followed also by Vogelzang, 1992, 276. Also pointed out by Vanstiphout, 1992, 254–255, in relation to Lugalbanda.

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differences between the previous occurrence and the present one, bringing out a change in circumstance or meaning.31 Wilfred Watson has pointed to repetition’s creation of dramatic effect, completeness, and emphasis in Hebrew poetry, as well as the structuring function of repetition that helps link a poem’s components.32 This latter aspect has been explored in detail by Jeremy Black, who shows how repetition in Sumerian narrative poetry can demarcate sections of a poem and serve to “flag” parts of its structure,33 and Herman Vanstiphout has analyzed repetitions in Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta from a similar perspective, revealing an intricate interplay of structural elements.34 Vanstiphout stresses that “the types of repetition are nowhere either naïve or purely automatic,”35 and “in almost every case there is system and logic and meaning to the repetitions.”36 Building on these studies, I present a close reading of—or rather, “close listening to”—Akkadian poetry that will reveal even more of repetition’s effects. What follows is an analysis of repetition in Anzû, Enuma Elish, and Gilgamesh, selected as three important Standard Babylonian poems that contain repetition in abundance. I show that the patterns formed by the repetition of passages fit very well with those described by musicological theories of fluency and habituation. The literary effects identified here are concerned with time, authority, panic, formality, and insistence, all of which would be especially perceivable in a performance context. The first thing to note is that, on average, repetition is more common in the first half of a musical work than in the second.37 This is consistent with the theory that repetition improves the enjoyment of a piece because our brains prefer things they have heard before—that familiarity breeds content.38 The beginning of a composition draws us in by introducing repetitions that help us enjoy the text through this pleasure of recognition, as elements become increasingly familiar to us. After a certain time, however, we reach the point where habituation sets in, and further repetitions would become boring, so the piece becomes more varied to compensate.39 Although the patterns at work

31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

Vogelzang, 1996. Watson, 1984, 279. Black, 1992, 72. Vanstiphout, 1992; 1983, 40–42. Vanstiphout, 1992, 260. Vanstiphout, 1983, 40. Ollen and Huron, 2004. Huron, 2013, 8. Huron, 2013, 9–11.

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in music are more specific than what can be found in Akkadian poetry, the three poems examined here do seem to adhere to this broader principle. In both Enuma Elish and Gilgamesh, more repetition occurs in the first half of the text than in the second, and in Anzû, the repetition occurs only in the first two thirds of the composition.

2

Enuma Elish

We will start with the so-called Babylonian Epic of Creation, which tells of a battle between the god Marduk and the monster Tiamat, who musters an army to challenge the divine order. In this poem, the pattern of early repetition is especially clear. The main repeated passage is the description of Tiamat’s horde, which occurs for the first time at the end of Tablet i, line 129–162, a huge passage of 34 lines. We may call this “EnEl Motif A”: im-ma-as-ru-nim-ma i-du-uš ti-amti te-bu-u₂-ni ez-zu kap-du la sa-ki-pu mu-ša u₃ im-ma na-šu-u2 tam-ḫa-ra na-zar-bu-bu la-ab-bu ukkin-na šit-ku-nu-ma i-ban-nu-u₂ ṣu-la-a-ti They gathered close and rose at Tiamat’s side, raging, plotting, unrelenting night and day. Raising battle, trembling with rage, furious, they established an assembly to make war. um-mu ḫu-bur pa-ti-qa-at ka-la-ma uš-rad-di kak-ku la maḫ-ru it-ta-lad mušmaḫḫī(muš.MAḪ)meš zaq-tu-ma šin-nu la pa-du-u₂ at-ta-ʾi-i im-tu ki-ma da-mi zu-mur-šu₂-nu uš-ma-al-la Mother Hubur, who fashions everything, added weapons that cannot be opposed, she gave birth to snakes. Sharp of tooth, merciless in fang, she filled their bodies with poison instead of blood. ušumgallī(ušumgal)meš na-ad-ru-ti pu-ul-ḫa-a-ti u₂-šal-biš-ma me-lam-mu uš-taš-ša-a i-li-iš um-taš-ši-il a-mi-ir-šu₂-nu šar-ba-bi-iš li-iḫ-ḫar-mi-im zu-mur-šu₂-nu liš-taḫ-ḫi-ṭam-ma la i-ne₂-ʾu-u i-rat-su-un

dynamics of repetition in akkadian literature

Wild dragons she clothed in terrors, she gave them auras, made them resemble the gods. “Let the one who sees them collapse in weakness! Let their bodies keep leaping, not turning their breast!” uš-zi-iz-ma ba-aš-mu dmuš-ḫuš u₃ dla-ḫa-mu u₄-gal-la ur-idim-me u₃ gir₂-tab-lu₂-u₁₈-lu u₄-me da-ab-ru-ti ku₆-lu₂-u₁₈-lu u₃ ku-sa-rik-kum na-ši kak-ku la pa-du-u₂ la a-di-ru ta-ḫa-zi She stationed the snake, the dragon, the Lahmu, the great demon, the wild dog and the scorpion man, aggressive storms, the fish man, and the bull man bearing merciless weapons, not fearing battle. gap-ša te-re-tu-ša la ma-aḫ-ra ši-na-ma ap-pu-na-ma iš-ten eš-ret ki-ma šu-a-ti uš-tab-ši i-na ilānī(dingir)meš bu-uk-ri-ša šu-ut iš-ku-nu-ši pu-uḫ-ra u₂-ša-aš-qa dqin-gu ina bi-ri-šu₂-nu ša-a-šu uš-rab-bi-iš Her commands were mighty, they could not be opposed. Indeed, she created eleven like that. From the gods her offspring, those who formed an assembly for her, she raised up Qingu, she made him great among them. a-li-ku-ut maḫ-ru -a-ni um-ma-nu mu-ir-ru-tu₄ pu-uḫ₂-ru na-še-e kak-ku ti-iṣ-bu-tum te-bu-u₂ a-na-an-tum [šu]-⸢ut⸣ ta-am-ḫa-ra ra-ab sik-kat₂-u₂-tum [ip]-qid-ma qa-tu-uš-šu₂ u₂-še-ši-ba-aš-ši ina kar-ri Leadership of the army, command of the assembly, the bearing of weapons, combat, the raising of battle, the offices of war, the highest military post she entrusted to him, she sat him on a throne. ⸢ad⸣-di ta-a-ka i-na pu-ḫur ilānī(dingir)meš u₂-šar-bi-ka [ma]-li-kut ilānī(dingir)meš gim-rat-su-nu qa-tuk-ka uš-mal-li [lu]-u₂ šur-ba-ta-ma ḫa-i-ri e-du-u₂ at-ta [li]-⸢ir⸣-tab-bu-u zik-ru-ka eli(ugu) kālī(du₃)-šu₂-nu de-nu-uk-ka

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“I cast your spell, I made you great in the assembly of gods, kingship of the gods, all of them, I put in your hand. May you be the greatest, my husband, you are unique! May your utterances be the greatest above all the Anunna!” [id]-⸢din⸣-šum-ma ṭuppi(dub) ši-ma-a-te i-ra-tu-uš u₂-šat-mi-iḫ [ka]-ta qibīt(du₁₁.ga)-ka la in-nen-na-a li-kun ṣi-it pi-i-ka ⸢in⸣-na-nu dqin-gu šu-uš-qu-u2 le-qu-u2 da-nu-ti a-na ilānī(dingir.dingir) mārī(dumu)meš-šu ši-ma-ta iš-ti-ma ep-šu pi-i-ku-nu dgirru(giš.bar) li-ni-iḫ-ḫa im-tuk kit-mu-ru ma-ag-ša-ru liš-rab-bi-ib She gave him the tablet of destinies, made him hold it to his breast, “As for you, may your command not be changed, may your utterance endure!” Now Qingu is raised high and has taken the Anu-ship, and decreed destinies for the gods, his children: “Let your spoken word quench fire! Let your accumulated poison weaken strength.” Enuma Elish i 129–16240 This description is then repeated almost immediately afterwards—only 14 lines come between the beginning of Tablet ii and the first repetition of EnEl Motif A in ii 15–48, when Ea tells Anshar of the grievous situation. In keeping with the “early repetition” theory, the listener does not need much of a break before hearing the same material again. The passage will be repeated in iii 15–52 when Anshar instructs Kakka to report to Lahmu and Lahamu, and yet again when the message is delivered in iii 71–124. As Foster has pointed out, this repetition reflects a kind of panic and paralysis, where all the gods can do is talk about the threat coming their way but are powerless to do anything about it, which will contrast with Marduk’s swift action later in the story.41 However, in the interim, new content is also introduced, including other repetitions. Crucially, the sense of panic and paralysis is reinforced by the use of parallelism. Line ii 4 tells us that the mustering of Tiamat’s army has been leaked to Ea, who is shocked into silence (ku-um-mi-iš uš-ḫa-ri-ir-ma, “he fell silent in his chamber,” ii 6), before becoming angry. Anshar’s initial reaction

40 41

Lambert, 2013, 56–59. Foster, 2005, 438.

dynamics of repetition in akkadian literature table 6.1

121

Appearances of EnEl Motif A: Tiamat’s horde

i 129–162—First narration ii 15–48—Ea to Anshar iii 15–52—Anshar to Kakka iii 77–124—Kakka to the other gods

is also anger, and in order to calm him down, Ea speaks to him using what is known as hymnic parallelism, in which a couplet is repeated verbatim, first invoking the addressee by a general term (here “my father”) and then by name. a-bi libbu(ša3) ru-u2-qu mu-šim-mu ši-im-ti ša2 šu-ub-šu-u2 ḫul-lu-qu ba-šu-u it-ti-šu an-šar2 libbu(ša3) ru-u2-qu mu-šim-mu ši-im-ti ša2 šu-ub-šu-⸢u2⸣ ḫul-lu-qu ba-šu-u it-ti-šu e-nim-me-e ⸢a⸣-ta-mu-ka sur-riš nu-ḫa-am-ma ki-i a-mat du-un-qu e-pu-šu2 šu-du-du lib-bu-uk-ka My father, unfathomable mind, who decrees destinies, whose nature is to create and destroy, Anshar, unfathomable mind, who decrees destinies, whose nature is to create and destroy, I will tell you something, calm down for a moment, and remember that I did a good deed. Enuma Elish ii 61–64

In cuneiform literature, this kind of address is a mark of formality and respect, as used by humans when addressing the gods. After using it, Ea actually says: “I will tell you something, calm down for a moment” (ii 65). His soothing words do indeed work their magic, and Anshar calms down (ii 72) enough to then use the same parallelism to address Ea in reply: iš-me-ma an-šar2 a-ma-tu2 i-ṭib-el-⸢šu⸣ ip-ša2-aḫ lib-ba-šu2-ma a-na de2-a i-zak-⸢kar3⸣ ma-ri ep-še-ta-ka i-liš na-⸢ṭa⸣-[am]- ⸢ma⸣ ez-zu me-ḫe-⸢eṣ⸣ la ⸢maḫ⸣-ri te-le-e-em x [ … ] x de2-a ep-[še-tu]-⸢ka⸣ e-li-iš [na-ṭa-a]-⸢ma⸣ ez-zu me-ḫe-[eṣ la maḫ]-⸢ri⸣ te-le-e-em [ … ]

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a-lik-ma ⸢mu⸣-[ut-ti]- ⸢iš⸣ ti-amtu ti-ba-ša šup-[ši-iḫ] ug-gat-sa ⸢lu⸣-[u2 (x) ] x x šu-⸢ṣa⸣-[a sur?]-⸢riš⸣? i-na šip-ti-[ka] Anshar heard, the speech pleased him, his heart was soothed and he said to Ea: “My son, your deeds are suitable for a god, Angry, you are capable of … an unrivalled blow, Ea, your deeds are suitable for a god, Angry, you are capable of … an unrivalled blow. Go before Tiamat, pacify her onslaught. Though her anger may be […. ] expel it quickly? with [your] spell.” Enuma Elish ii 71–78

The use of repetition here shows these characters gaining composure, using formal poetic structures to recover from the anger and the fear that made them forget themselves. Another long-repeated passage is also inserted between the various descriptions of Tiamat’s army. Ea goes to fight Tiamat but takes fright and turns back, telling Anshar that she was too much for him. We may call this repetition EnEl Motif B: iš-me-ma zik-⸢ri⸣ [a-bi-šu2] ⸢an⸣-[šar2] iṣ-bat ḫar-ra-an-⸢šu2 u2—ru⸣-uḫ-šu2 uš-tar-[di] ⸢il⸣-lik de2-a šib-ku-uš ti-amti i-še-ʾ-am-ma [u2]-šib uš-ḫa-ri-ir-ma i-tu-ra ar-ki-iš He heard the speech of his father Anshar, he took to the road, set out on the path. Ea went to seek out the schemes of Tiamat. He stopped, fell silent, and turned back. [i]- ⸢ru⸣-um-ma maḫ-ra ba-ʾ-u2-lu an-šar2 [un]-⸢nen⸣-na iṣ-ba-tam-ma i-zak-kar3-šu [a-bi] ⸢u2⸣-ta-at-tir-ma ti-amtu ep-še-ta-ša e-li-⸢i-ia⸣ ma-lak-ša e-še-ʾ-e-ma ⸢ul⸣ i-maḫ-ḫar ši-ip-[ti] He entered the presence of Anshar the great, and insistently pleaded, saying, “[My father], Tiamat has increased her deeds beyond me. I sought out her plan, but my spell cannot face it.

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gap-ša e-mu-qa2-ša ma-la-ta a-di-⸢ru⸣ pu-uḫ-ru dun-nu-na-at-ma ul ia-ar-ši ma-am-[man] la na-ši-ir tuk-ka-ša še-ba-am-⸢ma⸣ a-du-ur-ma ri-ig-ma-ša a-tu-ra ar-ki-⸢iš⸣ Her strength is massive, she is full of fearsomeness. She is reinforced by a horde and no one can approach her. Her noise did not diminish, it surged. I was afraid of her clamour, I turned back. a-bi e tuš-ta-ni-iḫ tu-ur šu-pur-ši e-mu-qu sin-niš-ti lu-u dun-nu-na ul ma-la ša2 zik-ri ru-um-mi ki-iṣ-ri-ša mi-⸢il-ka⸣-ša su-pu-uḫ at-ta la-am qa-ti-ša um-mi-[du] a-na mu-uḫ2-ḫi-ni My father, do not be discouraged, send another to her. The strength of a woman is mighty indeed but not as great as a man’s. You—undo her band, scatter her plans, before she can lay hands on us!” Enuma Elish ii 79–94

This scenario is then repeated with Anu (ii 103–118), when he too is asked to go but turns back in the same way. What differs between these two cases is the way that Anshar addresses each god when he asks them to go. Notably, he appeals to the special abilities of each, rather than giving them exactly the same spiel, asking Ea to appease her with his incantation (i-na šip-ti-[ka], ii 76), but asking Anu to use persuasive words instead (a-mat un-nen-ni at-me-šim-ma ši-i lippa-aš2-ḫa, “say words of supplication, may she be pacified,” ii 102). Rather than blindly repeating, he tailors his approach for maximum success, using different words each time. This makes it all the more noticeable that the approach and failure of each god is then exactly the same, creating the impression that any attempt to face Tiamat is doomed to failure. There is only one couplet between the end of Ea’s report to Anshar and Anshar asking Anu to try instead, a single line where he reacts angrily (an-šar2 uz-zu-zi-iš i-ša-as-si, “Anshar cried out furiously,” ii 95) and then the line introducing the speech (ana da-nim ma-ri-šu šu-u2 i-zak-kar, “speaking to Anu his son,” ii 96).42 The brevity of this break gives it a kind of intense desperation as he immediately turns to another god for help. 42

I have not counted “nn opened their mouth to speak” in any of my counts of repetitions in the poems, since this is a formulaic line.

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table 6.2

Appearances of EnEl Motif B: Asking for help

ii 79–94—From Ea ii 103–118—From Anu

After the second failure Anšar lapses into silence again (uš-ḫa-ri-ir-ma an-šar2 qaq-qa-ri i-na-aṭ-ṭal, “Anshar fell silent, looking at the ground,” ii 119) just like Ea did had done in ii 6, using the same verb (šuḫaruru). Marduk is recruited at the close of Tablet ii, and Tablet iii begins with another repetition of the fearsome army he is about to face. Marduk’s proposal in ii 156–162 will become EnEl Motif C, repeated twice more in iii 58–64, when Anshar describes it to Kakka, and iii 116–122, when Kakka relays it to the other gods: šum-ma-ma a-na-ku mu-tir gi-mil-li-ku-un a-kam-me ti-amta-ma u2-bal-laṭ ka-a-šu2-un šuk-na-ma pu-uḫ-ra šu-te-ra i-ba-a šim-ti ina up-šu-ukkin-na-ki mit-ḫa-riš ḫa-diš tiš2-ba-ma ep-šu2 pi-ia ki-ma ka-tu-nu-ma ši-ma-ta lu-šim-⸢ma⸣ la ut-tak-kar mim-mu-u2 a-ban-nu-u a-na-ku a-a i-tur a-a in-nen-na-a si3-kar3 šap-ti-ia “If I am to be your avenger, to bind Tiamtu and restore life to you, arrange an assembly, exalt (and) proclaim my destiny. Sit joyfully together in Upshu’ukkinnakku, (May) my spoken word be like yours, let me decree destinies! Let anything I create not be altered, may the pronouncement of my lips not reverse or be changed.” Enuma Elish ii 156–162

Repetitions of whole passages in Enuma Elish are therefore confined to the first three tablets, as the early repetition theory would lead us to expect. Tablet i has no repetitions, as the story is being established, but Tablet ii contains two large repeated passages with two hymnic parallelisms in between them, with only short intervals between repetitions.43 After this intense burst of repeti43

There are 14 lines between the end of Tablet i and ii 15–48 (both EnEl Motif A), and 31

dynamics of repetition in akkadian literature table 6.3

125

Appearances of EnEl Motif C: Marduk’s proposal

ii 156–162—Marduk to Anshar iii 58–64—Anshar to Kakka iii 116–122—Kakka to the other gods

tions there is a longer gap of 58 lines before the repetitions come back again in iii 15–52 (EnEl Motif A), but then again only short intervals between them before they restart—6 lines between iii 52 and iii 58–64 (EnEl Motif C) and 7 lines between iii 64 and iii 71–124 (EnEl Motif A). Tablet iii is thus the most repetitious of all, with 99 of its 138 lines consisting of words we have heard before (71%). The repeated passages are also much longer than those typically found in other Akkadian poems. The longest individual segment is 34 lines and the final speech of Kakka contains repetitions of three separate passages, totaling 54 repeated lines. The repetitions thus gradually build up as the passages accumulate. However, they also interweave. There are three main motifs: we have called the description of Tiamat’s horde EnEl Motif A, the description of the gods going out against Tiamat EnEl Motif B, and Marduk’s demand of kingship as EnEl Motif C. Around these main motifs, new lines are added which will themselves be repeated. I will refer to these with lowercase letters to reflect their briefer length and status as subsidiary to the main motifs: Ea adds a preface to the description of the horde when he reports it to Anshar (ii 11–14, a); Anshar instructs Kakka to say who has sent him when he is to pass on the message in turn (iii 13–14, b); Anshar’s message includes a brief description of the measures he has already taken (iii 53–57, c), before quoting Marduk’s speech as the eventual solution (iii 58–64, C), and adds his own comment to the end recommending that they do as Marduk suggests (iii 65–66, d). All these passages are then repeated together as a block when Kakka passes on the message. The smaller segments accumulate to contextualize each reoccurrence of the

lines between the next major repeated block starting at ii 79 (the first occurrence of EnEl Motif B). However, if we consider the hymnic parallelisms, the intervals become only 15 lines between the end of EnEl Motif A at ii 48 and the repeated parallel lines at ii 63– 64 (repeating ii 61–62), and 11 lines from there until the next repeated parallel couplet at ii 75–76 (repeating ii 73–74). There are then 19 lines between ii 76 and the next major block, EnEl Motif B, reoccurring at ii 103–118.

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big, repeated passages, introducing variation around them to keep the audience’s interest and to reframe them according to context. We end up with the pattern: A | aA B B C | baAcCd baAcCd Or, simplified to the main motifs only: A|ABBC|ACAC The pattern shows an interweaving of repetitions building to a crescendo, with the twice-repeated sequence ac. The numbers of repetitions may also be significant. EnEl Motif A occurs four times in all, EnEl Motif B is an interlude occurring only twice, but then we are back up to three occurrences with EnEl Motif C. This gives us the pattern of 4–2–3, a neat step sequence. We should also remember that each time the lines are repeated, there may have been a similarity or variation in their musical accompaniment or the way they were sung,44 acting as a repeated chorus. In modern popular music, slight variations in the instrumental tracks are often added to verses and choruses precisely to prevent too much habituation. So too it may have been with Enuma Elish—early repetition primes the listener to enjoy the performance, which by Tablet iii has built up to a crescendo of interweaving repeated passages. Tablet iii is one of the most uninteresting for us today in its written form, and may well have been for the ancient scribes who copied it too, since it has the secondfewest extant manuscripts of any of the poem’s tablets.45 But in performance it may have been a different story, and the same repetitions actually serve to reel the listener in and offer plenty of opportunities for musical enhancement.

3

Anzû

Anzû is another popular classic of Babylonian literature, which Enuma Elish builds on in constructing its own version of a warrior’s rise to power. Anzû relates how the god Ninurta earned his position as Mesopotamia’s top warrior god through his defeat of the Anzû, a mythical bird with a lion’s head. Anzû dis44 45

See Vanstiphout, 1992, 262. According to Lambert’s count, 17 manuscripts of Tablet iii are known. Only Tablet v has fewer, at 14. This may of course be an accident of survival, but there are at least clear peaks in the numbers of surviving manuscripts of Tablets i (53 copies) and iv (27).

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plays a similar structure to what we have seen in Enuma Elish, namely blocks of early repetition followed by more a complex interweaving.46 There are three blocks of repeated passages in Tablet i, coming in quick succession with no gaps between them (i 94–114 = i 115–135 = i 136–156): this is the summoning of the three gods who are asked to fight Anzû before Ninurta is approached, and all that changes between the passages is the name of the god who is addressed. We may call this Anzû Motif A. Following this there are only 14 lines before the next block, Anzû Motif B, where it is suggested that the gods summon Belet-ili (i 171–175), and which is then repeated when they duly summon her (i 176– 180).47 This is followed by an interval of 125 lines of new material until we hear another major block repeated again in Tablet ii 78–85, repeating ii 62–69, the description of the battle between Ninurta and Anzû, specifically the spell that Anzû uses against Ninurta’s arrows, Anzû Motif E.48 However, there is repetition even within this new material, as the poem makes much use of quatrains structured in parallelisms, where a couplet is repeated with some variation in wording the second time. This is not the kind of repetition I have counted so far as a block motif, but it is a kind of repetition nonetheless, meaning that the numbers of lines without any repetition at all in Tablet i remains very few, never more than four at a time.49 Tablet ii begins by setting up four new motifs which will then be repeated over the rest of the Tablet. Once this new material has been established, the longest interval between repetitions is twelve lines, but it is far more common not to have more than four.50 Tablet iii is not fully complete but none of the

46 47

48 49

50

This may not be coincidental, as Enuma Elish imitates the structure of Anzû in other ways too; see Wisnom, 2020, 91–98, especially 94–96. Vogelzang, 1996, 169, categorizes this type of repetition as one that “shows the difference between a first and second version of an event, or to provide an encore of an action or scene performed earlier,” and quotes this passage as an example (see p. 171, n. 16). It is a common narrative device in Akkadian. The first block to be repeated in Tablet ii is not the first one to occur, and it is Motif E that is the first one to be encountered a second time. There are four lines between the end of i 136–156 and i 61–62 which parallel i 59–60, two lines before the next parallelism with i 65–66 paralleling i 63–64, nine lines until the next repeated passage i 176–179 (= i 171–174), and three lines before the next parallelism i 185– 186 (paralleling i 183–184). Four lines between ii 78–85 and ii 89–92, zero lines between the next repetition at ii 93– 100, four lines later a new block is introduced at ii 105–112, which together with its introductory lines give an interval of twelve, but then there are only three new lines before the next repetition at ii 127–134, immediately followed by another at ii 135–145, and just one line between this and the last repetition of the tablet in ii 147–149. The tablet ends five lines later.

128 table 6.4

wisnom Repeated motifs in Anzû

Motif Lines

First line of passage

A B C D E F G

“They summoned Adad the Irrigator, son of Anu” “Let them summon Belet-ili, sister of the gods” “Uproot his life, bind Anzû!” He writhed, he shook, he went towards his mountain Anzû cried out against it The lord Ninurta surrounded Anzû “Do not tire in battle, establish your victory!”

i 94–114 = i 115–135 = i 136–156 i 171–175 = i 176–180 ii 17–27 = 113–123 = 135–145 ii 29–32 = 147–150 ii 62–69 = 70–85 = 93–100 ii 72–77 = 89–92 ii 105–112 = 127–133

surviving text so far seems to repeat, suggesting that the pattern has come to an end. The motifs are summarized in the table above. The pattern of motifs that we find is as follows: Tablet i | Tablet ii | Tablet iii AAA B B | C D E FE FE G C GC D | As in Enuma Elish, we find a preponderance of early repetition, with the same sequence in quick succession, followed by two occurrences of a new motif very close together. These are the gods summoning various other gods and asking them to go out to fight Anzû, only for each one to turn back in fear, Motif A, followed by Belet-ili proposing the solution—to summon Ninurta, Motif B. Tablet ii sets up several new motifs. Belet-ili speaks to her son and encourages him to take up the task; the climax of her exhortations forms Motif C, her instructions to Ninurta to kill Anzû and thus establish his shrines in the four quarters of the earth. Next, Ninurta’s approach to the mountain is described, Motif D. But when Ninurta aims his bow at Anzû and fires, the attack fails because Anzû has a magic spell that deflected arrows: Motif E is the recitation of that spell and its effects. Immediately afterwards, Ninurta summons his vizier Shar-ur, and tells him to take a message to Ea telling him what happened. The first part of this message forms Motif F, describing Ninurta approaching Anzû and drawing the bow. The rest of it is composed of Motif E, as Ninurta repeats verbatim Anzû’s spell and its consequences. Both are repeated just three lines later as Shar-ur takes the message to Ea. Ea’s response to this message becomes Motif G, which also includes Motif C, Belet-ili’s initial words of encouragement from the beginning of Tablet ii. Shar-ur then repeats this message to Ninurta just three lines later again. In one line we are told that Ninurta heard these words, and then

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Motif D comes back again describing how he approached the mountain to do battle once more. Here the repetitions come to an end. What this gives us is an interweaving of new motifs in Tablet ii after they have been established, a song-like alternation between different elements. Anzû Motifs F and E are grouped and repeated close together (the description of Ninurta surrounding Anzû and the utterance of Anzû’s spell), followed by Anzû Motifs C and G—Belet-ili’s exhortation and Ea’s encouragement for the battle, rounded off by another description of Ninurta heading towards the mountain (Anzû Motifs D). The sequence of repetitions comes to an end as the climax of the poem is reached: the battle between Ninurta and Anzû. The number of repetitions is also significant. Anzû Motif A occurs three times, B twice, C three times, D twice, E three times, F twice, and G twice: A–B–C–D–E–F–G 3–2–3–2–3–2–2 The almost perfect alternation of this sequence is unlikely to be coincidence. In fact, since there are 35 lines lost in Tablet iii, it is tempting to posit that there could have been a variation of Anzû Motif G within it, which would perfect the pattern. All the repetition takes place in Tablets i and ii, the first two thirds of the composition. After this intense buildup, Tablet iii mixes things up with at least 75 lines of new content, but the last 10 of these are fragmentary and then 35 lines are missing. After Ninurta successfully killed Anzû at the beginning of the Tablet, the plot moves on to an enigmatic episode between Enlil and Ninurta which is difficult to understand in its current state of preservation. Yet the poem seems to end with an image of Anzû being set up in the Ekur temple as a commemoration of Ninurta’s victory, and c, the last four lines are praise of the warrior’s feat. There is certainly room then in those missing lines for a repetition of Motif G, which could have switched the tenses to become a report of what Ea had said. Even if this suggestion turns out not to be vindicated, it is striking that there is an alternating pattern of the repetition of motifs up until the end, suggesting that it was a carefully planned part of the composition. The motifs that occur three times are those with the most dramatic impact, which ot would be especially pleasing to hear again—the repeated failure of Ninurta’s predecessors, Belet-ili’s rousing exhortations, and Anzû’s spectacular spell. Three is the minimum number of times we need to hear something before we begin to like it; in modern popular music it is most common for choruses to occur three times for this very reason, so that by the time we listen to the whole song once, we have already heard its constituent elements

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table 6.5

Repetition in Gilgamesh

Tablet

Repeated lines

Total lines

Percentage of total

i ii iii iv v vi Total first half vii viii ix x xi xii Total second half Overall total

44 33 (at least) 15 (at least) 84 (at least) 15 (at least) 8 199 2 4 20 62 37 46 171 370

300 301 + ? 241? 250 324 183 1599 298–299? 250–255? 196 322 328 153 1553 3152

15 % 11 % 6% 34 % 5% 4% 12 % 1% 2% 10 % 19 % 11 % 30 % 11 % 12 %

enough times to become familiar with it. I suggest that the same is true with the patterns of repetition in Anzû.

4

Gilgamesh

Gilgamesh is the most famous of all Babylonian poems, the most popular both in antiquity and today, and the longest. As such, it has plenty of scope to engage in repetition and structures its repetitions elaborately. The poem is not as well preserved as the other two we have considered, making some conclusions provisional, but there are still striking patterns that can be observed. An overview of the number of repeated lines in each Tablet of the poem is given in Table 6.5.51

51

The table does not include the first occurrences of the lines, only their repetitions. Formulaic lines introducing speech have not been counted, nor have those of the “trance strategy” discussed below, since it is repeated lines and passages that contribute meaning that concern us here.

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Like Anzû and Enuma Elish, Gilgamesh uses early repetition from the very start. The overall percentage of repeated lines in the early part of the poem is lower in Gilgamesh than in the two other compositions, but since the poem is much longer overall, it distributes its block repetitions differently and uses several other strategies. Large portions of Tablets ii–v are broken, meaning that the true proportion of repeated lines may well be higher. In Tablets vi–ix, repetitions are strikingly less frequent, before resurging in Tablets x and xii. Looking at the overall patterns, what we see is a high number of repeated lines in the opening Tablet (44, amounting to 15%), which serves to ease us into the composition by creating familiarity with it. The pattern continues with Tablet ii also having a relatively high number of repeated lines (33) but also more variation as part of developing the story. In Tablet iii, there appears to be a drop, but the text has many lacunae, so this cannot be taken as representative. Tablet iv has the most repetitions of all, taking up the highest proportion of any Tablet (34%), as the tension increases on the journey to the Cedar Forest.52 This is fitting, given that the killing of Humbaba is the pivotal event that will lead to Enkidu’s death, around which the whole poem turns. As we reach this critical point, repetition decreases again: the journey has reached its long-awaited destination, and the march-like pace gives way to a corresponding rush of novelty. At the mid-point of the poem, a drastic drop in repeated passages occurs, with very few whole lines repeated in Tablet vi (8), only two in Tablet vii, and only four in Tablet viii. Halfway through, the listener needs a break. We have reached Enkidu’s death itself and the beginning of Gilgamesh’s mourning, another phase before Gilgamesh’s second journey begins, which now needs to set itself up anew. That is not to say that repetition is absent from Tablet viii, however, rather the strategy changes. Instead of repeating whole blocks, what we find is an intense use of anaphora and lists. Gilgamesh spends the first 40 lines listing all the people who will mourn Enkidu, resulting in the repetition of the same word at the start of every other line (lib-ki-ka). Lines 97–131 are a list of funerary gifts he gives to Enkidu, repeating the phrase “he provided for his friend” (iš-ta-kan ana ib-ri-šu2) in every line. Lines 134 to at least 203 (where the text breaks off) are taken up with Gilgamesh making offerings to various deities on Enkidu’s behalf, which is a repetition of concept if not wording. This

52

Differently Gilbert, 2012, 142, who suggests that the repetitious journeys become static and create the feeling that the characters are going over the same ground. The article contrasts Gilgamesh with medieval French poetry, which she points out is “conceived of as written rather than sung” (p. 147); it may well be that her observations describe the effect of repetition in writing rather than in performance.

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marks a break from what we have seen before, a more intense repetition of particular words and phrases that mirrors the intensity of Gilgamesh’s unbearable grief—relentless and pounding. Repetition in Tablet ix is found entirely in Gilgamesh’s journey through the tunnel of the sun (ix 139–172), a different kind of repetition again, which emphasizes that it as an intensified race against time rather than the long expedition of Tablet iv. Tablet x hits us with a large number of repeated passages again, mirroring Gilgamesh’s exhaustion and his longing to reach the end of his quest. Tablet xi is mostly made up of an entirely new story within the story, Uta-napishti’s account of the Flood, and so uses repetition in short bursts for emphasis rather than for setting up new and complex structures. Here Vogelzang’s observation that repetition is not necessary in a short and concise story is salient. It often functions to create tension and demarcate sections (as Vantiphout and Black suggested), which is most needed in longer compositions.53 Tablet xii sees the return of large amounts of repetition, geared towards emphasizing the agonizing inevitability of death. It is unclear whether we should count Tablet xii in this discussion, since it is a translation of an earlier Sumerian poem Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and the Netherworld, which has not been specially adapted to the style of the rest of the Standard Babylonian poem. There is less scope here for the author to have introduced repetition for a specific purpose, although the Sumerian poem may itself have been composed with performance in mind.54 In any case, the fact remains that Tablet xii does contain plenty of repetition and can still be considered from the point of view of its effects. Repetition creates insistence, inevitability, and certainty, which helps to drive home the poem’s message about death’s finality. Once again, musicology can be used to understand the effects of specific types of repetition. David Huron identifies three strategies of repetition commonly used in music. 1. The trance strategy: intense levels of repetition (“when listening to highly repetitive music, listeners may experience anything from acute boredom or annoyance to bliss or euphoria”). 2. The variation strategy: a passage that is repeated with persistent slight modifications. 3. The rondo strategy: “sequences of repetition that grow shorter over the course of the work, with new material introduced sparingly.” The rondo

53 54

Vogelzang, 1992, 276; Black, 1992, 72; Vanstiphout, 1992; 1983, 40–42. See Gadotti, 2014, 98, for discussion.

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strategy depends on introducing new material at critical moments in order to preclude habituation, which enables familiar material to be reused again. All of these strategies are found in Gilgamesh. The trance strategy is what we find in the journey of Tablet ix: 1 bēr(danna) x [ …………. ] ša2-pat ek-le-⸢tum3⸣-[ma ul i-ba-aš2-ši nu-ru] ul i-⸢nam-di⸣-[in-šu2-ma a-na pa-la-sa arkat(egir)-su] 2 ⸢bēr(danna)⸣ [ …………. ] ša2-pat ek-⸢le⸣-[tum3-ma ul i-ba-aš2-ši nu-ru] ul i-na-⸢an-di⸣-[in-šu2-ma a-na pa-la-sa arkat(egir)-su] One double-hour … [..............] the darkness was dense, [and there was no light] it did not [allow him to see what was behind him.] Two double-hours [...........] the darkness was dense, [and there was no light] it did not [allow him to see what was behind him.] 3 bēr(danna) [ …………. ] [ša2-pat ek-le-tum3-ma ul i-ba-aš2-ši nu-ru] [ul i-na-an-di-in-šu2-ma a-na pa-la-sa arkat(egir)-su] 4 ⸢bēr(danna)⸣ [ …………. ] ša2-⸢pat⸣ [ek-le-tum3-ma ul i-ba-aš2-ši nu-ru] ul i-⸢nam⸣-[di-in-šu2-ma a-na pa-la-sa arkat(egir)-su] Three double-hours [ ...........,] [the darkness was dense, and there was no light] [it did not allow him to see what was behind him.] Four double-[hours ...........,] the darkness] was dense, [and there was no light] it did not [allow him to see what was behind him.] 5 ⸢bēr(danna)⸣ [ …………. ] ⸢ša2-pat⸣ ek-⸢le⸣-[tum3-ma ul i-ba-aš2-ši nu-ru] ⸢ul i⸣-nam-di-[in-šu2-ma a-na pa-la-sa arkat(egir)-su] 6 ⸢bēr(danna)⸣ i-[na ka-ša2-di-šu2?] ⸢ša2-pat⸣ ek-le-tum3-[ma ul i-ba-aš2-ši nu-ru] ⸢ul i⸣-nam-di-⸢in⸣-[šu2-ma a-na pa-la-sa arkat(egir)-su]

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Five double-hours [ ...........,] the darkness was dense, [and there was no light] it did not allow [him to see what was behind him.] When [he reached] six double-hours [ ...........,] the darkness was dense, [and there was no light] it did not allow [him to see what was behind him.] 7 ⸢bēr(danna)⸣ ina ka-⸢ša2-di⸣ x […] ⸢ša2-pat ek-le⸣-[tum3]-⸢ma⸣ ul ⸢i⸣-[ba-aš2-ši nu-ru] ul i-nam-⸢di-in⸣-šu2-ma⸣ [a]-⸢na pa⸣-la-⸢sa arkat(egir)⸣-[su] 8 bēr(danna) ⸢kīma(gin7)?⸣ [x x] i-ṣar-ra-⸢aḫ⸣ ša2-pat ek-⸢le⸣-[tum3-ma ul i]-⸢ba⸣-aš2-ši nu-⸢ru⸣ ul i-⸢nam⸣-[di-in-šu2-ma a-na] ⸢pa⸣-la-sa arkat(egir)-su On reaching seven double-hours [ ...........,] the darkness was dense, and [there was no light] it did not allow him [to] see what was behind [him.] At eight double-hours he was hurrying like [ ....,] the darkness was dense, and there was [no light] it did not [allow him to] see what was behind him. ⸢9 bēr(danna)⸣ [ ....... ] imiltānu(si.sa2) [ .............. ]-ḫa pa-ni-šu [ša2-pat ek-le-[tum3-ma ul i-ba]-⸢aš2⸣-ši nu-ru [ul i-nam-di-in-šu2-ma a-na] ⸢pa⸣-la-sa arkat(egir)-su [10 bēr(danna) i-na ka-ša2]-di-šu2 [ .......... ] qit-ru-ub [11 bēr(danna) .......... ḫarrān?] ša2 bēr(danna) [ .......... it]-⸢ta⸣-ṣi la-am dšamši(utu)ši Nine double-[hours ..... ] the north wind, [ ............ ] … his face, the darkness was dense, and there was [no light] [it did not allow him to] see what was behind [him.] [When he] reached [ten double-hours,] [ .......... ] was very near. [At eleven double-hours ....... a journey] of one double-hour [ ...... he] came out before the sun. Gilgamesh ix 139–170

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The intense repetition of the first three lines, with only the number of hours changed, creates a tension that builds up our expectations. The lines are the same for hours one to five, but after six, the text begins to introduce variation to increase the anticipation, a variation that continues in the phrasing of the later hours.55 After nine hours, an extra line is introduced, and from ten onwards, the phrasing changes just before Gilgamesh emerges after eleven hours, the variation increasing just as the journey finally comes to an end. The delivery of these lines in performance would of course make a huge difference to how they come across. We could easily imagine these lines as seeming dull and monotonous, making the journey last forever, depending on how they are spoken. A variation of this strategy may be at work in the description of Enkidu’s funeral statue in Tablet viii where the phrase “he provided for his friend” ([iš]-⸢ta⸣-kan a-na ib-ri-šu2) in line 97 is repeated in the second half of the line from lines 98 to 118, and from there in alternate lines up to at least line 126.56 Interestingly, the scribes themselves do not write out the phrase on every line but simply write kimin (“ditto”), suggesting that the repetition is not as important for the written text, and that scribes would skip over them when reading on a tablet just as we often do. Another example of the trance strategy occurs in the description of Enkidu’s sickness in vii 255–260, when Gilgamesh is urged to take up punting poles in x 176–179, and when Mount Nimush holds the boat fast at xi 144–146. The episode of the punting pole best encapsulates this form: 2-a šal-ša2 u re-ba-a dgiš-gim2-maš li-qe2 pa-⸢ri⸣-[su] ḫa-an-ša2 6-ša2 u 7-a dgiš-gim2-maš li-qe2 pa-ri-[su] 8-a 9-a u 10-a dgiš-gim2-maš li-qe2 pa-ri-⸢su⸣ 11-a 12-a dgiš-gim2-maš li-qe2 pa-ri-⸢su⸣ ina 2.giš3 dgiš-gim2-maš ug-dam-me-ra pa-⸢ri⸣-[si] Take a second, a third, and a fourth punting pole, Gilgamesh! Take a fifth, a sixth, and a seventh punting pole, Gilgamesh! Take an eighth, a ninth, and a tenth punting pole, Gilgamesh!

55 56

The second half of these lines has been lost in almost all cases, meaning that there may also have been variation introduced here earlier. The first halves of many of these lines have been lost, but they appear to be describing different items and so are not wholesale repetitions of lines, and have therefore not been counted in the table above.

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Take an eleventh and a twelfth punting pole, Gilgamesh! At one hundred and twenty double-furlongs Gilgamesh ran out of punting poles. Gilgamesh x 176–180

This kind of short and intense repetition creates a burst of urgency that injects energy into the narrative and speeds it along. In all three cases, repetition is a way of speeding up long periods of time—a long journey is condensed into five lines, Enkidu’s agonizing illness over seven days is hastened to an end in six lines, and the boat’s six days aground Mount Nimush also passes in only five lines. The variation strategy is exactly what we have seen in Enuma Elish, which adds frames around repeated passages each time they reoccur. In Gilgamesh, the strategy is often found in the first half of the work, where passages reoccur but sometimes with lines switched, material interposed, or rephrased when repeated by different characters, changing the subject of the verbs. For instance, when Ninsun interprets Gilgamesh’s dreams, the first four lines are repeated, but Gilgamesh’s description of the people of Uruk gathering around the meteor is omitted from her speech (it is repeated twice elsewhere, however57). Line 256 is then moved in the repeated section, placed after the couplet that repeats 257–258 (in italics) instead of before it. Gilgamesh’s first dream um-mi šunata(maš2.gi6) aṭ-ṭu-la mu-ši-ti-ia ib-šu-nim-ma kakkabū(mul)meš šamê(an)e kīma(gin7) ki-iṣ-ru ša da-⸢nim⸣ im-ta-naq-qu-tu2 e-lu ṣēri(edin)-ia aš-ši-šu-ma ⸢da⸣-an e-li-ia ul-tab-lak-ki-is-su-⸢ma⸣ ul e-le-ʾ-i-a nu-us-⸢su⸣ urukki ma-a-tum iz-za-az eli(ugu)-[šu] [ma-a-tu pu-uḫ-ḫu-rat] ⸢ina⸣ [muḫ]-⸢ḫi⸣-šu [i-tep-pi-ir um]-⸢ma⸣-nu ⸢eli(ugu) ṣēri(edin)⸣-[šu2] [eṭlūtu(guruš)meš uk]-tam-ma-ru eli(ugu)-šu [ki-i šer3-ri la]-⸢ʾ⸣-i u2-na-ša2-qu šēpī(gir3)meš-šu [a-ram-šu2-ma] ⸢kīma(gin7)⸣ aš2-ša2-te eli(ugu)-šu2 aḫ-bu-ub

57

i 247–250 = 279–282 = ii 103–106.

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[aš2-ša2-aš2-šu-ma] ⸢at⸣-ta-di-šu2 ina šap-li-[ki] [u at-ti tul5]-⸢ta⸣-maḫ-ri-šu it-ti-ia Mother, I saw a dream in the night— the stars of the sky appeared to me, like knots of the sky they kept falling towards me, I picked it up but it was too heavy for me, I kept trying to turn it over, but I could not lift it. The land of Uruk was standing over [it], [the land was gathered] around it, a crowd was jostling over [it], [young men were] crowding about it. They were kissing its feet [like a little baby’s]. [I loved it] like a wife, I caressed it. [I picked it up] and put it down before you [and you, you] made it equal to me. Gilgamesh i 246–258

Ninsun’s interpretation [ib]-⸢šu⸣-nik-ka kakkabū(mul)meš šamê(an)e [kīma(gin7) ki]-ṣir ša da-⸢nim⸣ im-ta-naq-qu-tu2 e-lu ṣēri(edin)-ka taš-ši-šu-ma ⸢da⸣-an e-li-ka tul-tab-lak-kit-su-⸢ma⸣ ul te-le-ʾ-i-a nu-us-su taš2-ša2-aš2-šum-ma ⸢ta⸣-ad-di-šu2 ina šap-li-ia u a-na-ku ul-⸢tam⸣-ḫi-raš-šu2 it-ti-ka ta-ram-šu-ma ⸢kīma(gin7)⸣ aššati(dam) ⸢ta⸣-ḫab-bu-ub eli(ugu)-šu2 The stars of the sky appeared to you, like knots of the sky they kept falling towards you, you picked it up but it was too heavy for you, you kept trying to turn it over but you could not lift it. [I picked it up] and put it down before you [and you, you] made it equal to me. [I loved it] like a wife, I caressed it. Gilgamesh i 261–267

Aside from changing the subjects of the verbs and the possessive suffixes, the only change is a switch in word order between 258 and 267, with eli(ugu)šu2 aḫ-bu-ub replaced by ⸢ta⸣-ḫab-bu-ub eli(ugu)-šu2. Andrew George suggests

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that lines 257 and 258 have been “inadvertently transposed” because of the differing order of their repetition, which is a possible explanation.58 Nevertheless, whether inadvertent or intended, the transposition still has an effect on the audience triggered by the variation strategy—introducing a small amount of variation into a repeated passage keeps it fresh, and keeps the listeners on their toes. Gilgamesh employs something like the rondo strategy in Tablet x, but instead of the sequences of repetition growing shorter, they grow longer. Gilgamesh’s dialogue with Shiduri in x 31–34 and x 47–71 comprises passages of 4 and 31 lines respectively; his speech to Ur-šanabi in x 120–154 is 35 lines long; and his address to Uta-napishti in x 226–265 totals 46 lines. With each increase in length, we see an increase in variation, which ought to compensate for the habituation that the repetition of the longer passages may induce. In the dialogue with Shiduri, the description of Enkidu is given in two separate speeches, but when Gilgamesh addresses Ur-shanabi, he brings them together, which he also does when he repeats it to Uta-napishti. The speech to Uta-napishti repeats the speech to Ur-shanabi but is extended with another 16 lines that describe Gilgamesh’s arduous journey to reach him, in x 250–265.59 Each repetition goes over the same ground again and again, yet also escalates the description of Gilgamesh’s suffering, and with each addition, he expresses new depths of feeling. All this serves to emphasize the intensity of Gilgamesh’s grief. The description of his haggard appearance is repeated most of all, occurring a total of six times—three times observed by his interlocutors, three times insisted upon by Gilgamesh himself. Each repetitive exchange is followed by new information, as Shiduri and Ur-shanabi each give their own answer to the question of how to reach Uta-napishti, and Uta-napishti himself goes on to deliver the longest speech of all, namely the story of the deluge.

5

Reflections

If there are musical strategies at work in these poems, how would that change the way we read them? We ought to consider what the effects of these repetition strategies may be when we hear them out loud. What are some of the “literary” effects that can be imparted in this way? For the sake of space, I will keep to a few observations, but there is much more to be said on this topic.

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George, 2003, 802. Two manuscripts (K and b) put a ruling before the new section.

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First, repetition facilitates the speeding and slowing of time. We saw in Gilgamesh how the journey to the Cedar Forest was dragged out by the heavy use of long repeated passages,60 while the journey through the path of the sun was sped up by the repetition of short ones. It can also create a kind of intense focus. For example, in Anzû, the parallelisms that describe Anzû gazing at the Tablet of Destinies in i 68–72 hone in on his repeated gazing at the tablet, in a way that mirrors his longing for it. This is accomplished with just one repeated couplet, varied by the addition of the name Anzû in the second round, and the threefold occurrence of the crucial verb ittaṭṭalma (“he continually gazed”). Time is slowed down for a moment, making it more intense. This is followed by Anzû’s decision to steal the tablet and a description of the scene where the theft is about to take place, with the verb ittaṭṭalma repeated again in i 77, building tension again and preparing us for what is about to occur. The theft itself is very swift, taking place in just three lines, which do not use any repetition or parallelism (i 80–82): Anzû is gone in a flash. The repetitions which describe the performance of actions that have already been specified work in the opposite way, as a kind of narrative fast-forward—passing over whatever else might have occurred in the meantime, we are taken straight to the moment of action. Spacings between repetitions also contribute to these temporal effects. When there is not much space between repeated passages, time can fly even faster. In Enuma Elish, after Ea reports that he failed to face Tiamat, there is just one couplet describing Anshar’s anger before he turns to Anu to ask the same of him. There is no time to lose, and we are made to feel the urgency. At the other end of the scale, the long repeated sections in Enuma Elish that describe Tiamat’s approaching army contribute to a sense of paralysis and panic where the gods talk and talk without acting, trapped in a cycle that only Marduk can break.61 The repeated descriptions of Humbaba in Gilgamesh (i 221–228 = 278–285 = 291–296) have a similar effect—they evoke apprehension, reflecting Enkidu’s efforts to stop Gilgamesh from setting out against the monster by emphasizing his terrifying characteristics. Yet Enkidu’s warnings backfire and end up encouraging Gilgamesh instead.62 An insistence that he should not go is interpreted as an insistence that he should.

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Gilbert, 2012, 142. Foster, 2005, 438, who describes it as “a hint of circularity,” drawing a contrast between speech and action. The relationship between repetitions in Anzû and in Enuma Elish is discussed in Wisnom, 2020, 94–98. The first of these passages is Enkidu’s warning to Gilgamesh, the second is Enkidu’s instruction that the elders of Uruk should re-iterate the warning to Gilgamesh, and the third is their doing so. Interestingly, the elders do not repeat the whole speech, but omit

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Other kinds of insistence also occur throughout Gilgamesh, particularly with the use of refrains. The line that occurs first as “Gilgamesh lets no son go free to his father” (ul u2-maš-[šar] ⸢d⸣giš-gim2-maš māra(dumu) ana ⸢abi(ad)⸣-[šu2]) in i 68 occurs four times in Tablet i, with the objects of his oppression changed (i 72: daughter to mother; 76: girl to her bridegroom; 85: son to his father again), insisting upon his wrongdoing to all these groups. The fact that Ninsun is introduced in the same way when she speaks to her son underlines her authority, her wisdom, and superior knowledge: “Wild-cow Ninsun—she was wise, she was clever, she knew everything—spoke to Gilgamesh” ([fri-mat-d]⸢nin⸣-sun2 en-qet mu-da-at ka-la-ma i-de izakkar(mu)ar2 ana dgiš-gim2-maš, i 260 = 287 = iii 117).63 The refrain that is repeated most of all is “his strength is as mighty as a lump of rock from the sky” ([ki-ma ki-iṣ-ri] ša2 da-nim dun-nu-⸢na⸣ [e-muqa-šu], i 125 = 137 = 152 = 270 = 293 = ii 4 = 163), emphasizing Enkidu’s ability to rival Gilgamesh and his extraordinary nature. This line occurs seven times, a significant number in Akkadian literature,64 and it is the most repeated line in the poem, indicating its special importance. Authority and inevitability are thus also important effects of repetition. They are at work, for example, in Gilgamesh’s dreams of Enkidu (i 246–258, i 276– 285)—a prophecy that is made to feel inexorable when Ninsun repeats what Gilgamesh has told her (i 261–272, i 288–293), a prophecy that must be fulfilled, and indeed is. Yet the authority of repetition can work towards different ends simultaneously. The repetition of what Anzû can do because he holds the tablet of destinies underscores the authority of the tablet and its absolute power (Anzû Motif E, occurring three times). Yet when we are repeatedly told that Ninurta will defeat Anzû, it lends an inevitability to his eventual victory (Anzû Motifs C and G, three and two times respectively). These repetitions are in dialogue, setting up opposite tensions, answering each other. In conclusion, there are many strategies which are common to music and Akkadian poetry, using repetition to instill a positive familiarity. The trance strategy, variation strategy, and rondo strategy are all in evidence, building tension and playing with our expectations in multiple ways. The key to breeding content and not contempt with repetition is the skillful use of variation and spacing, which we have also seen at work in these poems. Furthermore, repeti-

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the first three lines (i 218–210 = 275–277) and the last one (i 229 = 286). This form of shortening resembles Huron’s rondo strategy. The addition of the epithets makes this more than a formulaic line introducing speech. Interestingly, they are absent when her speech is introduced in ii 167. See e.g. the seven evil winds let loose against Humbaba, the seven radiances that he sheds, and the seven gates of the Netherworld in Ishtar’s Descent.

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tion has various kinds of emotional effects on the audience, as it manipulates the pace of the storytelling, emphasizes certain moments, and speeds over others. There is much more that could be said about the literary and musical effects of repetitions, but I hope at least to have established that a close listening to these passages can be more enjoyable than a casual reading.

Bibliography Alster, Bendt. 1992. “Interaction of Oral and Written Poetry in Early Mesopotamian Literature.” In Mesopotamian Epic Literature: Oral or Aural?, edited by Marianne E. Vogelzang and Herman L.J. Vanstiphout, 23–69. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. Berkowitz, Leonard. 2000. Causes and Consequences of Feelings. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Black, Jeremy. 1992. “Some Structural Features of Sumerian Narrative Poetry.” In Mesopotamian Epic Literature: Oral or Aural?, edited by Marianne E. Vogelzang and Herman L.J. Vanstiphout, 71–101. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. Bornstein, Robert F. 1990. “Critical Importance of Stimulus Unawareness for the Production of Subliminal Psychodynamic Activation Effects: A Meta-Analytic Review.” Journal of Clinical Psychology 46, no. 2: 201–210. Cooper, Jerrold S. 1977a. “Gilgamesh Dreams of Enkidu: The Evolution and Dilution of Narrative.” In Essays on the Ancient Near East in Memory of Jacob Joel Finkelstein, edited by Maria de Jong Ellis, 39–44. Memoirs of the Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences 19. Hamden: Archon Books. Cooper, Jerrold S. 1977b. “Symmetry and Repetition in Akkadian Narrative.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 97, no. 4: 508–512. Cooper, Jerrold S. 1981. “Gilgamesh and Agga: A Review Article.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 33, no. 3/4: 224–241. Culler, Jonathan. 2015. Theory of the Lyric. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Delnero, Paul. 2012. “Memorization and the Transmission of Sumerian Literary Compositions.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 71, no. 2: 189–208. Finnegan, Ruth H. 1977. Oral Poetry: Its Nature, Significance and Social Context. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Foster, Benjamin R. 2005. Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature. 3rd edition. Bethesda: cdl Press. Gadotti, Alhena. 2014. “Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld” and the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle. Untersuchungen zur Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 10. Berlin: De Gruyter. George, Andrew R. 2003. The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts. 2 volumes. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Gilbert, Jane 2012. “Repetition and the Death Drive in Gilgamesh and Medieval French Literature.” Kaskal 12: 157–175. Goody, Jack. 1987. The Interface between the Oral and the Written. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Huron, David. 2013. “A Psychological Approach to Musical Form: The Habituation– Fluency Theory of Repetition.” Current Musicology 96: 7–35. Izreʾel, Shlomo. 1992. “The Study of Oral Poetry: Reflections of a Neophyte.” In Mesopotamian Epic Literature: Oral or Aural?, edited by Marianne E. Vogelzang and Herman L.J. Vanstiphout, 155–225. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. Kilmer, Anne D. “Fugal Features of Atraḫasīs: The Birth Theme.” In Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian, edited by Marianne E. Vogelzang and Herman L.J. Vanstiphout, 127–139. Cuneiform Monographs 6. Groningen: Styx. Lambert, Wilfred G. 2013. Babylonian Creation Myths. Mesopotamian Civilizations 16. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Livingstone, Alasdair. 1989. Court Poetry and Literary Miscellanea. State Archives of Assyria 3. Helsinki University Press. Ollen, Joy E., and David Huron. 2004. “Listener Preferences and Early Repetition in Musical Form.” In Proceedings of the 8th International Conference on Music Perception and Cognition, edited by Scott Lipscomb, Richard Ashley, Robert Gjerdingen, and Peter Webster, 405–407. Evanston: Society for Music Perception and Cognition. Ong, Walter J. 2012. Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word. 30th anniversary edition. New York: Routledge. Van der Toorn, Karel. 2007. Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1983. “Problems in the Matter of Aratta.” Iraq 45: 35–42. Vogelzang, Marianne E. 1992. “Repetition and Structure in the Aratta Cycle: Their Relevance for the Orality Debate.” In Mesopotamian Epic Literature: Oral or Aural?, edited by Marianne E. Vogelzang and Herman L.J. Vanstiphout, 247–264. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. Vogelzang, Marianne E. 1986. “Kill Anzu! On a Point of Literary Evolution.” In Keilschriftliche Literaturen, edited by Karl Hecker und Walter Sommerfeld, 61–70. Compte rendu de la Rencontre Assyriologique lnternationale 32. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag. Vogelzang, Marianne E. 1992. “Some Aspects of Oral and Written Tradition in Akkadian.” In Mesopotamian Epic Literature: Oral or Aural?, edited by Marianne E. Vogelzang and Herman L.J. Vanstiphout, 265–278. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. Vogelzang, Marianne E. 1996. “Repetition as a Poetic Device in Akkadian.” In Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian, edited by Marianne E. Vogelzang and Herman L.J. Vanstiphout, 167–182. Cuneiform Monographs 6. Groningen: Styx.

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Vogelzang, Marianne E., and Hermann L.J. Vanstiphout. 1992. Mesopotamian Epic Literature: Oral or Aural? Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. Wasserman, Nathan. 2021. “Lists and Chains: Enumeration in Akkadian Literary Texts (with an Appendix on This Device in Borges and Hughes).” In Lists and Catalogues in Ancient Literature and Beyond: Towards a Poetics of Enumeration, edited by Rebecca Lämmle, Cédric Scheidegger Lämmle, and Katharina Wesselmann, 57–80. Trends in Classics Supplementary Volumes 107. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2021. Watson, Wilfred G.E. 1984. Classical Hebrew Poetry: A Guide to Its Techniques. Sheffield: Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Press. Wisnom, L. Selena. 2020. Weapons of Words: Intertextual Competition in Babylonian Poetry. A Study of Anzû, Enūma Eliš, and Erra and Išum. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 106. Leiden: Brill. Worthington, Martin. 2011. “On Names and Artistic Unity in the Standard Version of the Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic.” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 24, no. 1: 403–420. Zajonc, Robert B. 1968. “Attitudinal Effects of Mere Exposure.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 9, no. 2: 1–37.

chapter 7

Charting Emotional Structure in Cuneiform Literature Gina Konstantopoulos

1

Introduction: On Telling Stories

In his 1981 autobiographical work, Palm Sunday, author Kurt Vonnegut summarized the aim of his rejected master’s thesis in anthropology, which focused on how the progression of emotions as experienced by the protagonist of a story was instrumental in shaping that story’s narrative structure. Entitled “Fluctuations Between Good and Ill Fortune in Simple Tales,” the thesis’s core idea was that stories have emotional shapes, which can be graphed along an x-axis of the progression of narrative time and a y-axis of good or ill fortune, representing positive or negative values respectively.1 Vonnegut was interested in how both these structures could be reflective of, and thus inextricably related and relevant t0, the cultures from which the stories originated. He presented the concept as follows: The thesis has vanished, but I carry an abstract in my head … The fundamental idea is that stories have shapes which can be drawn on graph paper, and that the shape of a given society’s stories is at least as interesting as the shape of its pots or spearheads.2 From this general conceit, Vonnegut identified a set of basic patterns—based upon the shapes of their graphed emotional arcs—that governed the behavior 1 See Vonnegut, 1981, 285–288. 2 Vonnegut, 1981, 285. This seems to have been Vonnegut’s third attempt at a ma thesis, submitted some years after his time at the University of Chicago. When first enrolled at the department of Anthropology in 1947, he submitted two thesis proposals, finishing neither. His first, 43–page long proposal was rejected by his committee because it was thought to be too challenging. His second proposal was much narrower in scope and only four pages in length, aiming to look at how Native American groups explained white conquest through myth and storytelling. This proposal was met with more immediate approval from the department; nevertheless, Vonnegut stopped attending classes and left the university; see Shields, 2011, 111–112.

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of stories. These patterns were both simple and flexible enough to fit a wide range of potential narratives, often distilled into one or two major emotional shifts. Though the flexibility of Vonnegut’s essential ideas will provide an instrumental framework for my further arguments, this paper is more concerned with Sumerian than with Slaughterhouse Five. To that end, this paper employs one of the core ideas underlying Vonnegut’s basic premise—that stories may be considered in light of emotional as well as narrative structures—as a tool by which to investigate the emotional patterns of several key Sumerian and Akkadian literary texts. Further analysis will focus on the Akkadian Epic of Gilgamesh, particularly its first-millennium, or Standard Babylonian, recension, as an example of how this framework may be applied to a more complex narrative. The Sumerian texts, all of which date to the early second millennium, or Old Babylonian period, include the literary text Gilgamesh and Huwawa A (gha) and the duology connected to the king Lugalbanda, entitled Lugalbanda in the Wilderness and Lugalbanda and the Anzu Bird. Through this, at times curious analytical lens, we will see how each text demonstrates cohesive emotional structures that may diverge from those created by their narratives. For the two Lugalbanda texts, an analysis of the emotional progression of their titular protagonist strengthens the argument that they were indeed meant to function as a united duology.3

2

The Problem of Patterns

Engaging in narrative analysis through the lens of pre-determined structural categories is not without its pitfalls, and such approaches have deeper, and often problematic, roots. A prime offender in this regard is Joseph Campbell’s 1949 Hero with a Thousand Faces and his “hero’s journey” monomyth; though the system described by Vonnegut is loose and flexible enough that it circumvents many of the concerns that plague Campbell’s stricter descriptions of narrative structure. The greatest of such difficulties arise when categorizations are applied without regard to cultural context: this can easily lead to misinterpretations, particularly when many of these categorical schemes were designed with Western European stories in mind. Such issues have been noted

3 Regarding the connection between different Sumerian texts, see the chapter by Alhena Gadotti in this volume, wherein she argues for an overall cohesion between the Sumerian Gilgamesh stories.

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by more recent folklore studies; as for example in Barre Toelken’s comments on Campbell’s “hero’s journey” and its Western-centric bias: This cluster of ideas dramatize the same set of values we find typically in the hero tales of Europe and America in which the protagonist is expected to leave home, expected to confront dangers, expected to gain the prize and bring it home, and expected to arrive home tougher and wiser than when he left. The same plot, clearly, does not always mean the same thing; without the implied meanings and shared connotations supplied by cultural context, we may very well have a coherent text whose meanings are totally misapprehended.4 Toelken furthermore remarked on Campbell’s reliance on Jungian theories on the nature of “archetypes” as another inherently problematic element in his monomyth.5 By and large, Toelken’s comments were fairly mild: folklorist Alan Dundes delivered more pointed criticisms of both Campbell and the notion of universal archetypes as a whole, stating that: “the problem with archetype, aside from the unwarranted assumption of psychic unity and universalism, is a practical one of simple identification … How can one possibly recognize this archetype when it appears in so many guises?”6 The very concept of the archetype, something inherently influenced by Jung, was posited to be universal and panhuman, yet these same archetypes were nevertheless strongly linked to Christian imagery and related templates. Assuming that archetypes are fundamentally panhuman would thus, according to Dundes, “constitute a most egregious example of extreme ethnocentrism, not to mention arrogance and hubris or orientalism” by fundamentally assuming that all cultures and peoples have built-in Christian aspects to their social and cultural consciousness and heritage.7 Even when patterns present themselves, then, stories should be considered within their native cultural, historical, and social contexts. 4 Toelken, 1996, 256–257. 5 Namely, the concern that “irrespective of the universality of archetypal images, different cultures organize and interpret (and thus understand) the symbols quite differently, undermining any universal interpretations”; Toelken, 1996, 257. That Campbell’s theories were influenced from their outset by his own ideas, beliefs, and preconceptions is hardly a surprise, but we should nevertheless note that some of these interpretations may buckle under the strain of being applied to non-Western contexts. 6 Dundes, 2005, 397. 7 Dundes, 2005, 400. Dundes, 1997, 196 discussed similar Eurocentric pitfalls briefly in his overview and critique of folklore motif-indexes such as the Aarne-Thompson (now Aarne-

charting emotional structure in cuneiform literature table 7.1

Six core emotional shapes

Name

Starting position Pattern

Rags to Riches Riches to Rags Man in Hole Icarus Cinderella Oedipus

Zero/Neutral Positive Positive Zero/Neutral Zero/Neutral Zero/Neutral

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Rise Fall Fall → Rise Rise → Fall Rise → Fall → Rise Fall → Rise → Fall

Emotion and the Shape of Stories

With this warning in place, I nevertheless return now to Vonnegut’s emotional graphs—and their categories. Vonnegut’s overall thesis does present several core narratives, based not on underlying “deep” structure but on similar emotional arcs. Though Vonnegut outlined eight core narrative shapes, a 2016 computer-aided analysis of 1,327 stores from Project Gutenberg, following the general principles of Vonnegut’s story-graphing, winnowed that list down to six. These, which appear to be the most popular, if not critical, “shapes,” are presented in Table 7.1, retaining Vonnegut’s labels.8 Excluded from the 2016 study was the pattern “From Bad to Worse,” where the protagonist starts off poorly and ends up worse, without any positive emotional standing to speak of, even at the text’s outset. This may be seen as a variation on the “Riches to Rags” pattern. Also excluded from the study was Vonnegut’s “Which Way Us Up?” pattern. This pattern showcased an emotional progression that was a straight line, an ambiguous narrative wherein emotional developments might occur, but they could not be determined as unequivocally good or bad. Vonnegut linked such a structure to Shakespeare’s Hamlet, an association which demonstrates how narrative and emotional structure may diverge. Hamlet is rife with narrative action; several characters are stabbed or

Thompson-Uther) index. The idea of folklore as intrinsically tied to and reflective of culture is an underlying theme throughout Dundes’s work, as seen in his early description of folklore as “autobiographical ethnography—that is, it is a people’s own description of themselves”; see Dundes, 1969, 471. 8 Reagan et al., 2016. Vonnegut’s “Shapes of Stories” theory has been applied elsewhere, primarily in more recent approaches to media, such as computational approaches to language (Dodds et al., 2015) and digital storytelling (Levine, 2011, 251).

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figure 7.1 Six core emotional shapes

poisoned and in its final scenes three characters, including the protagonist, are stabbed and poisoned. Despite this, the protagonist’s own emotional progression remains arguably detached from this narrative upheaval.9 Though these six overall patterns align well with the emotional structures of the different cuneiform texts under discussion, it is primarily Vonnegut’s method of emotional story-mapping that I wish to apply, as this tool will open several avenues for further analysis of cuneiform texts. The foremost utility of emotional mapping is that it focuses our analysis on the emotional progression of the protagonists in Sumerian and Akkadian texts. This emotional progression is one that often, but not always, aligns with the general narrative structures of the text, and the points of divergence between the two provide useful insight into both text and protagonist. An analysis of the different Sumerian texts (namely, Lugalbanda and gha) highlights the

9 Richard Chamberlain, 2015, 164 describes Hamlet as “a play about unhappiness” and states that the happiness that is found in Hamlet is generally a false happiness, and overall “our impression is that this is a miserable place, and a miserable society.” On the interior nature of Hamlet, see Hogan, 2014, and Lewis, 2017, 32–34 and 242–284, with the latter section focusing on Hamlet’s philosophical bent.

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insights that arise from such divergences. Though these two texts present similar narrative structures—that of “hero goes on a journey,” in this case—the protagonists undergo different emotional progressions. Texts that may present what appear to be similar narratives may be nevertheless emotionally distinct from each other. Following this, we see that just as examining the emotional state and evolution of the protagonist may highlight the differences between texts, it may also reveal connections, helping to explain how different texts relate to each other. For example, though the connection between the two Sumerian Lugalbanda texts is far from disputed, when we study the emotional progression of their eponymous protagonist, their close relationship and narrative interdependence becomes much clearer. As a final point of utility, this approach allows for another avenue by which to investigate the topic of emotion itself in cuneiform literature, as a careful consideration of the presentation and expression of emotions is critical to a discussion of the protagonist’s emotional progression through the narrative.

4

Emotion and Narrative in Cuneiform Literary Texts

The study of emotion in cuneiform literature and other genres of cuneiform texts has recently received increasing scholarly attention, providing a larger body of studies in which to ground our own investigation.10 The topic has a longer history of scholarship within other fields of ancient literature, primarily Greek and Latin texts. While the cultural and societal context for that material differs, at times considerably, from that which underlies a text like the Epic of Gilgamesh or Lugalbanda, such studies nevertheless provide a useful basis for this research.11 They provide methodological tools and models for their application, meaning that we need not entirely reinvent the wheel for this analysis. The study of emotion in cuneiform literature has focused principally on what emotions the text means to invoke or induce in its audience.12 This

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12

See the contributions in the recent edited volumes of Kipfer, 2017, and Hsu and Llop Radua, 2020, as well as further work on emotions by Helle, 2016; Wagner-Durand, 2018 and 2020; and Feldt, 2020. Emotion as tied to Sumerian language has been discussed by Jaques, 2006, and emotion in lamenting is the focus of works such as Delnero, 2020, chap. 4, and 2021. See broadly the edited collections of Chaniotis, 2012, and Cairns and Nelis, 2017; overviews in Konstan, 2007 and 2015, as well as an engaging survey of the gendered construction of emotions in Allard and Montlahuc, 2018. See Feldt, 2020, 130: “The field of research discussing emotions in stories … looks at the

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research is tied in turn to recent studies in cognitive science, falling under the general umbrella term of the “emotional turn” in scholarship.13 Such research focuses on how literary works induce emotion in the reader, rather than necessarily the emotions found within the text itself or those experienced by their central characters. However, the interior emotions of the text and the exterior emotions experienced by its audience cannot be entirely divorced from one another. The impact of affective narratology is facilitated through the processes of mirroring and sympathy: the reader responds to the most powerful emotions in the text, inspired to experience those same emotions. When Gilgamesh mourns his fallen friend Enkidu, for example, we as the audience experience an echo of that grief within ourselves. At this point, I move to several examples from cuneiform literature to examine how the central protagonist of each text experiences emotion. The method of emotional mapping relies upon the presence of a key protagonist around whom the narrative is organized, a requirement that, generally speaking, limits us to the most prominent cuneiform literary texts.14 Indeed, some of the most likely candidates for such treatment are the Sumerian and Akkadian texts concerned with Gilgamesh and the connected texts of Lugalbanda in the Wilderness and Lugalbanda and the Anzu, all of which find their earliest examples in the Old Babylonian period.15 These are not the only candidates, but this group of texts also critically illustrate how texts may feature different emotional and narrative shapes.16 The narrative structure of these

13 14

15 16

ways in which stories stimulate emotions through characters, narrators, and events, and how stories occasionally comment on affective processes on a meta-level.” See Hogan, 2011, 1–28 for an initial discussion of emotion as narrative, or affective narratology. Even here, I would caution that this method still only considers the emotional arcs and perspectives of the protagonists, and other characters within a text may have vastly different emotional experiences. For example, though Hamlet may experience an emotional arc within his eponymous play that conforms to a “which way is up” pattern, the same could not be said for Ophelia; see Fischer, 1990, on Ophelia’s role and “voice” in the text. See the most recent edition in Vanstiphout, 2003, which presents a composite Sumerian text; the full matrix of sources is found in the older edition of Wilcke, 1969. Another likely candidate for this method of analysis would be The Poor Man of Nippur, as the narrative centers entirely around the trials and tribulations of its core protagonist. The text models the “Man in Hole” pattern, as Gimil-Ninurta starts with very little and is deprived swiftly of those possessions. Each of his three subsequent revenges with the mayor who wronged him increase his standing, and Gimil-Ninurta ends the tale revenged, and better than when he started; on the text’s narrative and structure, see Cooper, 1975, 162–167.

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three texts is relatively similar. Narratively speaking, each features a journey to a distant, liminal landscape, but the adventures that the texts’ respective protagonists have in these fantastical locations shape the different emotional arcs of their stories. For Gilgamesh, we can compare the protagonist’s development in the Sumerian stories to that found in the more extensive Akkadian epic about him, providing additional depth to this analysis. Lugalbanda, on the other hand, spends much of his two texts wandering alone through the wilderness, and the narrative and emotions of the text focus on him by default. We begin with the two Sumerian texts connected to Lugalbanda, wherein he journeys with his brothers from Uruk to fight against Aratta. Lugalbanda falls ill while they traverse the mountains lying between the two locations and stays behind as the army marches on; upon his recovery, he finds the divine Anzu bird, wins its favor, and receives the boon of supernatural speed, which allows him to rejoin his brothers and ensure Uruk’s victory over Aratta. Narratively speaking, the Lugalbanda duology is somewhat peculiar: though it opens and closes with Lugalbanda in the company of others, it is otherwise primarily a solitary pursuit. Lugalbanda wanders alone in the wilderness for much of both texts, without other characters to respond to or interact with. Though the texts should be treated as two halves of one collective whole, the line numbering presents them as separate texts, in light of the conventions of the published edition in Vanstiphout 2003.17 table 7.2

Narrative and emotional structure in Lugalbanda in the Wilderness

Lines

Narrative action

Emotions of protagonist (Lugalbanda)

1–41

Mythic introduction: Enmerkar, king of Uruk, marshalls army to march on Aratta. Summoning of army: introduction of Lugalbanda and his seven older brothers. Lugalbanda falls ill halfway; his brothers, grieving, leave him

No change: Lugalbanda not yet introduced.

42–74

75–147

17

Positive: Lugalbanda introduced as young, capable, and handsome. Negative: Lugalbanda falls ill immediately, and his health

For a general summary of the narrative structure of each text, see Vanstiphout, 2003, 100– 101; 132–133. Laura Feldt, 2015, 13–14, has also presented a useful breakdown of the narrative of both Lugalbanda texts in like of the analytic tools presented in Mieke Bal’s Narratology,

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table 7.2

Lines

Narrative and emotional structure in Lugalbanda in the Wilderness (cont.)

Narrative action

Emotions of protagonist (Lugalbanda)

with provisions in a cave to recover or die. 148–263

264–325

326–394

395–499

worsens; his brothers must leave him and assume that he will likely die. Lugalbanda prays to the deities Positive: Lugalbanda’s prayers to each deity are answered as Utu (the sun) and Nanna (the they grant him protection and moon) for healing; his prayers renewed health. are answered by each. Positive: Lugalbanda’s recovLugalbanda emerges from the ery continues, and he begins to mountain cave and finds the adapt to the wilderness, which plant and the water of life; provides him with its abundstarts a fire, bakes bread, and ance. traps animals. Lugalbanda sleeps and receives Neutral/Positive: Lugalbanda’s dream is confusing but not a dream; upon awakening, he alarming, and his sacrifices are sacrifices the animals to the gods as food for their banquet. favorably received. Neutral: Lugalbanda is an Final section of the text is obscure: Lugalbanda observes a observer to an action that does great cosmic battle in the night not directly affect him. sky with Inana prominently mentioned; afterwards, the sun returns.

The closing section of Lugalbanda in the Wilderness is fragmentary and incompletely preserved, with an unknown number of lines lost. The second text opens with Lugalbanda in the same state as at the last recorded point in the previous one; namely, restored to health but still lost in the wilderness. From there, he resolves to move forward, leave the wilderness, and return to his brothers and the army, who have at this point reached Aratta. However, Lugalbanda cannot escape the wilderness by himself, requiring divine insistence, in the form of Anzu’s favor, to do so. 1997, segmenting the texts, as well as Gilgamesh and Huwawa A, into respective story structural elements, units which Bal describes as fabula.

charting emotional structure in cuneiform literature table 7.3

Narrative and Emotional Structure in Lugalbanda and the Anzu

Lines

Narrative action

1–61

Action continues from the previous text, with Lugalbanda still lost in the wilderness, alone. He decides to seek out the Anzu bird, reaches its nest, and gives its fledgling young offerings.

62–89

90–110

111–202

203–250

18

153

Emotions of protagonist (Lugalbanda)

Neutral: Lugalbanda’s initial isolation is stressed, but it lacks the grief present when his brothers were first forced to leave him. This section arguably begins less positively for Lugalbanda, who is alone, and moves into positive emotional action as he aids the Anzu fledgling.18 The Anzu bird enters the narNeutral: The narrative focuses rative and is described in full. on the Anzu, who is concerned Approaching its nest, it does and preemptively mourning its not hear its fledgling at first and fledgling. is aggrieved, fearing it is lost. The Anzu finds its fledgling Positive: This marks the transin its nest, adorned and given ition to rising emotional action offerings, and rejoices. It offers for Lugalbanda, which continto determine the fate of the one ues throughout the text. responsible. Lugalbanda praises the Anzu, Positive: Lugalbanda is allowed and the Anzu offers him several to reject several offers from a gifts, each declined. Lugaldivine being without penalty banda is allowed to choose and is finally given his desired his own boon and selects super- gift. natural swiftness. Positive: Lugalbanda’s divinely Lugalbanda traverses the distance to Aratta and is reunited gifted speed is demonstrated in with his brothers; the final res- full, and he is greeted warmly olution of Lugalbanda’s story is by his brothers. described.

The effect of this is delayed until the Anzu returns to its nest, accepts and acknowledges Lugalbanda’s positive actions, and thereafter rewards him for them. It is nevertheless setting essential groundwork for his future positive rise.

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table 7.3

Narrative and Emotional Structure in Lugalbanda and the Anzu (cont.)

Lines

Narrative action

Emotions of protagonist (Lugalbanda)

251–282

The siege of Aratta, and the problem of the distance between Uruk and Aratta, are described; Enmerkar seeks out someone to travel this distance. Lugalbanda volunteers to travel to Uruk to carry Enmerkar’s message to Inana, but states that he must travel alone. Lugalbanda travels the distance between Aratta and Uruk, needing no provisions, relays Enmerkar’s message and receives Inana’s reply. The text ends with a final description of Aratta and closing praise for Lugalbanda

Neutral: Lugalbanda is removed from the action and Enmerkar seeks in vain among his troops for someone to return to Uruk.

283–337

338–412

413–417

Positive: Lugalbanda is positioned as singular in his ability, the only one able to complete this task Positive: Lugalbanda exercises his newfound gift of divine speed and so ensures victory for Uruk Positive: Lugalbanda is recentered as the focus of the text and praised.

Having sketched out the narrative and the emotional beats of each of the two Lugalbanda texts, the next problem is how to identify their respective patterns. The assertion that the two texts should be considered as one connected—even united—whole is hardly controversial, and their overall emotional structure supports this claim.19 Beginning first with the structure of Lugalbanda in the Wilderness, we see the text starts at “zero,” opening in a relatively neutral position. Lugalbanda himself does not actually appear until some forty lines in, and when he does

19

See the clear treatment of the two texts as one unified structure in Feldt, 2015, 13–14, as well as Vanstiphout’s notes about the applicability (or lack thereof) of modern publication divisions in his edition of the text; Vanstiphout, 2003. Even in modern literature and publishing contexts, divisions between books are sometimes arbitrary. J.R.R. Tolkien, for example, initially conceived of Lord of the Rings as one half of a duology, with The Silmarillion as the second text. His publisher, however, balked at the price of publishing such a long work as a single volume and decided to publish it as three volumes; Reynolds, 2016, 1.

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figure 7.2 Emotional structure in Lugalbanda in the Wilderness

appear, the emotional affect concerning him is immediately and strongly positive. Lugalbanda is positioned along with his brothers as young and capable, and is moreover situated as part of a favored collective, the youngest of eight. This unity is broken when Lugalbanda falls ill in the mountains and must be left behind, sundered from his family. That isolation, coupled with his potentially fatal state, is the key moment of negative affect within the text. It is the central and arguably only true conflict Lugalbanda encounters in either text, as he is removed from the actual battle between Uruk and Aratta until the close of Lugalbanda and the Anzu. Once Lugalbanda begins to recover, thanks to the favor of the sun-god Utu during the day and the moon-god Nanna at night, Lugalbanda’s arc only moves upward. By the end of Lugalbanda in the Wilderness, Lugalbanda has recovered his health, given offerings that were received by the gods, caught wild game and crafted bread, and witnessed divine events in the night sky. The closing section of Lugalbanda in the Wilderness is not preserved, but as the narrative of Lugalbanda and the Anzu opens with Lugalbanda still lost in the wild, it is more than probable that Lugalbanda in the Wilderness ends with the same situation. Though he has risen from his previous dire straits, he is still worse off than when he entered the wilderness. The emotional shape of Lugalbanda in the Wilderness alone could thus be charted as follows (see Figure 7.2). Here, we can see the following critical points in the narrative, as indicated above: 1) The text begins (ll. 1–41); 2) Lugalbanda and his brothers are intro-

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figure 7.3 The Rags to Riches pattern

duced, and the campaign begins (ll. 42–74); 3) Lugalbanda falls ill and is left in the mountain cave (ll. 75–147); 4) Lugalbanda recovers and offers prayers to various deities (ll. 148–325); 5) Lugalbanda receives uncertain dreams and observes several cosmic events; this is an arguably neutral emotional passage as he is removed from the events themselves (ll. 326–499). In contrast to this, Lugalbanda and the Anzu presents a different emotional shape. From the start of the narrative, Lugalbanda only experiences positive action within the text. The actions taken by Lugalbanda in this text—his aid and offerings to Anzu’s fledgling, his proper deference to Anzu himself, and finally his request of supernatural speed—all continue his positive trajectory, the ultimate culmination of which makes him instrumental in delivering Uruk’s ultimate victory over Aratta. If Lugalbanda and the Anzu is taken on its own, as a standalone text, Lugalbanda’s progression in the text could be mapped, in a pattern that resembles Vonnegut’s Rags to Riches pattern (see Figure 7.3). I would note that Lugalbanda’s arc is not entirely linear, as the largest jumps in his positive state and standing are experienced when he (1) encounters Anzu and swiftly thereafter receives his supernatural, divinely gifted, speed (see especially ll. 185–202), and (2) when, near the close of the text, he is elevated above all others in being uniquely able to deliver victory over Aratta,

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figure 7.4 The modified Rags to Riches pattern

thanks to that same gift. Lugalbanda’s positive emotion at this point is stressed, with the text detailing how he “stepped joyfully” (ĝiri3 hul2-la mi-ni-in-gub [l. 346]) into the temple precinct. With those points in mind, the following modified Rags to Riches pattern would look more stepped than linear, with the “steps” occurring at the two points indicated in Figure 7.4. However, the overall pattern remains intact. There is some question as to where Lugalbanda’s proper starting location should be under this scheme: though Lugalbanda is restored to health when the text opens, he is still lost in the wilds, which could presumably be interpreted as an initial negative position, as opposed to the neutral opening shown above. But such concerns are swiftly resolved when the two narratives and their resultant patterns are connected, as can be seen in the diagram in Figure 7.5. The structure of two-as-one not only solves the problem of positioning the opening of Lugalbanda and the Anzu, as it now attaches to the end of Lugalbanda’s progression over the course of the first text; it also lends a more cohesive meaning to the narrative of the two texts as a whole, as well as Lugalbanda’s own journey as protagonist. Lugalbanda is introduced as part of a whole: one-eighth of a collective. He is severed from that family when he falls ill in the wilderness, but then given potential claims to a new, divine family when he pleads with the Anzu to join his family, shortly before receiving the Anzu’s favor and the gift of supernatural speed:

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figure 7.5 The emotional structure of the two Lugalbanda stories

ša-dug4-ga-ta zi-ĝu10 mu-ri-de6 zag-ĝu10 mu-ri-us2 dam-zu ama-ĝu10 he2-am3 bi2-in-dug4 za-e ad-da-ĝu10 he2-me-en bi2-in-dug4 di4-di4-la2-zu-ne šeš-ĝu10-ne-ka nam-ba-e-ni-in-ku4-ku4 “Yesterday I put my life in your hands, entrusted my being to you. Saying ‘May your wife become my mother,’ And saying, ‘May you become my father!’ ‘I shall treat your little ones as my brothers.’ ” Lugalbanda and the Anzu 125–12820 Once bestowed, Lugalbanda’s speed is such that only the Anzu can keep pace with him, shadowing him as the supernatural crow flies, as he moves through the mountains to Aratta. He has thus outstripped his “human” family with whom he was first introduced in Lugalbanda in the Wilderness, a standing that is further highlighted when, upon reuniting with his brothers, he states that none can match him in speed and that he must thus travel alone.21 In the first text, Lugalbanda enters the wilderness as one of a group, but when he traverses 20 21

Vanstiphout, 2003, 142–143. Transliteration conventions follow those of ePSD2 and oracc. Lugalbanda and his brothers are positioned as fundamentally human within the text to

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it in the second text, he is alone, having outstripped and outgrown his original family. This transition allows for his triumph in Lugalbanda and the Anzu to rise well above the negative depths where he found himself in the first text. It is important to note that once his initial familial bonds are severed, Lugalbanda remains effectively alone, regardless of his pleas to join Anzu’s family. Though he physically reunites with his brothers once emerging from the wilderness, they are not the same unified collective that entered the wild at the start of Lugalbanda in the Wilderness. Lugalbanda has grown beyond them, and beyond the confines of their human abilities. He effectively moves between several states over the course of both texts, beginning as a member of a human group; moving to being human but alone; human but with arguable links to the divine; and finally, superhuman but once again alone. Lugalbanda has shifted fully away from the categories that defined him, and the full arc of this transition is only truly coherently expressed if and when the two texts are considered as one narrative whole.22 In a similar fashion, the structure of both texts as a connected and continuous whole can be most clearly seen when we consider the emotional progression of the protagonist. Though Lugalbanda’s narrative in the second text begins with at a comparative low point—with the figure lost in the wilderness—he experiences no other negative emotional consequences within the narrative. There is only a continuous if punctuated rise, without any fall. This does, as I have already discussed, map relatively well onto the shape presented by Vonnegut as the “Rags to Riches” pattern, but the inciting incident for the text’s narrative as a whole—the decisions and decrees that drive its plot— remain rooted in the first text of the duology, and Lugalbanda’s emotional pro-

22

start, but with certain caveats: they are introduced as a group of seven (with Lugalbanda as the eighth of them) born of Urash in Kulab, imbuing them with a wild and otherworldly aspect to their origin (see Lugalbanda in the Wilderness, l. 59–66). As Nicole Brisch, 2011, has discussed, the texts concerning Lugalbanda inherently positioned him as a model of ideal kingship, tied to the mythic past, and unmoored quality that aids his applicability as an exemplar of kingship. Generally speaking, the place of the two texts within literary catalogues (listings of the incipits of various texts) underscores the relationship between the two. Lugalbanda in the Wilderness (incipit: ud ul an ki-ta ba9-ra2-a-ba) is directly followed by the listing of Lugalbanda and the Anzu Bird (incipit: lugal-ban3-da kur ki su3-ra2 ĝa2-la ba-niin-dag) in an Old Babylonian catalogue from Nippur (cbs 29.15.155; Kramer, 1942, 14–16, l. 38–39); another Old Babylonian catalogue currently in the Louvre (ao 5393; Kramer, 1942, 16–19, l. 23–24); an Old Babylonian catalogue from Ur, here separated by the unidentified line ‘luh mah ki-ta’ (uet 6 123; Kramer, 1961, l. 37 and 39). The incipit listing of Lugalbanda and the Anzu does appear without reference to its predecessor in another catalogue from Ur (uet 5 86).

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gression is similarly anchored in the first text. The character is reacting to a situation created by the actions of a previous text. Because of this, Lugalbanda’s emotions are not so much connected to the previous text as entirely dependent upon it. The opening lines of the second text immediately establish the state within which he finds himself: lugal-ban3-da kur ki su3-ra2 ĝa2-la ba-ni-in-dag iši za-buki-a nir ba-ni-in-ĝal2 Lugalbanda is stranded in the farthest highlands, Ever since he ventured into the Zabu region. Lugalbanda and the Anzu 1–223 The text continues to describe his isolation: he is without a mother or father to speak with or from whom to seek advice, he lacks any trusted person to consult. In such a situation, Lugalbanda must take his own counsel: “Therefore he speaks to himself” (šag4 ni2-te-na-ka inim am3-mi-ib2-sig10-ge).24 He determines to find the Anzu bird and craft a feast that will gain him favor, so that the bird may deliver him from his dire straits and reunite him with his kin: anzudmušen kaš naĝ-ĝa2 ul ti-a ki unugki ba-ĝen-na ha-ma-an-pad3-de3 anzudmušen-de3 har-ra-an šeš-ĝu10-ne-ka he2-em-mi-ib-sig10sig10-ge “When Anzu has drunk the beer, he will be happy, And he will find me the place where Uruk went. Anzu will put me on the track of my brothers!” Lugalbanda and the Anzu 25–2725 The narrative here is entirely dependent on what was established in the previous text. Without the first Lugalbanda text setting the stage, there is no reason for Lugalbanda’s actions. The action of the first text as a whole is initiated by a

23 24

25

Vanstiphout, 2003, 136–137. Vanstiphout, 2003, 136–137; l. 7. Lugalbanda’s self-reliance is a function of his physical isolation; such a position may also be borne of emotional isolation, as seen at various points with the figure of Gilgamesh in the Standard Babylonian epic; see Sonik, 2020. Vanstiphout, 2003, 136–137.

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framing device—that of the conflict against Aratta, and journey to lay siege to the land—that concludes in the second.26

5

Emotional Progression in Gilgamesh and Huwawa A

We may apply a similar analytical process to the narrative of the Sumerian text Gilgamesh and Huwawa A, and to the emotional progression of its eponymous protagonist, Gilgamesh.27 In this text, Gilgamesh and Enkidu travel to the Cedar Forest to battle the guardian of its trees, the monstrous Huwawa, eventually claiming both trees and Huwawa’s head as booty. Compared to the Lugalbanda duology, Gilgamesh and Huwawa A (gha) has a relatively straightforward structure. Though both narratives center on a journey to (or in Lugalbanda’s case, through) the wilderness, Gilgamesh’s text pairs this journey with a combat narrative, while Lugalbanda’s, due to the disaster that initially befalls him and subsequently derails his journey, does not. Though the conflict with Aratta remains a key aspect of the duology’s overall narrative, as a framing element that drives both the initial action and the final resolution, both that resolution and Uruk’s victory are achieved without violence. In Gilgamesh and Huwawa A, on the other hand, combat remains central, and the journey is a means to this particular end, as can be seen through a summary of its overall narrative points below. table 7.4

Narrative and Emotional Structure in Gilgamesh and Huwawa A

Lines28

Narrative action

Emotions of protagonist (Gilgamesh)

1–12

Introduction: Gilgamesh declares to Enkidu his intent to establish his renown; Enkidu advises on further action. Gilgamesh offers sacrifices and pleads to Utu, who accepts the sacrifice and offers him seven warriors as guides and aides.

Neutral: Gilgamesh declares his intent to act and receives his initial counsel from Enkidu.

13–47

26 27 28

Positive: Gilgamesh is given divine acknowledgement and assistance; he is described as filled with joy.

On journeying in the Lugalbanda epics and how it structures both texts, see Feldt, 2015. On Gilgamesh and Huwawa A, see Edzard, 1990 and 1991; on the dating of the cycle of Sumerian texts connected to Gilgamesh, see the discussion in Gadotti, 2014, 96–98. For ease of reference, this line numbering follows the etcsl edition of Gilgamesh and Huwawa A, though quoted passages follow the transliteration found in Delnero, 2006, and the author’s own translation.

162 table 7.4

Lines

konstantopoulos Narrative and Emotional Structure in Gilgamesh and Huwawa A (cont.)

Narrative action

48–60

Gilgamesh gathers additional support from the city and makes final preparations for his journey. 61–67 Gilgamesh and Enkidu journey over the seven mountain ranges in search of the Cedar Forest. 68–120 Gilgamesh sleeps deeply and must be wakened by Enkidu. This deep sleep and the forthcoming battle establish some doubt or even fear in Gilgamesh, which he swiftly overcomes, resolving to move forward against Huwawa. 121–144 Gilgamesh is initially seized by terror at the sight of Huwawa, but overcomes this and is able to trick Huwawa through a mock diplomatic overture.

144–151 Huwawa hands Gilgamesh his seven protective aurae (me-lam2); Gilgamesh then joins him in combat. 152–180 Huwawa pleads with Gilgamesh for his life, offering his services in exchange. Enkidu advises against mercy, and he and Gilgamesh behead Huwawa. 181–186 Triumphant, Gilgamesh and Enkidu return to Enlil’s temple, presenting the deity with Huwawa’s head. 187–200 Enlil is angered by their actions in slaying Huwawa and chastises Gilgamesh. Thereafter, he installs Huwawa’s aurae around the land. 201–202 In the closing doxology, Gilgamesh and Enkidu are praised.

Emotions of protagonist (Gilgamesh) Positive: Gilgamesh is given additional support for his quest. Positive: Gilgamesh continues on his journey without any challenge, continuing his upward trajectory. Positive: At first, it seems like Gilgamesh is seized by doubt, requiring encouragement from Enkidu to continue. However, the final movement is one of aggressive forward action towards the coming battle. Positive: Gilgamesh overcomes the terror that initially seizes him without any consequences to his person, showcasing his inner strength, while his outfoxing of Huwawa highlight his cunning, even if it is duplicitous. Positive: Gilgamesh’s trickery allows him to press his physical attack on Huwawa. Positive: Gilgamesh is successful in battle and has been rewarded with the potential submission of his enemy and the trophy of his defeat. Positive: The pair return triumphantly from their battle. Two possible interpretations: Negative, as both Gilgamesh and Enkidu are divinely rebuked, or neutral, as this rebuke is without actionable negative consequences. Positive: The text recenters the pair, praising their exploits.

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figure 7.6 The Rags to Riches and Cinderella patterns

The overall narrative sees Gilgamesh deciding upon a course of action; namely, to establish his renown by defeating Huwawa. All actions taken by the protagonist are in service of his achieving this goal. Gilgamesh does not experience negative actions on a scale that would affect his state within the narrative, until arguably at the very end of the text. Having killed Huwawa, Gilgamesh and Enkidu present Enlil with the guardian’s head, and Enlil’s reaction is immediately and decisively negative: he rebukes the pair, Gilgamesh in particular. It is debatable whether or not Enlil’s rebuke of Gilgamesh and Enkidu is sufficient to negatively affect the overall arc of the narrative as experienced by Gilgamesh, and the interpretation of this event is of a critical significance for the overall story arc in Gilgamesh and Huwawa A. Gilgamesh’s emotional arc within this story can be mapped in one of two ways, depending on whether Enlil’s rebuke is interpreted as having a truly negative effect on the character (see Figure 7.6). The most basic shape is a general continuous rise, following the Rags to Riches pattern—to the extent that we can assign a king the initial position of “Rags.”29 Yet Gilgamesh’s position at the outset of the text is arguably his lowest, and once the narrative progresses, he increases his power through the addition of first Utu’s divine favor and then the seven warriors that the god gifts to Gilgamesh. He gathers further support by marshaling forces within his own home city, to aid him on his journey and the subsequent battle. Gilgamesh encounters no major challenges that would impede his progress to the Cedar Forest, 29

In her contribution to this volume, Alhena Gadotti argues that Gilgamesh sets out on his journey because he is confronted with the fear of his own mortality, having observed a body floating in the river. This interpretation would firmly fix Gilgamesh’s emotional position at the text’s outset as his lowest point.

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but this is not to say that he does not experience negative emotions such as fear and doubt. Such emotions are alluded to en route, though to a far lesser degree than Gilgamesh experiences in the Standard Babylonian epic, when he makes a similar journey. When Gilgamesh reaches Huwawa, he is unable to challenge him physically, but instead defeats Huwawa through trickery, employing false diplomatic overtures. Though these measures are never presented as anything other than underhanded on Gilgamesh’s part, they are also so obvious that their success reveals the extent of Huwawa’s ignorance in such matters.30 Gilgamesh’s arc in the text is, as already mentioned, dependent on how Enlil’s rebuke is interpreted, and whether this chastisement could be considered an emotional fall. The rebuke itself is severe: Enlil makes it clear that Gilgamesh and Enkidu have transgressed against his wishes, as it was he who set the fate of Huwawa to guard the cedars.31 Moreover, he attacks Gilgamesh for his duplicity in tricking Huwawa in the first place, stating that Gilgamesh failed to treat Huwawa as his status warranted—a status that, Enlil stresses, was equal to Gilgamesh’s own: a-na-aš-am3 ur5-gin7 i3-ak-en-ze2-en … igi-zu-ne-ne-a he2-en-tuš ninda gu7-zu-ne-a he2-en-gu7 a naĝ-zu-ne-a he2-en-naĝ Why did you act in this way? … He should have sat before you, he should have eaten the bread you ate and drunk the water you drank! Gilgamesh and Huwawa A, 187 and 189–190

30

31

Once Huwawa has fallen for Gilgamesh’s tricks, he does, in hindsight, recognize them for the duplicity that they were, accusing Gilgamesh of telling lies: “Warrior … to act falsely!” (ur-saĝ lul sig10-sig10-ge; gha 152B). Gilgamesh’s interaction with Huwawa can be contrasted with Lugalbanda’s subservient behavior to the Anzu bird, as well as his sincere and earnest desire to join Anzu’s family and be counted among his kin and so claim his protection. While Gilgamesh uses false overtures of desired kinship to trick and ultimately kill Huwawa, actions for which he is chastised by Enlil, Lugalbanda’s care of Anzu’s fledgling and proper deference to the Anzu himself results in his great reward of supernatural speed. This is reiterated in the Akkadian epic, as Huwawa (or Humbaba) is introduced in the text, well before Gilgamesh and Enkidu ever meet him, with the statement that: “In order to keep the cedars safe, Enlil made it his destiny [to be the] terror of the people,” Gilgamesh, ii 284–285; George, 2003, 570–571.

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Gilgamesh does not respond to this rebuke. In a slightly fragmentary section, Enlil instead moves to distribute the aurae of Huwawa about the land, and then Gilgamesh’s good fortune is reaffirmed at the end of the text, with a final doxology praising both Enkidu and the “mighty Gilgamesh” (kalag-ga dgilgameš mi2 dug4-ga).32 If Gilgamesh does suffer any negative emotional impact from Enlil’s rebuke, it appears to be relatively minor and blunted by its position near the close of the text. There is no reference to any severe repercussions, in marked contrast to those suffered by Gilgamesh and Enkidu as punishment for their killing of Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven in the Akkadian version of the story. The most likely overall arc for Gilgamesh in gha is thus the Rags to Riches pattern, where his only trajectory is positive. Although Gilgamesh’s overall arc showcases a lack of overall change, save in the positive direction, the character does experience both positive and negative emotions, even if the latter are relatively fleeting and do not affect his standing in the narrative. A consideration of how these emotions are depicted in the text, what language is used to indicate their presence, and how their expression affects Gilgamesh and the other actors, illuminates some of the difficulties in describing emotion as a whole in cuneiform literature. Gilgamesh and Huwawa A opens with a demonstration of Gilgamesh’s initial resolve to venture off to the Cedar Forest and establish his renown. This mental state is referenced by the action of his setting his attention—literally, his ear—towards the land, or mountain, of the living (kur lu2 til3-la-še3 ĝeštug2-ga-ni na-an-gub; gha 1). This resolve is strengthened just a few lines later, when Gilgamesh, speaking to Enkidu, emphatically reiterates his desire to establish his name and journey forth, stressing it through the repeated uses of the cohortative within the text: kur-ra ga-an-ku4 mu-ĝu10 ga-an-ĝar ki mu gub-bu-ba-am3 mu-ĝu10 ga-bi2-ib-gub ki mu nu-gub-bu-ba-am3 mu diĝir-re-e-ne ga-bi2-ib-gub “I will enter the mountains; I will establish my renown! Where renown can be established, I will establish my renown! Where renown cannot be established, I will establish the renown of the gods!” Gilgamesh and Huwawa A, 5–7

32

Gilgamesh and Huwawa A, 201. Huwawa is also praised at the close of the text, with the context clear despite the fragmentary state of the closing doxology. On the position and structure of such doxologies, see Black, 1992, 86–91.

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Here, Gilgamesh’s resolve is not indicated through vocabulary specifically used for emotions, but rather through the grammar of the Sumerian verb itself.33 The subtlety of this expression does not belie the emotion it carries, just as more overt declarations may correlate to formulaic emotional reactions. One of Gilgamesh’s more outwardly apparent signs of emotion, for example, also occurs near the beginning of the text, where he is supplicant before Utu, giving both offerings and prayers. The sun-god is described as having received “his tears as a suitable gift” (dutu er2-na kadra-gin7 šu ba-an-ši-in-ti; gha 34); however, this phrase appears throughout a number of texts, indicating each time that a supplicant’s prayers and entreaties have been heard, recognized, and received by a deity, and thus does not necessarily indicate much about Gilgamesh’s overall emotional state.34 Gilgamesh’s state in the next scene, when Utu bequeaths seven warrior figures to aid him, is far less ambiguous, employing language that matches his actual state: gišeren sag3-ge hul2-la-gin7 im-ma-na-ni-ib2-ĝar en dgilgameš2-e hul2-la-gin7 im-ma-na-ni-ib2-ĝar The feller of Cedars was filled with joy; The lord Gilgamesh was filled with joy! Gilgamesh and Huwawa A, 46–47

This reduplication serves several purposes. On its most basic level, the practice of referring to a figure first by an epithet, then by their name, is relatively common in Sumerian literature, particularly as employed for emphasis in the introduction of divine figures and in divine hymns.35 The fronting of the epithet “feller of cedars” also acts as foreshadowing: though one would hardly expect

33

34

35

The emotion in this line is constructed through its use of the first-person cohortative modal prefix, which indicates that the speaker has come to a decision and will thus embark on the action related to it. It may thus express a wish or desire, as well as an affirm the speaker’s choice and intention; Civil, 2005, 36–37. We see this line repeated in Dumuzi’s Dream (line 174; see Alster, 1972, 72–73), with Utu once again receiving an offering of tears—this time, from Dumuzi, who pleads with Utu to deliver further aid so that he may escape his infernal pursuers. In general, we see texts utilize a couplet to introduce a figure, often a deity or otherwise critically important individual. The first line presents the individual in question with a descriptive epithet, similar to a kenning, in the place of the name that is then substituted in the second line.

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Gilgamesh to fail in his endeavor, the epithet confirms his future success and the joy it brings him, before either has occurred.36 The only negative emotions that appear to Gilgamesh occur on the way to the Cedar Forest and immediately prior to his confrontation with Huwawa. Along the course of their journey, Gilgamesh and his retinue fall into a deep sleep, from which only Enkidu, who must then wake them, is spared. In the Akkadian epic, Gilgamesh wakes from dreams each time that the pair rest while journeying to the Cedar Forest, and each time that waking is abrupt, almost violent. Though Gilgamesh is not as panicked upon his awakening in Gilgamesh and Huwawa A, he does appear saddened or disheartened by his deep sleep, and consequently wary of the coming battle.37 Enkidu attempts to raise his spirits, presenting a more helpful outlook on life that draws upon his past experience and interactions with Huwawa. The tactic is effective, as Gilgamesh rallies to relay a final emphatic proclamation to Enkidu: “Come on, let’s get after him!” (ĝa2-nam-ma ga-an-ši-re7-en-de3-en, gha 120). When Gilgamesh first draws near to Huwawa, however, he is seized by a visceral fear, and is momentarily frozen in place: “Fear and terror spread through his sinews and his feet” (sa-na ĝiri3-na ni2 ba-an-ri ni2 te-a-ni ba-an-ri, gha 126). This terror is an immediate physical response to the sight of Huwawa and is swiftly overcome, rather than constituting a larger emotional concern for Gilgamesh. The warrior moves forward, proceeding with the tricks that enable his victory. The final emotion that Gilgamesh directly expresses within the text is that of compassion or even pity when the defeated Huwawa weeps and pleads for his life (er2 im-ma-pad3, gha 152c). Gilgamesh is moved: his “noble heart took pity on him” (šag4-ga-ni arhuš ba-ni-in-tuku, gha 159). Within the narrative, Gilgamesh does not display the major emotions of anger, rage, or even hatred. Such violent feelings are found within the text, but they are expressed by Enkidu and Huwawa rather than by our protagonist. Their presence helps to shift the focus of the relevant section to these two figures and away, however briefly, from Gilgamesh. Enkidu argues that Gilgamesh 36

37

The expression “filled with joy” (hul2-la-gin7 used with the verb ĝar/ĝa2) is also found in other texts, employed to similar effect as in the passage quoted above. We find it, for example, in the Old Babylonian epic Enmerkar and Ensuhkešdanna (l. 163) as well as the hymn Šulgi R (l. 31); Klein, 1990. Each of the dreams Gilgamesh has at this point in the Akkadian epic are prophetic, and a frantic and even fearful awakening from such dreams is another common hallmark of their appearance in texts. This can be seen, for example, when Dumuzi awakens from his dream in the Sumerian Dumuzi’s Dream, though as that dream foreordains his own death, his panic is understandable. In the Akkadian epic in particular we see a clear connection between sleep and death; see Deagon, 1998, and Feldt and Koch, 2011.

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should not show clemency to Huwawa, for which the latter fiercely rebukes him, asking why Enkidu would speak such “hateful words” against him.38 This exchange refocuses attention away from Gilgamesh, but also helps to set the stage for the slaying of Huwawa that follows: violent words lead to violent actions. In addition, while manuscripts generally assign responsibility for the deed to both Gilgamesh and Enkidu, in some texts Enkidu acts alone: “Enkidu, full of rage and anger, cut his throat” (den-ki-du10 ib2-ba lipiš bal-a-ni gu2ni im-ma-an-kud, gha 179).39 This not only highlights Enikdu’s rage but also assigns to him the key responsibility for Huwawa’s death. As the Sumerian text positions Enkidu as more subservient to Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh could claim the glory for these actions taken by his “servant” (arad), should he so desire. However, Enkidu’s direct responsibility for the murder of Humbaba also allows him to bear the full brunt of any blame that might result from this transgressive act, establishing him as a potential “fall-guy” for Gilgamesh, should such a role be later required. Over the course of the text’s roughly 200 lines, we see a range of emotions represented: resolve, excitement, sadness, fear, compassion, and rage. First and foremost, the presence of such a range of emotions demonstrates some of the inherent difficulty in tracking emotion in Sumerian literature. Gilgamesh’s early resolve, his determination and decision to move forward on his quest to the Cedar Forest, is not demonstrated through the use of any particular, specific vocabulary, but rather through verbal modality. The emotions present in the text act as a means of narrative movement, inciting new action and having characters assume new roles in the text. The narrative of Gilgamesh and Huwawa A is straightforward: it is a quest and combat narrative packaged together. But the use of different emotions facilitates the addition and integration of greater complexity. Moreover, these emotions serve as a useful tool for comparing this narrative with others, particularly the Akkadian Epic of Gilgamesh, which overlaps with this story in some of its segments. Through more complicated, it too features a journey to the Cedar Forest and a combat with its guardian Humbaba. The emotions that are highlighted in this episode, however, diverge at several points from those seen in Gilgamesh and Huwawa A: a similar narrative may showcase different emotional resonances.

38

39

Gilgamesh also recounts how Enkidu speaks such hateful words against Huwawa; see l. 176: inim mu-na-ab-hul-hul. Note that one manuscript reads, as a variant: inim kur2 muna-ab-hul-hul, inserting kur2, “hostile” for additional emphasis. See Delnero, 2006, 2468–2469, l. 166. A manuscript from Nippur simply describes the act of throat-cutting, gu2-ni im-ma-⸢kud⸣.

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The texts featuring Gilgamesh and the two epics centered on Lugalbanda are stories with complicated and diverse emotional arcs. The narrative plots of each story, however, are similar, representing the voyage or quest of its central protagonist. It is on this quest that many of the developments that characterize the more complicated emotional arcs of each story occur. The different antagonists of each text inform these distinct emotional progressions. Gilgamesh and Huwawa A, where the monstrous Huwawa acts as the clear antagonist and obstacle to Gilgamesh, allows for a more straightforward progression, while Lugalbanda’s antagonist is more obscure. Though the conflict between Uruk and Aratta is the initial impetus for the narrative, Lugalbanda is himself removed from said conflict until the very close of Lugalbanda and the Anzu. The wilderness thus serves as the primary obstacle: the dangers of the wilderness influence and affect his emotional state, and the Anzu bird he encounters serves as the instrument for his emotional elevation.

6

Complicating Matters: The Akkadian Epic of Gilgamesh

Both the Lugalbanda duology and the Sumerian text of Gilgamesh and Huwawa A demonstrate how a text’s narrative and emotional structures may, at times, align with or diverge from one another. Moreover, an analysis of the emotional structure, including the actions that affect the emotional state and standing of the protagonist and the ways in which those emotions are textually expressed, showcases the subjective nature of analyzing the former and the inherent difficulty of contextualizing the latter. Despite their difficulties, these texts are fairly straightforward in regard to the overall structure of their respective narratives, particularly in the case of Gilgamesh and Huwawa A. In contrast to the relative simplicity of these texts, I will now consider how emotional and narrative shape compare in a more complicated text, by applying the same methods to the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh. As a text, the Epic of Gilgamesh is not easily distilled. Its narrative stretches across eleven (or twelve, depending on one’s point of view) tablets, each several hundred lines in length. The Tablets range in length from just under 200 lines to 328 lines for Tablet xi, the longest of the text.40 Including Tablet xii, the entire text comes in at over 3,000 lines in length. Given such a length, it is unsurprising that the Akkadian epic presents more tumultuous narrative and

40

Note that for three tablets (iii, vii, viii), the ending of the tablet is not preserved and the full line count is thus uncertain.

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emotional arcs than Gilgamesh and Huwawa A, with its 202 lines, could manage. This complex and compelling narrative, as well as the epic’s status as the best-known example of cuneiform literature, particularly outside of the confines of Assyriology, have resulted in a number of narratologically informed analyses of the text.41 These previous studies have presented internal schemes and divisions within the narrative of the text, according to the various theories applied.42 We can read the complexity of Gilgamesh as something operating on several levels and originating from several sources. First, and most obviously, its complexity arises from its length. Even the connected Lugalbanda duology only occupies roughly one-third of the Akkadian Gilgamesh epic’s line count. This length gives Gilgamesh room to engage in larger and more varied narrative encounters and to delve into the emotions that those experiences engender. The Epic of Gilgamesh does consume some space on the verbatim repetition of passages; but an emotion repeated may also be an experience highlighted or a feeling deepened, so this repetition further feeds into the richness of the text’s narrative.43 Another source of complexity is compositional: the Standard Babylonian epic is rooted in an earlier, Old Babylonian text, which relies in turn on underlying Sumerian texts, as well as its own earlier foundations.44 Gilgamesh is also one of the most far-ranging texts in cuneiform literature, with manuscripts and different versions having been found in a wide range of geographic locations.45 This complexity is to some degree flattened when one considers only the Standard Babylonian recension, and compressed even further when dealing with the text in a manageable way. As for the latter, I divide my summary of the text’s narrative points and the emotions of the protagonist not into individual plot points, as with the texts discussed above, but into tablets, as follows.

41

42

43 44 45

This volume further adds to this body of scholarship with the paper by Selena Wisnom on repetition in the text, as well as Sophus Helle’s proposal to treat the tablets themselves as narrative units within the text’s larger structure. See, for example, the study by Altes, 2007, who divided the narrative of the text into four sections according to the narratological theories of A.J. Greimas. Similarly, see Blenkinsopp, 1975, on narrative in Gilgamesh. Particularly if one presupposes any oral methods of transmission or recitation for the epic; see again the paper by Selena Wisnom in this volume. On the earlier roots of Gilgamesh, particularly third-millennium textual and oral antecedents and exemplars, see the discussion in Fleming and Milstein, 2010. See, for example, versions of the Gilgamesh epic found in Anatolia, Beckman, 2019; as well as the transference of the text and its themes to Mediterranean contexts, Haubold, 2013.

charting emotional structure in cuneiform literature table 7.5

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Narrative and Emotional Structure in the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh

Tablet

Narrative action of text

Emotions of protagonist (Gilgamesh)

i

Gilgamesh is introduced, with both his impressive physical features and his poor behavior in Uruk highlighted. Enkidu is created and civilized through sex with Shamhat; Gilgamesh receives prophetic dreams concerning Enkidu. Enkidu’s strength and stature are praised; he travels to Uruk and challenges Gilgamesh. The two become companions (ibru) and Gilgamesh decides to journey to the Cedar Forest to fight Humbaba. Gilgamesh and Enkidu meet with Ninsun, who adopts Enkidu, charging him with protecting Gilgamesh.

The overall experience of Gilgamesh is positive: he is unchallenged in Uruk, and Ninsun interprets all his dreams as favorable.

ii

iii

iv

v

vi

vii

As Gilgamesh and Enkidu journey to the Cedar Forest, Gilgamesh has terrifying dreams each night on the journey. The pair suffer initial concerns and doubts, but Gilgamesh encourages them to move forward. Gilgamesh and Enkidu enter the Cedar Forest. Initially fearful, Gilgamesh is reassured by Enkidu and the pair defeat Humbaba, who curses them before their final, fatal attack. The pair return to Uruk and Gilgamesh rejects Ishtar’s romantic overtures. The goddess, enraged, looses the Bull of Heaven on the city. The pair defeat it, and afterwards Enkidu awakes from a disturbing prophetic dream. Realizing that his dream portends his own death, Enkidu curses Shamhat; afterwards, Shamash eases his anger. Enkidu remains ill for 12 days, with Gilgamesh beside him, before dying.

Positive: Gilgamesh gains a companion in Enkidu, decides to embark on his new quest. Enkidu’s concerns are quickly overruled. Positive: The action centers on Ninsun and Enkidu, while Gilgamesh continues his preparations and the positive action continues. Positive: Though he wakes up disturbed, each of Gilgamesh’s dreams are interpreted as positive. Gilgamesh rallies to move forward. Positive: Despite Gilgamesh’s fear when first confronted with Humbaba (as in the Sumerian text) the overall emotion is positive. Positive: Gilgamesh is the desired object of Ishtar, though he rejects her. He is victorious once again in battle and is praised as the “finest among men” afterwards. Tablet vii signals the transition in Gilgamesh’s emotional state, as Enkidu’s own emotional state is increasingly disturbed, his health fails, and he dies.

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konstantopoulos Narrative and Emotional Structure in the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh (cont.)

Tablet

Narrative action of text

Emotions of protagonist (Gilgamesh)

viii

Gilgamesh mourns Enkidu and details the funerary and memorial acts to be carried out for his friend, including offerings to Netherworld deities. Gilgamesh continues to mourn Enkidu and fears for his own mortality. He roams the wilderness to find Utnapishtim, travelling through the darkness of Mount Mashu and emerging by the seashore into the grove of Jewel Trees. Gilgamesh speaks to Shiduri of his grief and desire to reach Utnapishtim. Gilgamesh meets with Urshanabi, the boatman, and, after some setbacks, crosses the sea and reaches Utnapishtim. He explains his grief and desire for immortality. Utnapishtim tells Gilgamesh the story of the Flood; Gilgamesh fails to stay awake as a test of his mortality, but nevertheless achieves the plant of immortality, only to lose it. He returns to Uruk.

Negative: Gilgamesh’s grief is intense throughout the tablet.

ix

X

xi

Negative: Though Gilgamesh has a new goal, he remains sorrowful and is now also fearful of death, meaning that his state continues to decline.

Neutral/Positive: Gilgamesh’s situation begins to stabilize and arguably improve, as he receives counsel from Shiduri and eventually reaches Utnapishtim. Positive; Negative: Gilgamesh’s positive movement continues until he loses his recently gained immortality. He returns to his original position—alone in Uruk, but now matured by his experiences.

In terms of narrative structure, the Epic of Gilgamesh segments itself into two halves, the text bifurcating along the death of Enkidu and Gilgamesh’s subsequent mourning in Tablet vii and viii.46 As a point of necessity, this outline excludes Tablet xii, the tablet that comprises the tale of Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and the Netherworld. In terms of narrative structure, Tablets i–xi form a complete unit, with xii clearly an addition and addendum to that overall structure.47 Tablet xi sees Gilgamesh, and with him the focus of the text, return to the city of Uruk and its walls. With that said, we do see certain tablets of Tablet xi include 46 47

On this division in the narrative and the two-act structure of Gilgamesh, see Helle, 2021, 198–199. See once again the contribution by Sophus Helle in this volume.

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the incipit of the Tablet xii as their closing catchline, and so the final tablet is grouped organizationally—if not narratively—into the text.48 In terms of structure, the first half aligns with a combat story or quest narrative, unsurprisingly similar to what was seen in gha: Gilgamesh meets Enkidu and, with his aid and companionship, journeys to the Cedar Forest to make his name by killing Humbaba. The pair are victorious in both this battle and the subsequent battle against the Bull of Heaven, which is incited by Ishtar’s rage once the pair return to Uruk. These victories establish a positive emotional trajectory for Gilgamesh: he only rises in the first half of the text. But the emotional and narrative shape of the text changes dramatically following Enkidu’s death. In contrast to the desire for combat and glory that drives the first half of the text, Gilgamesh is now driven by his grief and desire for immortality, questing beyond the edge of the world only to eventually return to Uruk in the closing lines of the text. Just as the action of the second half is initiated through an event of extreme emotion—Enkidu’s death and Gilgamesh’s resultant grief—emotions remain the driving force propelling both narrative and protagonist throughout the latter half of the text. Similarly, while the first half of the text showcased the twinning of Gilgamesh’s martial victories with his continually rising positive emotions, Gilgamesh experiences sudden and extreme emotional losses in Tablets vii–ix, framing his actions and emotions through the remainder of the text. Though I have, at this point, only utilized the “emotional mapping” outlined by Vonnegut for relatively straightforward narratives, we may apply the same principle to the more complex tangle that comprises Gilgamesh’s emotional journey—which would yield the scheme that can be seen in Figure 7.7. Although this “mapping” is more complex than any of the other texts, we can still see a number of familiar shapes in the resultant sketch. Gilgamesh first experiences an emotional rise (1), albeit one beset by the occasional setback of fear and trembling as he approaches Humbaba. His greatest peak (2) appears upon his and Enkidu’s victory over both Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven, which positions him for his dramatic fall (3) into grief and depression, a state that endures throughout his long wandering and search for Utnapishtim.49 Gilgamesh recovers to some degree near the conclusion of his journey upon acquiring the plant of immortality (4), though he never returns to the same triumphant state. Further, he soon receives another blow, upon losing the plant (5). 48 49

George, 2003, 724–725; this catchline is found on two tablets from Nineveh (K 2252+ and K 8517+). On the use of wandering as a marker of emotional depression, see Barré, 2001.

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figure 7.7 Gilgamesh’s Emotional Progression in the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh

In the end, Gilgamesh grows in his understanding of kingship and arrives at a greater personal maturity, but the overall result is a zero-sum game (6). Despite the long journey, Gilgamesh returns to where he started: wiser but, as in the beginning, alone. While the finer points of the emotional graph are open to interpretation—we might debate, for example, whether the second peak should ascend higher or lower in comparison to the first, or if the depression following Enkidu’s death remains for longer—the strength of Vonnegut’s promised emotional mapping lies in its ability to sketch out the broad emotional strokes of a story. In applying it, we see clearly the turbulent but ultimately circular nature of Gilgamesh’s emotional journey. Despite the complexity of the text, the narrative and emotional structures of the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh prove to be uncanny mirrors of each other. In this case, we need not reinvent the wheel, given the epic’s standing as one of the best-studied texts in the canon of cuneiform literature. In his work on Mesopotamian religion, The Treasures of Darkness, Thorkild Jacobsen constructed a narrative map for Gilgamesh, charting thirteen sections with rises and falls as Gilgamesh either moves towards or away from the prospect of immortality.50 50

See overall discussion on Gilgamesh in Jacobsen, 1976, 195–219.

figure 7.8 Thorkild Jacobsen’s charting of the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh from The Treasures of Darkness jacobsen, 1976, 216. © yale university press, reproduced with permission

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Here, Enkidu’s death is marked as a realization and subsequent rejection of the reality of death, leading to Gilgamesh’s quest for immortality and “flight from reality,” as Jacobsen terms it. The protagonist’s “return to reality” is incited through Utnapishtim’s story of the Flood, followed by Gilgamesh’s inability to stay awake. Finally, his loss of the plant of immortality triggers his full return to Uruk and reality. The close match between Jacobsen’s mapping of the narrative and the emotional mapping given above forms an interesting counterexample to the Sumerian texts of gha and Lugalbanda, which presented an example of how a similar narrative structure can produce different emotional progressions—in the case of the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh— narrative and emotional structure mirror each other closely.

7

Describing Emotion: Concerns and Caveats

The study of emotion in the ancient Near East, and the application of that study to narrative, is not without its perils and pitfalls. First, we should not assume that the emotions described in Sumerian and Akkadian texts reflect the same scope of emotions commonly experienced today; indeed, studies of emotion in ancient Greece have made a case for the opposite.51 Emotions within the ancient Near Eastern context are hard to describe and harder to quantify. They are culturally and contextually specific, often rooted in phrases that are connected to specific parts of the body: emotions are said to reside not only in one’s face, complexion, and expression, but also in one’s inner body, including the heart and liver.52 Emotions are thus presented, and represented, through culturally specific imagery.

51

52

See Jaques, 2017, 185–197. David Konstan, 2006, ix, has neatly presented this issue in his own work on emotions in Greek literature, stating that: “the emotions of the ancient Greeks were in some significant respects different from our own … recognizing these differences is important to our understand of Greek literature and culture.” This is particularly clear, Konstan, 2006, 29–31, argues, in how emotions are experienced and thus expressed—less as reflections of an interior state, and more in response to public encounters, using Aristotle in particular as a model for this difference. On emotions and gestures as represented in artistic sources, see Cornelius, 2017, and Sonik, 2017. In the Assyrian reliefs in particular, curiously, intense emotion is rarely shown through human expression, even when individuals are shown with dire wounds or neardeath. Animals, on the other hand, showcase intense and visceral reactions to the wounds they suffer, as if displaying their emotions with a freedom forbidden to the human subjects of the reliefs; Larson, 2001, 277. The language of emotion as tied to body parts in Sumerian

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Beyond this, the expression of deep emotions can be subtle, and may not necessarily be linked to any one particular word, action, or organ. To illustrate some of these complications, I will briefly discuss some of the difficulties connected with the emotions of fear and sorrow as expressed in the Akkadian Epic of Gilgamesh. As Steinert (2020, 432) discusses, the emotions of sorrow and grief are not always directly expressed in Mesopotamia, as the vocabularies of emotions often lack the specific words that directly correlate to these feelings. Instead, we see these emotions expressed through actions, with the acts of lamentation and mourning serving as key signifiers for the emotions of sorrow and grief, for example.53 Sorrow and grief are expressed through certain words—such as bakû, “to weep,” damāmu, “to mourn, to wail,” nissatu “grief, worry”54—as well as through expressions like muruṣ libbi, “sickness of the heart,” and lā ṭūb libbi, which would literally translate as “not-well feeling of the heart.”55 Fear, on the other, is often rendered with the verbs palāḫu and adāru; the verb tarāku “to throb, to pound” can also be used with libbi “heart” to indicate fear.56 We can find examples of these verbs used throughout Gilgamesh for different effect. The hunter who first encounters Enkidu, when the latter is still wild and untamed, is troubled and has sorrow in his heart (ibašši nissatu ina karšīšu, i 120);57 and, fearing Enkidu, does not approach him. Gilgamesh’s fear, as experienced before encountering Humbaba, is both passing and more obscure. It is indicated by his questions to Enkidu as to why they speak so powerlessly (pisnuqiš iqabbi, iv 233), and his command that Enkidu be unafraid (ul taddar, iv 239), using adāru, and the final command that he shake off the paralysis of fright: “let the stiffness of your arms depart and feebleness flee from

53

54 55 56

57

and Akkadian has been discussed by Jaques, 2006, and presented again in overview by Steinert, 2020; Wagner-Durand, 2020, presents the close link between the emotions and the senses. As discussed in Delnero, 2021, 88–94, when placed within the ritual and cultic sphere, lamenting served key functions as well, aiming to affect the non-textual, or “real” world and even prevent further future calamities. nissatu may indicate the feelings of grief, worry, or depression; it is also a ceremonial lament of wailing song; see cad N/2 s.v. nissatu 2b. See Steinert, 2020, 432, and Jaques, 2017, 195–197. See a chart of collected expressions for fear in Steinert, 2020, 444, as well as the longer discussion in Svärd et al., 2020, which presents a standard set of five verbs used for fear (palāḫu, šaḫātu, adāru, galātu, parādu). Note the use of karšu here, rather than libbu; see cad K s.v. karšu 2, for the definition of “mind, heart, plan, desire.”

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your knees.”58 Immediately prior to fighting Humbaba, however, Gilgamesh described his own returned feelings of fear, using palāhu, stating that the “the heart that took fright does not grow calm in a moment.”59 Mourning and grief may also be expressed through different verbs and a range of actions. Following Enkidu’s death, Gilgamesh “weeps” (ibakki)60 for his lost friend, in a form of the verb bakû, and commands that all others do the same, referencing his own mourning once again, and addressing Enkidu directly with the cry: “I myself will mourn you!” (lit., “weep,” abakkâka; viii 41). His sorrow is also directly referenced by the noun nissatu, and his grief is further reflected in his deteriorating physical state, such as his lack of grooming and proper dress. When Gilgamesh first encounters Shiduri, his appearance is wild and untamed, and he is described as having sorrow in his heart while his face is “like one who has travelled a distant road.”61 Upon encountering Utnapishtim, the same qualities—hollow cheeks, sunken face, wretched features—are noted, to the point where Utnapishtim finally asks of Gilgamesh why he “constantly chases after sorrow.”62 Just as one emotion can be expressed through multiple avenues—different terms, a range of imagery and action, even artistic representations—so too can the same action and word imply different emotions. We see this once again with the act of weeping (bakû), which may appear in drastically different emotional circumstances: [ina] u4-me-šu-ma dgiš-gím-maš it-ta-šab i-bak-[k]i ugu bad3 ap-pi-šú il-la-ka di-ma-a-šú Then Gilgamesh sat down weeping, the tears streaming down the side of his face. Gilgamesh xi 308–30963 diš-tar ug-gu-gat-ma a-na šá-ma-mi [i-li] il-lik-ma diš-tar ana igi da-ni[m] ad-šá i-[bak-ki] ana igi an-tum ama-šá il-la-ka di-m[a-a-š]á

58 59 60 61 62 63

iv 242; see George, 2003, 600–601. v 98; see George 2003, 606–607. On adāru and palāhu, see Svärd et al., 2020, 486–492. viii 2; note that this verb is reconstructed by George, 2003, 650–651. x 8–9; George, 2003, 678–679. x 267; see George, 2003, 694–695: am-me-ni dgiš-gím-maš ni-is-sa-ta tur-t[i-né-ed-de atta?]. George, 2003, 722–723.

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Ishtar was furious and [went up] to heaven. Ishtar went [weeping] before her father, Anu, her tears flowing before Antu, her mother. Gilgamesh vi 81–8364 In these passages, the physical and emotional symptoms are described in near-identical terms—Gilgamesh and Ishtar weep (ibakki), their tears flowing (illaka; dimtu)—but the causes are quite distinct. When he loses the plant of immortality, Gilgamesh weeps in sorrow over his loss, but the rejected Ishtar weeps from fury and rage. Other moments of emotional significance may not be directly signaled through emotion vocabulary or imagery at all. The emotional rise of Gilgamesh’s retrieval of the plant of immortality is aptly paired with the action of Gilgamesh himself rising up from the depths, but no direct verbs of emotion are attached to this triumph, short-lived though it may be.

8

Conclusion

This chapter has considered how the Vonnegut’s initial proposal and core idea—namely, that stories have emotional as well as narrative structures, and that the former can be distilled into a number of recurring shapes and categories—may be applied to the study of cuneiform material. In doing so, I have focused on the Sumerian texts Lugalbanda and Gilgamesh and Huwawa, and the Akkadian Standard Babylonian Gilgamesh epic. This analysis has resulted in two major points and a closing caveat. First, the emotional progression of a story provides yet another avenue by which to consider narratives and analyze their structure. The “method” of emotional mapping may be treated as another tool in the arsenal of literary analysis, but it should be employed with a clear understanding of its limitations. Throughout this chapter, I have focused on the emotional arcs of the protagonists of each text. To be sure, these characters, being the most central, are likely to have the most fully developed and detailed emotional experiences, but other characters within a text may have vastly different experiences. To return to an earlier example, Hamlet may experience his eponymous play in a “Which Way Is Up” fashion, but the same could not be said for Ophelia. Second, and perhaps most critically, this analysis has shown that stories—as in the case of Lugalbanda and gha, of example—with similar narrative arcs can have

64

George, 2003, 622–623.

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entirely distant emotional arcs, providing another means by which a text may be structured. The caveat in applying this method is the inherent complexity of emotional expression. They are culturally and contextually specific and analyzing emotions without an understanding and integration of this context leaves us—as the folklorists at the start of this essay cautioned—with meanings that may be totally misapprehended. The expression of deep emotion can be subtle and not necessarily linked to any one particular word. Examining their place within the narrative necessitates a degree of subjective evaluation. In sum, emotions and the narratives they impact and create are messy, and tracking the progression of a text’s protagonist—or indeed, of any of its characters—is only possible through a close and detailed reading of the text itself.

Acknowledgements I would like to offer my sincere thanks to the helpful comments and tireless work of my co-editor Sophus Helle, on both this article and the volume as a whole. Any mistakes, of course, remain mine.

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Brisch, Nicole. 2011. “Changing Images of Kingship in Sumerian Literature.” In Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture, edited by Karen Radner and Eleanor Robson, 706– 724. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cairns, Douglas, and Damien Nelis, editors. 2017. Emotions in the Classical World: Methods, Approaches, and Directions. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Chamberlain, Richard. 2015. “What’s Happiness in Hamlet?” In The Renaissance of Emotion: Understanding Affect in Shakespeare and his Contemporaries, edited by Richard Meek and Erin Sullivan, 153–174. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Chaniotis, Angelos, editor. 2012. Unveiling Emotions: Sources and Methods for the Study of Emotions in the Greek World. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Civil, Miguel. 2005. “Modal Prefixes.” Acta Sumerologica 22: 29–42. Cooper, Jerrold S. 1975. “Structure, Humor, and Satire in the Poor Man of Nippur.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 27, no. 3: 163–174. Cornelius, Izak. 2017. “‘The Eyes have it and the Benign Smile’—the Iconography of Emotions in the Ancient Near East: From Gestures to Facial Expressions.” In Visualizing Emotions in the Ancient Near East, edited by Sara Kipfer, 123–148. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 285. Fribourg: Academic Press; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Deagon, Andrea. 1998. “The Twelve Double-Hours of Night: Insomnia and Transformation in ‘Gilgamesh.’” Soundings: an Interdisciplinary Journal. 81, no. 3–4: 461–489. Delnero, Paul. 2006. “Variation in Sumerian Literary Compositions: A Case Study Based on the Decad.” PhD dissertation, University of Pennsylvania. Delnero, Paul. 2020. How to do Things with Tears: Ritual Lamenting in Ancient Mesopotamia. Studies in Ancient Near Eeastern Records 26. Berlin: De Gruyter. Delnero, Paul. 2021. “Beyond Representation: The Role of Affect in Sumerian Lamenting.” In Art/ifacts and ArtWorks in the Ancient World, edited by Karen Sonik, 83–114. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Dodds, Peter Sheridan, Eric M. Clark, Suma Desu, Morgan R. Frank, Andrew J. Reagan, Jake Ryland Williams, Lewis Mitchell, et al. 2015. “Human Language Reveals a Universal Positivity Bias.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 112, no. 8: 2389–2394. Dundes, Alan. 1969. “Folklore as a Mirror of Culture.” Elementary English 46, no. 4: 471– 482. Dundes, Alan. 1997. “The Motif-Index and the Tale Type Index: A Critique.” Journal of Folklore Research 34, no. 3: 195–202. Dundes, Alan. 2005. “Folkloristics in the Twenty-First Century.” Journal of American Folklore 180, no. 470: 385–408. Edzard, Dietz Otto. 1990. “Gilgameš und Huwawa A.I. Teil.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 80: 165–203. Edzard, Dietz Otto. 1991. “Gilgameš und Huwawa A. ii. Teil.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 81: 165–233.

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Jaques, Margaret. 2017. “The Discourse on Emotion in Ancient Mesopotamia: A Theoretical Approach.” In Visualizing Emotions in the Ancient Near East, edited by Sara Kipfer, 185–206. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 285. Fribourg: Academic Press; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Kipfer, Sara, editor. 2017. Visualizing Emotions in the Ancient Near East. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 285. Fribourg: Academic Press; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Klein, Jacob. 1990. “Šulgi and Išmedagan: Originality and Dependency in Sumerian Royal Hymnology.” In Bar-Ilan Studies in Assyriology Dedicated to Pinhas Artzi: BarIlan Studies in Near Eastern Languages and Culture, edited by Jacob Klein and Aaron Skaist, 63–136. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press. Konstan, David. 2007. The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Konstan, David. 2015. “Affect and Emotion in Greek Literature.” Oxford Handbooks Online doi: 10.1093/oxfordhb/9780199935390.013.41 Kramer, Samuel Noah. 1942. “The Oldest Literary Catalogue. A Sumerian List of Literary Compositions Compiled about 2000 b.c.”Bulletin of the American Society of Oriental Research 88: 10–19. Kramer, Samuel Noah. 1961. “New Literary Catalogue from Ur.” Revue d’Assyriologie 55: 169–176. Larsen, Mogens Trolle. 2001. “Affect and Emotion.” In Veenhof Anniversary Volume: Studies Presented to Klaas R. Veenhof on the Occasion of His Sixty-Fifth Birthday, edited by Jan Gerrit Dercksen, N.J.C. Kouwenberg, Th.J.H. Krispijn, Wilfred H. van Soldt, 275–286. Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten. Levine, Alan. 2011. “Experiments in Web Storytelling.” The Journal of Museum Education 36, no. 3: 249–260. Lewis, Rhodri. 2017. Hamlet and the Vision of Darkness. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Propp, Valdimir. 1968. Morphology of the Folktale. 2nd edition. Translated by Laurence Scott. Austin: University of Texas Press. Reagan, Andrew J., Lewis Mitchell, Dilan Kelly, et al. 2016. “The Emotional Arcs of Stories are Dominated by Six Basic Shapes.” epj Data Science 5: 31. Reynolds, Pat. 2016 “The Lord of the Rings: The Tale of a Text.” The Tolkien Society— Essays. www.tolkiensociety.org/app/uploads/2016/11/LOTR‑The‑Tale‑of‑a‑Text.pdf. Accessed 3 March 2021. Shields, Charles J. 2011. And So It Goes: Kurt Vonnegut—A Life. New York: Henry Holt. Sonik, Karen. 2017. “Emotion and the Ancient Arts: Visualizing, Materializing, and Producing States of Being.” In Visualizing Emotions in the Ancient Near East, edited by Sara Kipfer, 219–262. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 285. Fribourg: Academic Press; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Sonik, Karen. 2020. “Gilgamesh and Emotional Excess: The King without Counsel in the sb Gilgamesh Epic.” In The Expression of Emotions in Ancient Egypt and Mesopot-

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chapter 8

Representing Time in the Kiutu Incantation-Prayers Beatrice Baragli

1

Introduction

Assyriology is currently exploring the vast field of narratology;1 which is much more than just the study of stories: as Mieke Bal puts it, “narrative is a cultural attitude, hence, narratology a perspective on culture.”2 Accordingly, the aim of the present study is not to demonstrate the narrative quality of incantationprayers such as the Kiutus (which, as will be seen, is self-evident), but to use the lens of narratology to reveal key cultural concepts embedded in these texts. The focus of the present study is the concept of time, since the ritual of the Kiutus were performed at a specific time of day. An analysis of the narrative structure of the text, its represented time, and the time of the accompanying ritual performance, will thus shed light on the general Mesopotamian perception of time. After an overview of the textual typology of the Kiutus (section 2) and of the composition Kiutu A (section 3), I will discuss some general narratological features of incantations, such as the historiola (section 4), after which a narratological analysis of Kiutu A is presented (section 5), followed by a discussion of its results (section 6).

2

The Kiutu Incantation-Prayers: A Brief Overview

The Kiutus are ritual texts addressed to the sun god Utu, and they belonged to the repertoire of the exorcist or practitioner (āšipu), who recited them on behalf of a patient or client.3 Twenty-three compositions can now be identified as Kiutus. They are first attested during the Old Babylonian period (ca. 1800– 1 See Introduction of this volume. 2 Bal, 1997, 222. 3 This paragraph is an adaptation of Baragli, 2022, for general overview of the Kiutus, see Hrůša, 2015, 118–119; Shibata, 2008; Krebernik, 2001; Læssøe, 1955, 28–83; Kunstmann, 1932, 48–53.

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1600 bce) in southern Mesopotamia, mainly in Larsa and Sippar, which were home to the Ebabbar, the temple dedicated to Utu. Kiutus often carry the superscript en2, “incantation,” and, beginning in the Middle Babylonian period (ca. 1600–1000 bce), the rubric ka-enim-ma ki-dutu-kam “wording of a Kiutu” (from ki-dutu, “position of the sun (god)”). They are written in Sumerian but may also include an Akkadian translation next to the Sumerian text. In the Old Babylonian period, we find a wide variety of Sumerian compositions to Utu, such as hymns, incantations, and various literature in the Emesal sociolect, but during the Middle Babylonian period, this variety begins to reduce, and the best-known Sumerian compositions addressed to Utu can be identified as Kiutus. The manuscripts that date to the first millennium bce are mostly attested in northern (Nineveh) and southern Mesopotamia (Uruk, Sippar, Babylonia), with a smaller group originating in the western periphery (Ḫattuša, Alalakh, and Sultantepe). The latter group includes also manuscripts from the second millennium. The compositions are very different from one another in terms of length and style. The longest and most complex is Kiutu A,4 with its more than 200 lines and high literary style. The shortest is Kiutu mp 4 (mp here stands from the Mīs pî ritual, for which see below),5 which is a mere 4 lines and comprises a short plea against the evil tongue. The typical structure of the Kiutus resembles those of other so-called incantation-prayers:6 a salutation of the deity, the action of the practitioner, a plea to the deity, a praise for the deity, and a parting wish. However, this pattern is highly flexible, since any of these sections may be omitted. For example, Kiutu A contains all five parts, while Kiutu mp 4 consists only of a plea. The ritual context varies greatly among the Kiutus. For example, they appear within the large Bīt rimki ritual (“house of ablution”), at the rising sun where Utu is prayed to deliver the king from a conscious or unconscious mistake (these are designated as Kiutus br);7 and they were recited in the Mīs pî ritual (“washing of the mouth”), during cultic processions, where the participants

4 Line numbering and translation of all Kiutus quoted here are based on Baragli, 2022; for Kiutu A, see Baragli, 2022, 163–260. 5 Baragli, 2022, 619–624. 6 We refer to this term as used by Kunstmann, 1932, and Mayer, 1976. The analysis of the textual structure is mainly based on the latter. See also, for structure of prayers, Lenzi, 2011, 12–13 and Zgoll, 2003, 31. 7 For this ritual see the following overviews: Schwemer, 2019; Hrůša, 2015, 140–152; Ambos, 2013, Farber, 1997; Læssøe, 1955.

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carry the deity in the form of a cult image.8 Utu is then asked to intervene so that the cult image can become the god. Finally, the god is dismissed and thanked for his help; he can now go home (Kiutus mp 1–3). There are several other Kiutus that were used in a wide range of contexts, ranging from burial to difficult childbirth. Their main objective is the deliverance of the patient from an evil that has been caused by demons or, sometimes unintentionally, by the patient himself. The patient can be of very different social status, ranging from the king in the Kiutus br to a common person. While many of these properties vary from text to text, all Kiutus have one feature in common: the movement of the sun. The term ki-dutu, “position of the sun (god),” implies an emphasis on time and thus points to a ritual performance at a specific time of day, while the sun is visible. The compositions contain either indications of a precise moment of the day, such as sunrise or sunset, or descriptions of the movement of the sun god on earth, as in cultic processions. This movement is also reflected in the literary and mythical content of the compositions:9 most of the Kiutus br contain a depiction of sunrise, which is described as Utu opening and then passing through the door of heaven. Kiutus are replete with stylistic devices, the most frequent being parallel sequences, which Claus Wilcke defines as sentences or parts of sentences that are constructed in the same or similar ways.10 As we will see, Kiutu A employs several parallel sequences of this kind, which are named according to the Sumerian component or repeated element in them: “you are,” “it lies with you,” and “without you.”11 The function of these parallel sequences is to overwhelm the listener by an enumeration of a large number of elements, thereby expressing the great, unknowable, and inexpressible nature of the deity—a technique that Umberto Eco refers to as the “vertigo of lists.”12

8 9 10 11 12

Walker and Dick, 2001. Ritual actions can follow the movement of the Sun and other celestial bodies also in other Akkadian contexts, see, e.g., Abusch, 1974, 257–259 regarding the Maqlû ritual. Wilcke, 1976, 219. “You are” (dutu [nominal clause]-me-en); “it lies with you” (dutu [nominal clause] za-akam); “without you” (dutu za-da nu-me-a … + negation + imperfective form). Eco, 2009: “vertigine della lista.”

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Kiutu A

As already noted, Kiutu A occupies a particularly important place in this textual typology. It is attested in several manuscripts spanning from the Old Babylonian to the Late Babylonian periods; most of these manuscripts originate from Sippar, one of the most important centers for the worship of Utu. Kiutu A is the longest of the Kiutus and one of the oldest known. It influenced all subsequent Kiutus in terms of both content and style, since the later Kiutus all include a catch line or parallel sequence that already appeared in Kiutu A. The reason for its significance lies in its description of Utu’s journey: the movement of the sun god encompasses the entire daily transit of the sun. By day, he crosses the sky among the living on his chariot, and by night, he traverses the Netherworld, where he meets the spirits of the dead, culminating in his arrival at home. By contrast, later Kiutus are limited to specific times of day. For example, the Kiutus br only thematize the sunrise, while Kiutu H describes the sunset and Kiutus mp the moment when Utu returns home, where his wife Šerda awaits him.13 It is otherwise unusual for a textual typology to be so strongly inspired by a single composition. In terms of structure, Kiutu A contains all of the aforementioned standard sections of an incantation-prayer: table 8.1

Structure of Kiutu A

General structure Salutation of the deity

Narrative

Utu’s rise Description of Utu Action of the practitioner The sun’s chariot Spirits of the dead Plea to the deity Deliverance from evil Praise and parting wish Utu’s praise and homecoming

A B C D E F

In the salutation, the practitioner invokes the deity in the second person and seeks his attention. The first lines of Kiutu A (section A) describe the rising sun, the end of the night, and the beginning of Utu’s journey:

13

For Kiutu H, long-known within Assyriology, see now Baragli, 2022, 312–324.

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Utu, who has come out from the blue heaven, to shine from the foundation of the holy heaven (l. 1–2) Utu is then described with a series of epithets (section B): Utu, great lord, Utu, the king, Utu, great lord of the princes, Utu, king of heaven and earth, Utu, respected of the gods (l. 3–6) Furthermore, the exorcist describes Utu using the aforementioned parallel sequences: “you are,” “it lies with you,” and “without you.” Utu, as the god of justice, oversees the social order and protects the weak, as is well described in these lines from the section “it lies with you” (dutu [nominal clause] za-akam): Utu, that the weak will not be handed over to the powerful lies with you, Utu, the orphan and the homeless lie with you, Utu, to justly guide the widow lies with you (l. 36–38) In the following lines of the sequence “without you” (dutu za-da nu-me-a … + negation + imperfective form), Utu is described as keeping the world in balance, mastering both life and death: Utu, without you, Nergal, the king of the Netherworld, will not place the rebellious land on the battlefield, he will not cause death, he will not bury the people in the ground, Utu, without you, Ninmaḫ, the mistress who cut the umbilical cord of the creatures, will not decide the fate of humankind. (l. 51.5–6) In the next section, the action of the practitioner (section C), the exorcist typically supports his request with ritual performances, often in the form of sacrificial offerings. In the case of Kiutu A, the beginning of this section describes the sun’s chariot, enumerating its horses as well as its entourage, such as the charioteer, the groom, and the messengers. In the ritual performance, this description corresponds to a recitation between dawn and sunrise where the exorcist offers parts of a bridle and food for the chariot’s horses.14 Note that the names of the horses all allude to daylight (u4): 14

This is not directly understandable from the text itself, however, several parallel compos-

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Unirĝalana (“noble daylight of heaven”), Uḫušgalana (“great reddish daylight of heaven”), Usumurĝalana (“raging daylight of heaven”), Uḫeĝalana (“abundant daylight of heaven”), (they are) four horses harnessed to the yoke, riding in the heart of the heaven. (l. 76–78) The next section concerns Utu’s nightly journey. When he arrives in the Netherworld, the spirits of the dead (kitim) gather around the sun god, awaiting his verdict (di). They receive offerings of food and water and the mention of their name, depending on their behavior in life (section D). In this case, these offerings serve to sustain the spirits: without them, they would perish in the unfriendly environment of the Netherworld: his great water pipe will bring to him (= the spirit of the dead) honey, beer, and scented oil there (= the Netherworld), (then the living) shall honor him (= the spirit of the dead) and unceasingly call on his name! (l. 127–128) Other offerings, such as those for the evil spirit, are apotropaic and are thus meant to prevent certain spirits who might otherwise torment the living from becoming dangerous. Finally, the mention of the name of the deceased serves to sustain their memory and identity even in the Netherworld. The next section, the plea, describes what the god should do to help the practitioner (section E). In this case, the repetition of the expression “shall it be (so)!” (… ḫe2-a) is used to specify which spirits and demons shall not receive the offerings, as these are intended only for the spirits of the dead: He shall be a spirit of the dead that has no provider! He shall be a spirit of the dead that has no father or forefather! He shall be a spirit of the dead that has no one who calls (his) name! He shall be a spirit of the dead that has no one who makes a libation (for him)! (l. 158–161) At the end of this list, the exorcist asks Utu to make the gatekeeper of the Netherworld open the door and let the spirit of the dead enter his realm in peace:

itions show the presence of such offers, as demonstrated by Alaura and Bonechi, 2012, 25–33.

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After you have entrusted him (= the spirit of the dead) into the hands of Ninĝešzida, throne-bearer of the Netherworld, after you have led him to Ninĝešzida, throne-bearer of the Netherworld, after you have entrusted him into the hands of Biti, the great gatekeeper of the Netherworld, Biti, the great gatekeeper of the Netherworld, will let him enter the Netherworld at the place of his summoned assembly. (l. 176–180) At the end of the composition, in the praise wish, the practitioner asks that the sun god be exalted (section F): May he (= the patient) sing your praise in the lands! May he let people know the greatness of Enki and Asarluḫi! May he praise the god of this man! May this man sing your praise! (l. 184–187) Thereafter, Kiutu A closes with the parting wish, in which the exorcist wishes Utu to be greeted upon coming home: When you enter before Šerda, your beloved wife, may Šerda, your beloved wife, put in a good word! May your throne say to you, “Sit down!” May your bed say to you, “Lie down!” May your house say to you, “Rest!”, and your water, “Live in this place!” Go! Do not delay! Utu, king of heaven and earth, go! Do not delay! (l. 191–195.2)

4

Incantations as Narrative

Kiutu A has a practical purpose: to grant specific spirits of the dead a propitious descent into the Netherworld. At the same time, it includes a long narration of events, focused on the journey of the sun. However, in analyzing this narrative, we hit upon a methodological problem. Early theories of narratology tended to consider mainly epics or novels as narrative,15 Gérard Genette, for 15

See, e.g., the case of one of the first narratologists, Franz Karl Stanzel, in Fludernik, 2009, 89.

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example, writes that: “Since the function of narrative is not to give an order, express a wish, state a condition, etc., but simply to tell a story and therefore to ‘report’ facts (real or fictive), its one mood, or at least its characteristic mood, strictly speaking, can be only the indicative.”16 According to this definition, incantation-prayers like the Kiutus would not count as narratives in their totality, since they include a wish that is often expressed in the conjunctive (verbal prefix ḫa-) or imperative mood. However, many incantations and prayers do contain a narration—or, in Genette’s terms, “report facts”—even as they also present a concluding wish.17 The question of what narrative is, has long been debated, and some contemporary studies of narratology even include visual works under the category of narratives.18 As Bal puts it, “asking whether or not an object ‘is’ narrative is both obvious and futile, just as the notion that an image ‘is’ visual hardly calls for visual analysis to make that point.”19 Besides this, another reason to treat incantations as narratives is the presence in some cases of so-called historiolae,20 usually defined as small mythical narratives that explain the current situation, often a crisis, leading to the recitation of the incantation and the ritual performance. After this narration, the critical situation is dispelled in the present time just as it was dispelled in the past mythical time of the historiola. This formula, which can be made more or less explicit in the text, is often termed similia similibus. From a narratological point of view, this would be considered a case of analepsis, or flashback (see below, in section 5.1). The power, or ritual efficacy, of the historiolae is strictly connected with the performative power of language in general.21 By recounting a primordial act, the historiola effectively links the current crisis with the wholeness and integrity of the cosmological order of the past. The performative aspect of language is particularly prevalent in incantations, in which the very act of reciting the text has an active effect upon reality, both present and future. Jørgen Podemann Sørensen explains the ritual efficacy of incantations

16 17

18 19 20 21

Genette, 1980, 161. The narrative aspect of hymns and prayers has been already discussed, see, e.g., Zgoll, 2003, 260 regarding the rhetoric of Šuila prayers, Piccin and Worthington, 2015 on the concept of persuasion in Ludlul bēl nēmeqi, and De Jong, 2014, 137–165, regarding Homeric hymns. Fludernik, 2009, 7. Bal, 1997, 221. For a general definition, see Frankfurter, 2001, for a detailed study on the historiola in Mesopotamia, see now Ceravolo, 2022. See in general Austin, 1962.

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as a return to a “point zero,”22 a mythical origin in which entities had not yet been created and formed, meaning that everything was possible in this state. The incantation reduces the crisis of the present to its mythical point of origin, so that the ritual can make things malleable once more. In other words, the causal sequence of events is interrupted and reversed. Historiolae seem to appear particularly often in healing incantations;23 also for this reason, another common way to explain their ritual efficacy is to note their effect on the psychology of the patient. Here it is enough to recall the famous account by Claude Lévi-Strauss of the song that the Cuna people of Panama recited during difficult childbirths, which operated psychologically without any physical contact between exorcist and patient.24 This avenue of interpretation is commonly accepted among Assyriologists; so without entering into a full discussion of the ritual efficacy of the historiolae, it suffices to say that psychological rehabilitation is one possible reading of these narratives.25 In Mesopotamian incantations, one of the most famous examples of historiolae is the “Cow of Sîn,”26 an incantation where the moon god Sîn, after falling in love with the cow Geme-Sîn, descends to earth in the form of a bull to mate with her. The resultant birth of a calf is particularly painful, so Sîn sends two Lamassu-spirits to assist the birth. The incantation ends with a similia similibus formula: “Just as Geme-Sîn gave birth normally, may also this girl in labor give birth. Let the midwife not tarry, let the pregnant one be all right.”27 According to the definition of David Frankfurter, this kind of historiolae functions “as a subsidiary invocation to a directive utterance, a command or prayer—what we might call ‘clausal’ historiolae.”28 We can now compare the logic of this incantation with a Kiutu from the Bīt rimki ritual, where the exorcist addresses Utu on behalf of the patient, in this case the king. Kiutu br 3 reads as follows: The one who is imprisoned and dejected, the one who has been cursed without knowing it, the one who has confronted (someone) without seeing it,

22 23 24 25 26 27 28

Podemann Sørensen, 2003, 159. Frankfurter, 2017, 101, regarding incantations in general. Lévi-Strauss, 1963, 191. See, e.g., Geller, 2016, 29. Middle Babylonian and Neo-Assyrian versions in Veldhuis, 1991; Old Babylonian manuscript in van Dijk, 1972. Translation according to Veldhuis, 1991, 9. Frankfurter, 2001, 469.

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the one the Namtaru seized, the one the Asakku tied, the one whose skull the evil Udug-demon covered, the one the evil Ala-demon overwhelmed in his bed, the one the evil spirit of the dead struck in the night, the one the great Ĝulla-demon murdered, the one whose limbs the evil god twisted, the one whom the evil Maškim-demon let get goose bumps on his body, the one on whom the Kamadme29-she-demon laid her firm hand, the one the Kamadme-she-demon of water hit, the one the wandering Kamadme-she-demon infected, the one the Kisikil-lila-she-demon chose (as husband), the man the Kisikil-lila-she-demon captured, the one an evil omen paralyzed, the one whom the oath binds the hands, the one the evil mouth cursed, [the one] the evil tongue condemned, the one the evil eye looked at angrily, the one for whom the sortilege wove a net, the one the sorceries caught— Utu, their healing is in your power! (l. 16–39)30 Both the “Cow of Sîn” and Kiutu br 3 present an analepsis that explains the present situation; the relationship between story and narrative time is therefore the same in both texts. However, can we define the analepsis of both texts as a historiola? According to the definition set out above, historiolae present a mythical model for a solution to the present crisis. In this regard, Kiutu br 3, although with the same narrative structure, cannot be considered as such in the strict sense, since it does not refer to a mythical past, wherein a crisis was solved. Rather, it describes a concrete past and narrates all the different scenarios which might have led to the present condition of the patient: the exorcist lists all possible demons that might have harassed the patient in the past, therefore a ritual should be performed now in order to dispel all possible evils. In the Kiutu, the exorcist tactfully reminds Utu of the past events, that he has the power to cure the afflicted patient, and that he can now solve the problem. Utu, as the god of all which must be clearly seen, obviously knows all the

29 30

For the reading kamad-me instead of dim3-me see George, 2018. Baragli, 2022, 427–477.

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events that happened to the patient, however, as a character within the logic of the story (see section 5.5), the sun god hears about the events that happened to the patient only after the exorcist told them. In the “Cow of Sîn,” the exorcist explains the past mythical events to the patient, who now knows of a previous model for a solution. In the former, the god “knows less” than the patient before the narration; in the latter, the patient knows less than the god. In both cases, the exorcist knows more than the others (I will return to this point below, in section 5.5). Seth Sanders notes something similar regarding the narrative of the Marduk-Ea incantations.31 As defined by Adam Falkenstein, the main feature of this type of incantation is the dialogue between Marduk and Ea, wherein the former learns about the patient’s problem (often an attack by a demon), and asks the latter how to solve it.32 However, despite their mythological background, Marduk-Ea incantations lack the simile necessary to establish the connection between past and present as e.g. in the “Cow of Sîn.”33 So, although both Kiutus and incantations with historiolae have the same narrative structure— the analepsis—the former lack even an implicit form of the similia similibus formula, which is, on the contrary, the core element of incantations with historiolae. But if the narrative of Kiutus cannot be understood in the traditional terms of the historiolae, how then can we analyze the narrative features of this genre?

5

Narratological Analysis of Kiutu A

There are many approaches to narratology; the present study is mainly based on the works of Genette and Bal.34 The question here is not so much which theory is most valid, but which is best applicable to Mesopotamian texts, and specifically to Sumerian incantation-prayers.35 Narratology usually differentiates between the chronological sequence of the events in their full form (fabula); the time of narration, in other words, as to how the events are narrated (story); and their composition in a structured written or oral form (text).36 I will

31 32 33 34 35 36

Sanders, 2001. Falkenstein, 1931, 44–67. Sanders, 2001, 434–435. Genette, 1980; Bal, 1997. For example, in a different context, De Jong, 2014, applied narratology to Classical texts using the aforementioned works. These terms are based on Bal, 1997, 5: “A story is a fabula that is presented in a certain manner. A fabula is a series of logically and chronologically related events that are caused

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focus here mainly on the composition of the story, and specifically the aspect of time, since this is an important feature of all Kiutus. Further aspects that will be analyzed here are the identity of the narrator and the focalization of the narrative, that is, from which perspective the narrator witnesses the events.37 I will also briefly touch on the topic of the characters. The role of space is less relevant for the present study, since this is strictly connected with the question of ritual space and would require a separate study. Kiutu A is attested in seven manuscripts that have different narrative structures; cbs 563 presents the longest version and will therefore serve as the basis of the present analysis. 5.1 Order Hence, in Kiutu A, the story and the fabula can be related to each other as follows: table 8.2

Order of Kiutu A

Story Utu’s rise Description of Utu The sun’s chariot Spirits of the dead Deliverance from evil Utu’s praise and homecoming

Fabula A B C D E F

Present Pause Present (see below) Future Future

2 ∞ 3 1 4 5

Summarizing the story, section A locates the narrative within a specific moment of the day, at sunrise. Then, in section B, Utu is evoked and depicted with several poetic motifs. Section C then describes the chariot of the sun god and the ritual actions performed by the exorcist accompanying the prayer. Section D describes the actions of the sun god in the Netherworld and his judgment of different spirits of the dead. In section E, the exorcist requests the deliverance of the patient from evil and the neutralization of the malicious effects of such evil spirits. In section F, the exorcist asks for future praise to Utu in return for his help. By contrast, the fabula begins in section D, which describes the past actions of the spirits of the dead, their current situation, and their future reward. There-

37

or experienced by actors.” Genette, 1980, used instead the term “narrative”. Another traditional pairing is fabula and syuzhet. “Voice” and “mood,” according to Genette, 1980.

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after, section A indicates that the present moment and the ritual performance are happening at sunrise. Section B is a description and can thus be categorized, according to the category of rhythm, as a pause in the narration (see section 5.2 below). The story continues in section C: first, the exorcist presents his offerings, and then the sun chariot starts its journey at sunrise. In section E, the exorcist asks for deliverance from evil and a propitious descent into the Netherworld for specific spirits of the dead. The last section F expresses something that should happen in the future: the wish to praise and greet Utu. Therefore, except for section D, fabula and story run parallel in a linear sequence. The situation is more complex in section D, which describes the conditions of the seven following beings: 1. the man (l. 100–108), 2–3. two wandering spirits (l. 108–109, 110–113), 4. the enemy spirit (l. 114–120.1), 5. the good spirit (l. 121– 146), 6. the spirit from a murderous place (l. 147–150), and 7. the bad spirit (l. 151–156). On manuscript cbs 563, each of these paragraphs is marked by the sign aš. Each spirit should receive a reward in terms of ritual offerings proportionate to their past situation in life. The basic structure of fabula and story for each being is usually the following: past for their past actions during life, present for their current situation in the Netherworld, and future for the offering that they should receive from the living. Some spirits of the dead receive offerings to survive in the Netherworld, while others receive offerings so as to be appeased. Curse formulas and conjunctives often help to distinguish between present and future in the Sumerian imperfective forms. Fabula and story again run parallel to each other, for example in the case of the enemy spirit of the dead (kitim kur2, no. 4): table 8.3

Story

The story of the enemy spirit of the dead (l. 114–120)

Fabula

When the enemy spirit of the dead […] of the god, who could have not A Past 1 been dispelled, as long as you (= Utu) have not removed him (= enemy spirit of the B Present 2 dead) from his (= patient’s) body at all, as long as you have not erased him from his body at all, food shall be cut off (ku5) from him (= enemy spirit of the dead)! Water C Future 3 shall be cut off from him! His water pipe shall give (the enemy spirit of the dead) no water there! You (= demon?) shall not persecute the body of the spirit of the dead! The Anuna, the great gods, shall wipe out his name!

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First, section A describes the past actions of the spirit; then, section B explains their present situation: the spirit of the dead is still bound to the body of the living patient. Afterwards, in section C, the exorcist expresses his negative wishes about the enemy spirit: he was probably an opponent in the past (l. 114 is fragmentary) and should therefore not receive offerings of food or water. The future sequence announcing what will happen if the ritual is not performed can be defined a prolepsis, or a flash-forward.38 From the perspective of ritual efficacy, these are not events that really happened, but what could happen. It does not matter if some events are more probable than others; they must be enumerated, so that the ritual can be effective against all possibilities, namely all conceivable demons and spirits of the dead, as seen in the list “shall it be (so)!” (see section 3 above). On the other side, in the context of ritual instructions, where the possibility is less explicit, such a prolepsis is sometimes described using the language of the omens: “The conditional instruction begins with a protasis listing illness sources for which the following ritual, the apodosis or the instruction, is prescribed.”39 However, story and fabula are not always parallel, as shown by the case of the man (lu2-lu7, no. 1): table 8.4

The story of the man (l. 100–107)

Story

Fabula

Utu, when you control the Netherworld of the spirits of the dead, when you let his family spirit of the dead approach a man, when (the spirits of the dead) are gathered before you, (and) after the word of the living man from a holy place comes to these people, the man, son of his god, whose judgment has been given, (but) whose decision was not made, the spirit of the dead, who frightened this man in a dream, the spirit of the dead from a murderous place, which has created evil for man, stands [ready] for mistreatment. The living man has received the dead spirit of the dead [(…)].

38 39

For prolepsis and analepsis, see, e.g., Genette, 1980, 40. Lenzi, 2011, 199, regarding the Akkadian prayer Šamaš 73.

A Present 3

B Past

1

C Present 3 D Past 2

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Section A describes a present situation when the spirits of the dead gather before Utu, awaiting his judgment. Section B then describes a past situation, wherein the man has not yet received a proper verdict. Section C again describes the present condition, implying the danger that it poses and so the need to perform the ritual. Finally, the fabula returns to the past actions of the man in section D. The fragmentary part of line 107 may contain an additional final wish, as in the case of the enemy spirit of the dead. As already mentioned, the past digressions from the time of the story are a form of analepsis. 5.2 Rhythm Stories can be understood as alternations between scenes and pauses; and this alternation defines the rhythm of the narrative.40 A scene is a passage in which an action or event occurs; more precisely, where the time of the fabula coincides with the time of the story. On the other hand, a pause is when the time of the fabula is suspended: this is what usually happens in descriptions.41 In this sense, the description of Utu in section B of Kiutu A can be defined as a pause. Descriptions can serve several purposes.42 In the present case, the descriptive pause assumes a universal character: Utu is always just and powerful, not only in this precise moment of the story. This section expresses this universal state using Sumerian nominal forms, which convey the idea that it is a general condition: Utu, shimmer that glitters upon heaven and earth, Utu, great light coming out of the heart of the land. (l. 8–9) A common form of pauses in Kiutu A is the parallel sequence “you are” that describes Utu’s might: Utu, the one who stands by the righteous man is you, his ally is you! Utu, the righteous’ help is you! (l. 13–14) In some storytelling, a moment of tension, such as pathos or crisis in the fabula, generally corresponds to the slowing down of the story, often through pauses.43 Such a statement can be applied to Kiutu A, as we will see below (section 5.3),

40 41 42 43

See, e.g., Bal, 1997, 99–111. Bal, 1997, 102. Modern narratives like novels can be more complex than this definition (Bal, 1997, 39). Fludernik, 2009, 33. See also, e.g., De Jong, 2014, 95, concerning Homer’s Iliad.

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where this descriptive pause is particularly long, probably because it constitutes such an important point in the story. 5.3 Duration The term duration indicates the relationship between the extent of the story and the length of the fabula. The first points to the length of the story itself, as measured in days, years, or the like: in the case of Kiutu A, the entire composition covers a period of no longer than one day. The second indicates the length of the text, as measured in chapters or pages, and it may indirectly reflect the significance that the narrator assigns to the various passages of the story. In the present case, the number of lines can conveniently indicate the length of the fabula.44 In table 8.5, the number of lines is based on the composite text. table 8.5

Duration in Kiutu A

Story

Fabula

A B C D E F

Present Pause Present (Past actions + future wishes) Future Future

Utu’s rise Description of Utu The sun’s chariot Spirits of the dead Deliverance from evil Utu’s praise and homecoming

Duration 2 ∞ 3 1 4 5

2 lines (1–2) 103 lines (3–59)a 30 lines (60–89) 72 lines (90–156) 74 lines (157–181) 23 lines (182–195.9)

a Some line numbers refer only to some manuscripts, mostly to cbs 563.

Thus, Utu’s description (B) is the longest sequence, followed by the section on the spirits of the dead (D), and the plea (E). The description of Utu consists of a long enumeration of Utu’s attributes, and the plea includes a list of the spirits and demons that shall not receive any offerings (“shall it be (so)!”), because they are intended only for the spirits listed in section D. These three sections are therefore the longest because they describe a large number of events, although such events may appear in the form of a list. As in Utu’s description, the stylistic device of the list helps to express something great or unknown, such as a deity, who would otherwise be ineffable. This section brings out the greatness of the god and highlights his ability to help the patient; and that is why he is asked to intervene. This rhetorical device, which is typical of prayers, emphasizes the

44

For a comparable analysis on the length of prayer parts see, e.g., Zgoll, 2003, 31–32.

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plea, the logical conclusion of the text. At the same time, section D and the list in section E have a practical purpose, namely to determine which demons should not receive offerings. 5.4 Frequency The term frequency describes the relation between the repetition of the events in the story and the fabula; in other words, it refers to how often an event is narrated. The most common case is the singulative narration: each event is narrated once.45 Another possibility is that an event which happened once is narrated several times (narrating n times what happened once); or that several near-identical events are narrated only once (narrating once what happened n times), as is the case of section A in Kiutu A: Utu, who has come out from the blue heaven, to shine from the foundation of the holy heaven (l. 1–2) Another passage in the text describes a likewise repeated action: Utu, from the horizon, Utu, to the zenith, Utu, from east to west you direct these eyes (l. 55–56) The sun rising and crossing the sky every day is a repeated event in the fabula, but it is narrated only once in the story because the description of the sunrise in the Kiutus points to the exact moment of performance. From a narratological point of view, this form of frequency, called omnitemporal narration, is especially used to narrate “things of all times, such as natural phenomena, human nature, and the habits of the immortal gods.”46 In this light, other passages that describe natural phenomena exhibit this form of iterative narrative, such as the following account of how a hypothetical absence of the sun from the skies would affect the animals: Utu, without you, the wolf would not smite the lamb, the lion would not hide in the field. (l. 47)

45

46

De Jong, 2014, 99; Bal, 1997, 111–114. Genette, 1980, 114–115 kept the following possibilities separate: “narrating once what happened once” and “narrating n times what happened n times”. De Jong, 2014, 100.

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5.5 Narrator and Narratee On the question of narrators, one must first distinguish between narrator and author, and between the readers or listeners and the narratees. By contrast to the physical author and audience, the narrator and narratees are abstract functions in this context. The author of texts such as the Kiutus remains hard to identify, while the narrator is easy to recognize. When identifying the narrator, the first question to ask is whether he appears as a character in the story (internal versus external narration).47 In the case of the Kiutus, the narrator is the exorcist: he is the one who recites the prayer and tells the story of the patient. This narrator is thus placed within the story and sometimes intervenes in it in the first-person, revealing his identity, as in the following line: “And (also) I, the exorcist, your servant, will sing your (= Utu’s) praise!” (l. 188). Generally speaking, the grammatical person does not in itself identify the narrator, however, in this case, the first-person pronouncement of the exorcist does coincide with the voice of the narrator.48 The narratee is the receiver of the story, and in this case, as in many other hymns and prayers, it corresponds to the deity who is the listener of the incantation. In Kiutu A, Utu is addressed in the second person: Utu, I will speak a word to you, (direct) your ear toward my word! I will tell you of a trial, may you take heed! […] (l. 90–91) Utu, the narratee, hearing about the story of the patient by the exorcist, is then asked to issue a verdict concerning him. This is framed within the juridical metaphor, in which Utu is the judge and the patient is the defendant, the issue of the trial being the evil committed or suffered by the patient. The other participants in the ritual can be seen as the characters of the story; these include the patient and the spirits of the dead. The patient is the main character, since the entire story is built around him and the prayer is recited on his behalf, whereas the spirits of the dead are secondary characters.

47 48

Intradiegetic (internal) and extradiegetic (external), according to Genette, 1980. Homodiegetic (first-person) and heterodiegetic (second-person) person, according to Genette, 1980.

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5.6

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Focalization

Due to the variety of possible focalizations, a simplified narratological model that is suitable for the current texts is applied for the present aim. Focalization can be defined as “the relation between ‘who perceives’ and what is perceived.”49 In the present case, the exorcist is a minor character within the story, and he recounts the events from his point of view. However, his point of view is not restricted, as he knows all the events leading up to the patient’s present condition: in Kiutu A, the narrator relates what the spirits of the dead did in the past, their present condition, what may happen to them in the future, and how they may become dangerous if the proper rituals are not performed. Likewise, in Kiutu br 3, the narrator knows what happened to the patient in the past, namely attacks by demons (section 4, l. 16–39). In both cases, the narrator is a character in the story and tells the story from his internal point of view; at the same time, he knows more than the other characters—the past, present, and future of the story—making him what is termed an omniscient narrator. This kind of narrator is perfectly suited to the profession of the exorcist and is closely bound up with his ritual power: Since he is omniscient, knowing the whole sequence of events of the story, he has the power of returning the present crisis to the aforementioned “point zero” of the mythical past, in which reality is made anew. Additionally, from a social point of view, this form of focalization contributes to the exorcist’s authority and legitimacy.

6

Conclusions

The Kiutus are always connected with a ritual performed at a specific moment of the day; this can be any time as long as the sun is visible. Since the sun as seen from the earth is always in motion, its movement is both spatial (a position in the sky) and temporal (a time of day). The notion of time will therefore be decisive for understanding this typology of incantations, and further narratological analysis of the text confirms this initial impression. Among the various aspects of time, the analysis of the order of narration has shown that the fabula mostly runs parallel to the story; this fact can be explained by the ritual performance accompanying the recitation of these texts, since ritual actions mostly follow the path of the sun in the sky. In Kiutu

49

Bal, 1997, 8.

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A, Utu is evoked at sunrise (salutation), the exorcist presents offerings to him and describes the patient’s problem to him, the god is then asked to dispel the evil and is finally thanked and praised: he can now go home at the end of the day. The fabula and story deviate in the explanation of the patient’s problem, which is told through analepsis, of which a very common form in incantations is the historiola. Both present a causal connection between the past and the present situation; but the analepsis in the Kiutus describes a contingent situation rather than a mythological tale. Prolepsis occurs in these texts in the form of a warning of future dangers that may threaten the patient. The progression of the story is paused in Utu’s description (section B), which offers a good example of how time is “represented” in these texts. This sequence stands out in the text, due to its narrative pause (rhythm), its large number of lines (duration), and its omnitemporal narration (frequency). The slowing of rhythm highlights an important moment, in this case emphasizing Utu’s status as judge: it is he who will decide the case of the patient. From the perspective of duration, the stylistic device of the long list conveys the impression of something everlasting. In terms of frequency, narrating once what is typical of all times helps to depict Utu’s attributes and qualify what the sun does: rising and setting each day. The sunrise described in the first lines of Kiutu A is a repeated event that is narrated once, but it is also universal: it not only happens an unlimited number of times, but the story—and its ritual performance at sunrise—can happen every time as well. It is an event located in a specific moment of the day, but not within a sequential time. Therefore, order, rhythm, duration, and frequency in Kiutu A all reveal a specific concept of time, namely a cyclical conception. The Kiutus recount something that can always happen (the evil afflicting the patient) and provide a recipe for resolving it that is always valid (the ritual performed at sunrise), at least according to the exorcist’s worldview. On the other hand, mythical or historical texts tell us of things that happened once in a distant time and which now influence the present. Therefore, although Mesopotamian scribes never specifies it, the structure of their texts indicates a conscious usage of specific narrative techniques for specific purposes. In terms of focalization, we saw that the narrator is the exorcist and thus a character within the story of the Kiutus; at the same time, he knows the events of the narrative better than any of the other characters (Utu and the patient). From a social perspective, this way of narrating events contributes to his authority within the community: along with the other listeners, the patient is positively affected by the exorcist’s seemingly omniscient narration, thereby enhancing the power of his healing. From the perspective of the exorcist’s worldview, this form of narration would have demonstrated that he really did

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have the power to alter reality: because he knows the past, present, and future, he has the power to return to a “zero point”; he exerts power over time.

Acknowledgements Many thanks go to the editors of this volume, who read several drafts of this chapter and have contributed with substantial improvements, as well as to the anonymous reviewer for the helpful comments. The final stage of this paper was written with the support of the Martin Buber Society of Fellows at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

Bibliography Abusch, Tzvi. 1974. “Mesopotamian Anti-Witchcraft Literature: Texts and Studies Part i: The Nature of Maqlû: Its Character, Divisions, and Calendrical Setting”, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 33: 251–262. Alaura, Silvia, and Marco Bonechi. 2012. “Il carro del dio sole nei testi cuneiformi dell’età del bronzo.” Studi Micenei ed Egeo-Anatolici 54: 5–115. Ambos, Claus. 2013. “Rites of Passage in Ancient Mesopotamia: Changing Status by Moving through Space: Bīt rimki and the Ritual of the Substitute King.” In Approaching Rituals in Ancient Cultures: Proceedings of the Conference, November 28–30, 2011, Rome, edited by Claus Ambos and Lorenzo Verderame, 39–54. Rome: Fabrizio Serra editore. Austin, John L. 1962. How to Do Things with Words. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Bal, Mieke. 1997. Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative. 2nd edition. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Baragli, Beatrice. 2022. Sonnengrüße: Die sumerischen Kiutu-Gebetsbeschwörungen. Ancient Magic and Divination 19. Leiden: Brill Ceravolo, Marinella. 2022. L’historiola nella Mesopotamia antica. Mito, rito e performatività. Rome: Bulzoni. De Jong, Irene J.F. 2014. Narratology and Classics: A Practical Guide. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eco, Umberto. 2009. La Vertigine della lista. Milan: Bompiani. Falkenstein, Adam. 1931. Die Haupttypen der sumerischen Beschwörung literarisch untersucht. Leipziger Semitistische Studien 1. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Farber, Walter. 1997. “Bīt rimki—ein assyrisches Ritual?” In Assyrien im Wandel der Zeiten, edited by Hartmut Waetzoldt and Harald Hauptmann, 41–46. Heidelberger Studien zum Alten Orient 6, Comptes rendu de la Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale 39. Heidelberg: Heidelberger Orientverlag.

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Fludernik, Monika. 2009. An Introduction to Narratology. Translated by Patricia Häusler-Greenfield and Monika Fludernik. London: Routledge. Frankfurter, David. 2001. “Narrating Power: The Theory and Practice of the Magical Historiola in Ritual Spells.” In Ancient Magic and Ritual Power, edited by Marvin W. Meyer and Paul A. Mirecki, 457–476. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 129. Leiden: Brill. Frankfurter, David. 2017. “Narratives That Do Things.” In Narrating Religion, edited by Sarah I. Johnston, 95–106. Macmillan Interdisciplinary Handbooks: Religion. Farmington Hills: Macmillan Reference. George, Andrew R. 2018. “Kamadme, the Sumerian Counterpart of the Demon Lamaštu.” In Sources of Evil: Studies in Mesopotamian Exorcistic Lore, edited by Greta van Buylaere, Mikko Luukko, Daniel Schwemer and Avigail Mertens-Wagschal, 150– 157. Ancient Magic and Divination 15. Leiden: Brill. Geller, Markham J. 2016. Healing Magic and Evil Demons: Canonical Udug-hul Incantations. Die babylonisch-assyrische Medizin in Texten und Untersuchungen 8. Berlin: De Gruyter. Genette, Gérard. 1980. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. Translated by Jane E. Lewin. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Hrůša, Ivan. 2015. Ancient Mesopotamian Religion: A Descriptive Introduction. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Krebernik, Manfred. 2001. “Ein ki-ᵈutu-Gebet aus der Hilprecht-Sammlung.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 91: 238–252. Kunstmann, Walter G. 1932. Die babylonische Gebetsbeschwörung. Leipziger Semitistische Studien 2. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Læssøe, Jørgen. 1955. Studies on the Assyrian Ritual and Series bît rimki. Copenhagen: Munksgaard. Lenzi, Alan. 2011. Reading Akkadian Prayers and Hymns: A Reader. Ancient Near East Monographs 3. Atlanta: sbl. Lévi-Strauss, Claude. 1963. “The Effectiveness of Symbols.” Structural Anthropology 1: 186–204. Mayer, Werner R. 1976. Untersuchungen zur Formensprache der babylonischen “Gebetsbeschwörungen.” Studia Pohl Series Maior 5. Rome: Biblical Institute Press. Piccin, Michela, and Martin Worthington. 2015. “Schizophrenia and the Problem of Suffering in the Ludlul Hymn to Marduk”, Revue d’Assyriologie 109: 113–124. Podemann Sørensen, Jørgen. 2003. “The Rhetoric of Ritual.” Scripta Instituti Donneriani Aboensis 18: 149–161. Sanders, Seth L. 2001. “A Historiography of Demons: Preterit-Thema, Para-Myth, and Historiola in the Morphology of Genres.” In Historiography in the Cuneiform World, edited by Tzvi Abusch, Carol Noyes, William W. Hallo, and Irene Winter, 429–440. Comptes rendu de la Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale 45. Bethesda: cdl Press

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Schwemer, Daniel. 2019. Der kontraintuitive König: Zum babylonisch-assyrischen Badehaus-Ritual. Mainz: Steiner Franz Verlag. Shibata, Daisuke. 2008. “A Nimrud Manuscript of the Fourth Tablet of the Series mīs pî, ctn iv 170(+)188, and a Kiutu Incantation to the Sun God.” Iraq 70: 189–204. van Dijk, Jan. 1972. “Une variante du thème de ‘l’Esclave de la Lune.’” Orientalia 41: 339– 348. Veldhuis, Niek. 1991. A Cow of Sîn. Library of Oriental Texts 2. Groningen: Styx Publications. Walker, Christopher, and Michael B. Dick. 2001. The Induction of the Cult Image in Ancient Mesopotamia: The Mesopotamian Mīs Pî Ritual. Study of Assyrian Archives Literary Text 1. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Wilcke, Claus. 1976. “Formale Gesichtspunkte der sumerischen Literatur.” In Sumerological Studies in Honor of Thorkild Jacobsen on his Seventieth Birthday, June 7, 1974 edited by Stephen J. Lieberman, 205–316. Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Zgoll, Annette. 2003. Die Kunst des Betens. Form und Funktion, Theologie und Psychagogik in babylonisch-assyrischen Handerhebungsgebeten an Ištar. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 308. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag.

part 3 The Shape of the Past

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chapter 9

Historical Explanation in the Babylonian Chronicles Ben Dewar

1

Introduction: Objective and Reliable History?

For the historiography of Mesopotamia in the first millennium bce, two sets of sources are particularly important: the Assyrian royal inscriptions and the Babylonian chronicles.1 This paper will focus on the latter of these two corpora, in particular the narrative and rhetorical strategies used in Babylonian chronicles to explain historical events. Traditionally, Assyriologists have drawn a distinction between these two forms of cuneiform historiography, viewing the Assyrian royal inscriptions as heavily biased state utterances intended to portray the king in the best possible light, and the Babylonian chronicles as scholarly attempts at writing “objective” history. A. Kirk Grayson, for example, describes the Babylonian chronicles as “the highest achievement of Babylonian historians with regard to the writ-

1 A variety of cuneiform texts have been labelled “chronicles,” such as the Weidner Chronicle (Glassner, 2004, no. 38; Grayson, 1975, no. 19), the Sumerian King List (Glassner, 2004, no. 1), the Assyrian Eponym Chronicle (Glassner, 2004, nos. 8–9; Millard, 1994), and Synchronistic Chronicle (Glassner, 2004, no. 10; Grayson, 1975, no. 21). In this paper, I use the term “Babylonian chronicle” to refer to chronicle texts dating to the Neo-Babylonian, Achaemenid, and Seleucid periods, which Glassner, 2004, 44, describes as “erudite compositions written in sparse style,” that are “(p)reoccupied with the recent past” and “whose existence must have been relatively precarious.” For editions of these texts, see Glassner, 2004, nos. 16–37; Grayson, 1975, nos. 1–16. For a separation of this corpus into two chronicle traditions—one from Babylon, the other from Borsippa—see Waerzeggers, 2012, 287–298. For editions of most Assyrian royal inscriptions, see Frame 2021; Grayson, 1987; 1991; 1996; Grayson and Novotny, 2012; 2014; Leichty, 2011; Novotny and Jeffers, 2018; Tadmor and Yamada, 2011. All transliterations below are based on the cited text editions. The translations are my own. Since I first submitted this paper to the editors in 2020, two publications have appeared (Levavi, 2021; Waerzeggers, 2021) that covered similar subjects and made some of the same observations as my paper did in its original form. In light of these recent publications, this paper has been substantially rewritten and refocused. I am thankful to the editors for allowing me the time to make the necessary revisions.

© Ben Dewar, 2023 | doi:10.1163/978900453

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ing of history in a reliable and objective manner,”2 further asking: “Can we then conclude that these documents are the product of a sincere desire to keep a brief and accurate record of Babylonian history ‘for its own sake’? It is at least possible.”3 Since Grayson’s publication of most Babylonian chronicles in 1975,4 scholars have cast doubt on this distinction between the biased Assyrian scribes who were happy to obscure historical “truth” and the Babylonian “historians” who wrote “history in a reliable and objective manner.” Several scholars had already questioned the reliability of the chronicle texts three decades ago.5 More recently, Jean-Jacques Glassner, in the introduction to his own edition of the chronicles, highlighted the impossibility of creating “objective” historiography under any circumstance, meaning that to treat Babylonian chronicles as “ready-made historical reality” is a “crass methodological error.”6 With this increased awareness of the subjective nature of all historiography, the discussion of bias in Babylonian chronicles has generally focused on identifying either chauvinistic viewpoints7 or errors in the dating and details of events.8 Caroline Waerzeggers argues that this has led to a situation in which Mesopotamian historiography is studied only with a view towards determining whether a text contains either “facts” or “propaganda.” For Waerzeggers, such binary distinctions are unhelpful and mask the real issues of working with Babylonian chronicles. As she writes of the Nabonidus Chronicle: Instead of reading this text either as a factual report or as a piece of propaganda, I argue that the text is more suitably read as historical literature, or “history.” As such, the text allows us to study first and foremost the practice of historiography, and only on a secondary level the historical course of events.9

2 Grayson, 1975, 8. 3 Grayson, 1980, 175. Similarly, Finkelstein, 1963, 469, characterizes chronicles as one of the only types of Mesopotamian text to be written out of “the desire to know what really happened” in the past. 4 Grayson, 1975, nos. 1–16. 5 For example, Brinkman, 1990, 100 fn. 148; Ephʿal, 1984, 52–54; Levine, 1982, 50; Younger, 1990, 34; Zawadzki, 1988, 114–143. 6 Glassner, 2004, 49. 7 For example, Kratz, 2002, 149–150; Levine, 1982, 50; Naʾaman, 1992, 261; Younger, 1990, 34; Zawadzki, 1988, 114–143; 2010. 8 For example, Brinkman, 1990, 100 fn. 148; Ephʿal, 1984, 52–54; Glassner, 2004, 40. 9 Waerzeggers, 2015, 96.

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Waerzeggers here touches on the notion that historiography is, first and foremost, a form of literature. This concept is most closely associated with the historian Hayden White, who argued that historiography provides meaning to events by “emplotting” them in particular narratives.10 Similarly, J.H. Hexter proposed a model of “processive explanation,” whereby the causes of historical events are explained not by outlining a chain of cause and effect, but by structuring and pacing the historiographic narrative in such a way as to frame and highlight “pivot points” which served as catalysts for significant change.11 White and Hexter both argue that historiography functions not only through a presentation of facts, but also through its narrative and rhetorical strategies. When analyzing historiographic texts, whether ancient or modern, we should seek to identify and understand these strategies. Even in texts like the Babylonian chronicles that are “a seemingly straightforward catalog of major events,”12 neither the selection of events to be included nor the narrative representation of these events writes itself. Studying Babylonian chronicles as literary works in their own right, rather than mere lists of “facts” to be judged for their veracity, is an interesting and useful exercise. Until very recently, studies of the Babylonian chronicles in terms of their literary and narrative structures were rare, and those that did exist still focused primarily on questions of whether these texts are propaganda or objective and reliable history.13 However, in the last year, papers by Caroline Waerzeggers and Yuval Levavi have analyzed the chronicle Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles no. 1 (abc 1) as a work of historiography.14 Both scholars identify literary structures present in the text, but interpret these structures as elements of the writing of history, rather than evidence that abc 1 is either propagandistic or unreliable. Waerzeggers and Levavi have demonstrated that abc 1 is a text full of interesting and meaningful patterns, making it an ideal case study for the ways in which Babylonian chronicles explain historical events.

10 11 12 13

14

H. White, 1978, 83–86, 106–110, 124–125. Hexter, 1972, 200–261. I return to Hexter’s approach to narrative historiography in greater detail below. Melville, 2016, 58. Kratz, 2002, 149–150, highlights the Nabonidus Chronicle’s narrative focus on the disruption of the Akitu festival during Nabonidus’ reign as a means of validating the Persian conquest of Babylon, while Zawadzki analyzes variations in the focus and tone of the year accounts in the Nabonidus Chronicle (Zawadzki, 2010) and deviations from recurrent literary patterns in the Nabopolassar Chronicle (Zawadzki, 1988, 114–143) to argue that the accounts of earlier events in both texts were edited at a later date. Levavi, 2021; Waerzeggers, 2021.

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Patterns of Narrative Functions in abc 1

Known from two tablets now in the British Museum (bm 92502 and bm 75977), abc 1 is a text primarily concerned with events in Babylonia, Assyria, and Elam from the third regnal year of the Babylonian king Nabonassar to the accession of the Assyrian-born king of Babylon Shamash-shuma-ukin—that is, from 744 to 667bce.15 The colophon of the more complete exemplar, abc 1A, labels it as the first tablet in a series of unknown length.16 abc 1 covers the period during which the Assyrian Empire reached its peak, becoming larger than any preceding empire. Babylonia was conquered by Tiglath-pileser iii in 729–728 bce, but proved to be one of the most rebellious provinces of the empire. Babylonia’s eastern neighbor, Elam, was Assyria’s most prominent rival in the south and frequently supported Babylonian attempts to shrug off the yoke of Assyrian imperialism during this period. The kingship of Babylon changed hands several times between the Assyrian kings or their vassals and independent Babylonian rulers enjoying Elamite support.17 These conflicts involving Assyria, Babylonia, and Elam are one of abc 1’s core concerns. The text has been particularly useful to Assyriologists because it depicts military events that also appear in the Assyrian royal inscriptions, but with different outcomes. For example, the Battle of Halule in 691 bce, which is an Assyrian victory in the annals of the Assyrian king Sennacherib,18 is recorded as a victory for the Elamites in abc 1.19 Likewise, the Battle of Der was portrayed as an Assyrian victory in the Assyrian royal inscriptions of Sennacherib’s father, Sargon ii;20 a Babylonian victory in the royal inscriptions of the Babylonian

15

16

17 18 19 20

The text has been edited by Grayson, 1975, no. 1 (exemplars A and C), and Glassner, 2004, no. 16. bm 75976, the tablet edited by Grayson as exemplar B of this text (Glassner, 2004, no. 17; Grayson, 1975, no. 1, exemplar B), hereafter “abc 1B,” is in fact a separate text that shares much material with abc 1 but also differs from it in several ways. In this paper, “abc 1” will be used to refer to Grayson’s exemplars A and C (“abc 1A” and “abc 1C,” respectively). Glassner, 2004, no. 16: iv 39. None of the other tablets in the series are extant. On the relation between cuneiform tablet series and narrative structure, see Sophus Helle in this volume. For an overview of Babylonian history during this period, see Brinkman 1984, 39–92; Frame 1992, 52–130. Grayson and Novotny, 2012, no. 22: v 17–vi 36. Glassner, 2004, no. 16: iii 16–18. Frame, 2021, no. 7: 23; no. 43: 17.

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king Merodach-baladan ii;21 and an Elamite victory in abc 1, with Merodachbaladan arriving too late to participate in the battle.22 Throughout abc 1, there is a strong focus on Elamite involvement in battles fought on Babylonian soil. This fact was first noted by John Brinkman, who saw it as evidence of the Babylonians “buying” Elamite support in an attempt to resist Assyrian imperialism.23 In particular, he notes that Assyrian military defeats in Babylonia almost always occur when Babylonia receives Elamite support.24 Brinkman takes this pattern to be historical fact; however, instead of treating the text as “ready-made historical reality” in this fashion, Waerzeggers and Levavi both consider it to be a literary device.25 Waerzeggers catalogues the types of action taken by Assyrian, Babylonian, and Elamite kings in abc 1, and argues that the text creates a different “profile” of “action types” for the kings of each country: the Babylonian king is passive and inactive, the Assyrian king is active and “militarily engaged,” and the Elamite king is “a victor over Assyria” and “an aggressor on Babylonian soil.”26 Levavi notes the text’s “predilection” for Elam, which is mentioned more times than Assyria or Babylonia,27 and argues that Elamite successes and Babylonian failures in battles against Assyria present the Babylonian kings as “mere puppets,”28 while the Elamite kings receive an “assertive yet positive portrayal.”29 That the patterns identified by Levavi and Waerzeggers are not simple reflections of historical reality—pace Brinkman—is suggested by a comparison of abc 1 with other texts describing the same events. For example, in abc 1, the Elamite king Humban-nimena is given sole responsibility for the victory 21 22

23 24

25 26 27 28 29

Frame, 1995, B.6.21.1: 16–18. Glassner, 2004, no. 16: i 33–37. These discrepancies in the outcomes of battles in Assyrian royal inscriptions and Babylonian chronicles have been addressed by Grayson, 1965, 340– 342, who consistently turns to the Babylonian chronicles as more reliable and objective accounts of events. Melville, 2016, 64–65, instead argues that the battle was indecisive, but that both the Assyrian and Babylonian-Elamite sides achieved some of their objectives and thus both felt justified in claiming victory. Brinkman, 1965, 165–166. Brinkman, 1965, 161. Assyrian victories over Babylonian armies that lack Elamite support are recorded in Glassner, 2004, no. 16: i 19–23, ii 1–5, ii 12–22, ii 45–iii 5, iii 19–27, iii 39–47. Elamite-led armies defeat Assyria on Babylonian soil in Glassner, 2004, no. 16: i 33–37, ii 38–44, iii 13–14. There are some Assyrian victories against the Elamites recorded in abc 1 (see Glassner, 2004, no. 16: ii 35–38, iii 9–10), but not when the Elamite army is fighting in support of the Babylonians and on Babylonian soil. Glassner, 2004, 49, as quoted above. Waerzeggers, 2021, 295–302. Levavi, 2021, 180–182. Levavi, 2021, 178. Levavi, 2021, 183.

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over the Assyrians at Halule,30 whereas the inscriptions of Sennacherib record that Mushezib-Marduk, the king of Babylon, was also present.31 Similarly, in a battle at Kish early in Sennacherib’s reign, abc 1 only states that the Assyrian king defeated Merodach-baladan ii.32 Sennacherib’s inscriptions, by contrast, record some level of Elamite involvement in this episode. His inscription, known as the First Campaign Cylinder, states that Merodach-baladan was joined by Elamite forces led by Imbappa, the Elamite turtānu (“field marshal”), and Tannanu, the tašlīšu (“third man”) of the Elamite king Shutruk-Nahhunte ii.33 In this inscription, Sennacherib’s victory over Merodach-baladan at Kish is followed by a victory over the Elamites led by Tannanu and Elamites are listed among the captives taken during the campaign.34 This Elamite involvement is noticeably absent from abc 1. Of course, we should not simply replace a faith in the superior accuracy of the Babylonian chronicles with a similar faith in the Assyrian royal inscriptions.35 However, the discrepancies between abc 1 and Sennacherib’s royal inscriptions raise the possibility that the author of abc 1 omitted references to a Babylonian or Elamite king’s involvement in a battle when it would upset the patterns that they had identified in historic events. A comparison of abc 1 to the Assyrian royal inscriptions also demonstrates a very different approach to recording the participants in battles in these texts. The Assyrian royal inscriptions are keen to stress the heterogenous nature of opposition to the Assyrian king. He fights as “one against many” and succeeds in battle despite being hopelessly outnumbered by a coalition of various different enemies.36 abc 1, on the other hand, pares down all conflicts in Babylonia to interactions purely between the kings of Assyria, Babylonia, and Elam. Other groups that had clear involvement in Babylonian opposition to Assyria, such as Arabs or Arameans,37 are never mentioned in this text. Thus, Sennacherib’s 30 31 32 33 34 35

36 37

Glassner, 2004, no. 16: iii 16–18. Grayson and Novotny, 2012, no. 22: v 54–55. Glassner, 2004, no. 16: ii 12–22. Grayson and Novotny, 2012, no. 1: 6–9. Grayson and Novotny, 2012, no. 1: 23–29. On the tendency of Assyrian royal inscriptions to bend the truth, inflate numbers, and avoid mentioning embarrassing military setbacks, see De Odorico, 1995; Frahm, 2019, 151– 152. The Assyrian royal inscriptions have often been argued to follow certain “rules” in how they bend the truth, and to avoid lying outright (Levine, 1981, 62–64; Melville, 2016, 10; Siddall, 2018, 65). However, since it is often difficult to verify many of the details mentioned in royal inscriptions from other sources, the limits of the misrepresentation or falsification that could appear in a campaign account are unclear. Liverani, 2017, 120–122. Arab and Aramean allies of anti-Assyrian kings of Babylon are mentioned in both Assyrian royal inscriptions (for example, Frame 2021, no. 1: 317–339; Grayson and Novotny, 2012,

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account of the Battle of Halule lists 25 other lands and peoples from southern Mesopotamia and the Zagros that joined battle on the Babylonian-Elamite side,38 while abc 1 only mentions the army of Elam and Akkad (i.e., Babylonia), led by Humban-nimena.39 Whereas the Assyrian scribes separated Babylonian resistance into various constituent parts, the author(s) of abc 1 placed all the parties involved under the umbrellas of “Babylonia” and “Elam.” It would seem, then, that the pattern of Elamite involvement resulting in Assyrian defeat does not occur simply as a result of the author(s) of abc 1 recording “what really happened,” but instead stems from a selective editing of the events to better fit the narrative and rhetorical goals of the text. At the very least, the author(s) presented a simplified version of Babylonian history that emphasized patterns in which they took particular interest. As stated above, history does not “write itself;” instead, events are “emplotted” into specific narratives to serve the purposes of their writers. In abc 1, this meant selectively presenting the events in a way that created differing action-type profiles for each of the texts’ cast of characters, so as to understand and explain Babylonia’s past. This selectivity does not mean that we should assume a propagandistic motive for the text; making the evidence fit the conclusion is not unheard of in modern works of history,40 so it is perhaps unsurprising that this methodological flaw is also on display in ancient Babylonian historiography. Specificity and complexity are sacrificed, at least partially, in favor of a perceived explanatory narrative. Waerzeggers and Levavi both date abc 1 to the late 6th Century bce, when Babylonia was under the control of the Achaemenid Persian Empire.41 They highlight the association between Persia and Elam in Mesopotamian thought, and argue that this association influenced how the text’s author viewed historical events.42 However, Waerzeggers and Levavi disagree on how exactly the author of abc 1 interpreted the patterns within the text. Waerzeggers views the chronicle as an attempt to find the root causes of Babylonia’s situation under Persian rule, and argues that it is critical of both Babylonian and Elamite rulers.43 Conversely, Levavi sees it as an exploration of the enduring nature

38 39 40 41 42 43

no. 1: 28, no. 22: v 43–52; Novotny and Jeffers, 2018, no. 11: vii 82–92) and Assyrian royal correspondence (for example, Dietrich, 2003, no. 140, no. 142; Reynolds, 2003, no. 147). Grayson and Novotny, 2012, no. 22: v 43–52. Glassner, 2004, no. 16: iii 16–18. On the misrepresentation of evidence and the “unfairly” selective use of sources as common forms of bias in historical writing, see McCullagh, 2000, 40. Waerzeggers, 2021, 306–309; Levavi, 2021, 175. Waerzeggers, 2021, 307–309; Levavi, 2021, 181–182. Waerzeggers, 2021, 310–311.

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of the city of Babylon and its cults during a period of weak Babylonian kingship and oppression by Assyria.44 He argues that the text is influenced by the author’s experiences of Persian rule and presents Babylonian rulers negatively and Elamite ones positively.45 Both papers make valuable contributions to the study of the rhetoric in the Babylonian chronicles, a subject that has received considerably less attention than the rhetoric of the Assyrian royal inscriptions.46 This paper will aim to expand upon the foundations laid by Levavi and Waerzeggers by considering abc 1 in terms of the model of historical explanation put forward by the American historian of early modern Europe, J.H. Hexter.

3

Historical Analysis and Historical Storytelling

Hexter’s paper “The Rhetoric of History” and his monograph The History Primer made major contributions to the “linguistic turn” in the field of history in the late 1960s and early 1970s.47 Hexter sought to move models of historical explanation away from approaches dominated by analytical philosophy, in which history was a “science” and like any other science explained events through covering laws and chains of cause and effect.48 This model, he argued, was inadequate for history because historians and scientists answer very different questions, and do so in very different ways.49 Instead of being scientific, Hexter argued that explanations in narrative historiography are “processive.”50 Rather than simply creating causal chains that explain an event, processive explanation works through the creation of a narrative and rhetorical devices within that narrative.51 These rhetorical devices

44 45 46

47 48 49 50 51

Levavi, 2021, 182–183. Levavi sees this as the reason that abc 1 does not contain an account of the destruction of Babylon by Sennacherib. Levavi, 2021, 176–184. To give just a few examples of studies on the rhetoric of Assyrian royal inscriptions, see Bach, 2020; Badalì et al., 1982; Dewar, 2017; 2019; Fales, 1981; 1991; Hurowitz, 2009; 2013; Liverani, 1981; Tadmor, 1981; Van De Mieroop, 2010; Weissert, 1997. Hexter, 1967 and 1972; on Hexter’s contribution to the linguistic turn, see Curthoys and Docker, 2010, 141–144. For examples of this line of thought, see Hempel, 1942, 1962; M. White, 1965. Hexter, 1972, 25–53. Hexter, 1972, 200. Hexter’s emphasis on narrative and style in historiography is perhaps unsurprising; he is an excellent stylist. Even when The History Primer is in places androcentric (“for Hexter both the historian and the reader of histories are male”; Curthoys and Docker, 2010, 142), focused on niche subject matter to the point of self-indulgence (as will become clear

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provide explanations of how and why historical events happened the way they did, without needing to resort to explicitly stating that x caused y, and y caused z, and without a reliance on scientific covering laws.52 Hexter builds on this distinction by identifying two methods by which historians explain the past: analysis (the presentation of statistics and data) and storytelling (or processive explanation). Hexter demonstrates the differences between these two ways of writing history by comparing the events of the American League baseball season of 1939 and the National League baseball pennant race of 1951.53 He argues that the differences between these two baseball seasons mean that analysis is the suitable method of explanation for one, and storytelling for the other. In the 1939 American League season, the New York Yankees comfortably won the pennant without any real competition, ending the season 17 wins clear of their closest competitors, the Boston Red Sox.54 The Yankees’ sustained dominance over the course of the 1939 American League season means that storytelling is not an appropriate method of explaining their success that year: Given the question “Why did the Yankees win the pennant in 1939?” any historian worth his salt would translate it, “In 1939 what gave the Yankees a superiority over their nearest rival, the Boston Red Sox, so great that they turned competition for the pennant into a dull joke?” The answer calls not for historical storytelling but historical analysis. The analysis is simple:

52

53

54

below), or prone to fetishizing “common sense” (see, for example, Hexter, 1972, 395), it is nevertheless entertainingly written. Hexter, 1972, 30–46, 195–129. Such an approach to the rhetoric of history is the virtual antithesis of that of van der Spek, 2015, 455–456, who, in a response to Waerzeggers’ study of the Nabonidus Chronicle (2015), argues that: “the text gives no value judgements, nor arguments, nor explanations. We do not find any judgements such as ‘the king brought evil to the land,’ nor is any cause given: there are no words such as ‘because’ or ‘consequently’. Commentators of chronicles often mistakenly assume that sentences are meaningfully connected, but usually this is not the case.” Waerzeggers and Levavi’s work on abc 1 has amply demonstrated that van der Spek’s position is untenable, and this paper will provide further demonstrations that explanation can be achieved in cuneiform historiography through sequentiality and juxtaposition without the need for words such as “because” or “consequently.” Hexter, 1972, 195–261. Curthoys and Docker, 2010, 142, highlight Hexter’s choice of baseball as his subject matter as Americacentric and “aggressively provincial,” while Sahlins, 2004, 128, begins his commentary on Hexter’s baseball case studies in the context of ascribed individual and group agency in historiography by apologizing to those readers “who are not baseball fans and probably couldn’t care less.” I feel obliged to offer a similar apology here. Hexter, 1972, 212–214.

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the Yankees won handily because they were the best team in the league in both offence (batting) and defence (pitching and fielding), significantly better offensively than Boston and far, far better defensively. The excellent statistics of baseball enable us to support this judgement—universal at the time among all competent observers—with quantitative evidence.55 In short, historical analysis is suitable for explaining long-term trends for which a narrative explanation would be dull and superfluous.56 Unlike the Yankees’ dominance in the 1939 American League season, the 1951 National League season was a close-run affair. By early August, the Brooklyn Dodgers had built up a sizeable lead on their nearest competitors, the New York Giants. After this point, the Giants experienced a significant upturn in form, gaining on the Dodgers until, at the end of the regular season, the two teams were tied, and went into a series of playoff games to decide the pennant race.57 For the 1951 National League season, Hexter rejects historical analysis as redundant and unhelpful: the analytical mode of explanation that we intuitively recognize as appropriate to the American League season we intuitively reject for the National League season of 1951. Why do we do so? Well, what good would such analysis be? It would either reveal a marked overall superiority of one of the teams to all the others or it would not. If it did, it would simply be wrong. If two teams play each of the same six other teams twentytwo games and play one another twenty-two games, a total of 154 games per season, and end up by winning and losing precisely the same number of games, as the New York Giants and the Brooklyn Dodgers did that year, then overall neither team is markedly superior to the other over the whole season, whatever the other overall statistics suggest to the contrary. And, of course, if statistics show that the teams were about evenly matched, they just say again what the won-and-lost record has already said far more persuasively: they are not supporting or confirmatory to that record, merely redundant and superfluous.58 In this instance, an analytical approach is inadequate. Unlike the 1939 American League season, in which the state of things remained relatively consist55 56 57 58

Hexter, 1972, 213–214. Sahlins, 2004, 130. Hexter, 1972, 215–217. Hexter, 1972, 215.

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ent, the 1951 National League season saw several moments of swift change and reversal in fortune.59 Hexter argues that historical storytelling allows us to place emphasis on these “pivot points.”60 For example, the 1951 pennant race was decided by a homerun for the Giants in the final innings of the final playoffs game. Hexter sees the Dodgers’ coach’s decision to bring on a fast-ball pitcher just before this homerun as a significant “pivot point” in the story of the season, and as a result, he constructs his narrative of the last game of the playoffs with this point in mind.61 As these examples demonstrate, in Hexter’s model of historical explanation, analysis is suited to explain states of consistency and longterm trends, while storytelling is suited to explain moments of rapid change.62

4

Historical Analysis as a De-narrativizing Approach

Returning to abc 1, it is interesting that, although both Waerzeggers and Levavi are working from the position that historiography is a rhetorical (i.e., storytelling) act, both take an analytical approach to studying the text. Levavi demonstrates his argument that the text has a positive portrayal of Elam through a table of the number of attestations of Assyria, Babylonia, Elam, and their respective kings in abc 1.63 Similarly, Waerzeggers catalogues the actions taken by the kings of Assyria, Babylonia, and Elam in the text to demonstrate that each country’s kings perform a specific role within the narrative.64 Both analytical methods produce interesting and thought-provoking findings, but both also have the drawback of divorcing the events in abc 1 from narrative chronology. This point is demonstrated by a comparison of the specifics of Waerzeggers’ and Levavi’s approaches to those of other scholars who have adopted similar methodologies. Although neither Levavi nor Waerzeggers cites his work, their approach of considering the types of actions performed by the actors within a text bears some similarities to the work of the Russian folklorist Vladimir Propp, who sought to codify the constituent elements of narrative in Russian fairy tales.65 In doing so, he identified various “functions” that characters in these tales could 59 60 61 62 63 64 65

Hexter, 1972, 217, fig. 6. Hexter, 1972, 255–256. Hexter, 1972, 231–246. Sahlins, 2004, 136–137. Levavi, 2021, 180–181. Waerzeggers, 2021, 311–312. Propp, 1968. The table of action types in Waerzeggers, 2021, 311–312, is particularly Proppian.

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perform.66 He argues that these functions are fixed elements in the narratives, whilst the identities of the characters performing them can vary from one tale to another.67 To give one of Propp’s examples, in four different tales, a tsar gives the hero an eagle, an old man gives the hero a horse, a sorcerer gives the hero a boat, and a princess gives the hero a magic ring—and all these gifts serve to transport that hero to another kingdom.68 The four episodes contain different specifics, but the same narrative functions. Propp’s original functions are specific to Russian fairy tales,69 but the same principle can equally be applied, with different functions, to other text corpora in a similar fashion.70 Waerzeggers and Levavi adopt a similar approach, but expand the scope of narrative functions (Waerzeggers’ “action types”) to include the identities of the individuals performing those functions, an approach that Beate Pongratz-Leisten has previously applied in her study of religion in Assyrian royal ideology.71 The emphasis placed on the identities of the individuals who perform specific functions within a narrative is one way in which Waerzeggers and Levavi’s approaches differ from that of Propp,72 but a second, more important difference for the current purpose is how they approach the sequentiality of functions. Propp argued that the narrative functions within his corpus always fall

66 67 68 69 70 71 72

Propp, 1968, 26–64. Propp, 1968, 19–24. Propp identified a total of 31 different functions that could occur within Russian fairy tales. Propp, 1968, 19–20. Propp, 1968, xxv, 19; Gärtner-Brereton, 2008, 13–14; Liverani, 2004, 86, fn. 1. Badalì et al., 1982, 16; Konstantopoulos, 2017, 20, fn. 3; Younger, 1990. Pongratz-Leisten, 2015, 228–321, 379–447. Propp, 1968, 79–83 does acknowledge some limitation on who can perform specific “spheres of action,” that is, groups of functions generally performed by a single type of character, such as “the helper,” “the villain,” or “the donor.” For example, in Propp’s corpus, only horses perform all five functions in the helper’s sphere of action (Propp, 1968, 82). However, Propp’s morphological analysis generally does not concern itself with the identities of the characters performing the functions, focusing instead on the underlying structure of the narrative. Morphological analysis was never intended as a method for interpreting the meanings and rhetorical strategies of texts, nor as a way of understanding them in their historical and cultural contexts (Propp, 1968, xii–xiii; Schmitz, 2002, 46). In spite of this, recurrent associations between types of character and specific narrative functions within a corpus can be useful for such interpretations, and Propp saw them as significant for the “historical analysis” of folktales (Propp, 1968, 87–91; for an example of Propp’s historical analysis of Russian fairy tales that takes the identities of the characters performing specific functions into account, see Propp, 1971, 96–114). For morphological analysis, then, the kinds of functions performed are the most important consideration, but the question of who performs which functions within a text or corpus is an equally valid avenue of research. This is the approach taken by both Levavi and Waerzeggers.

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into specific sequences.73 His study focuses on the unfolding nature of events, in which one function must necessarily follow another, and cannot precede it. Waerzeggers, on the other hand, focuses on action types as qualities of individuals. How these actions fit into sequences is not as important as the fact of who is performing them. Propp centers moments of action, and locates them within their narrative context. Waerzeggers centers states of being and, in so doing, de-narrativizes moments of action. Her study of abc 1 tells us that the actions of the Babylonian king present him as passive, but she has less to say on how these actions fit into the broader sequence of events within the narrative. By focusing on who does what in the narrative, and overlooking when they do so, Levavi and Waerzeggers detach the events in abc 1 from their chronological relationships to one another. This is significant. Chronology is at the heart of narrativity and, by extension, it is central to Hexter’s model of processive explanation.74 Overlooking the role of chronology in the structure of a text therefore obscures the changes that occur within it. We must go beyond considering abc 1 as a collection of rhetorical devices to explore its meaning as a narrative. I will attempt to do so below, focusing on the representation of Elam and Elamite kings in the text, as this is also a major focus of both Waerzeggers and Levavi’s work on the text.

5

Historical Storytelling in abc 1

As stated above, Levavi notes a pronounced focus on Elam in abc 1, and Waerzeggers characterizes the Elamite king’s “profile” in the text as being one of military success against the Assyrian army.75 Focusing on narrative chronology offers a different perspective. Elam is mentioned in only three of the eleven entries from the reign of Esarhaddon and just one of the eight entries from before the reign of Merodach-baladan ii.76 Of these four references to Elam, the only Elamite military success is a raid on Sippar in Esarhaddon’s sixth regnal year, in which the Elamite army is not confronted by an Assyrian one and 73 74

75 76

Propp, 1968, 21–24. Indeed, Ricoeur, 1984, 52, argues that narrative is the basic means by which humans are able to conceptualize time. As Cobley, 2001, 17, puts it: “narrative is the human relation to time”. Waerzeggers, 2021. Glassner, 2004, no. 16: i 9–10, iii 39–47, iv 9–18. By “entry,” I mean a single section of the text separated from the preceding and subsequent parts of the text by ruled lines. In abc 1, these divisions usually represent a single year, with the exception of the reign of Mushezib-Marduk (Glassner, 2004, no. 16: iii 13–27), which is presented as a single entry.

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no pitched battle takes place.77 Instead, different patterns occur. In Esarhaddon’s reign an emphasis is placed on the deportation or execution of officials,78 and campaigns conducted by Esarhaddon to the north and west.79 Conversely, Elam appears in eight of the ten entries covering the period from the reign of Merodach-baladan ii to that of Sennacherib, frequently in the context of battle.80 There is not a consistent pattern of “Elamite predilection” in abc 1 as a whole, but a series of sections that each contain their own patterns. Within Hexter’s model of processive explanation, the points at which these patterns change are important for understanding how a narrative explains past events. It will therefore be useful to consider some of them in further detail. Let us start by considering two points in the text in each of which Assyria fights two battles on Babylonian soil, being defeated in one and victorious in the other. First, Sargon fights battles against Humban-nikash I of Elam, who defeats him, and against the Babylonian king Merodach-baladan ii, who he defeats to become king of Babylon: Second year of Merodach-baladan: Ummanigash (i.e., Humban-nikash i), king of Elam, did battle against Sargon, king of the land of Ashur, in the region of Der and made the land of Ashur retreat. He inflicted a great defeat on them. Merodach-baladan and his soldiers, who had gone to aid the king of Elam, did not arrive in time for the battle and turned back. Fifth year of Merodach-baladan: Ummanigash, king of Elam, (went to his) fate (i.e., died). [Twenty-six] years Ummanigash exercised kingship over Elam. [Ishtar-hu]ndu (i.e., Shutruk-Nahhunte ii), the son of his sister, sat upon the throne in Elam. [Tenth year of Merodach-balada]n: [he ruined and plundered (the land of) Bit-…]-ri. [Twelfth] year [of Merodach-baladan: Sargon went down to Akkad and did] battle [with Merodach-baladan], and Merodach-b[aladan turned in retreat before him. He fled to Elam]. Twelve ye[ars Merodach-baladan exercised kingship over Babylon]. Sargon [sat upon the throne in Babylon].81

77 78 79 80 81

Glassner, 2004, no. 16: iv 9–15. Glassner, 2004, no. 16: iv 1–2, 14–15, 29. Glassner, 2004, no. 16: iv 3–8, 10, 19–28, 30. Glassner, 2004, no. 16: i 33–ii 5, ii 31–iii 27. mu 2 damar.utu.a.mu um-ma-ni-ga-áš šàr elam ina nam bàd.an.ki ṣal-tu4 ana šà lugal.gin šàr kur aš-šur dù-ma bala kur aš-šur gar-an ši.ši-šú-nu ma-ʾ-diš gar-an

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In the second, Sennacherib is defeated in battle by the Elamite king Humban-nimena, then later defeats the Babylonian king Mushezib-Marduk: First year of Mushezib-Marduk, month of Abu, the seventeenth day: Kudurru (i.e., Kudur-Nahhunte ii), king of Elam, was captured in a revolt and killed. Ten months Kudurru exercised kingship over Elam. Menanu (i.e., Humban-nimena) sat upon the throne in Elam. An unknown year: Menanu mustered an army of Elam and Akkad, did battle against the land of Assur in Halule, and made the land of Assur retreat. Fourth year of Mushezib-Marduk, month of Nisannu, the fifteenth day: Menanu, king of Elam, suffered a stroke and his mouth seized up so that he was unable to speak. In the month of Kislimu, the first day, the city (i.e., Babylon) was seized. Mushezib-Marduk was captured and taken to the land of Assur. Four years Mushezib-Marduk exercised kingship over Babylon. In the month of Addaru, the seventh day, Menanu, king of Elam, (went to his) fate. Four years Menanu exercised kingship over Elam. Humban-haltash (I) sat upon the throne in Elam.82

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mdamar.utu.ibila.mu u um-ma-ni-šú šá a-na re-ṣu-tu4 šàr elam.ma.ki gin-ku ṣal-tu4 ul ik-šu-ud ana egir-šú lá-sa mu 5 damar.utu.a.mu um-ma-ni-ga-áš lugal elam nam.meš [26] mu.meš um-mani-ga-áš lugal-ut kur.elam dù-uš [iš-tar-ḫu-u]n-du dumu a-ḫa-ti-šú ina kur.elam ina aš.te dùr-ab [ta sag lugal-ut] damar.utu.ibila.mu a-di mu 10.kám [kur aš-šur i]t-ti [damar.utu.a.]mu na-kìr [mu 10 damar.utu.a.m]u [é …]-ri [iḫ-te-pi ḫu-bu-ut-s]u [iḫ-ta-ba]t mu [12 damar.utu.a.mu lugal.gin ana kur.uri.ki ur-dam-ma] ṣal-tu4 [ana šà mdamar.utu.a.mu dù-uš-ma] damar.u[tu.a.mu ina igi-šú bala-it ana kur.elam.ma záḫ] 12 m[u.meš damar.utu.a.mu lugal-ut tin.tir.ki dù-uš] lugal.gin [ina tin.tir. ki ina aš.te dúr-ab]; Glassner, 2004, no. 16: i 33–ii 5. Although the accounts of Merodachbaladan ii’s 10th and 12th years are badly broken, the text can be restored on the basis of abc 1B; Glassner, 2004, no. 17: ii 7'–14'. mu 1.kám mu-še-zib-damar.utu iti.ne u4 17.kám nì.du šàr kur.elam ina si-ḫi ṣa-bit-ma gaz 10 iti nì.du lugal-ut kur.elam dù-uš me-na-nu ina kur.elam ina aš.te dúr-ab mu nu zu mme-na-nu erín kur.elam kur.uri.ki id-ke-e-ma ina uru.ḫa-lu-le-e ṣal-tu ana šà kur aš-šur dù-uš-ma bala-tu4 kur aš-šur gar-an mu 4 mu-še-zib-damar.utu iti.bár u4 15.kám me-na-nu šàr kur.elam mi-šit-tu4 i-mi-šid-su-ma ka-šú ṣa-bit-ma atma-a la le-ʾi ina iti.gan u4 1.kám uru ṣa-bit mu-še-zib-damar.utu ṣa-bit-ma ana kur aš-šur a-bi-ik 4 mu.meš mu-še-zib-damar.utu lugal-ut tin.tir.ki dù-uš ina iti.še u4 7.kám me-na-nu šàr kur.elam nam.meš 4 mu.meš me-na-nu lugal-ut kur.el[am] d[ù-uš] ḫum-ba-ḫal-da-šú ina kur.elam ina aš.te dúr-ab; Glassner 2004, no. 16: iii 13– 27.

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table 9.1

The action “profiles” of Elamite kings in abc 1 during the time of Sargon ii and Sennacherib

Proactive and aggressive victor against Assyria

Inactive, passive, and uninvolved in conflict in Babylonia

Humban-nikash i Shutruk-Nahhunte ii Hallushu-Inshushinak i Kudur-Nahhunte Humban-nimena

These changes in military fortune suggest pivot points in the narrative. In both episodes, an Elamite king successfully protects Babylon from Assyrian aggression, but is then “taken out of play” by illness or death. Without the victorious Elamite king to protect them, the Babylonian kings in both episodes are unable to withstand the Assyrian army in the next battle, and Babylonia is conquered as a result. In fact, a pattern emerges in abc 1’s representation of the actions of Elamite kings during the time of Sargon ii and Sennacherib: some Elamite king are victorious over Assyria in battle,83 but these proactive and aggressive rulers alternate with passive Elamite kings who do not involve themselves in the conflict in Babylonian.84 The “profile” of the Elamite king is not a constant state in this section of the text, but instead alternates between active and passive, as demonstrated in table 9.1. Successive Elamite kings alternate between valuable allies and no help whatsoever in Babylonia’s struggle against Assyria. As the example of Humban-nimena demonstrates, even proactive Elamite kings cannot be entirely relied upon, as an act of god could render them incapable of coming to Babylonia’s aid.85

83 84 85

Glassner, 2004, no. 16: i 33–37, ii 35–44, iii 13–18. Glassner, 2004, no. 16: i 38–ii 30, iii 7–16. A similar message can be found in the Babylonian king Nergal-ushezib’s defeat and capture by Assyria during the reign of Hallushu-Inshushinak i; Glassner, 2004, no. 16: ii 45–iii 6. This episode, which follows shortly after the Elamite king’s own victory over Assyria (Glassner, 2004, no. 16: ii 35–44), is stated to have happened after the Elamites had left Babylonia (Glassner, 2004. no. 16: iii 2). Babylon is safe so long as the Elamite army is present, but the Elamite troops cannot remain in Babylonia forever.

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In this fashion, abc 1 highlights the problems with Babylonia’s strategy of relying on Elamite support during this period. These dangers are further highlighted by the fate of Nabu-zer-kitti-lishir, a rebellious governor of the Sea Land: First year of Esarhaddon: when (Nabu)-zer-kitti-lishir, governor of the Sea Land, came upstream, he pitched camp before Ur. [He did not take] the city. He fled before the officials of the land of Ashur and [entered] Elam. In Elam, the king of Elam seized him and k[illed him] with a weapon.86 This episode has some similarities to Merodach-baladan ii’s flight into exile in his twelfth regnal year (see above). However, unlike Merodach-baladan, who lives to return to Babylonia for a second spell as king, Nabu-zer-kitti-lishir is executed. The same events resolve in very different ways depending on the whim of the individual occupying the Elamite throne. A second series of events from Esarhaddon’s reign once again highlights how the nature of Babylonia’s relationship with Elam changes depending on who is king in Elam: Sixth year (of Esarhaddon): the king of Elam entered Sippar. There was a massacre. Shamash did not go out from the Ebabbar. ⟨The army⟩ of the land of Ashur ⟨went⟩ to Melid. ⟨Month of⟩ Ululu, the seven⟨th day⟩: Humban-haltash (ii), king of Elam, who was not sick, died in his palace. Five years Humban-haltash exercised kingship over Elam. Urtaku, his brother, sat on the throne in Elam. An unknown month: Shuma-iddin, governor of Nippur and Kudurru, the Dakkurian, were led away to the land of Ashur. Seventh year, month of Addaru, the fifth day: the army of the land of Ashur was defeated in Egypt. In the month of Addaru, Ishtar of Akkade and the gods of Akkade came out from Elam and, in the month of Addaru, the tenth day, they entered into Akkade.87 86

87

mu 1.kám an.šár.Šeš.mu mnumun.gin.si.sá gar kur tam-tì ki-i iš-qa-a ina ugu urí.ki it-ta-di uru u[l dib] ina igi lú.gal.meš šá kur aš-šur záḫ-ma ana kur.elam i-[te-ruub] ina kur.elam šàr kur.elam iṣ-bat-su-ma ina giš.tukul g[az-šú]; Glassner, 2004, no. 16: iii 39–42. mu 6 kám šàr elam ana zimbir.ki ku4 gaz gaz dutu ul-tu é-babbar-ra nu è ⟨erín⟩ kur aš-šur ana kur.mi-li-du ⟨gin.⟩me ⟨iti.⟩kin 7 ḫum-ba-ḫal-da-šú šàr kur.elam nu gig ina É.gal-šú ug7 5 mu.meš ḫum-ba-ḫal-da-šú lugal-ut kur.elam dù-uš ur-ta-gu šeš-šú ina kur.elam ina aš.te dùr-ab iti nu zu mmu.mu lú.gú.en.na u mnì.du dumu mda-ku-ri ana kur aš-šur ab-ku mu 7.kám iti.še u4 5.kám érin kur aš-šur ina kur.mi-ṣir gaz.meš ina iti.Še din-

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In this instance, the difference between an Elamite king and his successor is not that one is active and the other passive, but that one is an enemy of Babylonia, the other a friend. The text thus explains Babylonia’s situation during the time of Sargon ii and Sennacherib in terms of a reliance on the kings of Elam, who make for inconsistent and unreliable allies. Waerzeggers’ “profile” of the Elamite kings’ actions cannot be taken to be a consistent characterization of all Elamite kings in abc 1. Instead, different Elamite kings display different functions within the narrative. None of this is to say that the alternation of Elamite kings who are active and inactive in Babylonia is necessarily a historical fiction; one can certainly imagine that such swings in royal opinion may well have accompanied palace coups. However, regardless of its historical accuracy, the author(s) of abc 1 took steps to emphasize this pattern of shifting Elamite loyalties in a way that, at the very least, over-simplifies historical reality. For example, by reducing Assyrian conflicts with Babylonia to the presence or absence of Elamite support, abc 1 completely ignores the presence or absence of Babylonia’s other allies against Assyria, such as Aramaeans or Arabs, and the “neatness” of the pattern may have been preserved by omitting Elamite involvement in Sennacherib’s First Campaign and Mushezib-Marduk’s involvement in the Battle of Halule (see above). A full, true, and objective written account of historical reality is an impossibility, and drawing absolute distinctions between accounts in historiography as either narrative constructions or “what really happened” is far too reductive an approach to history.88 abc 1, like any piece of historiography, was subjected to various editorial decisions during the construction of its historical narrative, regardless of whether or not the events described in it happened in reality.

6

Conclusion

This paper has demonstrated the importance of centering narrative in the study of the rhetoric of cuneiform historiography. The work of Waerzeggers and Levavi on abc 1 has taken an important step in recontextualizing the Babylonian Chronicles, not as fact or propaganda, but as rhetorical explanation of past events. However, the approaches they take remove the text’s rhetorical devices from their chronological sequences. As a result, they highlight the

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anna a-kà-dè.ki u dingir.meš šá a-kà-dè.ki ta kur.elam gin.meš-nim-ma ina iti.še u4 10.kám ana a-kà-dè.ki ku4.meš; Glassner, 2004, no. 16: iv 9–18. This point is a core premise of Waerzeggers, 2015, as outlined above.

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text’s rhetoricity, but obscure its narrativity. By studying the rhetorical elements identified by Waerzeggers and Levavi within their narrative contexts, we are able to see changes and explanations of these changes through the medium of historical storytelling that are lost in an analytical, de-narrativizing approach to historiography. History is not simply a rhetorical act, but a rhetorical act of storytelling, specifically: when considering the minutiae of historiographic rhetoric, we must remain mindful of the broader story in which that rhetoric is placed.

Bibliography Bach, Johannes. 2020. Untersuchungen zur transtextuellen Poetik: Assyrischer herrschaftlich-narrativer Texte. State Archives of Assyria Studies 30. Helsinki: NeoAssyrian Text Corpus Project. Badalì, Enrico, Maria G. Biga, Omar Carena, Giorgio Di Bernardo, S. Di Rienzo, Mario Liverani, and P. Vitali. 1982. “Studies on the Annals of Aššurnasirpal ii 1: Morphological Analysis.” Vicino Oriente 5: 13–73. Brinkman, John A. 1965. “Elamite Military Aid to Merodach-baladan.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 24, no. 3: 161–166. Brinkman, John A. 1984. Prelude to Empire: Babylonian Society and Politics, 747–626 b.c. Philadelphia: The Babylonian Fund. Brinkman, John A. 1990. “The Babylonian Chronicle Revisited.” In Lingering over Words: Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Literature in Honor of William L. Moran, edited by Tzvi Abusch, John Huehnergard, and Piotr Steinkeller, 73–104. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Cobley, Paul. 2001. Narrative. New Critical Idiom. London: Routledge. Curthoys, Ann, and John Docker. 2010. Is History Fiction? 2nd edition. Sydney: University of New South Wales Press. De Odorico, Marco. 1995. The Use of Numbers and Quantifications in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Dewar, Ben. 2017. “Sitting on Top of the World: The Structure and Narrative of the Throne-Base Inscriptions of Ashurnasirpal ii and Shalmaneser iii.”Kaskal 14: 75–90. Dewar, Ben. 2019. “A Time and a Place: A Unique Approach to Chronological and Geographical Order in a Royal Inscription of Adad-nārārī ii.” State Archives of Assyria Bulletin 25: 1–10. Dietrich, Manfried. 2003. The Babylonian Correspondence of Sargon and Sennacherib. Helsinki: Helsinki University Press. Ephʿal, Israel. 1984. The Ancient Arabs: Nomads of the Fertile Crescent, 9th–5th Centuries b.c. Jerusalem: Magnes Press.

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Fales, Frederick M. 1981. “A Literary Code in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: The Case of Ashurbanipal’s Egyptian Campaigns.” In Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: New Horizons in Literary, Ideological and Historical Analysis, Papers of a Symposium Held in Cetona (Siena), June 26–28, 1980, edited by Frederick M. Fales, 169–202. Rome: Instituto per l’Oriente. Fales, Frederick M. 1991. “Narrative and Ideological Variations in the Account of Sargon’s Eighth Campaign.” In Ah, Assyria … Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor, edited by Mordechai Cogan and Israel Ephʿal, 129–147. Jerusalem: Magnes Press. Finkelstein, Jacob J. 1963. “Mesopotamian Historiography.” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 107, no. 6: 461–472. Frahm, Eckart. 2019. “The Neo-Assyrian Royal Inscriptions as Text: History, Ideology, and Intertextuality.” In Writing Neo-Assyrian History: Sources, Problems, and Approaches, edited by Giovanni, B. Lanfranchi, Raija Mattila, and Robert Rollinger, 139– 159. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Frame, Grant. 1992. Babylonia 689–627b.c.: A Political History. Istanbul: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut. Frame, Grant. 1995. Rulers of Babylonia: From the Second Dynasty of Isin to the End of Assyrian Domination (1157–612 bc). Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Frame, Grant. 2021. The Royal Inscriptions of Sargon ii, King of Assyria (721–705bc). University Park: Eisenbrauns. Gärtner-Brereton, Luke. 2008. The Ontology of Space in Biblical Hebrew Narrative: The Determinate Function of Narrative “Space” within Biblical Hebrew Aesthetic. London: Routledge. Glassner, Jean-Jacques. 2004. Mesopotamian Chronicles. Edited by Benjamin R. Foster. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Grayson, A. Kirk. 1965. “Problematical Battles in Mesopotamian History.” In Studies in Honor of Benno Landsberger on His Seventy-Fifth Birthday, April 21, 1965, 337–342. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Grayson, A. Kirk. 1975. Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles. Locust Valley: J.J. Augustin Publisher. Grayson, A. Kirk. 1980. “Assyria and Babylonia.” Orientalia Nova Series 49, no. 2: 140–194. Grayson, A. Kirk. 1987. Assyrian Rulers of the Third and Second Millennia bc (to 1115 bc). Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Grayson, A. Kirk. 1991. Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium bc i (1114–859bc). Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Grayson, A. Kirk. 1996. Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium bc ii (858–745bc). Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Grayson, A. Kirk, and Jamie Novotny. 2012. The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681bc), Part 1. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns.

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Grayson, A. Kirk, and Jamie Novotny. 2014. The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681bc), Part 2. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Hempel, Carl G. 1942. “The Function of General Laws in History.” Journal of Philosophy 39, no. 2: 35–48. Hempel, Carl G. 1962. “Explanation in Science and in History.” In Frontiers of Science and Philosophy, edited by Robert G. Colodny, 7–33. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Hexter, Jack H. 1967. “The Rhetoric of History.” History and Theory 6, no. 1: 3–13. Hexter, Jack H. 1972. The History Primer. London: Allen Lane. Hurowitz, Victor A. 2009. “A Monument to Imperial Control—Literary Observations on the Thompson Prism of Esarhaddon (Nineveh A).” In Homeland and Exile: Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Bustenay Oded, edited by Gershon Galil, Mark Geller, and Alan Millard, 121–165. Leiden: Brill. Hurowitz, Victor A. 2013. “‘An Heir Created by Aššur’: Literary Observations on the Rassam Prism (A) of Ashurbanipal.” In Literature as Politics, Politics as Literature: Essays on the Ancient Near East in Honor of Peter Machinist, edited by David S. Vanderhooft, and Abraham Winitzer, 223–268. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Konstantopoulos, Gina. 2017. “Shifting Alignments: The Dichotomy of Benevolent and Malevolent Demons in Mesopotamia.” In Demons and Illness from Antiquity to the Early-Modern Period, edited by Siam Bhayro and Catherine Rider, 19–38. Leiden: Brill. Kratz, Reinhard. 2002. “From Nabonidus to Cyrus.” In Ideologies as Intercultural Phenomena: Proceedings of the Third Annual Symposium of the Assyrian and Babylonian Intellectual Heritage Project, Held in Chicago, USA, October 27–31, 2000, edited by Antonio Panaino, and Giovanni Pettinato, 143–156. Milan: Università di Bologna & IsIAO. Leichty, Erle. 2011. The Royal Inscriptions of Esarhaddon, King of Assyria (680–669bc). Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Levavi, Yuval. 2021. “The Sound of Silence: The Destruction of Babylon by Sennacherib and the Babylonian Chronicles.” In Culture of Defeat: Submission in Written Sources and the Archaeological Record, Proceedings of a Joint Seminar of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and the University of Vienna, October 2017, edited by Katharina Streit and Marianne Grohmann, 165–187. Piscataway: Gorgias. Levine, Louis D. 1981. “Manuscripts, Texts and the Study of the Neo-Assyrian Royal Inscriptions.” In Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: New Horizons in Literary, Ideological and Historical Analysis, Papers of a Symposium Held in Cetona (Siena), June 26–28, 1980, edited by Frederick M. Fales, 49–70. Rome: Instituto per l’Oriente. Levine, Louis D. 1982. “Sennacherib’s Southern Front: 740–689b.c.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 34, no. 1–2: 28–58. Liverani, Mario. 1981. “Critique of Variants and the Titulary of Sennacherib.” In Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: New Horizons in Literary, Ideological and Historical Analysis,

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Papers of a Symposium Held in Cetona (Siena), June 26–28, 1980, edited by Frederick M. Fales, 225–257. Rome: Instituto per l’Oriente. Liverani, Mario. 2004. “Leaving by Chariot for the Desert.” In Myth and Politics in the Ancient Near East, edited by Zainab Bahrani and Marc Van De Mieroop, 85–96. London: Equinox. Liverani, Mario. 2017. Assyria: The Imperial Mission. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. McCullagh, C. Behan. 2000. “Bias in Historical Description, Interpretation, and Explanation.” History and Theory 39, no. 1: 39–66. Melville, Sarah C. 2016. The Campaigns of Sargon ii, King of Assyria, 721–705 b.c. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Millard, Alan. 1994. The Eponyms of the Assyrian Empire 910–612 bc. Helsinki: NeoAssyrian Text Corpus Project. Naʾaman, Nadav. 1992. “Chronology and History in the Late Assyrian Empire (631– 619b.c.).” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 81, no. 2: 243–267. Novotny, Jamie, and Joshua Jeffers. 2018. The Royal Inscriptions of Ashurbanipal (668– 631 bc), Aššur-etel-ilāni (630–627bc), and Sîn-šarra-iškun (626–612bc), Kings of Assyria, Part 1. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Pongratz-Leisten, Beate. 2015. Religion and Ideology in Assyria. Berlin: De Gruyter. Propp, Vladimir. 1968. Morphology of the Folktale. Translated by Laurence Scott. 2nd edition. Austin: University of Texas Press. Propp, Vladimir. 1971. “Fairy Tale Transformations.” Translated by C.H. Severens. In Readings in Russian Poetics: Formalist and Structuralist Views, edited by Ladislav Matejka, and Krystyna Pomorska, 94–114. Cambridge: The mit Press. Reynolds, Frances. 2003. The Babylonian Correspondence of Esarhaddon and Letters to Assurbanipal and Sin-šarru-iškun from Northern and Central Babylonia. Helsinki: Helsinki University Press. Ricoeur, Paul. 1984. Time and Narrative, volume 1. Translated by Kathleen McLaughlin, and David Pellauer. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sahlins, Marshall. 2004. Apologies to Thucydides: Understanding History as Culture and Vice Versa. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Schmitz, Thomas A. 2002. Modern Literary Theory and Ancient Texts: An Introduction. Malden: Blackwell. Siddall, Luis R. 2018. “Text and Context: The Question of Audience for Sennacherib’s ‘Public’ Inscriptions.” In Registers and Modes of Communication in the Ancient Near East: Getting the Message Across, edited by Kyle H. Keimer, and Gillan Davis, 59–68. New York: Routledge. van der Spek, Bert J. 2015. “Coming to Terms with the Persian Empire: Some Concluding Remarks and Responses.” In Political Memory in and after the Persian Empire, edited by Jason M. Silverman, and Caroline Waerzeggers, 447–477. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature.

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Tadmor, Hayim. 1981. “History and Ideology in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions.” In Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: New Horizons in Literary, Ideological and Historical Analysis, Papers of a Symposium Held in Cetona (Siena), June 26–28, 1980, edited by Frederick M. Fales, 13–33. Rome: Instituto per l’Oriente. Tadmor, Hayim, and Shigeo Yamada. 2011. The Royal Inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser iii (744–727 bc), and Shalmaneser v (726–722bc), Kings of Assyria. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Van De Mieroop, M. 2010. “A Study in Contrast: Sargon of Assyria and Rusa of Urartu.” In Opening the Tablet Box: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of Benjamin R. Foster, edited by Sarah C. Melville, and Alice L. Slotsky, 417–434. Leiden: Brill. Waerzeggers, Caroline. 2012. “The Babylonian Chronicles: Classification and Provenance.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 71, no. 2: 285–298. Waerzeggers, Caroline. 2015. “Facts, Propaganda, or History? Shaping Political Memory in the Nabonidus Chronicle.” In Political Memory in and after the Persian Empire, edited by Jason M. Silverman, and Caroline Waerzeggers, 95–124. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Waerzeggers, Caroline. 2021. “Writing History Under Empire: The Babylonian Chronicle Reconsidered.” Journal of Ancient Near Eastern History 8, no. 1–2: 279–316. Weissert, Elnathan. 1997. “Creating a Political Climate: Literary Allusions to Enūma Eliš in Sennacherib’s Account of the Battle of Halule.” In Assyrien im Wandel der Zeit, xxxixe Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Heidelberg 6.–10. Juli 1992, edited by Harmut Waetzold and Harald Hauptmann, 191–202. Heidelberg: Heidelberger Orientverlag. White, Hayden. 1978. Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. White, Morton. 1965. Foundations of Historical Knowledge. New York: Harper and Row. Younger, K. Lawson, Jr. 1990. Ancient Conquest Accounts: A Study in Ancient Near Eastern and Biblical Writing. Sheffield: jsot Press. Zawadzki, Stefan. 1988. The Fall of Assyria and Median-Babylonian Relations in Light of the Nabopolassar Chronicle. Poznan: Adam Mickiewicz University Press. Zawadzki, Stefan. 2010. “The Portrait of Nabonidus and Cyrus in Their(?) Chronicle: When and Why the Present Version Was Composed.” In Who Was King? Who Was Not King? The Rulers and the Ruled in the Ancient Near East, edited by Petr Chavrát and Petra M. Vlčková, 142–154. Prague: Institute of Archaeology of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic.

chapter 10

The “Prehistory” of the Sumerian King List and Its Narrative Residue Gösta Gabriel

1

Introduction

“Of course, there is no such thing as a Sumerian King List.” So begins Gianni Marchesi’s article on the text.1 While the author was referring to the problematic designation of the Sumerian King List as a “list,”2 there is also a deeper truth to his statement: there is no single, uniform text of the Sumerian King List (henceforth, skl). It exists in a multitude of variants; none of its known copies reproduces exactly the same text. The skl can be called a “fluid text,” in the words of John Bryant, meaning that it was subject to a continuous process of revision and transformation.3 Each of its copies integrated new ideas into the traditional text.4 As in most fluid texts, these processes are largely invisible, as they are not explicitly signaled in the text itself, but are only perceptible in the differences between variants.5 In the case of the skl, however, variation is not limited to matters of wording: the story that is told in the text also varies from one copy to the next. However, there is also a stable core of the story. It always begins with the divine transfer of kingship from heaven to earth into a first city. This city turns into the capital, its kings ruling the entire land. After a given time though, the gods turn away from this city, determining its fall. They transfer kingship into a new city which becomes the new hegemon. This pattern is repeated several times until the skl ends in the present or in the recent past.

1 Marchesi, 2010, 231. 2 Particularly in contrast to works of literature. Marchesi, 2010, 231, places the composition “halfway between a literary text and a list proper.” Other scholars have commented on the genre of this text; for example, Glassner, 1993, 51–52 and 2004, 37–38 refers to it as a “chronicle”; see also Ben Dewar in this volume. 3 Bryant, 2002, 34. 4 Wilcke, 2001, 115. 5 Bryant, 2002, 34.

© Gö sta Gabriel, 2023 | doi:10.1163/97890

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The oldest known copy of the skl stems from the Ur iii period (c. 2100– 2000 bce).6 Twenty-four further copies date to the Old Babylonian period (c. 2000–1600 bce) and there is one later manuscript, likely written c. 1600– 1450 bce.7 The survival of individual copies of the skl is determined by material processes and chance recovery as well as by historical events. The extant copies are therefore not necessarily representative of what existed in antiquity. Nevertheless, the corpus that we do have allows us to make certain observations—for example, that the stories told about the past in the skl tended to increase in complexity over time. It is patently clear that the contents of the skl were subject to change,8 and since there was no uniform text of the skl, there was likely no standard conception of the past9 among the ancient scribes, either. Because each redaction integrated new information into the text, each recension can be seen a stratified entity—both textually and conceptually. As a result, reconstructing the textual history of the skl allows us to reconstruct the history of the conceptual strata that are contained in it: the history of the text is also the history of a specific conception of the past coming into being, and as shown below, that conception was itself a “stratified” notion of the past as consisting of multiple layers of action. This chapter will first examine the various paths of transmission that the skl followed, building on my new edition and study of the text.10 This is followed by a brief reconstruction of its early history (section 3). The article then goes on to present the various notions of political history that underlie each redaction of the text (section 4).

6 7

8 9 10

The Ur iii version, known as the “uskl,” was published by Steinkeller, 2003. This manuscript is ts A xii 29, published in Malayeri, 2014, 350 (photograph only). A handcopy with a transliteration appear in my new edition of the skl; Gabriel, 2020b. Known archaeological findspots of manuscripts are Isin, Kish, Nippur, Shaduppûm (modern: Tell Ḥarmal), Shubat-Enlil (modern: Tell Leilān), Susa, and Ur, reaching from the modern Iranian province Ḫuzestan via the estuary of the Euphrates and Central Babylonia to the Diyāla region and the Chabur Triangle in today’s Syria. See, for example, Wilcke, 2001, 115. This includes, above all, the order of the capitals, the length of their reign, and their kings. The as yet unpublished Habilitationsschrift; Gabriel, 2020b.

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Variation and the Mode of Transmission

In his editio princeps of the skl, Thorkild Jacobsen devoted a large part of his study to establishing its textual history.11 He emphasized that the text consists of just a handful of formulas that are repeated over and over again, narrating a specific version of the past. They vary only slightly from one copy to another. The formulas are mostly a main clause that consists of one part which remains constant, and one or more parts which vary. The formulas include: – the “beginning of a hegemony formula”12 (the description of the first ruler of a new royal city), – the “king’s formula” (the description of further rulers of the same royal city), – the “summary of a hegemony formula” (the number of rulers and total length of a city’s reign), – the “collapse formula” (the description of the end of a city’s reign), and – the “transfer formula” (the description of the movement of “kingship,” nam-lugal, to a new city). The formulas are themselves subject to some change. The “king’s formula,” for example, is attested in the following variants, where rn is the name of the ruler and # is the number of years they reigned: – rn(-e) mu # i3-ak – rn(-e) # mu i3-ak – rn(-e) mu # i3-na – rn(-e) # mu i3-na – rn(-e) mu # in-ak – rn(-e) # mu in-ak All six phrases express the same basic meaning, “rn ruled for # years,” but the order of the elements changes, reversing the number and the word “year” (mu), and spelling the predicate verb differently (i3-ak, i3-na, in-ak). While the “king’s formula” only fluctuates with respect to spelling, other stock phrases also varied in terms of content. This is especially true for the “collapse formula,” which is found in the following versions, where gn is the name of the city whose reign has come to an end:

11 12

Jacobsen, 1939, 128–164. Because the term “dynasty” is commonly used to describe a set of rulers connected by family ties, “hegemony” is better suited to denote the reign of a city in the skl, whose rulers are not necessarily connected by a single bloodline. That the term “dynasty” is problematic in the case of the skl has been discussed by Lambert, 1974, 434, fn. 17; Wilcke, 1988, 114; and Klein, 1991, 125, fn. 9.

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– – – –

gnki(-a) ĝeštukul ba-(an-)sag3 (“The weapon was struck against gn”) gnki ba-(an-)šub (“gn was crushed [there]”) gnki ba-gul (“gn was destroyed”) gnki(-a) bala-bi ba-(an-)kur2 (“gn’s divine assignment of kingship was changed [there]”) However, variation is not limited to phraseology, but also touches on the historical narrative, and that is a crucial distinction to make when studying the skl. While phraseology is a textual feature, the contents of a story (“Erzählstoff”) is a hylistic feature. Hylistic means that it is an attribute of the events which are communicated through a narration (see Zgoll, Cuperly, and Cöster-Gilbert in this volume), independent from the specific textual form. A story (“Erzählstoff”) can be an element of, e.g., an epic, a hymn or a chronicle.13 The shortest extant textual and hylistic recension of the skl (henceforth: uskl)14 appears in its oldest copy, the Ur iii manuscript. In this manuscript, the hegemony of Isin is not mentioned, as it had not yet taken place when the recension was written down. uskl also lacks several other royal cities that appear in later copies of the text. Considering the physical shape of the tablet,15 the order of the hegemonies included in the earliest manuscript can be tentatively restored as follows: Kish A–[Uruk A*]16–Akkad–Uruk A–Gutium–Uruk B–Ur A17

13 14

15

16

17

See C. Zgoll, 2019. Steinkeller, 2003, uses the label “uskl” for both the physical tablet and the content of the text. In the following, I use “uskl” for the text and its content, and “the uskl manuscript” for the preserved copy. The original size of the tablet can be estimated based on the curvature of its reverse side. It would seem that it is not only smaller than what was suggested by Steinkeller, 2003, 268, but also smaller than what was reconstructed by Glassner, 2005a, 52. Based on my collation of the tablet and examination of its contents, I estimate that c. 40% of the tablet’s lower part is missing. Uruk is the most likely candidate for reconstructing the missing section of the text. This hegemony, which in the uskl probably did not include its first five legendary rulers (Meshkiag/kin-gasher, Enmerkara, Lugalbanda, Dumuzi, and Gilgamesh), as these were added later, was likely split into the Uruk i–iii hegemonies that are attested in the ob copies. In the Old Babylonian copies, these correspond to the following hegemonies: Kish A = Kish i–iii and Ur i–ii; Uruk A = Uruk iv; Uruk B = Uruk v (Utu-hegal); and Ur a = Ur iii. Note that the “Kish iv” hegemony (as it was named by Jacobsen, 1939, 53) should rather be called Kish iiib, as it was created through a later separation of Ku-Babu, the only queen mentioned in the skl, from her successors. The earliest ob manuscripts still record a single Kish iii hegemony, from Ku-Babu through to Nanniya.

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Here, the hegemony is indicated by the name of the ruling city and, if the city held more than one hegemony, a siglum (A*–B for the Ur iii recension, i–v for the Old Babylonian recension). Comparing the Ur iii manuscript and the earliest Old Babylonian copies, the above sequence is much more complex in the younger tablets. Producing the newer versions, redactors had reshaped the pre-Akkad period by subdividing the long hegemony of Kish A, which had previously accounted for almost half of the Ur iii manuscript, into three shorter hegemonies. Similarly, they had split up the (reconstructed, but probable) period Uruk A* into three parts. The later editors also appropriated two rulers from the hegemony of Kish A, Nanne and Mesh-nun, restyling them as rulers of Ur (Ur i and Ur ii, respectively),18 while also integrating the cities of Adab, Akshak, Awan, Hamazi, and Mari. The period before the hegemony of Akkad thus took on a new, more complicated shape in the Old Babylonian recensions, which begin as follows: Kish i–Uruk i–Ur i–Awan–Kish ii–Hamazi–Ur ii–Uruk ii19– Adab–Mari–Kish iii–Akshak–Uruk iii–Akkad–… This version of the past is evidenced by an Isin manuscript, a Nippur tablet, and a cylinder from Susa.20 While the three sources tell an identical story, they differ with respect to phraseology, excerpts of which are shown in Table 10.1 below. As Table 10.1 shows, on the one hand the Nippur and the Susa manuscript write first the number (#) and then the Sumerian term for “year”, mu, in the “king’s formula.” The Isin tablet provides the reverse order. On the other hand, the Susa cylinder deviates from the other two manuscripts in case of the “hegemony’s summary,” using i3-ak instead of ib2-ak (both: “they made”) and writing “year” twice (mu-bi and mu).

18 19

20

Nanne is also listed as the last ruler of Kish, under the name Nanniya; see Steinkeller, 2003, 278. The typical order in the ob manuscripts is Ur ii–Uruk ii. Only the Weld-Blundell prism reverses this order, yielding a cyclical repetition of the sequence Kish–Uruk–Ur. Because Jacobsen’s edition largely focused on the prism, this was for a long time taken to be a general feature of the skl; see, e.g., Kraus, 1952, 56; Wilcke, 1989, 559 and 2001, 107, 109–111; and Glassner, 1993, 83–87 and 2004, 67–70, 102. Given our knowledge of manuscripts that Jacobsen did not have access to, this repetition must now be understood as a feature of the prism, specifically. See, respectively, Wilcke, 1987, 89–93 and Wilcke and Odzuck, 2018, 138–139; Klein, 2008, 80–85; and Scheil, 1934, 162–166.

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the “prehistory” of the sumerian king list table 10.1 Selected phraseology of the earliest ob recension of the skl

Manuscript

The “king’s formula”

The “hegemony’s summary”

Isin (ib 1564+1565) Nippur (cbs 13994 + bt 14) Susa (–)

rn mu # i3-ak rn # mu i3-ak rn # mu i3-ak

# lugal mu-bi # ib2-ak # lugal mu-bi # ib2-ak # lugal mu-bi # mu i3-ak

Translation

rn ruled for # years.

# kings—they ruled for their (= the kings’) # years.

However, a reverse relationship between phraseology and story is also possible: most of the Nippur tablets use similar formulas to report different versions of events. For example, the Nippur tablet mentioned above gives the sequence Kish iii–Akshak. Others21 separate queen Ku-Babu, the first ruler of Kish iii, from her successors, giving her a hegemony to herself, Kish iiia. This results in a new order: Kish iiia–Akshak–Kish iiib. These examples show that several variants were introduced during the transmission of the skl. To bring order to this multiplicity of variants, one must differentiate between phraseology and storyline. The same phraseology can be used to communicate different visions of the past, while similar conceptions of the past can be reported with different formulas. By studying the kinds of scribal errors that appear in the manuscripts, it can be shown that many were caused by false memory in the form of incorrect uses of phraseology.22 For example, in some cases the predicate was not adapted to the respective numerus of the subject, instead it was constantly repeated in the same grammatical form. This kind of errors suggests that the phrasal form and the hylistic content of the skl were transmitted separately, coming together into one text each time a new copy was written down. A scribe required only a small set of formulas with which to express the storyline. The necessary hylistic information can be represented as a table:

21 22

cbs 13981 and cbs 14220 + Ni 9712a–c. See Gabriel, 2020b, chap. 3. Delnero, 2012a and 2012b, has worked comprehensively on identifying how a manuscript was produced (copying from a master manuscript, dictation or writing down from memory) by analyzing scribal errors in Sumerian. For a more critical approach (based on Akkadian sources), see Worthington, 2012, 5–40.

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table 10.2 Hylistic content of the skla

City name

Royal name

Reign [years]

gn1

rn1:1 rn1:2 … rn2:1 rn2:2 … …

#1:1 #1:2 … #2:1 #2:2 … …

gn2

…

a In the case of some rulers, one could add a fourth column, which would include the text’s description of their descent, former profession, and/or outstanding achievements.

Specific information would then be slotted into the variable parts of each formula (the name of the rulers and of the cities, the number of regnal years, and so on). In the “king’s formula,” for example, the combination of content and formula can be pictured as follows: 1. 2.

3.

Formula: Hylistic content:

Combination:

rn(-e) # mu i3-ak (“rn ruled for # years”) Royal name: en-me-nun-na.k (Enmenuna) Years: 1,200 en-me-nu-na-ke4 600× 2 mu i3-ak (“Enmenuna ruled for 1,200 years.”)23

This procedure transformed the hylistic content into an actual text, in a way that minimized how much information had to be memorized. This form of “data compression” could be carried further if a scribe knew how to deduce one formula from the others, for example how to transform the “kings’ formulas” to yield a “summary of hegemony formula.”24

23 24

cbs 13981 i 20'–21'. This method of memorization would also explain why so few extract tablets of the skl have been preserved. These small, single-column tablets were often made by students learning to memorize a text; see Robson, 2002, 344; Delnero, 2010, 67–68. While 61% of the copies of texts included in the Decad (a collection of ten Sumerian narrative texts

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Variations in the phraseology of a text are largely a question of geographical distribution,25 while diachronic transformations changed the actual storyline, by adding new royal cities and rulers, or by changing the order of hegemonies. The following section will focus on variations in the hylistic content of the skl that were introduced during different historical periods, which are here examined layer by layer through a process of “hylistic stratigraphy.” Only transformations that affect the hylistic level and not just the phraseology will be referred to as “redactions” in the following discussion. As redactions mark the integration of new ideas into the skl, they are crucial for tracking how the scribes’ concept of the past changed from one period to the next. Each redaction adds a new perspective, while also retaining large portions of the traditional story. The hylistic and conceptual strata are thus superimposed on one another like geological layers. Accordingly, the conceptual historian begins by identifying a single hylistic stratum and comparing it to earlier strata. The discrepancies between them allow us to reconstruct the ideas about the nature of the past that guided each redaction. As becomes manifest in the following paragraphs, royal agendas play an important role in the history of the skl. These political ideas were transmitted through the redaction of the text and its story.

3

Early History and Hylistic Stratigraphy

From the point of view of modern scholarship, the history of the skl consists of two parts. There is a “historical” period, meaning the period covered by the extant copies, which allow us, as modern scholars, to establish a textual history on an empirical basis. Individual redactions can be restored by comparing the hylistic content of the recensions across all extant manuscripts. But there is also a “prehistorical” period, extending from the earliest known cuneiform tablet, the uskl manuscript, back in time to a hypothetical first recension of the skl, of which no copies survive.

25

learned by Old Babylonian students) survive in the form of extract tablets (see Delnero 2010, 60, table 1), while only 12 % of the skl manuscripts are extract tablets. An example of such geographical variation are the Nippur tablets noted above. Another indicator of geographic origin are the variants of the “king’s formula” that write i3-ak. All manuscripts that use the sequence #—mu (i.e., number—“years”) come from Kish, Nippur, and Susa; all copies with the reverse order (mu—#) stem from Isin, Ur, or an unknown location, or, in the case of one manuscript from Susa, postdate the Old Babylonian period.

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At this time, we can only reconstruct the “prehistorical” redactions insofar as they are preserved in the hylistic strata of the uskl manuscript. Data from the “historical” period facilitates the analysis of these “prehistorical” hylistic strata. Based on the extant manuscripts, we can observe that rulers and especially hegemonies were rarely deleted outright. Moreover, it is clear that the merging of hegemonies with one another was also rare, while the subdivision, re-organization, and addition of new hegemonies was common.26 As noted above, the oldest copy of the skl is the uskl manuscript, written during the Ur iii period. Its postscript includes a short prayer for king Shulgi, and its orthography can be dated to the second half of his reign, c. 2074– 2047 bce.27 However, there is a general agreement among scholars that the skl was composed before this date, though the specifics of this proposed date vary. Piotr Michalowksi and Jerrold Cooper believe that the first recension of the skl was composed within the Ur iii period and thus only slightly earlier than the existing uskl manuscript.28 Jacobsen beliefs that Utu-hegal (c. 2100 bce) was responsible for the creation of the skl.29 Other scholars argue for an earlier dating: Jean-Jacques Glassner, Gianni Marchesi, and Piotr Steinkeller are all in favor of an Old Akkadian origin (c. 2350bce),30 and Claus Wilcke has even tentatively suggested that the origin of the skl may predate the Old Akkadian period.31 In order to reconstruct the skl’s “prehistory,” the first step is to analyze the hylistic structure of the Ur iii manuscript. As noted in section 2, its sequence of hegemonies runs as follows: Kish A–[Uruk A*]–Akkad A–Uruk A–Gutium–Uruk B–Ur A That the city of Ur is mentioned as the last royal city is only natural, as it was the capital of the rulers of Babylonia when the copy was written. By contrast, the hegemony of Uruk B consists of king Utu-hegal alone. This is the only reign in the uskl that consists of a single ruler, making the hegemony stand out. There is no clear reason why the Ur iii kings would wish to include this passage in the skl or why they would have added the historically unimportant 26 27 28 29 30 31

See Gabriel, 2020b, chap. 7. Steinkeller, 2003, 269. Michalowski, 2008, 38, and 2019, 16; Cooper, 2010, 330. Jacobsen, 1939, 140–141. For the absolute dates of Utu-hegal’s reign, see Sallaberger and Schrakamp, 2015, 136. Glassner, 2004, 95–96, 2005b, 114, and 2011, 143; Marchesi, 2010, 233–234; and Steinkeller, 2003, 281–284, and 2017, 40. Wilcke, 2001, 115.

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rulers of Uruk A (e.g., king Kuda) or the Gutian hegemony (whose kings are characterized in the text as atypical, un-Babylonian rulers). Based on these considerations, Steinkeller attributed all three of these hegemonies to a redaction made in the reign of king Utu-hegal.32 One of Utu-hegal’s inscriptions corroborates this idea by mentioning Tirigan as the last Gutian king (l. 35–36, 103–104, 113, and 116), the return of kingship to Sumer (l. 129), and the defeat of the Gutians near the city of Adab (l. 91–100).33 The same information can be found in uskl:34 Tirigan (vi 21'–22') is the last ruler of the Gutian hegemony before kingship is transferred to Uruk and king Utu-hegal; the Gutian hegemony is framed by two hegemonies in Uruk (Uruk A and Uruk B), suggesting that kingship “returned” to that city when Utuhegal’s rule began; and the “collapse formula” (vi 8') at the end of the Gutian hegemony differs from the standard variations noted above in a semantic sense. In the case of the Gutians defeat, the locative (or directive) case does not mark the object hit by the weapon, but the location at which the action took place.35 Since the inscription reports on Utu-hegal’s final victory over the Gutians at a place close to Adab, the skl’s “collapse formula” at the end of the Gutian hegemony can be translated as: “The weapon was struck near? Adab.”36 32 33

34

35

36

Steinkeller, 2003, 283. Frayne, 1993, 283–293 (rime E2.13.6.4.). The original inscription has not been preserved; it survives only in Old Babylonian copies, making its authenticity questionable. However, there is a close link between the events reported in Utu-hegal’s inscription and specific features of the uskl, which suggests that there was some kind of connection between the two texts. This does not prove the historical truth of the narrated events, but it does indicate that Utu-hegal’s inscription existed in one form or another when the uskl was compiled. Additionally, both Utu-hegal’s inscription and the uskl use similar wording to describe the Gutians. Copies of Utu-hegal’s inscription use the words uĝnim and gu-ti-um(ki) (see Frayne, 1993, 285–286); while the uskl employs ummānumki, the Akkadian cognate of uĝnim (see Steinkeller, 2003, 273). The phrase uĝnim gu-ti-umki appears in the ob copies of the skl; Jacobsen, 1939, 139, fn. 11. The Sumerian phrase is: adabki geštukul ba-sag3, which can be analyzed as {adabki==aloc ĝeštukul==øabs ba-sag3-ø} or as { adabki==edir ĝeštukul==øabs ba-sag3-ø}. Usually, the locative case is used in uskl’s “collapse formula” (see v 3' and vi 13'). Since in the case of Adab there is no case marker to be seen, the toponym probably ends in a vowel. This would also allow for a directive case. While the textual parallels suggest a locative, semantics would go better with a directive (from what we know from Utu-ḫegal’s victory inscription). This would suit the reading “near Adab,” whereas the locative would situate the event “in Adab” (see e.g. Zólyomi, 2010, 584). For the translation “near?”, see also fn. 36. This reading also solves the riddle of the posited pre-Sargonic hegemony of Adab; as noted in Steinkeller, 2003, 281 and 2015, 283. The last “Adab” king of the uskl is Tirigan, who is the last Gutian ruler in the ob manuscripts of the skl, as also in Utu-hegal’s victory inscription; Steinkeller, 2003, 281. The antepenul-

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In sum, the parallels between the inscription and uskl indicate that the sequence Uruk A–Gutium–Uruk B can be ascribed with reasonable certainty to Utu-hegal. He altered pre-existing concepts of the past to bolster his claim to power in Babylonia, codifying these into a recension of the skl that has not survived, but whose structure was integrated into the uskl. When one subtracts the last four hegemonies (Uruk A–Gutium–Uruk B– Ur A) from the hylistic structure of uskl, since their inclusion can be accounted for by the historical circumstances noted above, only the sequence Kish A–[Uruk A*]–Akkad A remains. That is what the skl probably looked like during the Old Akkadian period. As Utu-hegal never ruled northern Babylonia,37 it is unlikely that he was responsible for the integration of Akkad and Kish as royal cities.38 Hence, the hegemony of Akkad was most probably added under the Old Akkadian line of kings that began with Sargon of Akkad. The (restored) hegemony Uruk A* was also likely integrated by the Akkadian kings, who wanted to portray themselves as both the natural heirs to the famed Kishite rulers of the North and rightful successors to the southern Babylonian political tradition centered on Uruk. The proposed Old Akkadian recension of the skl would have had a strong imbalance concerning the number of rulers. Up to eleven Akkadian kings were included in the list; the preceding Urukean hegemony (uruk A*) most likely comprised up to nine rulers; while the first section, devoted to Kish A, listed over thirty kings. It is unlikely that the historical Old Akkadian rulers invented the long list of Kishite kings. It is much more probable that they copied an existing list of rulers and so continued the Kishite historiographical tradition, including the celestial origin of the city’s power and its extremely long first reign. Accordingly, the first recension of what would become the skl was most likely written in Kish before c. 2350bce. Wilcke’s tentative proposal of a pre-Sargonic origin for the skl can thus be corroborated by new data that had not been available

37 38

timate Gutian king Puzur-zu.zu of the uskl corresponds to the Gutian king Puzur-en.zu recorded in the Weld-Blundell prism, l. vii 45; see Kaula, 2016, 65. Taken together, this data suggests that the “Adab” hegemony of the uskl merely represents the end of the Gutian reign. Streck, 2014–2016, 522. If the mention of Akkad was due to Utu-hegal, the question would arise as to where he took the template from. It is very unlikely that he took a list from Kish and continued it. It is equally unlikely that earlier Urukean kings used a long list of rulers from Kish to tell their own history. In the end, it is most likely that Utu-hegal continued a text that had been handed down from the Akkadian kings.

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table 10.3 Reconstructed “prehistorical” hylistic strata of the skl

Recensions

Hegemonies included

Kish recension Old Akkadian recension

Kish A Addition of: Uruk A* (?) Akkad Addition of: Uruk A Gutium A Uruk B Addition of: Ur A

Utu-hegal recension

Early Ur iii recension (uskl)

to him. The stratigraphic analysis of uskl that was published in 200339 allows for a fuller reconstruction of the skl’s first recension.40 In summary, one can trace the composition of the skl back to the preSargonic period through an analysis of the hylistic strata contained in the oldest extant manuscript. In the reconstruction above, the “prehistorical” phase of the skl consists of three major redactions, each of which reshaped its content, leading to a total of four early recensions. Table 10.3 shows how the skl slowly grows over time, for each redaction adds new royal cities and their rulers to the story. While the Kish recension only knows the capital of Kish, the Early Ur iii recension (uskl) consists of seven hegemonies of five different cities: Kish, Uruk, Akkad, Gutium, and Ur. Redactions continued to be made to the skl after the Ur iii recension, most of which consisted of the re-organization of the period preceding the hegemony of Akkad and the addition of an antediluvian section to the list.41 But the four identified prehistorical recensions of the skl are in themselves enough to show a close connection between hylistic stratigraphy and conceptual stratigraphy, which is the topic of the next section.

39 40 41

Steinkeller, 2003. Wilcke, 2001, 115. The antediluvian era of the skl has been examined by Wilcke, 2002, 66; Glassner, 2004, 108–109; Chen, 2012, 178–179; Milstein, 2016, 47–50; and Steinkeller, 2017, 74.

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The “Prehistory” of Historical Concepts

Based on the proposed “prehistory” of the skl, one can begin to restore how the rulers who sponsored each redaction conceived of their past. As will be shown below, the most significant notions of the past that appear in later recensions of the skl have their roots already in its hylistic “prehistory.” When one compares the first extant manuscript to the posited recension made under Utu-hegal, it becomes clear that the Ur iii kings only added their capital city to the end of a pre-existing list. This type of “linear addition” also occurred in the Old Akkadian redaction, which will be discussed in section 4.2 below. As the changes made by the early Ur iii redaction are minimal, the following paragraphs focus on the politicized views of ancient history that are presented in the text’s first three recensions. 4.1 The Past According to the Kish Recension The posited pre-Sargonic Kish recension consisted of two parts. The first comprised a brief description of how kingship was established in the city of Kish. According to the earliest extant textual version, the passage read as follows: nam-lugal an-ta e11-da-ba / kišeki lugal-am3 {(nam-lugal==øabs an==taabl e11.d)-anom=biposs==alok / kišeki==øabs lugal==øabs-am3} “After kingship was brought down from heaven, Kish has been king.”42 This single sentence compresses a significant amount of information about the underlying concept of power and political history. First, “kingship” (nam-lugal) is said to originate from heaven, making it a divine entity. Second, kingship was transferred by the gods to humans.43 The text does not mention which god granted kingship, suggesting that their identity was known; most likely it was the god Enlil, who was already the head of the pantheon during pre-Sargonic times.44 Alternatively, the god responsible may have been Ishtar or Zababa, the patron deities of Kish, though other possibilities exist as well.45

42 43 44 45

Here, I assume that the sentence was neither added during a later redaction nor essentially altered. This is not explicit in the terse wording of the skl but can be deduced from Old Babylonian sources that refer to the skl; see Gabriel, 2020a and 2020b. See e.g. Krebernik, 1994. Compare for example the transfer of the first temple from heaven to earth, as described

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The destination of the transfer of kingship is not made explicit but can be derived from the main clause. The god or gods established kingship at Kish, causing the city to become “king” (lugal). This statement is notable, as the word lugal here seems to refer to a place and not a person. The phrase may have been meant to underscore the idea that the long life of a city guarantees a continuity of power far greater than that of a single human ruler. In sum, the messages conveyed by the first recension of the skl were probably that: 1) Kish’s preeminence was granted by the gods; 2) Since the primeval past, only one city has held power at any one time; and, 3) Political history is marked by stability. After this preface, the presumed first recension would have listed the kings of Kish and their respective years in power. The recension thus created a connection between the present and the mythical past when the god(s) had bestowed kingship on the city. At the same time, the conceptual divide between divinely granted kingship and the execution of power by human kings is also marked on the textual level. While the role of Kish is described in a copular clause indicating a state of being that has endured since the very origins of political history—“Kish has (always) been king”—human rule is reported by a finite predicate in the perfective (ḫamṭu) aspect: {i-n-ak-ø}, literally, “he made (# years).” The perfective emphasizes grammatically that the wielding of power by a human ruler is temporally limited. In summary, the earliest recension of the skl—at least as far as I have reconstructed it—depicted an ordered and continuous past. The divine gift of kingship guaranteed stability, and the gods established Kish as the eternal capital of the country. The long-lasting nature of the city allowed for the continuity of this political constellation beyond the lifespan of its individual mortal kings. 4.2 The Past According to the Old Akkadian Recension The Sargonic rulers added the concept of a change of hegemony to the skl. In this version of events, the gods did not bequeath kingship to Kish forever— they later passed it on to other worthy cities. This change results in the altered semantics of the identical initial copular phrase (kišeki lugal-am3) from an

in the Sumerian epic Innana and An. Here, the goddess Innana successfully brings the “house of heaven” (e2-ana.k) to Sumer with the help of the gods Adagbir and Utu; A. Zgoll, 2015. The openness of the text made it at least possible for local traditions to interpret their deity/deities as the agent(s) of the event.

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eternal truth, “Kish has (always) been king,” to a delimited segment of history, “Kish was king.”46 To convey the concept of change, the Akkadian redactors supplemented the vertical transfer of kingship from heaven to earth with a horizontal transfer of kingship from city to city. The new model of change led to the inclusion of two new phrasal components, the “collapse formula” and the “transfer formula.” If the uskl manuscript faithfully preserves the phraseology that was used in earlier recensions as well,47 the new phrasal components ran as follows: “Collapse formula” gnki(-a) ĝeštukul ba-sag3 {gnki==aloc ĝeštukul==øabs ba-sag3-øS=3N} “The weapon was struck against gn.”48 “Transfer formula” nam-lugal-bi gnki-še3 ba-de6 {nam-lugal=biposs=3N==øabs gnki==še3term ba-de6-øS=3N} “Its (the former capital’s) kingship was brought to gn.” Both formulas were written in the passive voice, marked by the prefix ba-. As in the “king’s formula,” the perfective (ḫamṭu) form marks a completed event, creating a chronological sequence. The verbal prefixes (ba- vs. i-)49 and the varying voices (passive vs. active) indicate that there is a categorical difference between the two sets of events—a king’s rule vs. the collapse and transfer of a hegemony. While the kings are the agents of their rule, the city and the “kingship” are the objects of the collapse and transfer. As in the case of the vertical transfer described above, the agents are not mentioned explicitly, but it can be assumed that they were gods.50 As the geographical focus has broadened in this redaction to include also Uruk and Akkad, transregionally important gods such as An, Enlil (and Innana?) are the most likely divine actors.

46 47 48 49 50

I owe the idea of a semantic shift within the phrase to Annette Zgoll. Such a longue durée tradition is likely because both variants are also found in the Old Babylonian copies; see Gabriel, 2020b, chap. 4. The focus on military action might reflect the means by which the Old Akkadian kings established their empire. See the variants of the “king’s formula” and of the “collapse formula” as given in section 2. Of course, humans, e.g., as armies, play a central role in the end of a hegemony. However, they are only an instrument of the gods; they carry out the divine will. This makes the gods the decisive agents of change.

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As a result, the past, according to the Old Akkadian recension of the skl, consists of two layers, human and divine. The gods are responsible for the longue durée of history; they granted humankind the institution of kingship and decide when the center of royal power will change, and where it will change to. The human kings are only kings by virtue of the fact that they rule the city that is currently the recipient of the gods’ favor. The human stratum of history is played out in the short term and is fully determined by the will of the gods.51 Unlike the Kish recension, which was likely focused only on that one city, the Old Akkadian redaction does specify the territory controlled by the hegemony, which is one reason why the Akkadian kings added Uruk to the list. They began by taking contemporary events into account, specifically the fact that Lugalzagesi of Uruk had established a large polity before being defeated by Sargon, the founder of the Akkadian empire, who began to rule the territories in the south after deposing Lugalzagesi. Uruk was a venerable and important city, and its traditional cachet is another reason why the skl includes the glorious past of the Urukean kings. By assigning a former supremacy to Uruk, the Old Akkadian recension claims that this city had long been integrated into the institution of divinely transferred kingship. Building on the implicit assumption that what was true in the past is also true in the present, the rule of the present “king” (lugal) extends to Uruk; and, as this city metonymically represents all of southern Babylonia, his legitimate rule thus embraces the region as a whole. This narrative strategy can be summarized as “subordination through historical inclusion.” The city that possessed kingship in the past is subject of the same kingship in the present. In this way, the Akkadian kings presented themselves as both the heirs to Kish in the north and the successors to the southern rule of Uruk. Since the text portrayed them as rightfully ruling both centers of power, their enemies were given to understand that they had no legitimate cause for opposition. While the Old Akkadian redaction integrated a new understanding of history and kingship into the skl, some of the concepts that structured the first recension remained unchanged. In particular, kingship was still viewed as a divine gift that had been bestowed at the beginning of political history, and the first Kishite hegemony continued to be depicted as a period of high stability.

51

The idea of a stratified history consisting of varying timespans, in which the longer timespan sets the terms for the events that can occur in the briefer timespan, is found in the work of the historian Fernand Braudel, 1949 and 1958.

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4.3 The Past According to the Utu-hegal Recension In the redaction that probably occurred during the reign of Utu-hegal (c. 2100 bce), the skl came to include a cyclical concept of history. While the proposed Old Akkadian recension understood change as a linear sequence of new capitals (Kish, [Uruk], Akkad), the recension likely written during Utuhegal’s reign established the concept of a kingship’s possible return to a city, by bracketing the Gutian hegemony within two Urukean hegemonies: an earlier period of Urukean rule (Uruk A) and Utu-hegal’s own reign (Uruk B).52 This structure also implied that the Gutian period was a historical anomaly that had to be overcome, restoring the former political landscape. The unsettled, unstable nature of Gutian rule is emphasized by the fact that it lacked a king at the beginning of the hegemony. The reigns of individual Gutian rulers are also very short, culminating in king Tirigan’s infamous 40 days of rule. Finally, the Gutians do not reside in a venerable city like Uruk or Kish, but either in a military camp (ummānumki) or in the city of Gutium (gutiumki), varying between the manuscripts. While Utu-hegal’s redaction did not change the sequence of the first hegemonies (Kish A–[Uruk A*]–Akkad), it did create an epochal threshold between Kish A and the subsequent history of the skl. After the long, uninterrupted reign of Kish, the gods granted kingship to Uruk. In contrast to the steady rule of Kish, the Urukean hegemony was twice interrupted, first by the hegemony of Akkad, then by that of Gutium—but in the end, kingship is shown to always have returned to its newly rightful location, Uruk. As a result, the account of the past sponsored by Utu-hegal consisted of a stable epoch (Kish A) followed by a cyclical era that saw the repeated rise, fall, and restoration of Uruk.

5

Summary and Further Perspectives

The first three recensions of the skl which can be reconstructed established a set of fundamental ideas about the nature of history and political power that continued to shape later recensions of the composition, ideas that can be summarized as follows. History consists of two strata, a longue durée divine stratum and a short-term stratum of human rule, with the divine agents defining the boundaries within which mortal rulers can operate. The gods grant kingship from heaven to an earthly city, transfer kingship from one city to another, and

52

This is also the message of the final sentence in Utu-hegal’s inscription.

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determine the duration of each new hegemony. Meanwhile, the human rulers become kings of the city that has been granted kingship by the gods, and wield power over the land, but cannot affect the divine stratum. Further, kingship is an immortal and unchangeable divine substance that can be transferred to a new city (creating a linear history) or to a former capital (creating a cyclical history). Finally, kingship is unique: as there is only one divinely ordained kingship, there is only one royal city that can unify the country at any one time.53 Therefore “history,” according to the skl, essentially consists of a sequence of capitals and their kings. Another noteworthy aspect of skl’s “prehistory” is that the original core of the text, the hegemony of Kish A, represented a period of unparalleled stability, due to the incredibly long lifespans of its first rulers and the absence of major political change. By contrast, post-Kishite history is depicted as an epoch of regular transitions, each requiring the collapse of a former capital. While the sequence of collapses and renewals likely echoes the actual historical situation of Babylonia, Kish’s hegemony rather resembles an idealized Golden Age. However, this conception of the Kishite hegemony as an ideal era was undermined in later redactions of the skl. In the time between the writing of the uskl and of the copies of the Old Babylonian period, the hegemony of Kish A was split into three smaller hegemonies, with new capitals and kings added to the list. As a result, the period before the hegemony of Akkad came to resemble the later section of the text more closely. This redaction was likely carried out at the behest of the Ur iii kings after Shulgi, perhaps to diminish the glory of the northern city of Kish and benefit the southern cities of Uruk and Ur instead. According to the earliest Old Babylonian copies of the skl, these southern centers had ruled just as often as Kish, that is, three times each.54 The addition of the hegemonies of Akshak, Awan, Hamazi, and Mari probably served to mark the outer borders of the territory ruled by the historical Ur iii kings—the cities were located at the edges of their empire, so their inclusion in the skl effectively demonstrated how far the kingship reached.55 Fur-

53 54

55

See also, e.g., Krecher, 1978; Michalowski, 1983; and Glassner, 1993. However, the need for a historical Golden Age might explain why the Old Babylonian redactors added the antediluvian section of the skl, to tell the story of an alternate epoch of absolute stability, separated from the historical era by the caesura of the Flood. This redaction is preserved in the manuscripts im 63095, ms 3175, uet 6/3 504, ts A xii 29, and the Weld-Blundell prism. Wilcke, 1988, 117. The pre-Akkad hegemony of Adab in the Old Babylonian copies might be the result of Adab being mentioned at the end of the Gutian reign in the uskl tablet (see section 3 above). In the uskl, the city is the location of a decisive battle that ended

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ther, this inclusion would follow the same strategy of “subordination through historical inclusion” that can be identified in the Old Akkadian redaction (see section 4.2.). If a city is granted historical glory in the skl, it is implied that it will now in turn be subject to whomever currently holds kingship. In this way, the kings of the late Ur iii period, for whom this recension was made,56 strengthened their ideological grip on the peripheral areas of Mesopotamia, as represented by these four cities: Akshak, Awan, Hamazi, and Mari.57 While most of the changes made to the hylistic structure of the skl in later redactions built on concepts that were already deeply engrained in the text, one change stands out. Up to, and including the first extant copy of the skl,58 the text focused on a small set of data: the names of cities, the names of kings, and the lengths of their reigns.59 After the uskl, however, the scope of the skl expanded, as the text also began to inform its audience about the family connections of the kings, their former professions, and, in a few cases, brief narratives about their notable deeds. These additional “notes,” as Jacobsen called them,60 report mythological circumstances such as the ascent of the Kishite king Etana to heaven on the back of an eagle and the subsequent establishment of dynastic kingship in Babylonia.61 Another example is the building work of king Enmerkara in Uruk, an event which transferred the seat of kingship in the skl from the Eana temple (located in Uruk) to the city of Uruk itself.62

56

57

58

59

60 61 62

the hegemony, but when the reference to Utu-hegal’s victory was erased from the skl, the reference to Adab was turned into a short hegemony instead. Alternatively, later rulers might have added these cities to refer to their past greatness. Note that the boundaries of the empire of Isin were considerably smaller; see Wilcke, 1988, 177, and 1989, 561. The uskl manuscript was the product of a recension from the early Ur iii period, which was probably followed by a recension later in the Ur iii period, one that can only be reconstructed from the early Old Babylonian copies. I assume that most of the differences between the two groups of manuscripts (the uskl manuscript and the early ob tablets) can be explained by a recension that took place in the second half of the Ur iii empire. For further discussion, see Gabriel, 2020b. Of course, it cannot be completely ruled out that uskl has unique features that are not part of a longer tradition. However, as we can see from all the extant manuscripts of the skl, the text tends to grow (see section 3). Abridging it to produce a condensed version would contradict this general tendency. That is why I propose to interpret uskl as a representative earlier version of the text. The uskl manuscript only mentions the filiation of three kings: Aka, son of Enmeparagesi (Kish A); Mesh-nun, son of Nanne (Kish A); and Shar-kali-sharri, son of Naram-Sîn (Akkad). Jacobsen, 1939, 141. Gabriel, 2020a. Gabriel, 2020b, chap. 6.

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By including this type of information, the text merged the narrative and the historical tradition, transforming the skl into a “master text,” a summa mythohistorica for the Babylonian past, which connected the two traditional strands of historiography.63 The skl thus provides an emic timeline for deeds such as Etana’s ascent and Enmerkara’s construction work. At the same time, the narrative mythical context fleshes out the contents of the skl, providing corroborative material for its account of the past and strengthening its claim to legitimacy.64 In summary, the skl was a polymorphic entity, whose phraseological, hylistic, and conceptual content changed continuously over as much as a millennium. The existence of several redactions suggests that the text was reshaped by ongoing developments in the historiographical discourse of the time. Ideas about the nature of the past always depend to a significant degree on the historical circumstances in which those ideas take form. As the skl sought to give a historical account of all of Babylonia, its redactions created a new universal narrative of the past. The most striking aspect of the skl is that it invites transformation: it is the text’s fluidity that reveals its cultural importance.65 This chapter sought to identify the hylistic strata of the skl and to reconstruct the historiographical concepts embedded in them, by peeling off layer after layer of the text and so exposing how power and the past were conceptualized more than four thousand years ago.

Bibliography Braudel, Fernand. 1949. La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen à l’époque de Philippe ii. Paris: Colin. Braudel, Fernand. 1958. “La longue durée.” Annales, économies, sociétés, civilisations, 13, no. 4: 725–753. Bryant, John. 2002. The Fluid Text: A Theory of Revision and Editing for Book and Screen. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

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See also Wilcke, 1988, 121. An extensive examination of the links between the skl and the narrative tradition can be found in Gabriel, 2020b, chap. 8. The idea that the skl itself needs to be legitimized was suggested to me by Joshua Jeffers in personal communication. The fluidity is a quality that this text shares with many other texts that have come down to us through Old Babylonian copies. I owe this observation to the reviewer of this contribution.

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Chen, Y. Samuel. 2012. “The Flood Motif as a Stylistic and Temporal Device in Sumerian Literary Traditions.” Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions 12, no. 2: 158–189. Cooper, Jerrold S. 2010. “‘I Have Forgotten My burden of Former Days!’ Forgetting the Sumerians in Ancient Iraq.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 130, no. 3: 327– 335. Delnero, Paul. 2010. “Sumerian Extract Tablets and Scribal Education.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 62: 53–69. Delnero, Paul. 2012a. “Memorization and the Transmission of Sumerian Literary Compositions,” Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions 71: 189–208. Delnero, Paul. 2012b. The Textual Criticism of Sumerian Literature. Journal of Cuneiform Studies Supplemental Series 3. Atlanta: American Schools of Oriental Research. Gabriel, Gösta. 2020a. “Von Adlerflügen und numinosen Insignien: Eine Analyse von Mythen zum himmlischen Ursprung politischer Herrschaft nach sumerischen und akkadischen Quellen aus drei Jahrtausenden.” In Was vom Himmel kommt: Stoffanalytische Zugänge zu antiken Mythen aus Mesopotamien, Ägypten, Griechenland und Rom, edited by Gösta Gabriel, Brit Kärger, Annette Zgoll, and Christian Zgoll, 309– 407. Mythological Studies 3. Berlin: De Gruyter. Gabriel, Gösta. 2020b. “Die ‘Sumerische Königsliste’ als Werk der Geschichte: Kritische Edition sowie text-, stoff- und konzepthistorische Analyse.” Habilitationsschrift, Freie Universität Berlin. Glassner, Jean-Jacques. 1993. Chroniques mésopotamiennes. Paris: Les belles lettres. Glassner, Jean-Jacques. 2004. Mesopotamian Chronicles. Edited by Benjamin R. Foster. Writings from the Ancient World 19. Atlanta: sbl Press. Glassner, Jean-Jacques. 2005a. “La chronique de la monarchie une et l’écriture de l’histoire à la fin du 3e millénaire.” nabu 2005, no. 2: 51–52, no. 46. Glassner, Jean-Jacques. 2005b. “La date de composition de la chronique de la monarchie une.” In An Experienced Scribe who Neglects Nothing: Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honor of Jacob Klein, edited by Yitschak Sefati, Pinhas Artzi, Chaim Cohen, Barry L. Eichler, and Victor Avigdor Hurowitz, 138–141. Bethesda: cdl Press. Glassner, Jean-Jacques. 2011. “Les régimes de succession dans les monarchies mésopotamiennes.” In L’argument de la filiation: Aux fondements des sociétés européennes et méditerannéennes, edited by Pierre Bonte, Enric Porqueres i Gené, and Jérôme Wilgaux, 139–154. Paris: Éditions de la Maison des sciences de l’homme. Jacobsen, Thorkild. 1939. The Sumerian King List. Assyriological Studies 11. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Kaula, Jörg. 2016. “‘Nachdem das Königtum vom Himmel herabgekommen war …’: Untersuchungen zur Sumerischen Königsliste.” Cuneiform Digital Library Preprints, no. 6. Klein, Jacob. 1991. “A New Nippur Duplicate of the Sumerian Kinglist in the Brockmon Collection, University of Haifa.” Aula Orientalis 9: 123–129.

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Klein, Jacob. 2008. “The Brockmon Collection Duplicate of the Sumerian Kinglist (bt 14).” In On the Third Dynasty of Ur: Studies in Honor of Marcel Sigrist, edited by Piotr Michalowski, 77–91. Journal of Cuneiform Studies Supplemental Series 1. Boston: The American Schools of Oriental Research. Kraus, Fritz R. 1952. “Zur Liste der älteren Könige von Babylonien.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 50: 29–60. Krebernik, Manfred. 1994. “Zur Einleitung der zà-me-Hymnen aus Tell Abū Ṣalābīḫ.” In Beiträge zur Altorientalischen Archäologie und Altertumskunde: Festschrift für Barthel Hrouda zum 65. Geburtstag, edited by Peter Calmeyer, Karl Hecker, Liane Jakob-Rost, C.B.F. Walker, 151–157. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Krecher, Joachim. 1978. “Sumerische Literatur.” In Altorientalische Literaturen, edited by Wolfgang Röllig, 101–150. Neues Handbuch der Literaturwissenschaften 1. Wiesbaden: Akademische Verlagsgesellschaft Athenaion. Lambert, Wilfred G. 1974. “The Seed of Kingship.” In Le Palais et la royauté: Archéologie et civilisation, compte rendu de la xixe Rencontre assyriologique international, edited by Paul Garelli, 427–440. Paris: P. Geuthner. Malayeri, Mernoush. 2014. “Schülertexte aus Susa.” Doctoral dissertation, Universität Tübingen. Marchesi, Gianni. 2010. “The Sumerian King List and the Early History of Mesopotamia.” In Ana turri gimilli: Studia dedicati al Padre Werner R. Mayer, S.J. da amici e allievi, edited by Maria G. Biga and Mario Liverani, 231–248. Vicino Oriente, Quaderno 5. Rome: La Sapienza. Michalowski, Piotr. 1983. “History as Charter: Some Observations on the Sumerian King List,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 103: 237–248. Michalowski, Piotr. 2008. “The Mortal Kings of Ur: A Short Century of Divine Rule in Ancient Mesopotamia.” In Religion and Power: Divine Kingship in the Ancient World and Beyond, edited by Nicole Brisch, 33–45. Oriental Institute Seminars 4. Chicago: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Michalowski, Piotr. 2019. “The Domestication of Stranger Kings: Making History by List in Ancient Mesopotamia.” In Historical Consciousness and the Uses of the Past in the Ancient World, edited by John Baines, Henriette van der Blom, Yi Samuel Chen, and Tim Rood, 15–38. Sheffield: Equinox Publishing. Milstein, Sara Jessica. 2016. Tracking the Master Scribe: Revision through Introduction in Biblical and Mesopotamian Literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Robson, Eleanor. 2002. “More than Metrology: Mathematics Education in an Old Babylonian Scribal School.” In Under One Sky: Mathematics and Astronomy in Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia, edited by Annette Imhausen and John M. Steele, 325–365. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 297. Münster: Ugarit. Sallaberger, Walther and Ingo Schrakamp. 2015. “Part i: Philological Data for a Historical Chronology of Mesopotamia in the 3rd Millennium” In History and Philology, edited

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by Walther Sallaberger and Ingo Schrakamp, 3–136. Associated Regional Chronologies for the Ancient Near East 3. Turnhout: Brepols. Scheil, Vincent. 1934. “Listes Susiennes des dynasties de Sumer-Accad.” Revue d’Assyriologie 31: 149–166. Steinkeller, Piotr. 2003. “An Ur iii Manuscript of the Sumerian King List.” In Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien: Festschrift für Claus Wilcke, edited by Walther Sallaberger, Konrad Volk, and Annette Zgoll. 267–292. Orientalia Biblica et Christiana 14. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Steinkeller, Piotr. 2015. “The Gutian Period in Chronological Perspective.” In History and Philology, edited by Walther Sallaberger and Ingo Schrakamp, 281–288. Associated Regional Chronologies for the Ancient Near East 3. Turnhout: Brepols. Steinkeller, Piotr. 2017. History, Texts and Art in Early Babylonia: Three Essays. Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Records 15. Berlin: De Gruyter. Streck, Michael P. 2014–2016. “Utu-ḫeĝal.” Reallexikon der Assyriologie 14: 522–523. Wilcke, Claus. 1987. “Die Inschriftenfunde der 7. und 8. Kampagnen (1983 und 1984).” In Isin-Išān Bahrīyāt iii: Die Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen 1983–1984, edited by Barthel Hrouda, 83–120. Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-historische Klasse, Abhandlungen Neue Folge 84. Munich: Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Wilcke, Claus. 1988. “Die Sumerische Königsliste und erzählte Vergangenheit.” In Vergangenheit in mündlicher Überlieferung, edited by Jürgen von Ungern-Sternberg, 113–140. Colloquium Rauricum 1. Stuttgart: Teubner. Wilcke, Claus. 1989. “Genealogical and Geographical Thought in the Sumerian King List.” In Dumu-e2-dub-ba-a: Studies in Honor of Åke W. Sjöberg, edited by Hermann Behrens, Darleen Loding, and Martha T. Roth, 557–571. Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund 11. Philadelphia: Samuel Noah Kramer Fund. Wilcke, Claus. 2001. “Gestaltetes Altertum in antiker Gegenwart: Königslisten und Historiographie des älteren Mesopotamien.” In Die Gegenwart des Altertums: Formen und Funktionen des Altertumsbezugs in den Hochkulturen der Alten Welt, edited by Dieter Kuhn and Helga Stahl, 93–116. Heidelberg: Edition Forum. Wilcke, Claus. 2002. “Vom göttlichen Wesen des Königtums und seinem Ursprung im Himmel.” In Die Sakralität von Herrschaft: Herrschaftslegitimierung im Wechsel der Zeiten und Räume, Fünfzehn interdisziplinäre Beiträge zu einem weltweiten und epochenübergreifenden Phänomen, edited by Franz-Reiner Erkens, 63–83. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag. Wilcke, Claus and Stefan Odzuck. 2018. Keilschrifttexte aus Isin—Išān Baḥrīyāt: Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft unter der Schirmherrschaft der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. With Dietz Otto Edzard and Christopher Walker. Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-

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historische Klasse, Abhandlungen, Neue Folge 43. München: Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Worthington, Martin. 2012. Principles of Akkadian Textual Criticism. Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Records 1. Boston, Berlin: De Gruyter. Zgoll, Annette. 2015. “Innana holt das erste Himmelshaus auf die Erde.” In Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen, edited by Bernd Janowski and Daniel Schwemer, 45–55. Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments, Neue Folge 8. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Zgoll, Christian. 2019. Tractatus mythologicus: Theorie und Methodik zur Erforschung von Mythen als Grundlegung einer allgemeinen, transmedialen und komparatistischen Stoffwissenschaft. Mythological Studies 1. Berlin: De Gruyter. Zólyomi, Gábor. 2010. “The Case of the Sumerian Cases.” In Proceedings of the 53e Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, vol. 1, Language in the Ancient Near East, edited by Leonid Kogan et al., 577–590. Babel und Bibel 4A–B. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns.

chapter 11

Blank Space: Akkadian Metapoetics in the Bel-etir Narrative Claudio Sansone

1

Staring into Blank Space

The Bel-etir Narrative is a brief poetic composition from the first millennium bce. It is filled with expletives and uncomfortable imagery, lambasting a man called Bel-etir for what seems to be an attempt to make himself appear impressive and important, perhaps as part of an inchoate insurrection. It also contains a unique, silent provocation: a blank space on the tablet (see fig. 11.1). In terms of the narrative, the blank space is in several ways a moment of textual failure. We will see later that the sex worker Nasqat erects a stele for Bel-etir, but it appears that she forgets to write her words of praise—or that she had none to offer. Materially speaking, the silence glides across the surface of the tablet, bounded spatially and temporally by the movement of our eyes, but carrying the risk of capturing our gaze indefinitely. By choosing to represent the character’s imaginative compositional failure or reticence with a literal lacuna, the scribe thus invites us to consider the relation between discursive practices, narrative, the materiality of texts, and the conventions of several literary genres imbricated in the architecture of this specific poem. In the simplest terms possible, this paper is an attempt to account for the entanglement of rhetoric and audience that come into view when the blank space arrests our reading, inviting us to engage more closely with the material and conceptual structures that make the text possible. The literal and sudden visibility of the clay tablet blasts open the complex (and still poorly understood) mental processes through which readers reflexively transform orthographic marks into a continuum of meaning. It then teases us by asking us to imagine what has been left unsaid, before disclosing that silence, in this case, is its own kind of meaning. Finally, it threatens the stability of the rest of the text’s meaning(s) by intimating at the silences they may have overwritten. This striking aspect of the text, although it was noted as an intentional gesture by earlier scholars, has not received detailed scrutiny—nor have its implications been theorized. Beyond Assyriology, the mysteriously allusive power of blank spaces has become a cliché of modernism and a staple of contemporary

© Claudio Sansone, 2023 | doi:10.1163/978

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Blank Space on K 1351, reverse © the trustees of the british museum, reproduced here with their kind permission

literature, but it is not a static device. Examples range from Laurence Sterne’s invitation that the reader literally draw out our mind’s painting of widow Wadman on a facing blank page to Stéphane Mallarmé’s bets against our predictable eye movements. Blank spaces organize and disorganize our attention, remind us what is absent, and make space for unusual cognitive processes. When the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre in 1911, more people went to visit the empty space on the wall for the two years that it was missing than had come to see the masterpiece in the twelve previous years. We could go on listing diverse examples of more or less marginal relevance, but if—to offer a final optic—the German Romantics’ elevation of the fragment to the status of a self-sufficient form has taught us anything, it is that the moment blank spaces act as semantic vacuums, they also engender, even compel, forms of proliferating interpretive attention. So, how did Akkadian scribes configure their blank spaces into meaningful absences? How might the presence of such a device alter our approach both to this specific text and to the difficult-to-excavate nuances of Akkadian poetics more broadly? What other questions about the status of texts and their efficacy are thematized by the presence of this blank space?

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What is the Bel-etir Narrative?

Before the questions raised in my introduction can find an answer, it is necessary to take a moment to consider the poetics of the text at hand, charting as best as possible the modes in which it may have signified in the past. What I term the Bel-etir Narrative is an Akkadian poem dated roughly to the reign of Assurbanipal (668–627bce), excavated at Kuyunjik, ancient Nineveh. It survives on one manuscript from the Library of Assurbanipal. But difficulties in establishing its genre and pragmatic function have consigned the Bel-etir Narrative to the margins of Akkadian literary studies since it was first published. The work of previous scholars, which I address in more detail over the course of this paper, speaks both directly and indirectly to the problem of genre and pragmatics. One symptom of this tension emerges from the common practice of giving the Akkadian poem a Westernized title. Akkadian compositions did not have titles as we now understand them. Scribes referred to texts by their opening words or incipit, and Assyriologists sometimes follow this approach or replace it with a seemingly innocuous descriptive title. But the problem with describing a poetic composition is that such descriptions tend to then become interpretively prescriptive. For instance, in the editio princeps of the text, Alasdair Livingstone engaged in a relatively un-Akkadian titling practice by labeling our text “A Warning to Bel-etir,” emphasizing its propagandistic or apotropaic function through a phrase that must have seemed, to him, to match the poem’s general gist.1 In contrast, Peter Machinist has more recently taken what is perhaps a schematic historical, genre-conscious approach, labelling the poem “Ashurbanipal’s Bel-etir Satire,” thereby alluding to its findspot, rough dating, and overall generic feature. But both titles pre-empt the reader’s approach to the poem by gently insisting that it is simply a stylized attack against a real man called Bel-etir, basing this assumption on the extrinsic knowledge that the name surfaces occasionally in the historical record, where Bel-etir appears to be an insurrectionist regional governor.2 Of course, such titles have both contributed to the formation and then mirrored the existing scholarly consensus— even in spite of Livingstone’s early hesitancies about the poem.3

1 Livingstone, 1989. 2 On the historical Bel-etir(s) see Michalowski, 1999, 85–87; Frame, 1992, 117–118; Parpola, 1983, 11; Glassner, 2004, 203 and 211; Shipp, 2002, 45; as well as Machinist, 2018, 356–357 (with additional bibliography). 3 Livingstone placed the Bel-etir texts in the section “Royal Propaganda,” but added the caveat that these are “unique” texts which sit uncomfortably in their category. Livingstone even announced his intent to provide a dedicated study of the two Bel-etir texts and other related

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Besides the link to Bel-etir as a historical figure, the poem has also attracted scattered but consistent curiosity about its relatively unique rhetorical features (although not specifically to the question of its blank space). Scholars have engaged with the complexity of the satirical function of the text—noting, for example, that it blends high, literary linguistic registers with some of the basest and most grotesque insults extant in Akkadian. Another much-commented on aspect of the text is its engagement with parody—for instance, how it performs its putative satire by inverting the effects of royal inscriptions, narû literature, and epic poetics, locating its propagandistic force in a denial of the prestige that such genres tend to afford to their objects or protagonists. These are important insights, which I will expand in due course, but it is important to note that sustained analyses are few and brief, and that such earlier scholarship has substantially taken these literary aspects to be subordinate to the historical moment (or objective) of the text: its scathing assault on a historical Bel-etir. In this paper I depart from this historicizing consensus by arguing that the Bel-etir Narrative is primarily a literary document. This does not entail a wholesale abandonment of historicist methodologies. Whether or not the Bel-etir of this text corresponds to any Bel-etir in the historical record (or even to a forgotten figure), I understand the character Bel-etir in this poem to be a real, historically-locatable literary construct—one through which, I argue, the scribe(s) of the Bel-etir Narrative reflect on his or their own practices as textual agents in the service of the court. The historical stature of Bel-etir as a character is to my mind more important than any casual resemblance to the figure noted in the historical records, since it properly conceives of the manner in which Bel-etir emerges into a fictional space developed over the course of this performatively excessive poem. By lambasting this literary Bel-etir in several manners, the scribes commented on the practice of producing propaganda itself, and on their own position as intellectuals whose skill lay in the deployment of a codified language through which the court defines itself in opposition to perceived others. Indeed, the excess with which he is performdocuments, but this has yet to appear. Maybe it was due to these plans that Livingstone did not discuss the Bel-etir texts any further in his introduction to the volume. They are conspicuously absent from the section on “intertextuality,” although Livingstone did note that the incipit of this Bel-etir piece participates in a broader literary tradition that includes the Epic of Gilgamesh and the Cuthean Legend of Naram-Sim, with which it shares important stylistic characteristics. This observation set the tone for what little scholarship has since engaged with this text. Livingstone’s slightly erratic treatment of these texts—and “the events involved here” (?)—is telling, as it evinces a real discomfort with approaching them, given their ambiguous historical character, their unsubtle ideological stereotypes, and their literary playfulness.

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atively othered is one key to the text as a specifically literary work, more concerned with the practices of converting ideological propositions into a legible form than in the ideological propositions themselves—or, we might say, more interested in thinking about what it means to write propaganda than in actually writing propaganda. As mentioned, this literary perspective does not deplete historicism of its use. On the contrary, two specific historical arguments are at stake in my readings. Precisely because the Bel-etir of this text is fundamentally a type-figure, there is much that his characterization can reveal about specific and historically contingent norms of social inclusion and exclusion in propagandistic discourse. For instance, the fact that he is effeminized as he is discredited speaks directly to the misogynistic character of Akkadian discourses surrounding political claims to power, predicated for the most part on strictly heteronormative and often toxic notions of masculine power. The often-grotesque literary finesse of the piece is therefore revealing of trends and norms that can carry clear historicist interest, which can in turn be comparted to similar patterns in other texts. But this is perhaps the less interesting historical vantage that the poem offers, since the conclusions to be drawn from this method reinforce already existing knowledge about ancient constructs of identity. More uniquely, the Bel-etir Narrative’s fixation on the practices of text production (of which the blank stele erected by Nasqat is but one of many examples) is revealing of how scribes and courts may have conceived of propaganda, literature, and other forms of narrative discourse as a kind of textual power. By narrating the failure of textual power, the Bel-etir Narrative gives us a rare insight into sources of skepticism and false consciousness embedded in the practices of textual production, dissemination, and interpretation. Therefore, my close reading of the text brings out how it behaves as a kind of doubled text. On the one hand, the narrative can be read (extending some of the existing scholarship) as a satirical invective directed at Bel-etir, making fun of his specific textual failures as examples of the kinds of failures that may befall an aspiring ruler. But, as a metapoetic parody, it turns inwards—offering a series of scribal reflections on the narrative and formal conventions of the genres of royal inscription and court propaganda. In this second capacity, it can show us how scribes understood and critiqued the patterns of discourses that structure such common genres, the codes used to construct power, their efficacy, and their sometimes farcically transparent ideological contours. Briefly put, it grants us a partial, but important insight into the affective reality into which first-millennium Akkadian texts intervened, charting more precarious courses than is usually supposed.

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A “Blank Space” Theory of Metapoetics

Because it is the objective of this volume to offer new approaches to cuneiform literature and its narrative devices, it will be useful to take some time (ahead of reviewing the text) to think through strategies for dealing with a text that is, on my reading, about texts, including blank ones. I do this in two sections. The first will be theoretical, addressing the question of “metapoetics,” and the second more concrete—outlining the poem’s structure on the basis of the theory offered in the first. I noted above that the Bel-etir Narrative is in many senses a unique poem, replete with insults and obsessed with instances of textual failure. The blank space is merely the most visually arresting of these avowed reflections of the efficacy of textuality, since it quite literally asks its readers to observe just how a semantic void can be imbued with meaning. But the Bel-etir Narrative dramatizes text production so insistently that it practically offers its own theory of metapoetics. By metapoetics, I mean the way in which a text may thematize practices surrounding the composition, production, and dissemination of texts— baking them into its own narrative and thereby creating a reflexive paradigm, where reading a text also becomes an exercise in thinking about textuality itself in its many components.4 It follows that by attending to these metapoetic moments in detail, we will gain several perspectives on how the scribe (or scribes) conceived of their own poetic labor—both practically speaking (what are the skills, media, languages, and literary forms involved) and more affectively speaking (how do they feel about this work, what are their ambitions concerning its suasive power, and so on). It is no longer innovative to suggest that Akkadian poetry contains salient metapoetic moments.5 Readers of the Epic of Gilgamesh know well that, in its opening lines, a tablet of which the epic is inscribed is mentioned in the epic itself. Similar strategies recur in the Bel-etir Narrative, but it pushes metapoetics in new directions by moving beyond the imagined tablet to the literal table in the reader’s hands when it comes to its blank space in particular. While the metapoetic effect of the tablet mentioned in the opening of the Epic of Gilgamesh serves one set of effects, internally confirming the authority and timelessness of the tale that we are about to hear, the metapoetic gestures of the Bel-etir Narrative have their own set of implications that we will explore below. To foreshadow my conclusions, the Bel-etir Narrative contains a meta-

4 For a broader discussion of metapoetics, see Genette, 1982. 5 For two overviews, see Foster, 2019 and Foster, 1991.

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poetic tendency toward sardonic detachment, perhaps even a growing awareness and enervation among scribes toward their repetitive ideological tasks as propagandists working with stale and over-used literary formulas, clichés, and insults. It is in these terms that I will argue that the poem uses metapoetic episodes to reflect more on the status of the court or king as commissioner, scribes, and readers than of the status of texts themselves, although the status of texts is also discussed occasionally. For instance, once we understand that the poem satirizes the generic conventions of the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions (henceforth, ari s), we will see that it is engaged in a reflexive commentary on the production and dissemination of propaganda and its effects on readers more broadly, rather than on the material status of any specific ari. It is particularly interesting, from this perspective, that the Bel-etir Narrative satirizes the court’s multi-level engagement with textual media in a period in which the technology of the text was growing in importance. In connecting metapoetics to a satirical intent (directed not at Bel-etir per se but at the practices of textual production) I am drawing a crucial distinction between parody and metapoetics—incidentally undoing some of the more problematic assumptions made in the titles given to this text in the past. This is important because earlier scholars have emphasized the parodic or even satirical elements of the Bel-etir Narrative without extending their discussions into the realm of metapoetics as a possible form of satire unto itself.6 Parody can be defined as repetition with difference.7 In 1764, a book was published by an author who identified himself as “Caustic Barebones” that offered a burlesque translation of the first books of the Homeric Iliad. The real author, Thomas Bridges, had set out to parody the Homeric poem by substantially maintaining its plot but by deploying a linguistic register that transformed moments of deep seriousness into ones of raucous humor. But the object of the parody (the Homeric poems and its themes) is not the same as the satirical force of this adaptation (the kinds of readers and writers who may take the Homeric poems and their themes too seriously). Similarly, one may parody an ari by for instance maintaining the precise structure of a specific ari, and the name of the praised king, but substituting all the king’s great achievements with a list of unflattering ones—such as we hear of Bel-etir, who early in our poem is praised with the title of “shitbucket.” But the Bel-etir Narrative is not a parody of any one text or any one genre. It is a narrative in which several texts are mentioned or composed, all of

6 An example is Machinist, 2018, discussed further below. 7 For more on parody, see Hutcheon, 1985.

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which are to an extent parodies in their own right. This cannot be confused with the whole text amounting to one overall parody. Consequently, the poem is a metapoetic exploration of different parodies and their efficacy, which in turn raises higher-level questions about the efficacy of the serious genres on which those parodies are based. It becomes a satire in the way in which it targets a literary milieu, centered as it is on a specific kind of person whose political and social self is deeply entangled with the processes of textual representation. As a whole, then, the Bel-etir Narrative is a composed out of a series of metapoetic reflections, several of which engage in parody but which cannot properly be separated from the broader metapoetic satire in which they are embedded. Once we see that it is purposefully inefficacious and even ridiculous as a piece of propaganda, we can start to think through its metapoetic agenda that mocks both king and court by exposing the artificiality of the conventions that undergird the texts parodied—the aris, their propagandistic discourse, and the literary conventions used by the court to draw a distinction between Assyrian and “other.” The result is that Bel-etir Narrative can be read in several different ways as a meditation on textuality as a technology of power. On the one hand, it consolidates the scribe’s expert role at court by pointing sardonically to the frailty of the court’s own discourse through the cipher of Bel-etir’s farcical attempt to compose texts. On the other, it can also be read in ways that the very efficacy of textuality is thrown into question as a form of “soft power,” revealing different mechanisms of non-discursive power that undergird official discourse as a kind of political force. The necessarily speculative tenor of any conclusion need not be a hindrance, if we focus on what the various options can teach us about Akkadian poetics and its ability to give us access to the fuzzy, but palpable affective realities surrounding the role that certain texts can play in aiding, abetting, or even subverting the exercise of power.

4

Authorship and Diegetic Structure

The hybrid genre of the Bel-etir Narrative described in the previous section raises a descriptive problem that I have addressed only in part. It also raises several questions of pragmatics, concerning the textual agents responsible for such a text vis-à-vis the textual agents that are represented in the poem. In this section, I offer some preliminary observations on the question of the kind of author that might be imagined for the Bel-etir Narrative before underlining how its structure urges us to reflect on the practice of authorship through a sequence of metapoetic thought experiments.

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As argued by Jennifer Finn, the first millennium saw the rise of a variety of literary forms through which scribes could critique the court, taking advantage of their proximate position to develop highly sophisticated and ironic “counterdiscursive texts,” several of which are superficially comparable to the Bel-etir Narrative.8 Finn cogently put forward the view that texts like The Netherworld Vision of an Assyrian Prince and The Sin of Sargon “were created for the purpose of expressing the respective scribal qualms about Neo-Assyrian kings,” noting that they survive in unique copies in order to support her analysis of the texts’ rhetoric (i.e., they were likely not designed for wide dissemination).9 The Beletir Narrative, as well as its shorter companion piece the Bel-etir Incantation (which I will discuss in a separate article), are unique finds that fit the same compositional context. While a full account of their readership may never be possible, a scribal and/or elite audience is likely, given some of the technical aspects mentioned in the metapoetic portions of the poem. Further, like many texts from this period, the Bel-etir Narrative has tentatively been contextualized as part of the broader Assyrian negotiation of Babylonian cultural history.10 The first millennium saw several conflicts between Assyrian and Babylonia, leading to a growing Babylonian discontent toward Assyrian occupation, and an Assyrian unease about relying on Babylonian cultural templates and classics.11 This may point to a learned compositor, experienced in producing precisely the kind of literary transformations as part of the propaganda that the Bel-etir Narrative critiques. Certainly, whoever composed this text had a clinical understanding of the propagandistic formulary that designates an individual as “other.” The poem moves quickly through the conventions of genealogy, gender, sexuality, and religiosity—subverting them all. The author’s connoisseurship becomes, as I will argue, a kind of internal critique: an affective awareness of the clichéd oppositional terminology of the Assyrian court emerges between the lines, as if the poem were recoiling from the artificiality of elite discourses. Perhaps the poem can then be understood as responding to a scribal desire to distance itself from the ideology of the court— to separate the technology of literature from the agents of power—by means of establishing, through metapoetics, an independent literary space in which the court’s ideology can safely be ridiculed, relieving the scribes of the responsib-

8 9 10

11

Finn, 2017, 1–3 and passim. Finn, 2017, 110. Finn, 2017; Frahm, 2010; on the idea that Bel-etir was a Babylonian priest involved in an analogous process of recodifying discursive techniques at such a historical juncture, see Michalowski, 1999, 86–87. Frahm, 2017.

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ility of literature’s political consequences. In turn, this space might be used to emphasize the importance of scribal expertise in the successful articulation of the court’s ideology. The “spaces” in which various kinds of critiques may be pitched are not merely metaphorical, since the poem is organized into distinct zones which it demarcates through its generic hybridity and diegetic frames (that is, the various levels of narrative within narrative, each of which can belong to a different genre). In Akkadian poetics, taking stock of the descriptive problem of genre is never a simple task, since the notion of literary genre was fluid, if it existed at all.12 But it may be fruitful to think of the distinct metapoetic moments of the Bel-etir Narrative as offering something of a commentary on this problem, carefully stratifying its diegetic frames so as to produce provocative juxtapositions. At the risk of oversimplification, a schematic summary can help bring out the text’s most relevant diegetic frames in terms of at least four metapoetic movements in the poem: (A) The overarching diegetic frame is that of an unnamed narrator, who tells us about Bel-etir in the third person and engages in a pre-emptive reversal of several tropes of ari s.13 This opening narrative also parodies the formal features of related texts like the Cuthean Legend of Naram-Sin and other genres of Akkadian narrative poetry, setting up expectations of connoisseurship that will be progressively subverted (namely, that the protagonist will be exalted rather than ridiculed).14 Finally, this section asks us to think about the relationship between the material of the text (the tablet) and the material on which other texts mentioned in the narrative are (or are not) composed. (B) We hear in the opening narrative that Bel-etir has left behind his own text (a stele), which is then recited by the narrator in a subordinate diegetic frame. This imagined stele is not strictly-speaking a parody of ari s, since Bel-etir appears to desire to produce something very much akin to an ari for himself. As such, the satirical force of this embedded narrative (with its imagined text) is aimed at Bel-etir, who is shown to an inept and foolish textual agent, one who produces an ineffective text. (C) Some lines after Bel-etir’s failed stele and a fragmented portion of the text, we find another self-contained diegetic frame, not unlike the previous

12 13 14

On general issues of establishing genre boundaries in Mesopotamian literature, see George, 2007; Michalowski, 1999; Vanstiphout, 1999 and 1986. Machinist, 2018, 351. On the background of such historiographic narratives, see Tadmor, 1997.

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one. Again, we find an inept compositor and a failed text. Nasqat’s text fails in a rather peculiar manner: it is left blank. (D) Finally, the colophon, commenting on all that has preceded, forms its own paratextual diegetic frame, which could be described as placed around or above the first three, and which points to the inefficacy of the whole text that the scribe transcribed, as if to comment sardonically on its own overall failure. As such, the text’s structure unfolds over time in the following terms: a superficially stable narratorial frame (A) has embedded within it at least two instances of fraught textual composition (B and C)—but then, a final supervening frame (D) comes to envelop the first three frames, commenting on them together as a larger example of failed composition. The summary serves to emphasize that the Bel-etir Narrative has a carefully wrought structure, from which any discussion of any one internal frame cannot quite be separated from the playful implications of the whole. Scholars have noted that we can speak of such internal frames as being more than “intertextual”—rather, they are “metatextual” or “transtextual,” in the sense that they are not alluding to a single recognizable text but to broader literary conventions.15 By subsuming these referential mechanisms to an overarching metapoetic commentary, the Bel-etir Narrative actually theorizes these imported categories (implicitly) through a native commentary on the intentionality behind textual production, unintended effects, and satirical force. Because of this interwoven form, the Bel-etir Narrative is uniquely situated to teach us about scribal self-conceptions of the products of their own labor in the period in which it was composed and the kind of textual anxieties that underwrite the production of the propaganda and aris in particular.

5

An Account of the Bel-etir Narrative

Below is a translation of the text that emphasizes its metapoetic frames outlined above. I have signaled important shifts between frames by using bold font, corresponding to the sections that I will return to in my close reading: (A) the incipit, (B) Bel-etir’s stele, (C) Nasqat’s non-text, and (D) the colophon.16

15 16

Michalowski, 1999. The translation that follows is adapted from Livingstone, 1989; Foster, 2005; and Machinist, 2018.

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(obv. 1) Open the tablet box and read well the stele [that] Bel-etir son of Iba [left behind], like a dog! (2–4) When Salla had not yet met his fate, he, an underling whom the king did not know, a servant waiting upon Shamash-ibni, son of a lowly fisherman, unworthy of kingship, the shit-bucket of Zeru-kinu, an empty talker, a raped comrade of Nummuraya, […] inscribed: (5–6) “In the land of Assyria and Babylonia there is no one to rival me!” and “The woman Nasqat has praised me; where in the whole world is my equal?” (7) […] her, who did […] to him, reverently. (8) […] did not drink, did not […], feared his lady, the lady Hulalitu. (9–17) […] who […] was greener than all of these […] riding a mare they pass the street […] does not understand, does not see, does not […] the horizon, a mare in […] a mare […] bread […] his marsh in, when in his fishery […] his scandalous mouth […], “Let us deprive […]” (18) […] she spoke foolishness with him: (rev. 1) “Who has taken from me the son of Bibie, who has clouded your radiant countenance?” (2–3) Later, by way of purification, she called him “Raging Pazuzu, son of Hanbi.” In the face of this, mankind humbly bowed down in prayer, saying “This is the correct conduct and reverence!” (4–5) “This is the stele that the sex worker set up for the son of Iba, the farter, and left [blank space] for posterity.” (6–7) Indeed, in the whole, in the heart of this, there is [this teaching] for the future: Like one who is lacking in understanding, an incompetent, he praised himself, pouring his endless obscenities from his heart. (8) He himself did the talking, he himself did the praising, he himself did the boasting, he himself did the glorifying, and became a proverbial expression, an insult in the mouth of mankind. (9) Yet, he did not know how to reason in his heart! [Colophon:] (10) It is not in a deeply incised hand, this which I wrote, very tiny … The incipit immediately alerts us to questions of narratorial voice and metapoetics. It is composed in a specifically literary Akkadian that creates a clash between form and content: high style and low humor.17 This tension quickly telegraphs its potentially experimental quality, alerting audiences that much

17

Foster, 2007, 114; Michalowski, 1999, 84.

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of its meaning is composed between noting the parodic and satirical distance between this text and the ones it imitates and transforms. Namely, the narrator invites us to read Bel-etir’s stele (obv. 1), adopting a literary trope of the tablet box that is found also in the incipit of the Standard Babylonian version of the Epic of Gilgamesh and the Cuthean Legend of Naram-Sin.18 If we look at the opening of the latter, we see that this trope is used to introduce a first-person narrator:19 Open the tablet box and read out the stele which I, Naram-Sin, descendant of Sargon, inscribed and left behind for posterity. (1–3) Similarly, one can read the opening of the Epic of Gilgamesh in such a way as to understand the author of the tablet to be Gilgamesh himself.20 However, while this literary incipit seems to align the Bel-etir Narrative with the genres of narû literature (royal autobiography in the third person), the narrator here cannot be Bel-etir, because the narrative moves on for some time before Bel-etir’s stele is cited at obv. 4.21 The fact that no narrating identity (not even a fictional one) is established is itself a peculiar feature of this text, since (a) textual agents are named in the text and (b) because the trope of the tablet box is so often used in a cryptic but reflexive manner so as to announce that the narrator of the text is one of its internal characters. The dissonance between the expectations set up by the formal echo of other texts and other genres is therefore subverted both at the level of language registers and narratorial (non-)identity. But another very striking aspect of the incipit is the dissonance it quickly opens up between the narrative and the material, physical tablet on which that narrative is described. A reader holding the tablet and reading it immediately receives an invitation to open a tablet box in order to read a “stele.” In this way, the literal tablet in the reader’s hand becomes a portal into an imaginary world of other texts, the status of which is thrown into question by the simple fact that the object in the reader’s hands directs the reader’s attention toward another text.22 This citational displacement or deferral is particularly pronounced given

18 19 20 21 22

For a detailed explanation of the parallels, see Machinist, 2018. Studevent-Hickman and Morgan, 2006; Tinney, 1995. See Frahm, 2011. On the conventions of narû, see Jonker, 1995. Machinist’s confusion on this issue shows the dangers of approaching this text as a historical document without accounting fully for its diegetic frames—see Machinist, 2018, 355, fn. 63.

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that the format (landscape) and dimensions (see image caption above) of the tablet upon which the Bel-etir Narrative is inscribed is unusual for literary texts. The result is that the narrative problematizes the medium on which it is transmitted, creating an unusually rich physical experience of contrasting forms of physical textuality—inviting the reader to think through the meaning of different media in contrast to each other. Instead of launching directly into a citation of the mentioned stele, the narrator then takes some time to introduce Bel-etir as that stele’s author and to take us back to the moment of the stele’s composition. In doing so, curiously, the narrator’s voice slips into the structure of a (reversed) ari. In essence, the narrator begins to compose the negative image of the kind of text that Bel-etir might have wanted for himself.23 In the narratorial presentation of Bel-etir, every element of the introductory formulary of aris is reversed for satirical purposes. Convention leads us to expect to hear a “name and genealogy” followed by, in the schema offered by Peter Machinist, “royal epithets, which regularly treat sovereign, military prowess, care for kingdom, including building activities.”24 While a name and genealogy (just a father) are provided, the adherence to generic conventions is then shattered by the comparison of Bel-etir to a dog (obv. 1). Instead of royal epithets, Bel-etir is accorded a series of insulting accolades (obv. 2–4). Instead of hearing about Bel-etir’s achievements, we hear that he is an “empty talker” and that he lacks notable achievements (obv. 4). Instead of learning about his noble ancestors, we hear that he is “the son of a lowly fisherman,” and a “shit bucket” to those that preceded him (obv. 3–4). Instead of hearing of his military prowess, we hear he was raped by another man (obv. 4). Overall, incompetent leadership and military disasters come to replace the expectation of a figurehead praised “as a relentless builder and victorious warrior,” as Mario Liverani describes the ideal Assyrian king.25 The Bel-etir Narrative thus opens with an inversion of an ari that clearly lambasts Bel-etir, transforming him into an exemplar of radical alterity, othering him sequentially on the grounds of rank, class, gender, and sexuality.26 One narrative effect of this strategy is that it has entirely delocalizes Bel-etir from any specific historical context. It is in this manner, I contend, that Beletir is defined as a type—the radical “other.” The desire to create an abstracted,

23

24 25 26

This interpenetration of diegetic frames might be one of the earliest concerted examples of what Genette calls “metalepsis” and that other scholars have labeled “viewpoint blending.” See Genette, 2004. Machinist, 2018, 332. Liverani, 1995, 2360. For more on the language here and the question of gender, see Luukko, 2018, 177.

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literary Bel-etir can also be espied in the orthography of his name. Piotr Michalowski argued that the writing mden.kar (obv. 1) is a complex pun alluding to Enmerkar, the failed ruler of the Cuthean Legend, suggesting that Bel-etir’s resemblance to a historical figure may be simply an expedient starting point for a much more literary characterization.27 Michalowski even goes as far as to suggest that “one suspects that this kind of language game was a partial motivation for the literary creation,” emphasizing the compositor’s apparent interest in forging an environment in which literary and textual concerns overshadow historiographic ones.28 Indeed, his is not the only name in the text that loses its specificity. While names are often indexical and may suggest a tangible historicity, they are interpolated here in their value as ahistorical types. Any attempt to historicize the potential coded references to Sargon ii, Esarhaddon, Sennacherib, and/or Hulalitu (possibly a wife of Assurbanipal or a niece of Shamash-ibni) only evince chronological incoherence.29 Their presence, covert or explicit as the case may be, seem to be part of a more general attempt to make Bel-etir into a symbol of his age, perhaps even to cast him as the archetypal figurehead of a Babylonian, anti-Assurbanipal sentiment at the court. Certainly, if the demonic figure Pazuzu is invoked (rev. 2), Bel-etir was to be understood as persona non grata. The connection of Bel-etir to the equally mysterious Nasqat only strengthens the notion of Bel-etir’s collocation in the world of puns and types. Her name was rendered “Ms. Kissed” by Benjamin Foster, who identified it as a stock name for a sex worker, by noting that it derives from the same root as našāqum (“to kiss”). As soon as the citation of Bel-etir’s stele begins (obv. 5–6), Nasqat is introduced by Bel-etir himself, who claims that he has earned her praise. Later, the narrator shows her setting up her own stele in Bel-etir’s memory (rev. 3–5). Given the damaged condition of lines obv. 7–18 it is not clear if she had a more active role, but it is worth noting that a lexical and perhaps generic distinction is made between Bel-etir’s stele and Nasqat’s stele. The first is the stele (narû) described at obv. 1, whose text begins at obv. 5–6. The second is the non-text that Nasqat set up in Bel-etir’s memory, the stele (usmittu) described at rev. 3– 5. I return to the importance of this distinction later, but it is worth noting that Nasqat’s first appearance is explicitly as a character within a narû text, and that the material dissonances opened up in the incipit will continue to play themselves out all the way through to the colophon.

27 28 29

Machinist, 2018, 359; Michalowski, 1999, 85. Michalowski, 1999, 85. See Michalowski, 1999, 85.

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When it comes to Bel-etir’s narû, it implicitly aspires to the status of an ari but falls short due to Bel-etir’s ineptitude. It is not unusual that he claims to have no rival throughout the land (obv. 5), but it is peculiar that he backs up his claim through the praise of Nasqat. The conventions of an ari would lead us to expect that the guarantor of the (putative) king’s claims is a high-ranking member of the court, or even a divine figure. As mentioned above, Nasqat appears to be a stock name for sex workers, and later she is explicitly identified as such [munusKAR.kid] (rev. 4).30 Given the hyper-sexualized language of the composition and its demeaning view of feminine traits with respect to the symbolism of power, the inappropriateness of such an authority to the context of an ari is a clear marker of Bel-etir’s inability to establish his status securely. But by attempting to imitate the format of a royal inscription, this passage also raises real doubts about the function of a guarantor as a mechanism of authentication in and of itself. The comical discrepancy points uncomfortably to the ease with which fabrication is possible, and verification practically impossible when it comes to ari s. This is one of the clearest examples of how the metapoetic reflection on textual production within the overarching narrative leads to a broader skeptical shudder that seems to run through the text. While we have elements of humor or ridicule within the diegetic frame, perhaps implying a form of scribal self-parody that equates the scribe’s role to that of a sex worker, readers might ultimately be left with graver questions, wondering if they have been duped before, or why they ever placed a blind trust in the ultimately selfauthorizing conventions of ari s. It may be hard to believe, but when we come to her text, Nasqat does an even worse job than Bel-etir. Even though Bel-etir’s attempt at an ari remains partly mysterious due to the damage to the tablet, Bel-etir’s bungling hardly measures up to Nasqat’s own catastrophic attempt to produce a stele, cited by the narrator after the apotropaic narrative that opens the reverse of the tablet (rev. 1–3). Nasqat’s gesture of textual commemoration is highly formal, and opens with an official set of formulas normally adopted to describe steles that are left behind for posterity (rev. 4–5).31 This kind of language is explicitly connected with the official language of royal inscriptions, “primarily, although not exclusively, in reference to stone monuments,” to which the narrator seems to be referring when he uses the word usmittu for Nasqat’s stele.32 But what

30 31 32

For a critical review of the debates surrounding the identification of kar.kid (= harimtu) as a sex worker or prostitute, see Assante, 2007. It may be possible to read these lines as the actual content of the stele, much to the same effect. Michalowski, 1999, 84.

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follows is not quite paralleled in any other Akkadian text known to me.33 Following the opening phrases, the text is left blank. This may indicate that even Nasqat had nothing good to say about Bel-etir, so she left the stele awkwardly uninscribed.34 As discussed in the opening to this chapter, a blank space on the tablet can also be read as a more pregnant metapoetic statement that affects the other diegetic levels, and even the extradiegetic framing of the tablet as a material object. By asking us to read the lacunae, the Bel-etir Narrative raises fundamental questions about textual production and the ontology of the text as a replacement for absence, or silence. It raises a host of questions about what it means to invent a narrative about a past for which no secure records exist. A blank space could indicate a lack of knowledge, reticence, or even erasure— each of which would need to be treated very differently. The vast implications of the represented silence become clear as soon as we try to pick an option, attempting to make sense of the visual and semantic vacuum. If we were to conclude that some kind of damnatio memoriae is taking place, we would still have to wonder whether the scribe, the narrator, or Nasqat herself is ultimately depriving Bel-etir of an articulated, textual posterity. The diegetic frames are thus collapsed by the blank space, triggering a cascade of skepticism about the efficacy of textuality in the first place. Further, these ideologically charged doubts are placed in counterpoint to certain more trivial alternatives, emphasizing the powerful dissonances created by the blank space. For example, the tablet could here be simulating a scribal error (and erasure) or posing as an unfinished product (on some administrative tablets blank spaces are visible, seemingly so that they could be filled in later). The blank space impinges on the extradiegetic world of the scribes with their writing implements, implicating even that level of textual production into the critiques put forth by the Bel-etir Narrative. The indeterminacy of the blank space as a mise en abîme of textual production ultimately complicates the presence of all other text on the tablet, pushing us to consider the efficacy of propaganda and parody by demonstrating the polyvalence that even a textual absence can achieve. Finally. the colophon performs a similar destabilizing function, throwing the entire text into question at every diegetic level. While colophons tend to

33

34

There are of course other Akkadian (and Sumerian) texts that contain conspicuous blanks spaces—but not, it seems, for literary effect. Occasionally, a blank space may represent a scribe’s lack of knowledge or a slip in memory (and as such the space was perhaps supposed to be filled in later, e.g., K 228 r. 28). I am grateful to the anonymous reviewer for suggesting this helpful example. Foster, 2005, 1021, fn. 1.

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be perfunctory, if at times embellished by scribal play, the colophon of the Bel-etir Narrative offers a paratextual commentary on the preceding text. The literary quality of the colophon may also be signaled by how it eschews the expected pragmatic information: it gives us no sense of who copied the tablet and when, does not count lines copied, does not source originals, and so on.35 In Livingstone’s reading, which I followed in the translation above, the colophon is elaborately (and sardonically) engaged in the metapoetic reflexivity of the text by extending its obsession with textual failures of different sorts: “It is not in a deeply incised hand, this which I wrote, very tiny …” (rev. 10).36 If Nasqat’s stele challenged us to read the invisible, the colophon now paradoxically asserts that what we have read was illegible. The text is not actually written in a (relatively) tiny hand. But the colophon acts a performative utterance that creates a tenuous reality—it raises doubts about the text from the perspective of the scribe’s extradiegetic frame in spite of the clear fact that both text and colophon are indeed legible. Readers are urged to wonder what features of the narrative might have pushed the scribe to pretend to copy the text in a tiny, poorly incised hand. Perhaps this colophon also invites us to consider a world of potential textual subterfuge, in which scribes are secretively copying texts in minute hands in an effort to circulate texts that critique the court. From another angle, the colophon can be read as an ironic reflection on the permanence of text: if the Bel-etir Narrative were designed to satirize Bel-etir into oblivion, then its persistence in the official record would produce the opposite effect. Thus, the colophon lights upon a curious fact of textual efficacy—propaganda only really works well if it is forgotten. A balance needs to be struck, and that requires skill. The colophon thus thematizes the scribal act and points to it as a determining factor in textual success. All colophons in a sense draw attention to scribal presence as a feature of textual reproduction, even when this is itself fictionalized (such as in Assurbanipal’s claims to have copied thousands of tablets).37 But the colophon of the Bel-etir Narrative brings the question of the scribe’s skill into the foreground, asserting a correlation between the ability of scribes to copy text and the court’s ability to properly articulate and transmit its own 35 36

37

Leichty, 1964, 147. Compare the complementary, but rather different reading by Foster, 2005, 1021. In Foster’s view, the scribe admits to having left out much more that might have been said about Bel-etir, implying that the man’s crimes far exceed the possibility of full cataloging. He translates the line as, “Though no abbreviated list, this that I have written, it is (only) a trifle [compared to the whole].” In this reading the self-effacing utterance points to the gaps between the lines as more significant than the text itself. On the pragmatics of colophons in general, see Hunger, 1968.

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ideology. The motivation for such a reflection is relatively transparent in this period of Assyrian history. The colophon attests to the growing role of scribe as an active component of the court’s self-presentation.38 As the Assyrian court negotiated a specific historical tension, the “ideological cruces” that stand behind the desire to develop a “monarchical union” of Assyria and Babylonia, this text presents a clear case for the importance of textual power.39 But above and beyond that, the colophon gives voice to an affective state; it provides a visceral response to the precarity of textual media and the difficulty of producing persuasive representations.

6

Affective Realities

In the course of my close reading, I argued at several reprises that the Bel-etir Narrative thematizes several kinds of anxieties that surround textual production, mocking the intents of textual agents and the unexpected effects of their texts. There are portions of the poem that I did not read as closely but which contribute to the characterization of Bel-etir as a discomforting figure whose activities threaten the Assyrian court in several ways. One of the first conclusions that we can draw from this is that Bel-etir becomes the object of a broader affective negotiation of the stakes of effective power, of which textuality is but one example. The crucial point is that Bel-etir is not actually naïve to the value of textual production. Although he has not understood how to create efficacious texts, he knows the effects such texts can have. It is for this reason that he is so dangerous. In other terms, the most terrifying aspect of Bel-etir’s otherness is his similarity to the Assyrian court: he is a rival, but one with similar technological means. Michalowski had already speculated in the same direction, noting that the Assyrian court seized tablets and scribes from the archives of Babylon, and that, one cannot help but wonder if the political attacks on Bel-eṭir took the form of learned literary parodies because of his own intellectual achievements. It is possible that he was a priest with a private library, but it is also possible that his oppositionist activities against the Assyrians somehow involved the ideological use of Babylonian literary traditions.40

38 39 40

Finn, 2019, 5; citing Michalowski, 1994, 58–59. Livingstone, 1989, xxviii; see also Frahm, 2017, for a historical overview. Michalowski, 1999, 86–87.

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Leaving the historiographic specificities aside, it is certainly the case that Bel-etir comes dangerously close to succeeding. His name becomes a “proverbial expression” (tēltu) because “he himself did the talking, he himself did the praising, he himself did the boasting, he himself did the glorifying” (rev. 8). Unlike the court, he lacked the textual infrastructure to produce effective steles. Perhaps he lacked a scribe who could write things clearly, in a well-incised hand. In connecting the name Bel-etir through its orthographic form to the Enmerkar of the Cuthean Legend, the Bel-etir Narrative reverses the anxiety that motivates the opening of that text. The failed ruler Enmerkar is described as one who “did not write on a stele, he did not leave one (a stele) behind, and he did not make a name for himself” (29–30). Naram-Sin remembers that king anyway and his memory survives, through as a negative exemplum. But his memory is curated by Naram-Sin through a textual authority that rests on a previous informational vacuum. Kings (or their scribes) naturally had a wider berth of autonomy when recalling rulers who had not left behind written records. In contrast, Bel-etir represents a new kind of threat to the stability of the Assyrian court’s discursive order: someone willing to make his case in writing. This may help us locate the text at a particular historical junction, in which the threat of rival discourses produced the need for more flexible and reflexive forms of literary responses, which the Bel-etir Narrative simulates in its various metapoetic gestures. As an admonitory text, perhaps its greatest contribution is that it reminds its audiences that no textual gesture exists in a vacuum. Even a blank space carries weight. This line of speculative inquiry leaves open a more significant question about the relative embeddedness of the Bel-etir Narrative in its own literary context. As mentioned, it is not the only genre-bending and metapoetic text to caricature Bel-etir. The existence of the Bel-etir Incantation, and its similar thematization of metapoetics, speaking names, and textual failure, may point to a potential subgenre of satirical literature about textual production. In the introduction, I noted that this could be directed at external targets (concrete or abstract) as a kind of satirical invective. But it can also turn inward, particularly given the metapoetics of the colophon, to the court’s own discursive and textual practices. Because a joke about a genre is also a joke about its readers, it is tempting to think of these texts as private scribal games. But the deployment of a wide range of references to well-known texts may instead suggest that these texts received a wider circulation (a hypothesis that would also help explain their preservation in the royal library at Nineveh). If they were performed at court, different kinds of pragmatic effects might have been achieved depending on the cultural literacy of different kinds of listeners. At the same time, the

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text likely entertained diverse audiences by engaging with listeners on different planes. A somber way to read the Bel-etir Narrative is as a critique of authoritative discursive practices directed to an educated audience that might even have included the king. This counter-discursive texts could be thought to upset the fragile balance of textuality as a kind of soft power—but not necessarily so. Even valid critiques can be transformed into galvanizing ideological support through the mechanisms of humor. If the Bel-etir Narrative was read at court, the audience could have softened the edges of the critique by laughing at the petty insults at Bel-etir’s ineptitude. By participating in the ridicule of Bel-etir, audiences invert or defer the broadest level of critique (that all textuality is deeply precarious) by holding onto the culturally ingrained conceits of the lower level of critique (certain people’s texts are inefficacious, because they are inefficacious or foolish). From this set of perspectives, the narrative complexity of the Bel-etir Narrative relies on a proliferation of conclusions that can be reached through an appraisal of its overlapping and competing formal registers. But not all these conclusions carry equal weight in the setting of the court, which may have extrinsically modulated the interpretations that could be made publicly, rather than privately available. It is all well and good to realize that one reading of the Bel-etir Narrative threatens the very validity of the court’s textual ideologies—but it is a very different matter to imagine the king accepting this reading instead of the softer, more humorous option outlined above. The drama of the Bel-etir Narrative then entails a very tangible hesitancy or enervation about textuality as an ideological technology in general, but this destabilizing affective register could be selectively submerged through the vehicle of humor. It is a text that operates in such a way as to offer the possibility of the reversal of its own critique. Perhaps it survived precisely because, read somewhat superficially, one could argue that it affirms the relative efficacy of official (rather than radical) discourse, confirming the myth that properly trained scribes, well-structured texts, and court equipped with a well-oiled scribal school operate successfully as an ideological unit. Indeed, from this perspective we might even speculate that one purposes of the text was to elevate the importance of scribes in particular. After all, through their literary battle with Bel-etir, the scribes forged a reminder of how, in the words of Beate Pongratz-Leisten, “their combination of technical and pragmatic skills with cultural knowledge turned the intellectual into a significant agent within the network of power.”41 It would be a dramatic mistake for a king to ignore 41

Pongratz-Leisen, 2013, 304.

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the importance of such expertise. Although it cannot be argued that Bel-etir ignored the importance of expertise (it seems, rather, that it was not available to him) he suffered from its absence. The possible co-existence of such readings speaks to the complexity with which Akkadian texts employed metapoetic devices to craft complex reading subjects, including by poking at elements of false consciousness and ideological dissatisfaction. Indeed, to ignore the affective landscape through which ideology becomes dependent on certain narrative templates is to overlook the stark possibility that the court may have sanctioned these texts precisely because they expose textuality and its mechanisms of persuasion in such a way that, in laughing off any concerns, the texts return to the importance of scribal education and the court’s organized and concerted efforts in the production of propaganda. What might we make of a ruler who invites his elite subjects to enjoy the spectacle of power’s artificiality, but in an environment that he fully controls? He can appear open to self-critique, able to take a joke, and precariously approach an admission of the ultimate artificiality of political discourse. But in a final instance, since the king’s power is not merely textual, the joke is over when everyone laughs along with the king, and the court’s exercise of its power goes on as normal. The Bel-etir Narrative can thus be read as offering a glimpse into forms of resentment and enervation that play themselves out at the court but that are transformed, by and through literature, into forms of complicit participation and assent. Even blank spaces can forge subjects and political alignments, straightforwardly or counterintuitively with respect to the narratives in which they appear.

Acknowledgements This article owes its existence to a series of contexts where it benefitted greatly from the kind attention of several mentors and colleagues. I owe a special debt of gratitude to Bruce Lincoln, Alessandro Barchiesi, Peter Machinist, Sophus Helle, Piotr Steinkeller, Rocio Da Riva, and Yoram Cohen for their comments on different parts of this paper as it came together over the years. I would also like to thank the members of the 2015–2016 pamw graduate seminar at the University of Chicago and of the Advanced Seminar in the Humanities 2017–2018, hosted by Venice International University and Università Ca’ Foscari. Finally, I would like to thank Katherine De Boer for offering helpful suggestions. I look forward to hearing of this project’s inevitable shortcomings, for which I alone am responsible.

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Bibliography Assante, Julia. 2007. “What Makes a “Prostitute” a Prostitute? Modern Definitions and Ancient Meanings.” Historiae 2: 117–132. Finn, Jennifer. 2017. Much Ado About Marduk: Questioning Discourses of Royalty in First Millennium Mesopotamian Literature. Berlin: De Gruyter. Foster, Benjamin. 2019. “Authorship in Cuneiform Literature.” In The Cambridge Handbook of Literary Authorship, edited by Ingo Berensmeyer, Gert Buelens, and Marysa Demoor, 13–26. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Foster, Benjamin. 2007. Akkadian Literature of the Late Period. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Foster, Benjamin. 2005. Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature. Third edition. Bethesda: cdl Press. Foster, Benjamin. 1991. “On Authorship in Akkadian Literature.” Annali dell’Istituto universitario orientale di Napoli 51: 17–32. Frahm, Eckhart. 2010. “Counter-Texts, Commentaries, and Adaptations: Politically Motivated Responses to the Babylonian Epic of Creation in Mesopotamia, the Biblical World, and Elsewhere.” Orient 45: 3–33. Frahm, Eckhart. 2011. “Keeping Company with Men of Learning: The King as Scholar.” In The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture, edited by Karen Radner and Eleanor Robson, 508–527. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Frahm, Eckhart. 2017. “Assyria and the South: Babylonia.” In A Companion to Assyria, edited by Eckart Frahm, 286–298. London: Wiley-Blackwell. Genette, Gérard. 1972. Figures iii. Paris: Seuil. Genette, Gérard. 1982. Palimpsestes: La littérature au second degré. Paris: Seuil. Genette, Gérard. 2004. Métalepse: De la figure à la fiction. Paris: Seuil. George, Andrew R. 2007. “The Epic of Gilgameš: Thoughts on Genre and Meaning.” In Gilgameš and the World of Assyria, edited by Joseph Azize and Noel Weeks, 37–66. Ancient Near Eastern Studies 21. Leuven: Peeters. Glassner, Jean-Jacques. 2004. Mesopotamian Chronicles. Edited by Benjamin Foster. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Hunger, Hermann. 1968. Babylonische und assyrische Kolophone. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 2. Kevelaer: Butzon und Bercker. Hutcheon, Linda. 1985. A Theory of Parody: The Teachings of Twentieth-Century Art Forms. London: Methuen. Jonker, Gerdien. 1995. The Topography of Remembrance: The Dead, Tradition and Collective Memory in Mesopotamia. Numen 68. Leiden: Brill. Leitchy, Erle. 1964. “The Colophon.” In Studies Presented to A. Leo Oppenheimer, edited by Robert D. Biggs and John A. Brinkman, 147–154. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Liverani, Mario. 1995. “The Deeds of Ancient Mesopotamian Kings.” In Civilizations of

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the Ancient Near East, vol. 4, edited by Jack M. Sasson, John Baines, Gary Beckman, and Karen S. Rubinson, 2352–2366. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Livingstone, Alasdair. 1989. Court Poetry and Literary Miscellanea. State Archives of Assyria 3. Helsinki: Helsinki University Press. Luukko, Mikko. 2018. “Anonymous Neo-Assyrian Denunciations in a Wider Context.” In Neo-Assyrian Sources in Context: Thematic Studies of Texts, History and Culture, edited by Shigeo Yamada, 163–184. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Machinist, Peter. 2018. “Royal Inscriptions in the Hebrew Bible and Mesopotamia: Reflections on Presence, Function, and Self-Critique.” In “When the Morning Stars Sang”: Essays in Honor of Choon Leong Seow on the Occasion of his Sixty-Fifth Birthday, edited by Scott C. Jones and Christine Roy Yoder, 331–364. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 500. Berlin: De Gruyter. Michalowski, Piotr. 1999. “Commemoration, Writing, and Genre in Ancient Mesopotamia.” In The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts, edited by Christina S. Kraus, 69–90. Leiden: Brill. Parpola, Simo. 1983. “Assyrian Library Records.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 42, no. 1: 1–29. Pongratz-Leisten, Beate. “All the King’s Men: Authority, Kingship, and the Rise of Elites in Assyria.” In Experiencing Power, Generating Authority: Cosmos, Politics, and the Ideology of Kingship in Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia, edited by Jane A. Hill, Philip Jones, and Antonio J. Morales, 285–309. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Shipp, R. Mark. 2002. Of Dead Kings and Dirges: Myth and Meaning in Isaiah 14:4b–21. sbl Academia Biblica 11. Leiden: Brill. Studevent-Hickman, Benjamin, and Morgan, Christopher. 2006. “Old Akkadian Period Texts.” In The Ancient Near East: Historical Sources in Translation, edited by Mark W. Chavalas, 16–29. London: Wiley-Blackwell. Tinney, Steve. 1995. “A New Look at Naram-Sin and the ‘Great Rebellion.’” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 47: 1–14. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1999. “‘I Can Put Anything in Its Right Place’: Generic and Typological Studies as Strategies for the Analysis and Evaluation of Mankind’s Oldest Literature.” In Aspects of Genre and Type in Pre-Modern Literary Cultures, edited by Bert Roest and Herman L.J. Vanstiphout, 79–99. Groningen: Styx. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1986. “Some Thoughts on Genre in Mesopotamian Literature.” In Keilschriftliche Literaturen, edited by Karl Hecker and Walter Sommerfeld, 1–11. Compte Rendu de la Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale 32. Berlin: D. Reimer Verlag.

part 4 Excavating Narratives

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chapter 12

In Search Of Dumuzi: An Introduction to Hylistic Narratology Annette Zgoll, Bénédicte Cuperly and Annika Cöster-Gilbert

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Introduction

The following introduction to hylistic narratology is based on two decades of collaborative effort in the field of mythological studies, which has aimed to establish a new branch of cultural studies: hylistics, i.e., the study of narrative materials or Erzählstoff-Forschung.1 The present introduction to hylistic narratology examines implications of hylistics for narratology and develops a hylistically founded method for narratological issues. In this paper, we focus on the question of how to analyze and explain the textual shape of stories and their narrative material using hylistic methodology (Annette Zgoll); this theoretical framework is then applied through a series of textual and hylistic analyses of multiple sources relating to the death of Dumuzi (Annika CösterGilbert), including its depiction in Innana’s Descent (Bénédicte Cuperly), as well as other myths about Innana2 (Annette Zgoll). An outline of the paper is given in Table 12.1. table 12.1 Overview of the paper

1 Introduction, p. 285 2 Hylistic Analysis as a Tool to Determine the Textual Shape of Stories and their Narrative Materials (Annette Zgoll), p. 286 3 Hylistic Narratology in Ten Steps (Annette Zgoll), starting with p. 289 4 The Fly Reveals Dumuzi’s Whereabouts to Innana. Case Study of a Myth in Innana’s Descent (Bénédicte Cuperly), p. 308 5 Reconstructing Mythical Narrative Materials about Dumuzi’s Death in ershema no. 165 (Annika Cöster-Gilbert), p. 320

1 See C. Zgoll, 2020, 43–47; and 2021, 46 f. 2 For the reading Innana (with assimilation of aleph and /n/ in (n)in’an.ak) instead of traditional Inana or outdated Inanna, see Marchesi, 2006, 215 fn. 52 and Attinger 2007, 37 f. © a. zgoll, b. cuperly and a. cöster-gilbert, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004539761_013 This is an open access chapter distributed under t

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table 12.1 Overview of the paper (cont.)

6 Reconstruction, Stratification, and Layers of Meaning of the Composite Myth about Innana and Dumuzi in ershema no. 165 (Annette Zgoll), p. 330 7 Ershema no. 165: Comparative Analysis and Conclusions (Annika Cöster-Gilbert), p. 338 – Appendix 1: The Long Version of the Fly’s Story in Innana’s Descent (Bénédicte Cuperly), p. 341 – Appendix 2: The Short Version of the Fly’s Story in Innana’s Descent (Bénédicte Cuperly), p. 343

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Hylistic Analysis as a Tool to Determine the Textual Shape of Stories and Their Narrative Materials (Annette Zgoll)

2.1 Understanding and Appreciating the Intricacies in a Work of Art Art can be appreciated in many ways. The challenge for a scientific approach to art is to understand as precisely as possible the particular forms or features of the work in question, and to trace the relationship between its contents and form, in order to understand its meaning(s) and appreciate its design. If the aim is to understand and appreciate not just the rough outline but also the finer details of the work, one must compare the finished piece with the raw material from which it was made, as one would examine a precious new garment to appreciate the pattern of its weave and even the individual threads revealed by closer inspection. A comparable approach to art is well-known in the field of musicology: here, a musical theme is the raw material from which composers create variations with different instrumentations, tonalities, major or minor keys, rhythms, tempos, and accompaniments. For example, Johann Sebastian Bach composed The Musical Offering as a body of variations on a theme suggested by Frederick the Great, known as “The King’s Theme,” and musicologists can uncover the subtleties of these variations by analyzing how Bach arranged and adapted the original in different versions and comparing the variations with the King’s theme. To distinguish between a fully formed work of art or literature and its raw material, we need to establish a functional, reliable terminology. The uses and definitions of the term “story” vary widely across the branches of literary scholarship: story is most often defined as the “action of a text in the sequence of the natural chronology,” compared to the “plot,” which is defined as the “action in the sequence of events, not in their natural order, but as they occur in a

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given text.”3 Story and plot, however, are unique to a specific work of art and the medium of texts, whereas the narrative material or “Erzählstoff,” abbreviated “Stoff ” is a type of content not exclusively associated with or bound to any one form or medium: “As one can see, no comparable, corresponding term for the concept of Stoff exists in the field of narratology. For the moment we can—only inadequately, as a first approximation—describe a (mythical) Stoff as the totality of both existing and potential variants of a Stoff, which in turn is a self-contained sequence of events with particular protagonists, localities, themes, and actions.”4 Besides texts, an Erzählstoff-version may also be represented in pictures, statues, films, pantomimes, and so on. Further, a given text may contain more or even less than one complete version of an Erzählstoff. In Mesopotamian literature, we frequently encounter texts that reflect only parts of one Erzählstoff-version, rather than the full-length narrative material which is being adapted. One example in the present paper is ershema no. 165, which deals with the death of Dumuzi and the lament of his wife Innana and his sister Geshtin-ana. As shown below, this text tells only part of the Erzählstoffversion: Dumuzi provides for cities and temples, he has to die, and two goddesses lament his death. At the end of the text and its story, the goddesses are still lamenting, but this cannot be the end of the Erzählstoff-version: especially in myths, there has to be a “solution” to the problem addressed in the myth.5 With ershema no. 165, text and story are “smaller” than the narrative material that inspired the poem. Such a relationship is typical not just for Mesopotamian laments, but for many other texts as well. However, the inverse relationship is also commonly found in Mesopotamian narratives, where the text and its story incorporate multiple Erzählstoff-versions, as in Mesopotamian epic poetry. The song called Innana’s Descent to the Netherworld represents such a case, where a mythical Erzählstoff about Dumuzi’s descent to the Netherworld is combined with stories about Innana, including several about her journey to the netherworld and one about her bringing the first temple from heaven to earth. Even the narrative material about Dumuzi is not taken from a single Erzählstoff-version, as sections 3 C. Zgoll, 2019, 17, fn. 13; for other approaches to these terms (not applied here), see C. Zgoll, 2019, 42–49; 2020, 17–19; for the comparison of story, plot, narrative material (“Erzählstoff ”) and its variants see C. Zgoll, 2021, 13–16. 4 C. Zgoll, 2020, 19. 5 See sections 3.3, 4.1.4, 4.2.1, 5.5.1, and 5.8.1 below. For general information on problem and solution as fundamental characteristics of myths, see C. Zgoll, 2019, 402, 535, and 542–543. As will be seen, this “solution” is often found in durative–resultative hylemes (see section 3.1., and C. Zgoll, 2021, 22–25). For the definition of the concept of a myth, that is, what constitutes a mythical narrative material in contrast to other types of narrative materials, see C. Zgoll, 2019, 562–563.

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4–7 will demonstrate. Taken together, the individual Erzählstoff-versions about Dumuzi and Innana descending to the netherworld are shaped into a series of composite mythical Erzählstoff-versions—that is, myths (see section 6.3 below). To be more precise, the myths incorporated in Innana’s Descent are not narrative materials (Erzählstoffe) in a strict sense, but concrete manifestations of Erzählstoff-variants.6 Where there are multiple variants of a narrative material, as with the descent of Dumuzi, any number of them can be expressed in a given physical text. The present paper explores the textual shape of stories, and the role of Erzählstoff-versions in their shaping, presenting analytical techniques that will allow us to detect and identify narrative materials, and arguing that a comparative approach of text and incorporated narrative material(s) will enhance our understanding of those narrative shapes. 2.2

Developing Narratological Tools for the Reconstruction of Narrative Material In the field of narratology, there was until recently no methodology for examining the final textual shape of stories vis-à-vis their raw material; no technique to separate the material from the finished product (whereas we can distinguish the thread from the fabric, or the musical variation from its original theme). The conundrum we need to resolve is the nature of the material which, by definition, does not exist in any physical form: How can we work backwards from the end product—the physical text—to arrive at the material underneath? How can we describe the liberties that the text has taken with its sources, and weigh the product against its ingredients? The development of a theoretical framework and corresponding methodological toolbox with which to isolate and extract raw materials from the physical manifestations of a story in any medium has been the goal of several research groups over the past decades, and the recent success of two such research groups has profound implications for the study of narratology.7 A new framing theory and heuristic method now provides researchers with precise 6 C. Zgoll, 2019, 582–583, defines Stoff as “a non–finite quantity of variants of a polymorphic hyleme sequence, which can be circumscribed only approximately with regards to specific protagonists, places, objects, and events”; and a Stoff variant as a “self-contained sequence of multiple interdependent hylemes of a specific Stoff ; a Stoffvariante is determined in its details.” 7 Theory and methods have been developed in several research groups, including the Collegium Mythologicum Göttingen and the dfg-funded research group strata. Stratification Analyses of Mythic Plots and Texts in Ancient Cultures.

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tools to reconstruct the narrative material, the Erzählstoff,8 from the physical manifestation in which it appears.9 The analysis of mythical Erzählstoffversions opens up new avenues for the field of narratology, by allowing systematic comparisons between the narrative material and its presentation in a given text.10 Bringing to light the differences between the two will also elucidate the processes involved in and required for the poetic shaping of texts, plots, and stories. In this paper, we explore the consequences of this method for the analysis and interpretation of ancient Near Eastern texts.

3

Hylistic Narratology in Ten Steps (Annette Zgoll)

The following ten hylistic approaches give a condensed overview of how we can analyze the shape of texts through the reconstruction of their narrative material. The analytical tools are designed for maximum compatibility across the spectrum of possible research interests. The following presentation is a schematic overview; in practice, some analytical steps can be repeated at different stages in the process (see for example the repeated analysis of textual omissions in sections 5.3 and 7.1.1), while others may be disregarded. In each case, the goal of the analysis—be it the character of an Erzählstoffversion, the way a text has been shaped by different Erzählstoff-versions, the comparison between Erzählstoff-versions and their interhylistic relations, and the like—determines the sequence and number of methodological steps (see Table 12.2).

8

9

10

C. Zgoll, 2020, 17 notes that, in working with Erzählstoffe, “the familiar terms from literary scholarship, story and plot, will not get us very far: as a rule, these concepts are aimed at the narrative framework of one particular text, or in some cases, multiple texts; they are defined through textual criteria” (italics added). Sometimes, plot and story are used interchangeably, or their definitions are reversed. For the various terminologies, see Schmid, 2007, 104–107. A distinction between Erzählstoff and text is rarer; see e.g. Kayser, 1960, 56. See also Morford, Lenardon, and Sham, 2011, 3 on myths as Erzählstoffe: “A myth also may be told by means of no words at all, for example, through painting, sculpture, music, dance, and mime, or by a combination of various media.” The identification of myths as Erzählstoffe has a long tradition (at least in fields other than Assyriology, where the collective term “myths” frequently refers to a special group of texts), see e.g., Lévi-Strauss, 1955, 430; Graf, 1985; Neuhaus, 2005, 4; Morford, Lenardon, and Sham, 2011; C. Zgoll, 2019, chap. 2.1 and 2020, chap. 2. The challenge, then as now, has been to create tools to reconstruct Erzählstoffe: without the proper tools, even scholars who declared myths to be Erzählstoffe have actually analyzed their textual manifestations instead.

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table 12.2 Overview of methodological steps in hylistic narratology

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Textual phrases vs. hylemes: Revealing the threads in the fabric Textual variety (length, syntax, focus) vs. hyleme structure: Sewing fabrics into garments Textual omissions vs. complete narrative material, and the ending of myths: Darning holes in the garment Order of the text vs. order of the narrative material: Weaving plain threads into intricate fabrics Multiple narrative materials in a text: Patching fabrics into garments Boundaries between multiple narrative materials: Stitching together the fabrics Hyper-hylemes and other complex patterns: Applying special techniques The stratigraphy of narrative materials and texts: Layering fabrics Comparisons of different versions of narrative material: Recognizing similar fabrics in different garments Comparisons of texts and their versions of narrative material: Interhylistic and intertextual relationships

3.1 Textual Phrases vs. Hylemes: Revealing the Threads in the Fabric How do we get a hold of the narrative materials underneath the text? The starting point for this methodology is the realization that an essential feature of all types of narrative materials is the representation of a change in state.11 Narratives are shaped by a sequence of actions, where “action” is understood in a general sense, comprising actions as well as states. The minimal definition of an Erzählstoff requires at least one change in state;12 this is usually accompanied by a description of the states themselves.13 By extracting the smallest action-bearing units from a given text (or other concrete manifestations of narrative materials), we can begin the reconstructive work. As Christian Zgoll puts it: “The focus … is on the content of the minimal action-bearing units which lie behind the textual plane, and even behind the plane of an individual lan11 12 13

See Schmid, 2007, 98: “Repräsentation von Zustandsveränderungen.” For more detail on this topic, see C. Zgoll, 2019, chap. 5. See Tomaševskij, 1985, 215; Wolf, 2002, 45; Schmid, 2010, 98. Compare Schmid, 2010, 5, who reaches the same conclusion from a narratological perspective: “The difference between change of state and story is not a quantitative one, the difference between them lies in their extensions—the changes of state form a subset of the story. As well as represented changes of state, which are dynamic elements, a story includes static elements, which are the states or situations themselves, the settings and the agents or patients within them. Thus, by necessity, the presentation of a story combines narrative and descriptive modes.”

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guage.”14 These minimal15 action-bearing16 units of Erzählstoff-versions (narrative material) are called hylemes, from Greek hyle (ὕλη) meaning “raw material, stuff.”17 “Hylemes are the basic building blocks of any type of narrative Stoff … . Hylemes represent key pieces of content that are moreover not defined by or limited to any specific medial manifestation, such as a text or an image.”18 The

14 15

16

17

18

C. Zgoll, 2020, 27. Compare Graf, 1985, 9; and Barthes, 1988, 132. See C. Zgoll, 2020, 33: “The definition of hylemes, i.e. what they are (minimal actionbearing units of a Stoff variant) and their logical structure remains unaffected by the degree of detail to which they are being analyzed; how many such hylemes could or should, for instance, be extracted from the textual manifestation of a Stoff variant depends on the ingenuity of the analyst and where the amount of detail becomes a nuisance rather than a source of information”. Compare Dundes, 1962, 91: “A minimal unit may thus be defined as the smallest unit useful for a given analysis with the implicit understanding that although a minimal unit could be subdivided, it would serve no useful purpose to do so.” According to our definition of “action” (see above) an action-bearing unit may also comprise actions in a more general sense, e.g. units with a state description. “As a rule, an Erzählstoff consists of statements about things that change, and statements about things that do not. The one group of statements moves the action forward, the other supports it; for this reason both the former and the latter will be counted among the action-bearing units” (C. Zgoll, 2020, 24). To make it clearer that state descriptions in this definition belong to “actions” these units could be called “action-bearing and state-describing units”. See C. Zgoll, 2019, 112; 2020, 28; and the further definition of these terms in 2020, 25–26: “The narratological terms ‘event’ (Ereignis) and ‘motif’ used in modern literary scholarship and in the field of motif and fairy-tale studies are, on closer inspection, unsuitable for a description of minimal action-bearing units in the above mentioned sense because the broad terminological spectrum of motif is too diffuse and includes, for instance, character constellations (‘relationship triangle’) or character types (‘evil stepmother’); the ‘event’ term is too narrowly confined to significant events.” For a recent definition of “motif” see Lubkoll, 2013, 542: motif is “im weitesten Sinne [die] kleinste strukturbildende und bedeutungsvolle Einheit innerhalb eines Textganzen.” The problematic definition of the term “motif” is discussed in Martínez and Scheffel, 2012, 111, with fn. 1, refering to Drux, 1997, 639: “Eine konsensfähige Definition des Motiv-Begriffs konnte sich bis heute nicht durchsetzen.” For the term “event,” see Lotman, 1977, 233: “an event in a text is the shifting of a persona across the borders of a semantic field.” For problems regarding the terms “motif” and “event,” and advantages of the term “hyleme,” see C. Zgoll, 2020, 25–29. Another aspect to consider in this context is that, if one applies the term “motif” to the undetermined part of the Erzählstoff on the micro level, it would have no counterpart on the macro level. A coherent terminological system is outlined in C. Zgoll, 2020, 47–52, where the determined “(concrete) hyleme” on the micro level relates to the “(concrete) Erzählstoff ” on the macro level, whereas the undetermined “hyleme pattern” is the micro-level subordinate to the macro level of the Stoff-pattern. C. Zgoll, 2020, 29. The smallest action-bearing units of the Erzählstoff (hylemes) are different from the “functions” defined by Propp and the functionalists, as presented in Propp, 1928. Hylemes are also distinct from the significance-bearing units of the Erzähl-

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theory and methods for the reconstruction of narrative raw material, meaning the analysis of Erzählstoff-versions, comprise the field of hylistics. In this paper, we aim to present the hylemes under discussion according to a logical structure and in a standardized format.19 Each hyleme consists of one hyleme predicate and at least one hyleme element, its logical subject. There may be more than one subject or object, and the hyleme predicate and elements may have additional determinants.20 The standard hyleme is expressed in the present tense and active voice;21 sequences of hylemes are given in lists introduced by a dash; and the names of narrative materials (Erzählstoff-versions) are given in small capitals to distinguish them from the titles of texts, which are given in italics. Different categories of hylemes must also be considered: (1) single-event actions, in which the changes in the story unfold dynamically; (2) durativeconstant hylemes, comprising actions and states that existed before the changes in the story and which remain unchanged; (3) durative-initial hylemes, which exist at the beginning of the story but change during its course; and (4) durative-resultative hylemes, which come into being as the story unfolds and represent the lasting consequence of the story’s changes.22 For example, an Erzählstoff-version might start with the hylemes:

19 20

21 22

stoff (“grosses unités constitutives ou mythèmes”) that were adopted by Lévi-Strauss and the structuralists, as presented in Lévi-Strauss, 1958, 233. The entities referenced by Propp and Lévi-Strauss are semantically (not formally) defined; they include only some, not all, of the smallest units of the Erzählstoff ; and their functions are based on subjective assumptions about what is functionally meaningful. Lévi-Strauss’ concept of the “significance-bearing units” creates an analogous problem, because the extraction of these units requires a prior definition of what is deemed meaningful or “significant.” (According to Lévi-Strauss, mythemes are bundles of antithetical pairs.) Propp’s “functions,” moreover, lack a universal applicability: his analysis was confined to a single literary genre, Russian fairy tales. Units of Erzählstoff, by contrast, cannot be defined by or limited to any particular genre or form of expression. The “mythemes” of LéviStrauss are equally ill-suited for general use in the analysis of Erzählstoffe due to their highly specific focus on myths. For a comparison of hyleme analysis and functionalist approaches, see C. Zgoll, 2019, 97–102, and 102–108 for a comparison with structuralist approaches. See C. Zgoll, 2020, section 3.5. Hylemes are not identical with syntactic-textual building blocks, but contain their contents. As noted by C. Zgoll, 2020, 32, “even though hylemes can be rendered in the form of sentences on account of their overall propositional structure, hylemes are ultimately not identical to sentences in texts. We are not concerned with syntactic-textual building blocks, but with their contents.” Compare Barthes, 1988, 105. For more details, see C. Zgoll, 2020, 29–30 and 45. See C. Zgoll, 2021, section 2.4.

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– Innana is the daughter of Nanna. (= durative-constant hyleme)23 – Innana is a young, unmarried girl. (= durative-initial hyleme) This would be followed by hylemes about Dumuzi’s courtship and the wedding of Innana and Dumuzi, all of which are single-event hylemes: – Dumuzi brings gifts to Innana. – Dumuzi praises Innana’s beauty. – Innana marries Dumuzi. This results in a new state: – Dumuzi is the husband of Innana. (and vice versa) (= durative-resultative hyleme) hylistic approach no. 1 identification, categorization, and standardization of narrative materials

– – –

Identification of hylemes: Which hylemes can be found in the text? Categorization of hylemes: single-event hylemes, durative-constant, durative-initial, and durative-resultative hylemes. Representation of hylemes in a standardized format.

3.2

Textual Variety (Length, Syntax, Focus) vs. Hyleme Structure: Sewing Fabrics into Garments Two text passages of the same length may yield a different number of hylemes, but the reverse is also true: different lengths of text may yield the same number of hylemes. Take for instance the short epithet kur gul-gul, “destroyer of mountainous (or: foreign) lands,” from Innana B, l. 17, which contains the hyleme: – Innana destroys the mountainous (or: foreign) lands. On the other hand, the first three lines of Innana’s Descent24 express a single hyleme about Innana, who is making plans to go to the Great Earth, that is, the netherworld: – Innana sets her mind to go from Great Heaven to the netherworld. 23

24

This hyleme would belong to another category in an Erzählstoff about the birth of Innana, for example the following: – Nanna has no child. (durative-initial hyleme) – Nanna conceives a child with Ningal. (single-event hyleme) – Ningal gives birth to Innana. (single-event hyleme) – Innana is the daughter of Nanna and Ningal. (= durative-resultative hyleme) The hyleme about Nanna’s fatherhood is durative-constant in the first instance, durativeresultative in the latter. Edited by Sladek, 1974; see also Attinger, 2016. For a new edition, see Cuperly, 2021.

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The comparison of text and hyleme structure reveals how information (the hylemes) can be incorporated differently into a concrete text with its own syntax and length, and where the focus of that text lies. hylistic approach no. 2 analysis of textual representation of hylemes

Specification of shortened, enlarged, or abstractly presented hylemes: – Which hylemes are only briefly hinted at or summarized, and why? – Which hylemes are made syntactically subordinate (as in epithets), and why? – Which hylemes are expanded extensively, and why? – Which hylemes are focalized through their position at the beginning or end of a story, syntactic superiority (as in main clauses), or the perspective of certain figures,25 and why?

3.3

Textual Omissions vs. Complete Narrative Material, and the Ending of Myths: Darning Holes in the Garment Narratological research has shown that no narrative can be all-encompassing. It is simply impossible to describe every step and detail of an action.26 This causes no problems for the audience if the missing details and implied sequence can be easily reconstructed. But the more complex the story is, and the further removed the audience is from its original context and cultural background, the more incumbent it is on us to reflect on and bring out those implicit hylemes, and in so doing, enhance our understanding of the material. Hylistic analysis gives us the tools to do so. Some hylemes clearly imply additional information, that is, implicit hylemes that may be logically compelling or culturally deducible. Such implicit hylemes will be given in square brackets. The following example illustrates this step of hylistic analysis: a hyleme,

25

26

C. Zgoll, 2020, 39, fn. 68: “In principle, the Stoff substrate can be reconstructed independently, ‘outside of’ the perspective dictated by the (in Genette’s terminology: homodiegetic, heterodiegetic, autodiegetic, etc.) narrator (cf. Tomaševskij, 1985, 218: ‘Für die Fabel ist es unwichtig, in welchem Teil des Werkes der Leser von einem Ereignis erfährt, auch ob es ihm unmittelbar durch den Autor mitgeteilt wird, in der Erzählung einer Person oder durch ein System von Andeutungen, die nebenbei fallen’), but only in principle; in individual cases (esp. in modern literature), different perspectives can also obstruct the view of ‘what really happened’ (‘unreliable narration’, cf. Booth, 1961).” See Martínez and Scheffel, 2012, 165 (“kein Text kann vollständig explizit sein”); Iser, 1994; C. Zgoll, 2019, 127–128 and 174–175; and 2021, section 2.8.

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– King nn dies. logically implies the preceding hyleme, – [King nn lives]. and even a further hyleme: – [nn becomes king]. The reconstruction of implicit hylemes has yielded important insights into texts and their meaning. For example, hylistic analyses of the myths incorporated in the epic praise song Innana’s Descent to the Netherworld (with special regard to the ending of the myths) have increased our understanding of the different myths incorporated in it, revealing that Innana does not fail, but is rather the victorious hero of these myths, and was celebrated as such in religious rituals for many centuries.27 The search for implicit hylemes is particularly important when the ending of a myth is not reflected in the concrete manifestation of the myth. The phenomenon of omitting parts of a myth is common in visual media (where it is a challenge to integrate multiple action-bearing units, e.g., in a concrete group of statues or a painting),28 but it is also common in textual media (which is to be expected the more a concrete myth is known to the people who use it). So, the absence of the ending of a myth in a concrete manifestation does not mean that there is no ending in that myth. Myths serve to explain the world and cope with problems.29 They display a three-partite structure: (1) problem = starting point (2) addressing the problem = middle section (3) solving the problem = ending.30 Myths, then, have neither open endings nor do they lead into aporias (narratives that end openly or in aporias do not fall into the category of myths; even if they may use mythic hylemes, the narrative material as a whole does not belong to the mythic, but to another narrative category). Therefore, it is important to try to reconstruct the endings of myths. The fact that the ending of a Mesopotamian myth can be omitted or only hinted at in concrete text

27 28 29

30

See A. Zgoll, 2020 and 2020a. Therefore, one often finds the narrative material in condensed, hyper-hylematic form. For hyper-hylemes see section 3.7. See the recent definition of myth which has been the result of fundamental research of several Göttingen research groups on mythology: C. Zgoll 2019, 562–563 (in German), C. Zgoll 2020, 75–76 (in English). See C. Zgoll 2019, 154 and 402 with narratological literature.

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versions has posed a great challenge (see above for Innana’s Descent to the Netherworld). This paper discusses examples of narrative materials about the death of Dumuzi. On the methodological level, the analysis of implicit hylemes is a way of making transparent what the modern researcher takes for granted, comparable to the techniques used in grammatical analysis, which also reproduces morphemes that are a part of the language but not represented in writing; some may not even be present in spoken language (as in the case of zero morphemes, {Ø}). The more complex and polysemous the text and its narrative materials are, the more important it is to have a systematic, methodological presentation of the reconstructed hylemes. The visual representation of implicit hylemes also allows us to categorize them on a scale from the obvious and indisputable, through the highly possible, to the merely plausible, by employing brackets, italics, and question marks exactly as we do in standard text editions. The line from which the hyleme has been deduced is given in superscript, as in the hyleme: – [Demons hit Dumuzi.→ l. 24]. hylistic approach no. 3 analysis of textual omissions of the narrative material (erzählstoff-version)

Addition of omitted hylemes: – Which hylemes are merely implied and must be deduced?

3.4

Order of the Text vs. Order of the Narrative Material: Weaving Plain Threads into Intricate Fabrics A key step in hyleme analysis is the reconstruction of the chronological order of the narrative material. This has yielded key results for the restoration of whole narrative materials and can determine the composition or degree of complexity of the “fabric,” that is, the textual manifestation of a story. In Innana’s Descent, for example, the chronological order of one of its incorporated Erzählstoff-versions31 is so complex that it was not discovered until 2020.32 The beginning of this hidden Erzählstoff-version about Innana descending into the netherworld is left untold in the concrete manifestation of

31 32

For the incorporation of multiple Erzählstoffe into one text, a frequent phenomenon in Mesopotamian literature, see sections 3.5, 3.8, 5.5, and 6.2 below. See A. Zgoll, 2020 and 2020a.

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the story until line 193 mentions it in passing: me kur-ra me al nu-di.d-da al bi2-in-du11.g, “The Instruments of Power of the netherworld (Sumerian me), the Instruments of Power demanded by no one—she demanded them!” The hyleme that is told in this line is: – No one (so far) demands the Instruments of Power of the netherworld. – (Now) Innana demands the Instruments of Power of the netherworld. A hyleme-based narratological approach will then compare the plain chronological order of the narrative material with the often elaborate rearrangement of that narrative material in the text. hylistic approach no. 4 analysis of the order of narrative material in the text

Arranging the hylemes into their chronological order: – How are different narrative materials or versions of a narrative material presented in the text: one after the other, alternately, intertwined etc., and why? – How is one such narrative material presented in the text: employing foreshadowing (prolepsis) or flashbacks (analepsis) etc., and why?

3.5

Multiple Narrative Materials in a Text: Patching Fabrics into Garments The relationship between the narrative material (Erzählstoff ) and its textual manifestation can take on many different forms. A simple connection would be a single narrative text incorporating a single Erzählstoff-version, but this is rarely the case. As we have seen, texts can incorporate more but also less than one Erzählstoff : the possible combinations in a given text include multiple Erzählstoff-versions (and even multiple versions of the same Erzählstoff ), part of one Erzählstoff, the combination of parts of multiple Erzählstoff-versions, and so on.33 A complete hylistic and sequence analysis has for example enabled new insights into Enheduana’s ritual song to Innana, Innana B. Only by analyzing the incorporated narrative material hylistically has it become clear that three myths are incorporated into the song of Enheduana which are fundamentally important to the rhetoric of the song:34

33 34

On how to distinguish among (the variants of) multiple Erzählstoffe, see C. Zgoll, 2020, 34– 38, with reference to Tomaševskij, 1985; Echterhoff, 2002; Wolf, 2002; and Brinker, 2019. See A. Zgoll, 2021a.

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First myth: An lets Innana execute his judgement over the enemies, including Sumer Second myth: Innana lets Nanna execute her judgement over Ur and every other rebellious city Third myth: Innana executes her judgement on the Anuna gods Together, these three myths form a larger, composite myth: Innana becomes the ruler of heaven and earth. The hylistic narratological analysis of Erzählstoff-versions aims to describe the shape of texts as fully as possible by taking into account the totality of incorporated Erzählstoff-versions. The layered combination of multiple versions of the same Erzählstoff is common in ancient texts, especially when the narrative materials are transmitted over long periods of time, as is often the case in myths, making stratification analysis an indispensable tool.35 A failure to separate different versions of an Erzählstoff that have been incorporated into one text may cause confusion about the story’s structure, contents, and intended message(s). Recognizing and separating the different narrative materials is sometimes an easy task but quite often a challenge. This is where sequence-analysis comes in. In our context it must suffice to sketch out the major methodological outlines of sequence-analyses. Important parameters are topic, time, place, protagonists, and events (abbreviated ttppe, in German zopht: Zeit, Ort, Protagonisten, Handlung, Thematik). The more these parameters change at a certain point in a narrative sequence, the more it is necessary to check whether there is a border between different narrative materials at this point.36 Another analytical clue is to be found through the evidence of durativeresultative hylemes. Such durative-resultative hylemes are a typical feature of the ending of narrative materials (see section 3.1). Thus, when we find a durative-resultative hyleme within a hyleme sequence, this is a strong indication that this hyleme marks the end of a narrative material that has been combined with one or more subsequent narrative materials.37

35 36 37

See section 3.8 below, and for further details, C. Zgoll, 2020, 52–60, and 70–76. See C. Zgoll 2021, 35–37, and 478–480; as for the background see C. Zgoll 2019, 153– 163. See C. Zgoll, 2021, 34–35 and 36–37.

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hylistic approach no. 5 analysis of the number and categories of narrative materials (erzählstoff-versions) contained in a text (sequence analysis)

Sequence analysis of the narrative material helps to record whether different narrative materials (Erzählstoffe), or different versions of the same narrative material (Erzählstoff ) are combined and what kind of narrative raw material is incorporated into the text: – How many different Erzählstoff-versions can be found? – Which category do the Erzählstoff-versions belong to? – How many different versions of each Erzählstoff are incorporated? This is achieved with the following methodological steps: – Which changes in the parameters topics, time, place, protagonists, and events (ttppe) indicate the existence of different Erzählstoff-versions? – Are there durative-resultative hylemes within a hyleme sequence as markers of a borderline between different Erzählstoff-versions? For the complementary stratigraphical analysis, see Hylistic approach no. 8.

3.6

Boundaries Between Multiple Narrative Materials: Stitching Together the Fabrics The combination of multiple Erzählstoff-versions within one text is characteristic of Mesopotamian literature, necessitating various devices to mark the boundaries between two or more Erzählstoff-versions (or different versions of the same Erzählstoff-version). Often, we find elaborate “narrative hinges” or “threshold lines” linking these segments.38 Sometimes, the need for such a hinge resulted in new hylemes, as in Innana’s Descent, where Innana’s ascent from the netherworld is conflated with the need for a substitute, causing the descent of Dumuzi in the new version of the narrative.39 hylistic approach no. 6 analysis of how multiple (versions of) narrative materials are combined in a text

–

38 39

How are the boundaries between multiple narrative materials (or their versions) depicted?

See A. Zgoll, 2003a, 258, 260–261, and 281; compare Wilcke, 1993, 49, fn. 95 for the transition (“Überleitung”) between different parts of a text. See A. Zgoll, 2020a, 124, 138, and 143–149; compare Katz, 2015.

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hylistic approach no. 6 (cont.)

– –

Are they placed in a sequence without any apparent changes? Or is their combination achieved through a narrative hinge, that is, the addition of new hylemes on the level of the narrative material, resulting in threshold lines on the level of the text?

3.7

Hyper-Hylemes and Other Complex Patterns: Applying Special Techniques This operation leads to the next methodological step: examining the textual shape of stories with an eye for the idiosyncrasies of each incorporated narrative material (Erzählstoff-version). In Innana’s Descent, one half-line from the speech of the gods Enlil and Nanna refers to another myth that is entirely separate from the poem’s primary narrative. Innana has made her way into the netherworld and, while dead, confronts the great gods, who respond with the half-line in 191a–192, repeated in 205a–206a: dumu-ĝu10 an gal al bi2-indu11.g (…) Innana.k an gal al bi2-in-du11.g, “My child! She demanded the Great Heaven! … Innana! She demanded the Great Heaven!” This half-line contains the hyleme: – Innana demands to possess the Great Heaven. Another research project has identified this hyleme as representing an entire self-contained and separate Erzählstoff-version: the myth Innana brings the first temple from heaven and thereby creates the earth.40 A hyleme that stands in for an entire Erzählstoff-version is a hyper-hyleme.41 Hyper-hylemes are defined as “hylemes which represent longer episodes or even an entire Stoff …, either by summarizing these episodes or the Stoff in the style of a chapter heading, or by evoking them through their succinctness and specific detail.”42 In this example, the hyper-hyleme referring to the myth Innana brings the first temple from heaven also functions as a subtle reminder that Inanna’s plan to bring the Instruments of Power from the netherworld to earth has a precedent, in which Innana was actually successful: the House of Heaven was indeed brought to earth. On the textual level, the point

40

41 42

See A. Zgoll, 2015 and 2021 (compare the edition of the mythical text by van Dijk, 1998). The results have been made possible by the research project temen, funded by a Joint Lower Saxony—Israeli Research Cooperation Program and the Lower Saxony Ministry for Science and Culture. C. Zgoll, 2020, 40–42 with discussion of the hyper-hylemes mentioned here. C. Zgoll, 2020, 40.

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can be made in a variety of ways: not just through the Sumerian grammatical option of an affirmative future, but also through the direct juxtaposition of the two myths. Both have Innana as the protagonist bringing items of high significance to earth,43 and both employ hyper-hylemes to tell the story, using near-identical wording, matching rhythms, epiphora, and rhyme. Only a single word has been changed: an gal al mu-un-du11.g / ki gal al mu-un-du11.g, “She demanded the Great Heaven! She demanded the Great Earth!” (l. 191–192 // 205–206). The compression of the two myths—(1) Innana brings the first temple from heaven and thereby creates the earth and (2) Innana brings the netherworld’s instruments of power to earth—creates a strong association between these myths and the events that they explain: Innana’s successful creating of the earth (in 1) and her shaping of the earth as a space where gods and humans can live (in 2).44 A hyper-hyleme can be found in an ancient text but may also be created by modern scholars to summarize, compress, or abbreviate multiple hylemes. This is especially useful when comparing different versions of one narrative material or multiple narrative materials, which can thereby be aligned more closely, especially if their original forms have different lengths or degrees of detail (see further in section 3.9 below). hylistic approach no. 7 analysis of the compression ratio, including hyperhylemes

– – – – –

How much of the narrative material (Erzählstoff-version) is narrated? Is one of the following techniques used? Abbreviation: hyper-hylemes, allusion, omission of an Erzählstoffversion Expansion: a single hyleme spanning a large amount of text Why are the Erzählstoff-versions presented in this particular way?

3.8 The Stratigraphy of Narrative Materials and Texts: Layering Fabrics The patchwork style of combining multiple narrative materials and their variants into one, multi-layered narrative material (as described in section 3.5) is a familiar technique in ancient texts, especially in myths but also in other 43 44

In this myth, the House of Heaven being brought down from heaven marks the beginning of the Sumerian civilization and the creation of earth in general; see A. Zgoll, 2021. See A. Zgoll, 2020a.

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types of narratives.45 It is a challenge to recognize the variants that are combined into a multi-layered narrative. Research has shown that the combination of multiple strata in one composite narrative material is not always a benign, simple procedure like the combination of different fabrics into one garment. Which version of a myth is made dominant and how much of the competing versions are still visible in the text is a significant indicator of priorities, testifying to the fact that myths are “battle-grounds for competing world views.”46 Myths have never broached issues that were considered either commonplace or of only limited interest.47 While mythical narratives have always dealt with important world phenomena, the notion of what constitutes such phenomena has varied over time. New interpretations have been superimposed over preexisting ideas, and both old and new concepts have invariably been transformed in the process. The kind and the degree of that change ranges from imperceptible tweaks to major modifications.48 In the field of mythological studies a set of methodological instruments has been developed to identify each stratum of an Erzählstoff-version and the modifications of those strata by their combination.49 More dominant Erzählstoffversions, for instance, are more likely to cause what are known as Stoff-Stoff interferences, i.e., interferences between different narrative materials, which can be detected through inconsistencies on the textual level or value judgements and hierarchical relationships on the semantic level of the Erzählstoffversions.50 Stratigraphical analysis of the praise song Innana’s Descent to the Netherworld, for instance, has shown that at least three different versions of the myth Innana goes down to and comes back from the netherworld51

45 46

47 48 49 50 51

This is a common occurrence when Erzählstoffe have been transmitted over a longer period of time; see C. Zgoll, 2019, 247–259, and 2020, 52–76. C. Zgoll, 2020, 60, and further on pp. 60–70; C. Zgoll, 2019, 448–500. In myths, we find evidence of “conflicts over the power of interpretation” (“Deutungsmachtkonflikte”): see Stoellger, 2014, 28, for the term and its definition; and C. Zgoll, 2020, 69–70 for its application to myths. Compare also Rüpke, 2013, 54. C. Zgoll, 2020, 65–67. See Annika Cöster-Gilbert about Innana and Geshtin-ana, section 7.1 below. C. Zgoll, 2019, 270–543 and 2020, 60–73. See C. Zgoll, 2019, 276–288 and 316–500; and 2020, 55–60 and 67–73. For the myths about Dumuzi that were incoporated in Innana’s Descent, see section 4 below. Further myths incorporated in the Erzählstoff that underlies Innana’s Descent include Ereshkigal marries the Bull of heaven (A. Zgoll, 2020, 136–137) and Innana brings the first temple from heaven (A. Zgoll, 2020, 129–130, and 2020a).

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are combined to form one complex, composite narrative material Innana becomes mistress over life and death and its text, the praise song.52 Incorporated in this composite narrative material are myths about The death of Dumuzi as well as a shorter, older version of Innana’s descent to the netherworld, namely Innana brings the netherworld’s instruments of power to earth.53 This reconstructed older Erzählstoff-version was corroborated in a comparative study of previously unedited texts.54 Such new findings enhance our understanding of the myths and allow for new insights into their original meaning. Erzählstoff-versions, as we have seen, can be combined in a variety of ways: they can be presented sequentially, in opposition, or in tandem as separate entities, or they can be merged and intertwined. Both types of Stoff-Stoff combinations will be explored in the case studies below. hylistic approach no. 8 stratigraphical analysis of narrative materials

Stratigraphical analysis of the narrative material (Erzählstoff ) recording whether and how different narrative materials, or different versions of the same narrative material are intertwined into one composite narrative material: – Are there Stoff-Stoff interferences that would indicate conflicting accounts of the same event, or even of entirely separate events? – Are there inconsistencies indicating the presence of conflicting narrative materials? – Are there value judgements and hierarchical relationships indicating the presence of conflicting narrative materials? – How are such conflicts resolved, and how do the combined narrative materials co-exist: through omission, suppression, harmonization, or the like? For the complementary sequence analysis, see Hylistic approach no. 5

52

53

54

See A. Zgoll, 2020. Another myth about Innana incorporated into the composite myth is Innana opens a way out of the underworld for the sun god; see A. Zgoll, 2020, 134–136. On the myth (that is, the mythical Erzählstoff ) Innana brings the netherworld’s numinous instruments of power to earth, see A. Zgoll, 2020, 98–114 and 2020a; for the myth Innana becomes mistress over life and death, see A. Zgoll, 2020, 137–149. See A. Zgoll, 2020.

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3.9

Comparisons of Different Versions of Narrative Material: Recognizing Similar Fabrics in Different Garments As the previous sections have shown, mythical and other texts are often complex, layered structures forming a patchwork of different narrative materials. For Mesopotamian religious-literary texts, it is the rule rather than the exception that a text comprises multiple layers.55 To unlock the specific content of such a text, we must first understand the number and variants (if any) of its fabrics—the layers and the patches of narrative material it is made of. The task requires nothing less than a painstaking comparative analysis of the same and related fabrics—narrative materials—in other textual manifestations of the same or related texts. Comparison is central to comprehension.56 An analogy might be drawn from life sciences, e.g., the study of dolphins: biologists learn about dolphins by studying their characteristics compared to those of other mammals; and they gain knowledge about mammals and their behavior by including as many mammals as possible in their studies. In the fields of narrative analysis, a bespoke branch of hylistic studies that is fully equipped to take on this challenge has only recently taken shape: the comparative study of narrative materials, comparative hylistics. Since comparative hylistics is a discipline in its own right, a short introduction will have to suffice in this context.57 Any comparative study of the textual variations of a given narrative material (Erzählstoffversion) must ensure that its methods are sound, if the pitfalls of comparing apples to oranges are to be avoided. Different media, such as texts versus pictures, or different genres within one medium, such as prayer versus fiction, will inevitably cause the narrative to be told in different ways. For a successful comparison, we therefore need to do the following:58 – Create comparable conditions across all variants. This may be an issue if the variants differ considerably in their number of hylemes or level of abstraction (see the following point). To compensate for such differences, the levels of abstraction may be raised or lowered, e.g. from concrete hylemes to abstract hyleme patterns, or from concrete hyleme sequences (i.e. Erzählstoff-versions) to abstract Erzählstoff patterns.59 55 56 57

58 59

See sections 4, 5, and 7 below; compare also A. Zgoll, 2020; 2013; 2011. See e.g. North and Worthington 2012, 182–183 “on the usefulness of influence-free comparison”. For more information, see C. Zgoll, 2019, 164–204; 2020, 14 and 45, and the projects in the second phase of the research group strata, starting in 2020, with funding from the German Research Foundation (dfg). See C. Zgoll, 2019, 144–149 and 168–204; and 2020, 43–52. C. Zgoll, 2020, 47–52.

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–

Keep the level of abstraction and (in)determinacy meaningful.60 For the comparison to be meaningful, it may be necessary to raise the level of abstraction above those present in the narrative(s) themselves. By creating hyper-hylemes from smaller narrative units in each variant, we can assess the overall picture from an elevated vantage point. – Identify hyper-hylemes already present in the text. The number, arrangement, and degree of compression for each individual hyleme are all essential data that must be recorded. The most important analytical step is to scan for embedded “external” narratives, which typically appear in abbreviated form as hyper-hylemes: that is, one must establish the narrative strands before attempting an analysis based on false premises.61 A comparative study of similar Erzählstoff-versions (be it in the same text or across multiple texts) can, for example, reveal that a particular variant inverts the message(s) conveyed by other versions of the same narrative, even if the textual format (genre, formulations, length, etc.) is different (see section 3.10). The myth Innana brings the first temple for earth, as told in the epic song Innana and An, clearly makes Innana a heroine, who is praised for stealing the House of Heaven from An and bringing it down from the heavens, thereby creating the earth and the land of Sumer through this First Temple; the god An eventually acknowledges the theft and decrees that the beauty of the temple shall never cease.62 But in the version of the myth extracted from Enheduana’s ritual song Innana B (l. 85–89), the message is reversed. Here, one of the accusations levied against the usurper Lugal-Ane is that he stole the House of Heaven from An and thereby destroyed its beauty.63 The comparison underscores the stark contrast between the strategic goals pursued by each variant: one sets out to praise Innana’s heroic deeds for the benefit of mankind, the other twists the tale into a dark warning against human hubris and sacrilege.64 60

61 62 63 64

As noted by C. Zgoll, 2020, 47 (note also 43–47): “Comparisons are fruitful above all if the material is prepared in such a way as to register in the vicinity of a medium degree of determination and concreteness, between the extremes of total abstraction and indetermination on the one hand and an exaggerated concreteness and over-determination on the other—even though such an approach can never aim for any kind of arithmetic mean that would be the result of statistical calculations. The exact location of the fruitful mean value in each case depends not only on the individual point of departure and the nature of the material but also for instance on the central question(s) that are guiding the comparison.” C. Zgoll, 2020, 46–47; for such hyper-hylemes, see section 3.7 above. For the latest translation of Innana and An see A. Zgoll, 2015, for its interpretation see A. Zgoll, 2021. A. Zgoll, 1997, 401–407, and 2015, 56 and 63. The negative version is told in Innana B, see A. Zgoll, 2015 and 2021a. The positive version is quoted in Innana’s Descent to the Netherword; see A. Zgoll, 2020, 105, 129–130.

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hylistic approach no. 9 comparative analysis of different versions of narrative material

– –

Which versions of a narrative material are known, how do they differ, and why? How does the text shape its version of a narrative material compared to other existing versions of it?

3.10

Comparisons of Texts and Their Versions of Narrative Material: Interhylistic and Intertextual Relationships When comparing texts on the semantic level,65 the first step is to analyze which Erzählstoff-versions are incorporated in them. The best results will be achieved when the semantic analysis, or content comparison, examines the same or similar Erzählstoff-versions across multiple texts. Whether we are comparing the same narrative material or different stories across texts, the Erzählstoffversions will have to be disentangled from their textual manifestations before we can analyze their narrative strategies and intricate combinations. With the methods described above, we can achieve a solid scientific footing from which to move on into increasingly complex territory, especially the comparative analyses of narrative materials described in the previous section: How do Erzählstoff-variants line up against each other, where are they identical (or similar), where do they differ, and why? Returning to an earlier example, two seemingly different versions of the myth Innana brings the netherworld’s numinous instruments of power to earth are told in Innana’s Descent and in Innana and Shukaleduda. This impression is based on quantitative evidence: the comparable mythical variant in Innana’s Descent is told in 284 lines, whereas in Innana and Shukaleduda a version of the same narrative material is told in just 28 lines. Furthermore, both versions of the myth Innana descends into the netherworld combine it with different myths. But despite these apparent differences, hyleme analysis has brought to light their undeniable qualitative similarities (see below).66

65 66

Another option is to compare texts according to their formal properties, as in genre studies. For a comparison of the mythical Erzählstoff Innana’s descent to the Netherworld and its manifestations in Innana’s Descent and Innana and Shukaleduda, see A. Zgoll, 2020, 114–127.

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Similarities in content must be examined carefully: if there are enough clues linking one Erzählstoff-variant to another across texts,67 we may be dealing with an interhylistic relationship. Connections that are both semantic and formal constitute a subset of interhylistic relationships; the fact that both narrative material and text must agree makes such intertextual relationships much rarer than other kinds of interhylistic relationships. Another comparative step on the semantic level is to examine the internal contextualization of the narrative material, which has consequences for the external perception of the material. Thus, the myth Innana brings the netherworld’s numinous instruments of power to earth is embedded in both Innana’s Descent and Innana und Shukaleduda, but the context provided by the surrounding narratives differs substantially. In Innana’s Descent, the mythical version of Innana and the numinous instruments of power is combined with a several mythical versions about the descent of Dumuzi to the netherworld, whereas Innana und Shukaleduda combines Innana and the numinous instruments of power with myths about Innana examining Sumer and a myth about Innana and Shukaleduda. The hylistic comparison has shown that, while they contain the same core myth, in their textual manifestations the composite narratives take different forms and convey different messages.68 hylistic approach no. 10 comparative analysis of narrative materials (erzählstoff-versions) and texts

–

–

–

67 68

How is a text shaped in comparison to other texts by the narrative materials that it contains? What is the degree of determination in the variant? If it is abstracted, are there hyper-hylemes (see section 3.7) which represent or summarize a complete external narrative material in a single hyleme? Are there interhylistic (i.e., entirely content-driven) relationships between variants of a narrative material or between different narrative materials incorporated in different text(s), and what is their purpose? Are there intertextual (i.e., content- and form-driven) relationships between the variants of a narrative material or between different narrative materials incorporated in the same or different text(s), and what is their purpose?

See C. Zgoll, 2019, 144–204. See A. Zgoll, 2020a, 114–127.

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3.11

Conclusion: Hylistic Narratology and its Methodological Approaches The application of the ten methodological steps detailed above forms part of a larger theoretical-methodological framework which allows us to reconstruct narrative raw materials for the first time. The extraction and reconstruction of these narrative materials through hyleme and stratification analysis thus merits a new narratological discipline: hylistic narratology. Hyleme analysis gives us precise tools with which to extract the hidden threads and the layers of content that shape stories and define literary texts by their degree of complexity. We are now able to appreciate more fully the process by which stories and especially myths have acquired their characteristic shapes over time and space, how they have developed duplicates and variants, how they have lost or gained layers of fabric, and so on. Because the new discipline also allows us to compare the fabrics (narrative materials) themselves, independently of their textual manifestations, we can now confidently establish interhylistic cross-references as well as intertextual ones. The possibilities unlocked by the methods of hylistic narratology range from analytic access to the structures of literary forms in their entirety, such as epics and poems, down to excerpts and even individual lines. It also enables us to examine how different texts incorporate the same (or similar) narrative material.

4

The Fly Reveals Dumuzi’s Whereabouts to Innana. Case Study of a Myth in Innana’s Descent (Bénédicte Cuperly)

Now that hylistic theory and methodology have been presented, the time has come for a case study: the narrative material The Fly reveals Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana. This study was chosen for two main reasons. First, it exemplifies the hylistic approach in general and sheds light on some of the concrete steps of a hyleme analysis; second, it is a good example of one narrative material taking on multiple forms at different levels: the level of manuscript variants (section 4), the intratextual level (sections 5 and 6), and the intertextual level (section 7). We intend to describe and characterize those forms by comparing them to their narrative material and to one another, and in so doing, show how this approach can contribute to a better understanding of ancient texts and their inner workings. We have two textual sources for the narrative material under scrutiny: Innana’s Descent to the Netherworld and a ritual lament or ershema, known as The Fly’s Promise or ershema no. 165.69 In the following, 69

For these titles, see Fritz, 2003, 113–114, and Cohen, 1981, respectively.

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we will first reconstruct the narrative material as it appears in two different versions of Innana’s Descent (this section), and then study the distinct forms it takes on in The Fly’s Promise (section 5).70 In Innana’s Descent, the relevant passage comes at the end of the text (lines 392–403), as Innana laments and searches for Dumuzi, and just before she decrees a new fate for him (lines 388/404–393/410).71 Unfortunately, at the end of the text, we find an increasing number of gaps that cannot be filled using suitable Sumerian sources. Only three manuscripts of the passage in question have been uncovered, Ur-S, Ni-d, and un-y.72 All three date to the Old Babylonian period: Ur-S and Ni-d, which are both highly fragmentary, come from Ur and Nippur respectively; un-y is better preserved, but of unknown provenience. The two sets clearly correspond to two different versions of the text, one comprising a dozen lines (Ur-S and Ni-d), the other eight lines (un-y).73 Transliterations of both can be found in the appendix. 4.1 The Long Version Table 12.3 below presents the passage as it appears in Ur-S and Ni-d (see Appendix 1) and shows the hyleme analysis method detailed in section 3.1 at work, as I extract the hylemes from the preliminary translation and present them in a standardized format. table 12.3 Extraction of hylemes, presented in order of appearance

Preliminary translation

Hylemes in text order74

376 […] she (= Innana) kept saying: “Where is my man?”

– [Innana→378] speaks. – [Innana] asks about the whereabouts of [Dumuzi]. – “[Dumuzi] is [Innana’s] man.”

70

71 72 73

74

In both texts, the Erzählstoff The Fly reveals Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana is combined with several other Erzählstoffe (see sections 3.5 and 3.6). For detailed analyses of combinations of Stoffe, see A. Zgoll, 2020; Cuperly, 2021; and Cöster-Gilbert, forthcoming. The first number corresponds to the new line numbers, following Cuperly, 2021; the second to the numbering used by etcsl. uet 6 10, cbs 6894, and ms 3282. It is difficult to be more precise, as Ni-d repeats some lines, apparently by mistake, and is broken at the end of the passage (see the transcription in the appendix). Although UrS is also damaged (though mainly at the beginning) this text seems equivalent to Ni-d in length, except for the repeated lines. un-y apparently omits lines 397–400. Hylemes in square brackets are implicit and have been deduced from explicit hylemes (compare section 3.3). Hylemes between quotation marks correspond to the content of direct speech.

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table 12.3 Extraction of hylemes, presented in order of appearance (cont.)

Preliminary translation

Hylemes in text order

377 […] she kept saying: “Where is my [man]?” 378 [The Fly] spoke thus to Bright Innana:

– Idem

378a “[Me,] I am the Fly. (Suppose) the whereabouts (of) your man is revealed: what will be my (gift =) reward?”

– – – – – =

379 “[Me,] I am the Fly. I (want to =) may reveal to you the whereabouts (of) your man; what will be my (gift =) reward?” 380 [Bright Innana] spoke thus to the Fly: 380a “Were you to reveal [the whereabouts] (of) my man, I would grant you a gift! 381 Were you to reveal [the whereabouts (of) my man], I would grant you a gift!” 382 […] it (= the Fly) began to (cover =) swarm over his whereabouts. 383 As the Fly […] it to (or: for) Bright Innana, 384 Maiden Innana decided a fate for the Fly: 385 “You (pl.) shall […] in the Alehouse, near the goblets of nn, 386 (and) […] among (or: like) the Children of the Wise!”

– – –

Innana is the Bright One. [The Fly comes to Innana.] The Fly speaks to Innana. The Fly introduces itself. “The Fly will reveal Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana.” The Fly offers to reveal Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana. The Fly wants to know what the reward will be. [The Fly wants a reward.] Idem

– Innana answers the Fly. – “The Fly will reveal Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana.” – “Innana will give the Fly a gift.” = Innana promises an unknown reward to the Fly. – Idem

– [The Fly] swarms over the whereabouts [of Dumuzi?]. – Innana is the Bright one. – The Fly […] it to Innana. – Innana is the Maiden. – Innana decrees a fate for the Fly. – “The Fly will [dwell→un-y] in the Alehouse near the goblets of nn.” – “The Fly will [live→un-y] together with (or: like) the Children of the Wise.”

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table 12.3 Extraction of hylemes, presented in order of appearance (cont.)

Preliminary translation

Hylemes in text order

387 And now, verily, concerning the fate decreed by Innana, it is truly so.

– Innana decrees a fate. – The fate comes to be.

4.1.1. Adjusting the Level of Detail: Abstraction of Hylemes “In analyzing hylemes, the distinction between a (regular) hyleme and a hyperhyleme is already of fundamental importance because textual manifestations of Stoff variants can sometimes contain statements that look exactly like hylemes but are merely summarizing, either proleptically, what is about to happen or, retrospectively, what has just been narrated.”75 Also at the analytical level, it is sometimes helpful or even necessary to adjust the level of detail to gain more clarity, especially in order to compare different versions of an Erzählstoff which operate on different levels of details;76 to do this, one can refer to several hylemes by condensing them into one hyper-hyleme.77 For example: Hyleme A) [Innana] asks questions about [Dumuzi]’s whereabouts. (l. 376// 377) Hyleme B) Innana looks for Dumuzi at the bottom. (l. 376) Hyleme C) Innana looks for Dumuzi at the summit. (l. 377) Hylemes A, B, and C can be referred to as one hyper-hyleme: Innana searches for Dumuzi everywhere. (hyper-hyleme) (l. 376//377) 4.1.2 Durative Hylemes The long version of the narrative material can now be reconstructed. First, we must isolate the durative hylemes:78 – Innana is the Bright one.79 (l. 378, 383) – Innana is the Maiden. (l. 384) – [Dumuzi] is [Innana]’s man. (l. 376//377)

75 76 77 78 79

C. Zgoll, 2020, 41. See section 3.10. Here, hyper-hylemes are not extracted from the text directly, but have been created to simplify a more detailed hyleme sequence (see section 3.7). Compare section 3.1. For the specific significance of this hyleme in Innana’s Descent (Innana is the risen one), see A. Zgoll, 2020, 145–146.

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The concrete textual form of the three durative hylemes is syntactically subordinate. Either they are epithets, or they correspond to a possessive relation— for example, the hyleme “[Dumuzi] is [Innana]’s man” is deduced from “Where is my man?”—indicating that they are not the focus of this narrative material (see section 3.2 above). A more significant durative hyleme is the following: – [The Fly is the First Fly Ever] (l. 378a//379) Indeed, it would have to be the first of its kind to require an introduction (compare line 378a/379). The fact that the poem does not state this explicitly is of no concern: as with many similar first encounters in other myths, the status of the Fly as the first of its kind would have been self-evident to contemporary audiences; it could therefore be omitted from the concrete manifestation of the narrative material.80 4.1.3. Single-Event Hylemes Our first reconstitution of the hyleme sequence, in chronological order of the narrative material, is as follows:81 – Innana searches for Dumuzi. (l. 376//377) – [The First Fly Ever comes to Innana.] (l. 378) – The Fly offers to reveal Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana. (l. 378a//379) – [The Fly wants a reward.] (l. 378a//379) – Innana promises an unknown reward to the Fly in exchange for Dumuzi’s whereabouts. (l. 380a//381) – nn swarms over his whereabouts. (l. 382) – The Fly […] it to Innana. (l. 383) – Innana decrees a fate for the Fly. (l. 384–386) – The fate comes to be. (l. 387) (durative-resultative hyleme) One immediate semantic problem is the hyleme extracted from line 382: – nn swarms over his whereabouts. (l. 382) The subject nn can be easily filled in, as it is probably the Fly. Contextually, it is more likely that the Fly acts rather than Innana or Dumuzi, the only two other characters in this Erzählstoff-version; besides, flies as a species are known for their tendency to swarm over whatever attracts them, expressed by the verb dul in Sumerian, usually rendered “to cover.”82 Alternative reconstructions are 80

81 82

For this question, compare C. Zgoll, 2019, 392 (on the often implicit first-time occurence of figures, objects, institutions, and other phenomena in myths) and 471 (on prototypical figures). See also A. Zgoll and C. Zgoll, 2021, section 3.1. Compare section 3.4. See, for example, Dumuzi Chased by Demons (Cohen, 1981, 71–84, ershema no. 97), lines 26– 27, where it is said that demons come for Dumuzi like flies that “cover” (dul) fresh grass.

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possible, but less plausible. The more satisfying solution is to read the line as a description of what the Fly does: 382 [The Fly] began to swarm over (his =) Dumuzi’s whereabouts; 383 as the Fly […] it to Innana, 384 Innana decreed a fate for the Fly. The hyleme thus refers to the ability of flies to find and cover (dead) bodies even in remote areas—an innate, instinctive behavior of flies as a species. Because the Fly was drawn, as flies are, to dead bodies, it was aware of Dumuzi’s whereabouts and gained a reward for helping Innana in the form of a propitious fate. However, the reconstruction is still incomplete: we know that Innana was searching for Dumuzi and that the Fly wanted a reward, but it is not very clear how the situation is resolved. With regards to Innana, something has to trigger the hyleme “Innana decrees a fate for the Fly”: The Fly has to earn such a fate, which must be the reward promised by Innana.83 We can therefore fill in the hyleme: – The Fly […] it to Innana. (l. 383) = – The Fly [does …] it for Innana = – The Fly [reveals] it (= Dumuzi’s whereabouts) to Innana. Thanks to the reconstruction of the hyleme, the verb pa3 can be reconstructed in the Sumerian text: 383 nim-e ku3 dinnana-ra im-ma-an-[pa3], “The Fly [reveal]ed it (= Dumuzi’s whereabouts) to Bright Innana.” The presence of the {i} prefix further supports this reconstruction.84 Line 383 is semantically subordinate to line 384, and this subordination can have a causal aspect as well as a temporal one: the sentence, “As the Fly revealed it to Bright Innana, Maiden Innana decreed a fate for the Fly,” can be taken to mean, “because the Fly revealed it to Bright Innana …” Below, I will show that line 387 of the un-y version and the reconstruction of that Erzählstoff-variant support this reconstruction. 4.1.4. Durative-Resultative Hylemes Regarding the Fly, we can reconstruct the end of the sequence by looking at the durative-resultative hylemes.85 If the fate comes to be (l. 384), this means that the Fly does now live in the Alehouse amidst the Children of the Wise:

83 84

85

Compare A. Zgoll, 2003, on the principle of reciprocity. For the meaning of the {i} prefix see Zgoll and Kärger, 2018, chapter 12.2.2; Postgate, 2019; Kärger, 2021, 129 fn. 116 with references to previous literature, especially Wilcke, 2010, 56– 58. Compare section 3.1.

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– [The Fly dwells in the Alehouse] (l. 385) – [The Fly lives amidst the Children of the Wise.] (l. 386) The revised version of the hyleme sequence thus reads: – Innana searches for Dumuzi. (l. 376//377) – [The Fly comes to Innana.] (l. 378) – The Fly offers to reveal Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana. (l. 378a//379) – The Fly wants a reward. (l. 378a//379) – Innana promises a reward to the Fly in exchange for Dumuzi’s whereabouts. (l. 380a//381) – The Fly [reveals Dumuzi’s whereabouts] to Innana. (l. 383) – Innana decrees a fate for the Fly [as a reward]. (l. 384–386) – The fate comes to be. (l. 387) – [The Fly dwells in the Alehouse.] (l. 385) – [The Fly lives amidst the Children of the Wise.] (l. 386) The sequence fulfills different narratives functions for the Fly and for Innana. The Fly obtains a change of status,86 as reflected by the durative-resultative hylemes. For Innana, this is only one in a series of steps that lead to her ultimate goal in the Erzählstoff-conglomerate: to find Dumuzi and decree (in Innana’s Descent) or obtain (in The Fly’s Promise) a new, better fate for him.87 The solution practically suggests itself, and we can complete the sequence with an implicit hyleme, which ties the Erzählstoff The Fly reveals Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana to the ensuing Erzählstoff, Innana decrees a better fate for Dumuzi (l. 389–393): – [Innana finds the dead Dumuzi] 4.2

The Short Version

table 12.4 Extraction of hylemes, presented in order of appearance

Preliminary translation (un-y, see Appendix 2)

Hylemes in text order

376 At the bottom,? (she asked) the first one:? “Where (is) my man?”

– – – –

86 87

[Innana] is at the bottom. [Innana] speaks to the first one: [Innana] asks about the whereabouts of her man. [Dumuzi] is [Innana]’s man.

Compare section 3.1. See sections 5.8.1, 6.1, and 6.3 (Erzählstoff 4 = myth 3).

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table 12.4 Extraction of hylemes, presented in order of appearance (cont.)

Preliminary translation (un-y, see Appendix 2)

Hylemes in text order

377 At the summit,? (she asked) the most distant one:? “Where is my man?”

– – – – – – – – –

378 The Fly spoke thus to Bright Innana:

379 “Me, I (am) the Fly! (If) I reveal to you the whereabouts (of) the man, what then will be done?”

380 Bright Innana answered the Fly thus: 385 “They (= the Flies) will dwell in the Alehouse, together with the goblets of the ones of the Steppe, 386 and they will live a long life among the Children of the Wise.” 387' The Fly revealed! to her! the whereabouts (of the man.)

– – – – –

[Innana] is at the summit. [Innana] speaks to the most distant one: [Innana] asks about the whereabouts of her man. [Dumuzi] is [Innana]’s man. Innana is the Bright one. [The Fly comes to Innana.] The Fly speaks to Innana. The Fly introduces itself. The Fly offers to reveal Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana. [The Fly wants a reward.] The Fly wants to know what the reward will be. Innana is the Bright one. Innana answers the Fly: “The Flies will dwell in the Alehouse with the goblets of the ones of the Steppe.”

– “The Flies will live a long life among the Children of the Wise.” = Innana promises a reward to the Fly. – The Fly shows the (man’s =) Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana.

4.2.1 Reconstruction of the Sequence of Hylemes Only single-event hylemes will appear below; the durative hylemes are identical to those found in the long version. – Innana searches for Dumuzi everywhere.88 (l. 376–377) – [The Fly comes to Innana.] (l. 378) – The Fly offers to reveal Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana. (l. 379) – [The Fly wants a reward.] (l. 379) 88

I here take the phrases “at the bottom” and “at the summit” to constitute a merism, similar to the English idiom “(to seek) high and low.” For the reconstruction of the hyper-hyleme, see section 4.1.2 above.

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–

Innana promises a reward to the Fly in exchange for Dumuzi’s whereabouts. (l. 385–386) – The Fly reveals Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana. (l. 387) There are two important points to note here. First, this version of the Erzählstoff explicitly states that the Fly reveals Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana, validating our reconstruction of the longer version in section 4.1. Second, it does not specify whether the Fly’s promised fate comes to pass: this manifestation of the Stoff is apparently incomplete. Its ending may not be explicit in the text,89 but it should be possible to reconstruct its hylemes all the same. An awareness of the cultural specificities of the period is useful here: as the Fly has kept up its side of the bargain by revealing Dumuzi’s whereabouts, it is entitled to receive its reward, according to the Mesopotamian principle of reciprocity.90 The longer version of the story lends further support to this conclusion, leading to the following reconstruction: – [Innana grants the Fly its reward = decides a fate for the Fly→ Ur-S l. 384–387] – [The Flies dwell in the Alehouse near the goblets of the steppe]. (l. 385) – [The Flies live like/together with the Children of the Wise.] (l. 386) 4.3 Comparison At this point, we can confirm that the long and the short textual manifestations are indeed variants of the same narrative material: The Fly reveals Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana. There is, however, one glaring discrepancy between them, which becomes apparent when they are juxtaposed for the text score, and it has to do with the order of the hylemes in the text. Table 12.5 presents the sequence of hylemes as they appear in the two manifestations, which is to say, on the actual tablets: table 12.5 Hylemes, presented in order of appearance

Ur/Nippur (long) version

un-y (short) version

– Innana searches for her spouse Dumuzi. (l. 376–377) – Idem

– Innana searches for her spouse Dumuzi at the bottom. (l. 376) – Innana searches for her spouse Dumuzi at the summit. (l. 377)

89 90

For the necessary ending of myths see C. Zgoll, 2019, 154 and 402 and section 3.3. On the principle of reciprocity in Mesopotamian cultures, see A. Zgoll, 2003.

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table 12.5 Hylemes, presented in order of appearance (cont.)

Ur/Nippur (long) version

un-y (short) version

– Innana is the Bright One. – [The Fly comes to Innana.] – The Fly speaks to Innana. (l. 378) – [The Fly is the First Fly Ever.] – The Fly offers to reveal Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana. – [The Fly wants a reward.]95 (l. 378a) – Idem (l. 379) – Innana answers the Fly. (l. 380) – Innana promises an unknown reward to the Fly.96 (l. 380a, 381) – Idem – [The Fly] swarms over the whereabouts [of the man?]. (l. 382) – The Fly reveals it (= Dumuzi’s whereabouts) to Innana. (l. 383) – Innana is a/the Maiden. – Innana decrees a fate for the Fly. (l. 384) – “The Fly will dwell in the Alehouse near the goblets.” (l. 385) – “The Fly will live together with (or: like) the Children of the Wise.” (l. 386) – The Fly reveals (the man’s =) Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana. (l. 387') – The fate comes to be. (l. 387)

95 96

The repetition only occurs in Ni-d. The repetition only occurs in Ni-d.

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table 12.6 Comparison of the variants

Narrative material variant A (Ur-S + Ni-d)

Narrative material variant B (un-y)

– [Innana] searches for her spouse [Dumuzi]. (l. 376–377) – [The First Fly Ever comes to Innana.] (l. 378a–379) – The Fly offers to reveal Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana. (l. 379) – Innana promises an unknown reward. (l. 380a–381) – The Fly reveals Dumuzi’s whereabouts. (l. 383) – Innana decrees a good fate. (l. 384–386) – The fate comes to be (l. 387): – [Flies dwell in the Alehouse near the goblets. (l. 385) (durative-resultative hyleme) – Flies live together with the Children of the Wise. (l. 386) (durative-resultative hyleme)]

– [Innana] searches for her spouse [Dumuzi] everywhere. (l. 376–377) – [The First Fly Ever comes to Innana.] (l. 379) – The Fly offers to reveal Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana. (l. 379) – Innana promises a good fate. (l. 385–386) – The Fly reveals Dumuzi’s whereabouts. (l. 387') – [Innana decrees a good fate.] – [The fate comes to be:→ l. 387 version A] – [Flies dwell in the Alehouse near the goblets.→ l. 385+387 version A (durative-resultative hyleme) – Flies live together with the Children of the Wise. (durative-resultative hyleme)→ l. 386+387 version A]

The key difference between the two versions lies in the position and function of two hylemes: “The Fly will dwell in the Alehouse near the goblets” and “The Fly will live like/together with the Children of the Wise.” In the long version, they are placed after “The Fly reveals Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana”; in the short version, they appear before that action. The content of the quoted speech is the same, but a shift occurs in their semantic value, and this is also true for the corresponding hylemes. In the long version, both hylemes can be summarized by one sentence, “Innana decrees a (good) fate for the Fly”; in the short version, un-y, their meaning is rather that “Innana promises a (good) fate for the Fly.” The hyleme in the extended version is performative: Innana speaks (l. 385– 386), and her words immediately enact the promise (l. 387). The hyleme in the un-y version is not performative, or at least not instantaneously so: the Fly has to hold up its end of the bargain for the words to come true. As can be seen in this table, there are, on one hand, similar hylemes, corresponding to different lines in the textual variants (“Innana promises a reward” is extracted from lines 380a–381 in the long version and from lines 385–386 in the

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short version); and, on the other hand, similar lines corresponding to different hylemes (“The Fly will dwell in the Alehouse near the goblets. The Fly will live like/together with the Children of the Wise” corresponds to “Innana decrees a fate” in the long version and to “Innana promises a fate” in the short one). The short version actualizes a narrative material that is similar to the longer one, but it does so with a greater economy of explicit hylemes:97 we are provided only with what we need to understand the plot. Innana’s promise and its reciprocal response, the Fly’s revelation of Dumuzi’s whereabouts, are retained from the long version, while the self-evident outcome for the Fly is omitted. (Yes, it does receive its reward.) The fact that in this case the narrative material does not take on the exact same form in the two variants presents a challenge for anyone attempting to arrange the Sumerian versions into a coherent text score.98 But why does un-y present us with such a condensed version of the narrative material? First, it should be noted that un-y is generally more concise than the other manuscripts; it shares this trait with un-x (ms 3281), and these two tablets constitute the only two originally complete manuscripts of Innana’s Descent. Other tablets contain, at best, little more than half the text. To an extent, then, the size and type of the tablet may have constrained the poetic shape of the narrative material in un-y. Second, an important difference is the use of direct speech in the two versions. For example, in lines 376 and 377 of un-y (quoted above in section 4.2), direct speech is not introduced by a verb of speaking—a consistent feature of the manuscript. For example, in lines 363' and 363'a, which follow line 363/383, the direct address to Innana reads merely: “Innana, (direct) your attention to your spouse”; or “Innana, (direct) your attention to Dumuzi”. Furthermore, un-y contains several phonetic spellings (e.g., ur and bad lines 376 and 377). The emphasis on direct speech, combined with the format of the tablet, suggest a specific use for this particular textual manifestation, such as an oral performance.99 But is it true to say that un-y only offers an abbreviated version of the narrative material? Unlike the longer version, it does summarize most of the narrative material. On closer inspection, one can note that the hylemes manifested in lines 376–377 have no exact equivalent in the longer version: – [Innana] searches for her spouse [Dumuzi] at the bottom. – [Innana] searches for her spouse [Dumuzi] at the summit. Innana’s search has been given additional qualifications that are not present in the longer version. Innana is literally searching high and low for her husband, 97 98 99

Compare section 3.3. Alster, 1996 already highlights the difficulty of numbering the lines in Innana’s Descent. For examples of such clues, see Wilcke, 2012.

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reflecting a greater emphasis on the relationship between Inanna and Dumuzi, that is, on the larger story that is being told in the final part of Innana’s Descent, rather than on the specific episode of the Fly. Therefore, the last explicit hyleme in the order of the text concerns the Fly’s revelation of Dumuzi’s whereabouts (and his subsequent reunion with Innana), rather than the fate of the Fly, as it did in Ur-S and Ni-d. The two versions therefore emphasize different aspects of the same narrative material: one highlights the search for Dumuzi, the other the fate of the Fly. 4.4 Preliminary Conclusion Hyleme analysis has proven to be a useful and rigorous scientific instrument that allows us to identify and extract important clues from the extant manuscripts and reconstruct some of the missing text in the tablets. It has enabled us to go beyond the mere observation that the two versions differ in length and note that the narrative focus shifts from the Fly in one version to the bond between Innana and Dumuzi in the other. And finally, it illustrates how an Erzählstoff-variant can be described and summarized by applying structural modifications to a sequence of hylemes. Taken together, these findings offer fresh perspectives on the established notions of text and literary works in the Old Babylonian period. Scribes and scholars at the time clearly held the long and the short version of the narrative material to be representatives of the same entity: a text beginning with the incipit an gal-ta ki gal-še3, which we today call Innana’s Descent to the Netherworld.100 But in contrast to modern or even later ancient texts, the precise poetic shape of Innana’s Descent was not fixed at the time. The scribes seem to have had a quite clear canvas for the story, a mental version of the narrative material and its necessary steps, but the exact sequence of events and the choice of expressions afforded them some degree of liberty.

5

Reconstructing Mythical Narrative Materials about Dumuzi’s Death in ershema no. 165 (Annika Cöster-Gilbert)

As mentioned, Innana’s Descent to the Netherworld is not the only text containing multiple versions of the search for the dead Dumuzi. A similar hyleme sequence is also found in ershema no. 165. It is one of several Old Babylonian 100

un-y is damaged but contained the complete text. The beginning of the first column is preserved, and so is the characteristic incipit of the text. Ur-S contains a colophon identifying it as the third and final tablet of Innana’s Descent to the Netherworld.

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table 12.7 Transliteration and translation of text A, l. 1–4

1 ses-e dab5-a-na iri ir2-ra na-nam

“The well-known brother!” Because he was seized, the city is full of tears (and this has consequences):a 2 a guruš ses-e tab an-na ⟨dab5-a-na iri “Alas for the young man! The well-known brother! er2-ra na-nam(?)⟩ The companion of An!” ⟨Because he was seized, the city is full of tears, (and this has consequences):⟩ 3 a guruš su8-ba en dDumu-zi ⟨dab5-a-na “Alas for the young man! The shepherd, the priestiri er2-ra na-nam(?)⟩ king (en)b Dumuzi!” ⟨Because he was seized the city is full of tears, (and this has consequences):⟩ 4 dumu e2-gal-a-ni nu-mu-un-su3-ga-ĝu10 (Innana laments:) “My darling, who has not provided anything for his (or: her) palace(s)!” a For this “effective” meaning of the na-prefix, see A. Zgoll, 2020, 88, fn. 18. b For the meaning and translation of en as priest-king, see fn. 124 below.

ershemas, or cultic lamentations, about the death of Dumuzi.101 Such ershemas are fruitful for the analysis of mythical Erzählstoff-versions since they illustrate different versions of Dumuzi’s fate. Previous studies have often lumped these narratives together and used them primarily to reconstruct the narrative of Innana’s Descent (see, for instance, The Death of Dumuzi102 and the Dream of Dumuzi), despite the fact that these narratives differ substantially, as is also the case for ershema no. 165. Based on the hylistic method, we can now reconstruct the individual mythical Erzählstoff-versions of Dumuzi’s death so as to differentiate between them and better understand each narrative material in its own right. Ershema no. 165 is preserved on two Old Babylonian tablets of unknown provenance, which will be termed A and B.103 While they are not identical, they are very similar, as will be shown below.104 I will first present a step-by-step

101

102 103 104

As the strata research group in Göttingen has shown, myths about descents to the netherworld provide an interesting basis for the reconstruction and comparison of mythical Erzählstoffe. Initial results have been published in C. Zgoll, 2019 and A. Zgoll and C. Zgoll, 2020. An in-depth analysis of several of the ershema’s dealing with the death of Dumuzi will be presented in Cöster-Gilbert, forthcoming. See Kramer, 1980. They are part of the collection of the British Museum (A: bm 29628; B: bm 109167) and were first published in 1902 (ct 15, A) and 1990 (ct 58, B). Text A consists of 31 lines; the colophon identifies it as an ershema and it is written in standard orthography. Text B consists of 33 lines; it has no colophon and is written with phonetic variants.

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reconstruction of the mythical narrative material, using the method described in section 3 and focusing on four representative lines from the beginning of text A that tell us about Dumuzi’s fate. 5.1

Hylistic Approach no. 1: Identification, Categorization, and Presentation of the Mythical Narrative Material From this short passage, we can reconstruct the following sequence: table 12.8 Extraction of hylemes

“The well-known brother!” Because he was seized, the city is full of tears, (and this has consequences): “Alas for the young man! The well-known brother! The companion of An!” ⟨Because he was seized, the city is full of tears, (and this has consequences):⟩ “Woe the young man! The shepherd, the priest-king (en) Dumuzi!” ⟨Because he was seized, the city is full of tears, (and this has consequences):⟩ (Innana laments:) “My darling, who has not provided anything for his (or: her) palace(s)!”

– – – – –

Dumuzi is the brother of nn. (l. 1, 2) nn seizes Dumuzi. (l. 1–3) The City laments Dumuzi. (l. 1–3) Dumuzi is a young man. (l. 2, 3) Dumuzi is a companion of An. (l. 2)

– Dumuzi is a shepherd. (l. 3) – Dumuzi is priest-king (en). (l. 3)

– [Innana laments:] – “Dumuzi is Innana’s darling.” (l. 4) – “Dumuzi does not provide for his (or: her) palace(s).”105 (l. 4)

5.2

Hylistic Approach no. 2: Analysis of Textual Representation of Hylemes A categorization of theses hylemes shows the following distribution. Durative-constant hylemes: – Dumuzi is the brother of nn. (l. 1, 2) – Dumuzi is a companion of An. (l. 2) – Dumuzi is a young man. (l. 2, 3) – Dumuzi is a shepherd. (l. 3)

105

For an interesting association between temple and palace, see the royal praise hymn Šulgi P: The goddess Nin-sumun pleads before An for Šulgi’s appointment as ruler, An agrees and Nin-sumun leads Šulgi to her temple, “her exalted palace” (segment C, l. 14).

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– Dumuzi is a priest-king (en). (l. 3) – “Dumuzi is Innana’s darling.” (l. 4)106 Single-event hylemes: – nn seizes Dumuzi. (l. 1–3) – The City laments Dumuzi. (l. 1–3) – Innana laments Dumuzi. (l. 4) – “Dumuzi does not provide for his (or: her) palace(s).” (l. 4) One immediately apparent feature of the narrative is the small number of actions that are expressed by single-event hylemes, while the ershema elaborates in great detail on Dumuzi’s functions and character (i.e., the durativeconstant hylemes). 5.3

Hylistic Approach no. 3: Analysis of Textual Omissions of the Narrative Material, and the Ending of Myths Innana’s statement also implies that Dumuzi used to provide for the palace, as well as the cities and the temples, as she explains in the following lines. We can therefore add the hyleme: – Dumuzi provides for the palace(s). (l. 4) The wording of Innana’s lament further hints at the fact that Dumuzi performs this task because he is the darling of Innana. To account for the implication, the hyleme must be made more specific: – As Innana’s darling, Dumuzi provides for the palace(s). (l. 4) So, what exactly happened to Dumuzi? The crucial hyleme here is “nn seizes Dumuzi.” From similar texts about Dumuzi, we know that the term “to seize,” Sumerian dab5, when carried out by the galla demons is used as a reference to death.107 This assumption is supported by the following lamentations and the search for him. The overwhelming majority of the Erzählstoff-versions about the seizure of Dumuzi present demons as the agents of his death. Considering that demons are the usual offenders, and with no other characters in sight in the narrative, one can make the case that the most common version of the narrative is also at play in this version of the Erzählstoff. Therefore, we can complete the hyleme sequence as follows:

106

107

On closer inspection, another durative hyleme can be deduced from the words in line 4, “My … darling (dumu)”. The personal statement makes it highly likely that the line is spoken by Innana (who is mentioned in line 5). Similarly, the direct quotation in line 1 may be spoken by Innana, or perhaps by Geshtin-ana, who appears later in the ershema. See, e.g., The Death of Dumuzi, l. 23–25; Dumuzi and Geshtin-ana, l. 67–68; ershema no. 97, l. 120; and ershema no. 88, l. 3 and 10. See A. Zgoll, 2020, 139, fn. 157, for the verb dab5 and its connotation of death.

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[Demons] seize Dumuzi. (l. 1–3) [Dumuzi dies.] (l. 1–3) [Dumuzi is dead.] (l. 1–3)

5.4

Hylistic Approach no. 4: Analysis of the Order of the Narrative Material in the ershema Dumuzi usually provides for the city and its inhabitants (A, l. 4–10; B, l. 12–16), but this stops with his death. Consequently, the hyleme sequence can now be arranged as follows: – [As Innana’s darling, Dumuzi provides for the palace(s).] – [Demon(s)] (Sg/Pl) seize(s) Dumuzi. – [Dumuzi is dead.] – Dumuzi does not provide for the palace(s) anymore. – The City laments Dumuzi. – Innana laments Dumuzi. 5.5

Hylistic Approach no. 5: Analysis of Narrative Materials Incorporated into the ershema Within the limited space available, my focus here will be on an overview of the most important steps in the analysis, displaying only hyper-hylemes of the story (see section 3.7) in a hyleme-based summary of the narrative material.108 I will then reconstruct two more hyleme sequences for passages that are especially helpful for a more profound understanding of the mythical narrative material represented in ershema no. 165.

5.5.1 – – – – –

108

Summary of the Mythical Erzählstoff-Version in Stoff-Chronological Order (Single-Event Hylemes Only) As Innana’s darling, Dumuzi provides for the palace(s) and the temples, i.e. the cities of Uruk, Zabalam, and Umma. (A, l. 4–10; B, l. 12–16) [Demon(s)] (sg./pl.) seize(s) Dumuzi. (A, l. 1 + 3; B, l. 1–2, 11) // [Demon(s)] bestow(s) evil on Dumuzi. (A, l. 12, 17) [Dumuzi is dead.] [Only the Fly knows Dumuzi’s whereabouts.] (A, l. 20–22; B, rv. l. 4) Dumuzi does not provide for palace and cities anymore. (A, l. 5–10; B, l. 14)

For a detailed analysis of this mythical Erzählstoff, see Cöster-Gilbert, forthcoming. The (hyper-)hylemes are based on the edition by Cohen, 1981, and unpublished editions by Annika Cöster-Gilbert and Bénédicte Cuperly. Square brackets denote additional implicit hylemes (compare section 3.3); corresponding lines from the original text are printed in superscript.

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– –

Uruk, Zalabam, and Umma lament over Dumuzi. (A, l. 1–2, 3; B, l. 1–11, 16) Innana laments in the E-ana temple of Uruk, in the temple of Zabalam, in the temple of Umma, and in the steppe (A, l. 5–12) / in the steppe at a sheepfold. (B, l. 12–15) – Geshtin-ana leaves the butter churn and the young animals. (l. 13 + 18) – Geshtin-ana laments over Dumuzi. (only A, l. 14–17) – The Fly promises to find Dumuzi for Innana. (A, l. 19–20; B, rv. l. 3–4) – Innana promises a good fate for the Fly in return. (A, l. 21–22; B, rv. l. 5–6) – The Fly promises to find Dumuzi for Geshtin-ana. (A, l. 23–24; B, rv. l. 7–8) – Geshtin-ana promises a good fate for the Fly in return. (A, l. 25; B, rv. l. 9) – Geshtin-ana walks into the steppe. (A, l. 26; B, rv. l. 11–12) – Geshtin-ana laments over Dumuzi in the steppe Arali. (A, l. 28–29; B, rv. l. 13–14) The sequence shows that there are several protagonists (Dumuzi, the people of the city, Innana, Geshtin-ana, the Fly) acting in different places (cities, sheepfold, steppe) combining different activities (lamenting, searching, deciding fates). Furthermore, many of the actions of Innana and Geshtin-ana are similar and, in the end, the Fly receives two similar fates (for the myth of the First Fly compare section 4 above), indicating the multiplicity of narrative materials present in the ershema. For now, we can say that there is at least one hyleme sequence about Geshtin-ana and one about Innana (see also section 6 below).109 The study of myths has taught us that ancient texts often abbreviate mythical narrative materials (see section 3.7 above). In order to fully understand mythical narrative materials and their variants, a critical step is to verify whether their beginning and the end are indeed represented in the text under scrutiny. Notably, the composite Erzählstoff-version as represented in the ershema no. 165 has no proper ending (see section 3.3). At first glance, no effort is made to address Dumuzi’s absence and the lost provisions for Innana and the cities. From this perspective, the lamentations of the goddesses would make no sense, and the end of the text consists of a list of birds and plants after Geshtin-ana’s departure into the steppe.110 For a more satisfying picture of what is going on, we need to take a closer look at some of the interwoven narrative materials that form the narrative conglomerate of this passage. Many other texts about Dumuzi’s death tend to focus on the brutal torture he suffers at the 109 110

On the combination of multiple mythical Erzählstoffe into one manifestation, see C. Zgoll, 2019; and A. Zgoll and C. Zgoll, 2020. For a possible explanation of the birds and plants at the end of the text, see Cohen, 1981, 87 and 170.

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hands of the galla demons before he dies.111 However, ershema no. 165 concentrates on the actions of the bereaved, namely his sister Geshtin-ana and his wife Innana; we will therefore analyze these sequences in detail. One scene takes places in an urban setting, in which not only the goddess but also the people of the cities are lamenting; the setting then moves to the steppe, where the lamenting continues, led by either Geshtin-ana or Innana, depending on the text. 5.6

Hylistic Approach no. 6: Analysis of the Techniques for Joining Multiple Variants of the Same Erzählstoff-Version As mentioned in the previous section, the ershema presents two similar sequences about Geshtin-ana and Innana, and we can assume that we are dealing with two versions of the same narrative material. Rather than being joined by threshold lines,112 or other mechanisms of this type, the descriptive passages about the lamenting goddesses are presented sequentially in the text. Structurally, however, they are parallel compositions (but see section 6 below on the “hinge” construction). 5.7

Hylistic Approach no. 9: Comparison of Two Versions of the Composite Erzählstoff-Version At this point, a comparison of the narrative materials presented in the various manuscripts will be useful. The following actions take place before the goddesses’ encounter with the Fly. The parallel structure of Innana’s and Geshtin-ana’s actions is remarkable: both lament and leave their homes in search of Dumuzi. Later, both have a conversation with the Fly. In both manuscripts of the ershema, Geshtin-ana appears to be the one who finds Dumuzi in the end113 (see section 6.3 below for a summary of the narrative material in Stoff-chronological order). And there are more parallels that connect the two versions. For instance, locations include Uruk, Umma (and Zabalam in Text A, perhaps also in B), the site of a sheepfold, and the steppe. Common themes revolve around lamenting, leaving, and searching for Dumuzi, as well as rewarding the Fly. Specific points in time are not mentioned in either version.

111

112 113

See e.g. The Death of Dumuzi, Dumuzi’s Dream, Dumuzi and Geshtin-ana, ershema no. 97 (for which see Cohen, 1981, 71–83; and Fritz, 2003, 112–113), and, though with a different antagonist (a demonic bison), ershema no. 60 (Cohen, 1981, 89–92; and Fritz, 2003, 114– 115). Compare section 3.6; for this terminology, see also A. Zgoll, 1997, 56. See Cohen, 1981, 87.

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table 12.9 Innana leaves her temples—Comparison of Erzählstoff Variants in Text A and B

Text A

Text B

– Innana laments in the E-ana: Dumuzi does not provide [for the E-ana anymore]. (l. 5–6)

– Innana laments in the E-ana: Dumuzi does not provide [for the E-ana anymore]. (l. 13–14) – Innana leaves the E-ana. (l. 13)

– [Innana leaves the E-ana.] (→ l. 7–8) – [Innana goes to Zabalam.] – Innana laments in Zabalam: Dumuzi does not provide [for Zabalam anymore]. (l. 7–8) – [Innana leaves Zabalam.] (→ l. 9–10) – [Innana goes to Umma.] – Innana laments in Umma: Dumuzi does not provide [for Umma anymore]. (l. 9–10) – [Innana leaves Umma.] (→ l. 11–12) – Bright Innana silences (or: fills up) the steppe [with her lamentation]: “My heart!”114 (l. 11–12) – Innana laments in the steppe. (l. 11–12) – [Geshtin-ana is in / goes to the sheepfold in the steppe.] – Geshtin-ana leaves the butter churn. (l. 13) – Geshtin-ana leaves the lambs and young animals. (l. 13) – Geshtin-ana laments over Dumuzi: – Nobody has accomplished anything for Dumuzi. (l. 14–17)

– [Innana goes to Umma.] – Innana laments in Umma: Dumuzi does not provide [for Umma anymore]. (l. 15) – Innana leaves Umma. (l. 15)

– Innana leaves the butter churn. (l. 18) – Innana leaves the lambs and young animals. (l. 18) – Innana laments over Dumuzi: – Nobody has accomplished anything for Dumuzi. (rv. l. 1)

Given the similarity of places, actions, and themes, it is safe to assume that the two texts express two variants of the same mythical narrative material.115 The two variants differ in the degree to which they elaborate on certain actions (e.g., the lament of the city), and which of the two protagonists is the main character in the hyleme segments. While Innana’s departure from her cities is described in both versions, Geshtin-ana’s departure is only briefly mentioned in version

114 115

This translation is by Bénédicte Cuperly. See C. Zgoll, 2019, 153–163, for the methodology that underlies the definition of mythical Erzählstoffe.

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table 12.10 female relative laments the death of Dumuzi: Comparison between two versions of the same narrative material

Innana version

Geshtin-ana version

– The Fly speaks to Innana: (A, l. 19; B, rv. l. 3)

– The Fly speaks to Geshtin-ana: (A, l. 23; B, rv. l. 7)

– “I am the Fly.” (l. 20) – “I will find the whereabouts of Dumuzi.” (A, l. 20; B, rv. l. 4) – “What will Innana give in reward?” (A, l. 20; B, rv. l. 4) – [Innana answers the Fly:] (A, l. 21; B, rv. l. 5) – “Flies will live in the house of beer / brewing with the children of the wise.” (A l. 22; B, rv. l. 6)

– “I (Fly) will find the whereabouts of Dumuzi.” (A, l. 24; B, rv. l. 8) – “What will Geshtin-ana give in reward?” (A, l. 24; B, rv. l. 8) – [Geshtin-ana answers the Fly:] (A, l. 25; B, rv. l. 9) – “Flies will live in the house of beer and of brewing with the children of the wise among the young animals.” (A, l. 25; B, rv. l. 9) – Geshtin-ana walks into the Arali Steppe. (A, l. 26; B, rv. l. 11–12). – Geshtin-ana laments over Dumuzi in the Arali Steppe. (A, l. 28–29; B, rv. l. 13–14)

A. In version B, it is Innana who again leaves the sheepfold and the young animals, leading to Geshtin-ana’s rather abrupt appearance at the end of version B. 5.8

Hylistic Approach no. 8: Stratigraphical Analysis of Narrative Materials The parallel presentation of the goddesses’ actions allows us to reconstruct a more abstract narrative: – The goddess leaves the butter churn. (A, l. 13 with Geshtin-ana; B, l. 18 with Innana) – The goddess leaves the lambs and the young animals. (A, l. 13 with Geshtin-ana; B, l. 18 with Innana) The abstraction yields two variants of the same mythical narrative material that differ only slightly. These differences, however, may shed some light on the dynamic between Innana and Geshtin-ana in religious traditions; the following comparison of two more hyleme sequences lends further support to this suggestion. As the parallel structure of actions and events has been established,

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we will compare the segments by looking at their protagonists, the defining difference between them. The comparison shows two variants of the narrative material A female relative laments the death of Dumuzi. A closer look reveals that the same hyleme sequence occurs twice in each text. The sequence starts with Innana and the Fly, breaks off, and continues with Geshtin-ana and the Fly. The parallel structure is preserved; only the protagonist (and a detail regarding the Fly’s reward) are altered. Clearly, the ershema here combines an Innana stratum and a Geshtin-ana stratum to form a composite mythical narrative material (see sections 3.8 and 6.1). 5.8.1.

Reconstruction of the Incorporated Mythical Stratum about Geshtin-ana and Dumuzi Both narrative materials lack explicit endings (see section 3.3). It remains unclear what will happen to Dumuzi and whether his relatives will find him. But must we give up hope of finding “closure”? Perhaps not. There is one hyleme that stands out from the Geshtin-ana sequence and that has no equivalent in the Innana sequence: Geshtin-ana walks into the steppe (A, l. 2; B, rv. l. 11–12), and this action is reported immediately after her conversation with the Fly. Considering its penultimate position in the hyleme sequence, it is not unreasonable to posit that, in fact, the Fly shows Geshtin-ana Dumuzi’s whereabouts in the steppe. Consequently, Geshtin-ana’s journey into the steppe indicates her search for the missing Dumuzi (see also section 5.5.1 above). Regarding the reconstruction of the mythical narrative material about Geshtin-ana, the following hylemes can thus be added to the sequence: – Geshtin-ana leaves the sheepfold to search for the dead Dumuzi [in the steppe?]. (= hyper-hyleme to lines 13–17) – Geshtin-ana laments Dumuzi. – [The Fly offers to help Geshtin-ana find Dumuzi in exchange for a reward.] – Geshtin-ana promises to reward the Fly with a good fate. – [The Fly searches for Dumuzi.] – [The Fly finds Dumuzi in the Arali steppe.] (→ rv. l. 7–8) – [The Fly shows Geshtin-ana Dumuzi’s whereabouts in the Arali steppe.] (→ rv. l. 7–8) – [Geshtin-ana determines a good fate for the Fly.] (→ rv. l. 9–10) Is this the end of this version of the search for Dumuzi? It is the end of the Fly’s “origin myth” (for which compare section 4) but a solution to the most pressing problems of the narrative material has yet to be found: What is to be done about Dumuzi and the fate of the cities, their temples, and their goddess, Innana? As

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stated above, neither text contains the ending of this narrative material. Since myths, as discussed in section 3.3, follow the three-partite structure of (1) problem = starting point (2) addressing the problem = middle section (3) solving the problem = ending, one must search for the ending of the Dumuzi-myth in question. Based on our hyleme analysis and on cultural knowledge about rituals in Mesopotamia, we can present a thesis about the shape of the resolution. The people of Mesopotamia were convinced that ritual lamentations like that of Geshtin-ana had an important effect for the deceased. The primary function116 of Geshtin-ana’s lament must be aimed at something good for the lamented Dumuzi. Since it is a goddess who is lamenting and since this is shown as an example in a myth it is more than probable that the goal is reached. But which goal? Comparing this Dumuzi-myth with another myth about the afterlife, a myth told in the Sumerian song The Death of Gilgamesh, one has good reason to assume that the lamentation ritual leads to a better life of Dumuzi in the netherworld.117 So we reconstruct the following hylemes: – [Geshtin-ana laments over Dumuzi in the steppe.] – [The lament does something good for the dead Dumuzi:] – [Dumuzi has a good life in the netherworld.] A possible explanation for the omitted endings on the textual level may be the audience’s familiarity with the material: the narrative materials in question were widely known, and so there was no need to state the obvious.118 With the results from the hyleme analysis, we can now propose the title, Geshtin-ana finds Dumuzi with the help of the Fly and provides for him, for this Erzählstoff-variant.

6

Reconstruction, Stratification, and Layers of Meaning of the Composite Myth about Innana and Dumuzi in ershema no. 165 (Annette Zgoll)

As shown in the previous section 5.8, ershema no. 165 combines part of a single myth about Geshtin-ana and Dumuzi with parts of several myths about Innana and Dumuzi into one composite myth. The composite myth starts with the narrative material about Innana and Dumuzi and contin-

116 117

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Or macro-function. For the three main functions of rituals, see A. Zgoll, 2003b. See section 6.1. The Death of Gilgamesh goes that Gilgamesh receives provisions in the netherworld and is given a preeminent administrative position; see Cavigneaux and AlRawi, 2000; and A. Zgoll, 2006. See C. Zgoll, 2019, 197–204; and A. Zgoll, 2020a, on the condensation of myths.

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ues with the narrative material about Geshtin-ana and Dumuzi. Strangely enough, the myths about Innana and Dumuzi appear to break off in both manuscripts. After Innana has told the Fly that it will be rewarded with a good fate for helping Innana find her husband, the text goes on to relate the story about Geshtin-ana. In text A, Geshtin-ana is mentioned even earlier, instead of Innana (A, l. 13). 6.1

Polyphony of Different Voices: More about the Stratification of the Dumuzi Myths in ershema no. 165 The two texts deal with the myths in distinct ways: text B uses them in an additive way, placing the narrative materials in a sequential order and juxtaposing the narratives in their entirety, allowing them to remain separate, consistent entities. This is a case of Stoff-Stoff interference where both narrative materials stay recognizably intact. Together, they form an enriched combination, a compound of multiple narrative materials (see section 3.8). The overall myth is shaped around first Innana and then Geshtin-ana. A hinge is created in the duplication of the Fly’s offer to find Dumuzi and its demand of a reward, and the promise of first Innana, then Geshtin-ana, to reward the Fly with a good fate. The situation in text A is different. Here, the combination of Erzählstoff strata leads to inconsistencies, because the strata are intertwined: Geshtinana leaves the sheepfold in search of Dumuzi (A: l. 13–18), whereupon the Fly appears to offer its help—not to Geshtin-ana, but to Innana. Innana promises a reward to the Fly, then the Fly goes to Geshtin-ana, and Geshtin-ana promises a reward. From this point onward, the narrative material is only focused on Geshtin-ana.119 From a synchronous perspective, the finding could be interpreted as a case of syncretism of the two goddesses that would be typical of Emesal songs (both ershema and balang).120 From a diachronous perspective, various strata can be reconstructed, pointing to a merging of different traditions. From a functional standpoint, the Stoff-Stoff interferences create a “simultaneous recognition of multiple traditions … The polyphony of different voices is not a deficiency … it is a bonus.”121 Because the hyleme sequence with the Fly occurs in both the Innana and the Geshtin-ana version of the underlying narrative material, their parallel 119

120 121

Accidental misspellings are unlikely, since Geshtin-ana appears twice in the same context with Innana. The distribution is as follows: Innana up to A, 11; Geshtin-ana in A, 13 and 18; Innana in A, 19 and 21; and Geshtin-ana from A, 23 onward. Compare Delnero, 2020, 60, 69, and 210–214; Gabbay, 2015, 11–12; Gabbay, 2013, 108–109; and Maul, 1999, 306–309. C. Zgoll, 2020, 58.

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structures make it safe to deduce from the available texts that these mythical versions about Innana and Dumuzi will continue on their parallel paths, alongside either the added (B) or the inserted (A) myth about Geshtin-ana and Dumuzi. A plausible explanation for the absence of further textual parallels could be found in the desire to avoid repetition or duplication, but this may hold true only for the level of the written text, not necessarily for the oral performance of the lamentation. The ershema laments are typically full of repetitions,122 and usually not all of these repeated lines were written out in full.123 In light of these practices, the short episode about Innana lamenting and searching for Dumuzi, and the abrupt change of perspective from one narrative material to another cannot be seen as conveying a particular message of disruption, or a preference for one over the other. The hylistic analysis of texts A and B shows that the hylemes about Geshtin-ana’s search for Dumuzi and her lamentation over his death have a parallel in similar hylemes about Innana. The composite myth that is thus reconstructed conveys the sense that Innana’s search and lament are no less important than Geshtin-ana’s efforts. The presentation of the myth must be understood as an abbreviated depiction of parallel events, dictated by the conventions of written texts and the literary genre of laments. 6.2 Reconstruction of the Dumuzi Myths in the ershema Having reached these preliminary findings, we can begin to reconstruct the hyleme sequence for the Innana version of the composite myth. Accordingly, I will present the hylemes by incorporating the Erzählstoff-version about Innana that has been extrapolated from the Geshtin-ana version; indicating the lines where a hyleme concerns Geshtin-ana on the textual level. The hylemes are grouped together under descriptive headings that also identify their respective narrative materials:

122 123

On the use of repetitions in Sumerian laments, see most recently Delnero, 2020, 137–168. For an example of “short-hand” repetitions in ershema no. 165, see A, l. 1–3 and B, l. 1–11 above in section 5 (beginning). The refrain “Since he (= Dumuzi) is seized, the city is in tears (and this has consequences)” (1) is only written once and not repeated. On repetitions of statements about deities or temples, see also Krecher, 1966, 45: “Wir müssen wohl annehmen, daß man in jedem Fall [sc. von derartigen Wiederholungen] eine geschlossene Gruppe von Gottheiten oder Tempeln im Auge hatte, die es vollständig zu berücksichtigen galt.” According to Delnero, 2020, 137 and 168, the variability of these repetitions in the Sumerian cultic literature is largely due to “the requirements of oral peformance.” This is reminiscent of the “Marduk-Ea formula, which is often heavily abbreviated because it was perhaps a placeholder for the entire known element when set in an incantation” (Gina Konstantopoulos, personal communication).

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Narrative material 1 =myth 1: Innana chooses Dumuzi as provider of her cities – [Innana chooses Dumuzi.] – [Dumuzi becomes Innana’s lover.] – [Innana marries Dumuzi.] – [Dumuzi becomes Innana’s husband.] – As Innana’s beloved husband, Dumuzi provides for Innana’s palaces and temples, i.e. the cities. Narrative material 2 with first problem = myth 2: The fate of Innana’s cities – [Demons] seize Dumuzi. – [Dumuzi is dead.] (→ A, l. 1–3; B, l. 1–11) – Dumuzi does not provide for the palace and cities anymore. (A, l. 4–10; B, l. 12–15) – The cities of Uruk, Zabalam, Umma mourn for Dumuzi. (A, l. 1–2, 3; B, l. 1–11, 16) – Innana laments in the E-ana temple of Uruk that Dumuzi does not provide for his (or: her) palace(s) and temples.124 (A, l. 4–6; B, l. 12–13) – [Innana goes from Uruk to Zabalam.] (→ A, l. 5–7; B, l. 13 and omitted part)125 – Innana laments (in the temple of) Zabalam [that Dumuzi does not provide for his (or: her) palace(s) and temples.] (A, l. 7–8 with 4; B, l. 13 and omitted part with 12) – [Innana goes from Zabalam to Umma.] (→ A, l. 7–9; B, omitted part and 15) – Innana laments (in the temple of) Umma [that Dumuzi does not provide for his (or: her) palace(s) and temples.] (A, l. 9–10 with 4; B, l. 15 with 12) Narrative material 3 as hinge between narrative material 2 and 4: From the cities (narrative material 2) to the steppe and Dumuzi (narrative material 4) – [Innana goes from Umma into the steppe.] (→ A, l. 9–11; B, l. 15–16) 124

125

The difference in the phrasing between temple (E-ana) and cities (Zabalam, Umma) is clear: the text treats Uruk and its temple E-ana differently from the other cities and their temples, thus hinting at the provenance of the Erzählstoff—the mythology of Uruk. Steinkeller, 1999, and 2017, 82–104, touches on some of the larger context in his study of the religious and political leader of Uruk, the en. His findings suggest that the rituals and Erzählstoffe of Innana marries Dumuzi derive from the tradition of Uruk, where the en or “priest-king” was the spouse of Innana—see especially Steinkeller, 1999, 105 and 130– 131; and 2017, 89 and 144–145. I here follow Wilcke, 1993, 50, who asserts that the omission of Zabalam in text B is accidental.

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Narrative material 4 with second problem = myth 3: The fate of Dumuzi – Innana laments in the steppe (A, l. 11–12) – Innana is in a sheepfold [in the steppe]. ([A, l. 13 + 18;] B, l. 17 + rv. l. 2) – Innana leaves the sheepfold to search for the dead Dumuzi [in the steppe?]. (= hyper-hyleme to lines [A, l. 13–18;] B, l. 17–rv. l. 2) – While searching for Dumuzi [in the steppe?], Innana mourns for Dumuzi and his fate: “Nothing is made perfect for Dumuzi!” (A, l. 14–17;126 B, rv. l. 1) – The first Fly offers Innana to find Dumuzi in exchange for a reward. (A, l. 19–20; B, rv. l. 3–4) – Innana promises a good fate for the Fly as a reward. (A, l. 21–22; B, l. 5–6) – [The Fly searches for Dumuzi]. (→ A, l. 19–22; B, rv. l. 3–6) The following hylemes are extrapolated from the hylemes about Geshtin-ana: – [The Fly finds Dumuzi in the Arali steppe.] (→ [A, l. 26–29; B, rv. l. 11–14]) – [The Fly reveals Dumuzi’s whereabouts to Innana.] (→ [A, l. 26–29; B, rv. l. 11–14]) – [Innana determines a good fate for the first Fly (meaning: for all flies).] (→ A, l. 21–22; B, l. 5–6) – [Innana goes to the Arali steppe to find Dumuzi.] (→ [A, l. 26–29; B, rv. l. 11–14]) Narrative material 4 with solution of the second problem = myth 3: Innana improves the fate of Dumuzi – [Innana mourns for Dumuzi in the Arali steppe, in order to improve his fate.] ([A, l. 28–29; B, rv. l. 13–14]) This means that Innana creates the first rituals for the first person to suffer death.127 – [The lament improves the status of Dumuzi in the netherworld.] – [Dumuzi has an elevated status in the netherworld.]128 (→ A, l. 14–17; B, rv. l. 1) Comparable to the function of praise, the function of such a lamentation is to elevate the status of a person. And it is not only the lamentation which car126 127 128

Due to constraints of space, the longer hyleme sequence of text A has not been printed in full. This is a finding from Cuperly’s study of Innana’s Descent; see Cuperly, 2021, sections v.1.3 and v.6. The funerary rituals determine the status that the deceased will achieve in the netherworld; this is a prominent thread in the Sumerian poem The Death of Gilgamesh, where Gilgamesh receives provisions for the netherworld and is therefore given a position of great importance; see Cavigneaux and Al-Rawi, 2000; and A. Zgoll, 2006.

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ries this function with regard to a deceased. In the given context, references to lamentations have the character of a synecdoche, in that they denote not only lamentations, but funerary rituals in general. These funerary rituals serve the dead Dumuzi whom we are to understand here as the first deceased person ever.129 In Mesopotamian funerary rituals, lamentations were performed, the body was cleansed and wrapped in a shroud, and the deceased were provided with offerings of food and drink, as well as gifts that they could present to the officials of the netherworld.130 Knowledge of these cultural practices allows us to add the following hypothetical hylemes, indicated in italics, which can but need not be part of the hyleme sequence: – [Innana wraps the dead Dumuzi in burial sheets.] (→ l. 15) – [Innana provides the dead Dumuzi with offerings of food and drink.] – [Dumuzi consumes Innana’s offering of food and drink.] – [Innana’s offering of food and drink strengthens the dead Dumuzi.] – [Innana gives Dumuzi gifts to present to the officials of the netherworld.] – [Dumuzi presents the gifts to the officials of the netherworld.] – [The gifts to the officials of the netherworld make them elevate Dumuzi’s status in the netherworld.] – [Dumuzi has an elevated status in the netherworld.] In passing, one may note that this interpretation gives a clue to understanding the hitherto incomprehensible enumeration of plants and animals at the end of the text; since their names and spellings contain references to burial rituals; this is still being investigated. In our example, only the opening rites of the funeral ceremony are mentioned; other elements, such as the offerings of food and drink and the gifts to the netherworld gods, are missing. Either way, the problem of Dumuzi’s fate in the afterlife must have been resolved in the myth like this. The reconstruction of the myth has shown an important meaning of this myth and text: the mythical explanation for death, and how to cope with death through funerary rites. Narrative material 2 with solution of the first problem = myth 2: Innana and Dumuzi improve the fate of the cities While one myth (narrative material 4) is complete, narrative material 2 still lacks a solution to the “first problem:” the fate of the cities. Of course, here too, the original narrative material would have included a proper ending; the fact

129 130

For Dumuzi as the first deceased in Innana’s Descent see A. Zgoll, 2020, 141. Compare Maul, 2005; Barrett, 2007; Katz, 2007 and 2014; as well as Löhnert, 2016.

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that it is missing from the textual medium as preserved forces us to consider the possible suitable endings for the sequence of events: Innana’s intervention in Dumuzi’s favor has consequences for the dead Dumuzi, whose status in the netherworld is elevated; therefore he is willing and able to provide for (the fertility of) the cities, even from “beyond the grave.”131 At a time when the king was ritually transformed to become an earthly manifestation of Dumuzi (that is, the twenty-first to twentieth century bce, in the Ur iii and Isin periods), the task of providing for the cities and ensuring their survival would have been of fundamental importance, to be performed not only by the divine figure of Dumuzi in the netherworld, but also by his living human incarnation, the king who ruled over and provided for his people. In Mesopotamian culture, such a dual concept of Dumuzi posed no intellectual problem: a fundamental aspect of the Mesopotamian worldview was the conviction that gods existed in multiple manifestations, including astral and other natural phenomena, cult statues, standards, and the like.132 Dumuzi may have been busy in both his mortal and immortal forms, providing for the cities of his kingdom simultaneously as a dead and a living king.133 6.3

The Incorporated Myths, Their Concerns, and the Composite Myth as Reconciliation of Two Mythical Traditions We have found that ershema no. 165 is an amalgamation of multiple myths about Innana and Dumuzi, resulting in a new composite myth: Myth 1: Innana chooses Dumuzi as provider of her cities This myth is only alluded to; it provides the background for the other myths. Myth 2: Innana makes dead Dumuzi provide for her cities This myth provides the framework for the composite myth. It shapes the perspective of the ershema lament by setting the scene and the mood from the very beginning: the death of Dumuzi is lamented; the cities have lost their provider.

131 132 133

On fertility and irrigation as gifts from the gods of the netherworld, see A. Zgoll, 2011; 2013; and 2020, 91–92 with fn. 33, 126–127, and 133–134. See e.g. Erra i 109–114; as well as Taylor, 2017, 343–344. The concept of Dumuzi’s dual incarnation is even more complex than the ershema suggests: see Steinkeller, 2013 on this concept as well as the ritual enactment of Dumuzi’s ascension to heaven. A version of this myth is recounted in Dumuzi’s Ascension to Heaven; see Kramer, 1984; Ibenthal, 2019; and Cuperly, 2021, section v.6.3.

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Studies by Sara Milstein have shown that new, innovative additions to a textual tradition were often placed at the beginning of the text in question, and this would appear to be the case in our text as well.134 Myth 3: Innana creates funerary rituals to improve the fate of the dead Dumuzi The stratification of this Innana-Dumuzi-myth reveals obvious traces of an earlier version about Dumuzi and his sister, the myth Geshtin-ana creates funerary rituals for her brother Dumuzi to grant him a good fate in the netherworld. This myth must be understood as the precondition for a positive outcome to myth 2. When Dumuzi is appeased and has gained a good status in the netherworld, he is powerful enough to continue in his role as provider for Innana’s cities, which is the primary concern of myth 2. Composite myth: The three myths are intertwined to form the composite myth Innana improves the fate of dead Dumuzi so that he provides for her cities from the netherworld. The question arises, why the complex entity made up of three myths about Innana and Dumuzi was made even more complex by the addition of yet another myth about Geshtin-ana (Geshtin-ana finds Dumuzi with the help of the first Fly)? The composite myth clearly focuses on Innana: she represents her cities and her temples. The fact that Geshtin-ana’s creation of funerary rituals for Dumuzi has been included points to the presence of a strong Geshtin-ana tradition, which the authors of the ershema did not wish to neglect and so harmonized with the myth about powerful Innana. Myths are battlegrounds for clashing interpretations of the world135—and in this rivalry between two mythical traditions, the ershema chose the path of reconciliation.136

134 135 136

See Milstein, 2016, on the expansion of Ancient Near Eastern texts through “frontal additions.” C. Zgoll, 2019, 430; and 2020, 67–70. In Innana’s Descent, the Erzählstoff Innana and the First Fly retains no trace of Geshtin-ana, but she is not completely expunged from the myth: she appears at the end of the text, as Innana decides that Geshtin-ana and Dumuzi will take turns as captives in the netherworld. Nonetheless, her role has been drastically reduced.

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Ershema no. 165: Comparative Analysis and Conclusions (Annika Cöster-Gilbert)

7.1

Hylistic Approach no. 9: Comparative Analysis of the Mythical Narrative Materials about Innana and Geshtin-ana By applying the methods of hylistic analysis, we have shown that the narrative material is stratified, in that it combines one stratum about Innana with another about Geshtin-ana. As described above, these strata may be understood as two competing traditions that have been merged into a single variant of the narrative material. The narrative materials of the individual myths are here connected as strata, both in terms of their content on the level of the Erzählstoff and in terms of their diachronous textual levels.137 On the content level, the goddesses clearly pursue the same goal with the same steely determination: to find Dumuzi and give him a proper burial, ensuring a safe passage for his spirit into the netherworld and a good place for him in the afterlife. Looking at the two variants of the origin myth for burial rites as they manifest in separate texts, we note different emphases in them: while Innana’s variant focuses on her leaving her temples and cities, Geshtin-ana’s variant elaborates on her search and her lament. However, nothing indicates a preference for one over the other: the fact that the Erzählstoff-versions in both traditions follow a similar or parallel pattern is perhaps a good measure of their importance and presence in the imagination of the contemporary audience. Different emphases aside, the composite Erzählstoff-version implies a strong preexisting tradition about Geshtin-ana, which other Erzählstoffe-versions about Dumuzi’s death readily attest to.138 The tradition about Innana, by contrast, appears stronger than Geshtin-ana’s at the beginning of the text. In the context of Dumuzi’s death, the person lamenting the deceased is a female relative, such as a wife, sister, or mother (see for instance Innana and Bilulu, Dumuzi’s Dream, and ershema no. 88). Whereas Mark Cohen interprets Geshtin-ana’s offer as more alluring to the Fly, and Innana’s behavior as leading to Dumuzi’s capture by evil demons,139 we offer a different reconstruction based on hylistic ana137

138 139

A power struggle between the two goddesses is taking place here, but not on the Stoff level: it is two versions of the Stoff that compete, not the goddesses themselves. See section 6.3 above. Geshtin-ana is the protagonist who looks for Dumuzi in many of the Erzählstoffe reconstructed from ershema’s in Cöster-Gilbert, forthcoming. According to Cohen, 1981, 87, “the fact that the two women are competing … rather than cooperating, indicates that their motives were different.” Cohen argues that, while Geshtin-ana wants to help her brother, Innana attempts to deliver him to the demons. However, there is no evidence for such evil intentions on Innana’s part. In fact, our hyleme

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lysis: the actions of both Geshtin-ana and Innana are deliberately structured to shape originally diverging traditions and narrative materials into a parallel pattern. Once differing ideas about the goddesses and their functions have thus been harmonized into one composite myth. We can also observe a clear interhylistic relationship between the two variants. Any analysis of their underlying Erzählstoff-versions must treat them as separate entities, as they represent two variants of the same narrative material—with different protagonists, now joined together in a much larger composite Erzählstoff-version, a relatively frequent occurrence in Mesopotamian myths and their textual manifestations.140 The composite myth as a whole can thus be described as stratified: it is composed of various (parts of) individual mythical Erzählstoff-versions. While the Innana variant is known from other texts and contexts (see section 4), the Geshtin-ana variant has to date only been reconstructed from this one ershema. 7.1.1 Mythical Narrative Materials in ershema no. 165 In section 5, I analyzed two textual manifestations of ershema no. 165, specifically the mythical narrative materials about the death of Dumuzi that it contains. I have shown how, by breaking down the narrative into its constituent hylemes, one can show that different texts contain versions of the same narrative material; and that one text can incorporate multiple mythical narrative materials, or in this case, versions of the same mythical narrative material. To summarize, ershema no. 165 contains parts of four different myths: three about Innana and Dumuzi (see section 6.2), and one about Geshtin-ana and Dumuzi (see section 5). The myth about the search and lament for the dead Dumuzi is presented in two extremely condensed versions, more condensed even than what we find in Innana’s Descent. Both versions contain the same protagonists (the Fly, Innana, and Geshtin-ana), the same themes (the search for Dumuzi and the Fly’s fate), and the same actions (see section 5.8) and thus the same ttppe parameters as time and place are identical as well (compare section 3.5). However, in the ershema, each Erzählstoff-version comprises no more than three or four lines, and it achieves the compromise through sev-

140

analysis shows that the demons were already in possession of Dumuzi, and Innana is motivated by the desire to retrieve his body. Cohen’s assumption is of course based on Innana’s Descent, but as demonstrated above, the variant of the Erzählstoff in ershema no. 165 is not taken from the Innana’s Descent tradition. It is two versions of the same Erzählstoff that are competing here—not the two women in the same Stoff. See e.g. A. Zgoll, 2020, 83–159, for myths about Innana’s and Dumuzi’s Descent; and section 4 above.

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eral significant omissions. Perhaps the most striking difference between the ershema and Innana’s Descent is the ershema’s silence on the execution of the Fly’s promise and reward.141 Instead of an explicit narration, these hylemes are left implied: in fact, all textual versions omit the ending of the narrative material. Clearly, the rituals conducted by Innana and Geshtin-ana have a purpose, which is to ensure a good life for Dumuzi in the netherworld. To this end, they take care of his corpse and provide him with food and water. 7.1.2.

Different Versions of the Same Erzählstoff-Version within a Single ershema Hylistic analyses have shown us how to distinguish between variants of mythical narrative materials by using tools and methods of hyleme-based mythological studies. In conclusion, we have reconstructed two versions of the same mythical narrative material about finding the body of Dumuzi and providing for him in the netherworld, with two different protagonists, combined into one composite myth and its concrete textual manifestation. If our findings have taught us anything, it is that an attempt to “adapt” or “amend” mythical narrative materials according to one particular version that is deemed to be the “correct” or “original” form—in our case, Innana’s Descent—not only compromises the narrative material, it also risks losing entire variants of a myth. Further, it ignores the human ingenuity that is evinced by the combination of two or more traditions—and, in some cases, by the rivalry between them. Indeed, mythical narrative materials about the death of Dumuzi appear to be a favorite battleground for rivalries among powerful goddesses (see section 6.3 above). On the surface, these composite myths tell us about the ancient Mesopotamian view of their relationship and roles in the context of Dumuzi’s death; but implicitly, they depict female power struggles between sister and wife (as here and in Innana and Bilulu), or between mother and sister (as in the Dream of Dumuzi and ershema no. 88).142 7.1.3.

Comparison of the Narrative Materials in the ershema and Innana’s Descent to the Netherworld Finally, the interhylistic comparison shows that Geshtin-ana does not appear in the corresponding passage from Innana’s Descent. From the perspective of the narrative material as a whole, this is not surprising since Innana’s Descent is about Innana and her heroic deeds. The ershema, by contrast, combines two 141 142

See the comparison of the long and short versions of Innana’s Descent in section 4 above. See C. Zgoll, 2019, 60 and 448–500, for myths as “battle grounds for competing world views.”

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traditions: while Innana’s version is well known from Innana’s Descent, we find that other versions of the same material with Geshtin-ana as the protagonist do exist. Crucially, both goddesses play a key role in bringing Dumuzi back to life and in securing a safe destiny for him. In the ershema, Innana is not responsible for Dumuzi’s abduction to the netherworld; on the contrary, she mourns his death and actively searches for him. For us, this is a poignant reminder that Innana’s Descent is not the measure (or indeed the origin) of all things, but a rich tapestry woven from many different and diverging narrative materials. It has been the aim of this presentation to offer new perspectives and pathways for scholars to explore the rich variety of narrative materials and their many different shapes.

Acknowledgements This paper is the result of a joint effort by members of the Ancient Near Eastern section of the Research Group strata. Stratification Analyses of Mythic Plots and Texts in Ancient Cultures, which is funded by the German Research Foundation (dfg). It would not have been possible without the stimulating environment of this group. Our special thanks go to Heinz-Günther Nesselrath, Christian Zgoll and the other colleagues and visiting scholars for the extremely interesting discussions. We are also grateful to the editors Sophus Helle and Gina Konstantopoulos as well as to the anonymous reviewer for their helpful feedback, Balbina Bäbler und Josephine Fechner for their meticulous lectorate, and Tina Jerke for improving the English. The immediate open access publication was funded by the DFG.

Appendix 1: The Long Version of the Fly’s Passage in Innana’s Descent (Ur-S and Ni-d) (Bénédicte Cuperly)

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Transcription

Preliminary translation143

376/392

Ur-S: traces Ni-d: [ m]u-lu-ĝu10 ⸢me-am3⸣ mu-un-ka-e144

[…] she (= Innana) kept saying: “Where is my man?”

143 144

The initial step is to prepare a “rough” working translation, which will then serve as the textual basis for all subsequent steps (philological treatment). This form is problematic. Collations confirm that the sign is ka and not ka ×X. If marû, the verbal basis should be e (marû of du11). If ḫamṭu, there should not be an {e} at the end (=

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377/393

Ur-S: traces Ni-d: [ mu-lu→376-ĝ]u10 me-am3 mu-un⟨⟨-bi⟩⟩-ne⸢e⸣145 Ur-S: [ ] ⸢mu⸣-na-[ ] Ni-d: [nim-e→378a] dinnana-ra -- gu3 mu-[ ]-de2-e Ur-S: Ø Ni-d: [ĝe26-e? →un-y] ⸢nim-me⸣-en ki lu2-zu ⟨⟨ni⟩⟩ ba-ni-⸢ib⸣-[(----)]-pa3 a-na-am3 niĝ2-ba-ĝu10-⸢um⸣

[…] she kept saying: “Where is my [man]?”

378/394 378a/394a

379/395

Ur-S: [ ] ⸢x-am3⸣ [ ] Ni-d: [ĝe26-e? nim-me-en ki→378a lu]2-zu ga-mu-ri[pa3 a→378a]-na-am3 niĝ2-ba-ĝu10-um

380/396

Ur-S: [ ] mu-na-n[i- ] Ni-d: [ku3 dinnana→378]-⸢ke4 nim⸣-e mu-na-ni-ibge4-ge4 Ur-S: Ø Ni-d: [ ki→378a] ⸢mu-lu⸣-ĝu10 ba-ab-pa3-de3-en niĝ2ba a-ra-ba-e Ur-S: traces Ni-d: [ ki mu-lu-ĝu10→378a] ba-ab-pa3-de3-en niĝ2ba a-ra-ba-e Ur-S: traces Ni-d: [ ] ⸢ki?-ni⸣ mu-un-dul-dul-⸢le⸣ Ur-S: nim-e ⸢ku3 dinnana-ra⸣ [ ]⸢x⸣[ ] Ni-d: [ ]-ra? im-ma-an-[ ] Ur-S: ki-sikil dinnana!-ke4 n[im?]-⸢x⸣ [(x)] ⸢x⸣ [mu]ni-[x]-⸢tar⸣-r[e] Ni-d: [ ni]m-e -- nam mu-ni-i[b2- ]

380a/396a

381/397

382/398 383/399 384/400

145

[The Fly] spoke thus to Bright Innana: “[Me,] I am the Fly. (Suppose) the whereabouts (of) your man are revealed: what will be my (gift =) reward?” “[Me,] I am the Fly. I (want to =) may reveal to you the whereabouts (of) your man; what will be my (gift =) reward?” [Bright Innana] spoke thus to the Fly: “Were you to reveal [the whereabouts] (of) my man, I would grant you a gift!” “Were you to reveal [the whereabouts (of) my man], I would grant you a gift!” […] it (= the Fly) began to swarm over his whereabouts. As the Fly […] it to (or: for) Bright Innana, Maiden Innana decided a fate for the Fly:

marû subject marker). Philological difficulties aside, we should be able to reconstruct the subsequent hyleme from the fact that the character’s speech is not reported. The hyleme must therefore be: nn speaks. (nn = nomen nescio = placeholder when the character is not explicitely named). Compare line 378a for another supernumerary sign in Ni-d.

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385/401

Ur-S: e2 kaš-⸢a-ka⸣ zabar(ud.ka.bar) x ⸢x⸣-a-ke4 ⸢ḫu-mu⸣-r[a?- ]-a-ze2-e[n] Ni-d: [ ] ⸢x saĝ⸣ e2-an-na-⸢x⸣-[ ] Ur-S: ⸢du5-mu⸣ [lu2] ⸢ku3-zu⸣-ke4-⸢ne⸣-gen7 nam [ ] --- ⸢x⸣ Ni-d: [du5-mu] ⸢lu2 ku3⸣-zu-ke4-ne-ne-da [ ] Ur-S: ⸢i3⸣-[ne-še3 na]m tar-ra dinnana-ke4 ur5 ⸢ḫe2⸣e[n-na]-⸢nam⸣-[ma-am3] Ni-d: traces

“You (pl.) shall […] in the Alehouse, near the goblets of nn, (and) […] among (or: like) the Children of the Wise!”

386/402

387/403

And now, verily, concerning the fate decreed by Innana, it is truly so.

Appendix 2: The Short Version of the Fly’s Passage in Innana’s Descent (un-y) (Bénédicte Cuperly)

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376/392

ur-e lu2-ĝu10 me146 dub-saĝ-e

377/393

bad lu2-ĝu10 me su-su-be2

At the bottom,? (she asked) the first one?:147 “Where (is) my man?” At the summit,? (she asked) the most distant one?:148 “Where (is) my man?”

146

147 148

Attinger, 2016 specifies in a comment to lines 372–373/390–391 that me does not mean “where” but, among other things, “I” in emesal. Indeed, “where” is normally rendered by me-a or me-am3. However, it can be argued that me does stand for me-am3 in this case. un-y uses many non-standard writings, and both lines come directly before the appearance of the Fly, as they do in the longer version. Both contain the same direct speech: “my man”. Also, note that un-y consistently uses emegir for Innana’s direct speech (compare e.g. line 386: dumu lu2 ku3-zu instead of du5-mu mu-lu ku3-zu). For the justification of the translation, compare Attinger, 2016, fn. 515. Similar lines are found in Innana and Shukaleduda, lines 11–12: Innana stands with one numinous animal at the foot of the kur, with another one at the summit, and perfects the me (i.e., the Instruments of Power, compare A. Zgoll, 2020, 119–121). Could un-y allude to such a precise cosmic location? Alternatively, it could mean that Innana asks everyone, from the nearest person to the most distant one, she seeks “high and low”. Compare comment to line 377 below. su can be a non-standard writing for sud, “to be distant” (see for example line 500

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Preliminary translation

nam149 ku3 dinnana-ra gu3 mu-un-na-de2-e The Fly spoke thus to Bright Innana: ĝe26-e ⸢nam⸣ ki lu2 ma-ra-pa3-de2 a-na-am3 “Me, I (am) the Fly! (If) I reveal to you mu-un-dim2 the whereabouts (of) the man, what will be done then?” 380/396 ku3 dinnana-ke4!(ra) nam mu-un-na-niBright Innana answered the Fly thus: ib2-ge4-ge4 385/401 e2-kaš zabar edin-na-ka-ta mu-un-/tuš150 “They (= the Flies) will dwell in the Alehouse, together with the goblets of the ones of the steppe, 386/402 u4 ab-dirig-ge dumu lu2-⸢ku3⸣-zu-ka mu-til and they will live a long life151 among the Children of the Wise.” 387'/Ø nam ki lu2 ma-ra-pa3-de3 The Fly revealed!152 to her!153 the whereabouts (of) the man. 378/394 379/395

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Zgoll, Annette. 2021a. “Innana conquers Ur: A Hitherto Unknown Myth Created by En-ḫedu-ana for Mutual Empowerment.” In Powerful Women in the Ancient World. Perception and (Self )Representation, edited by Kerstin Droß-Krüpe and Sebastian Fink, 11–53. Münster: Zaphon. Zgoll, Annette and Brit Kärger. 2018. Einführung in das Sumerische. Unpublished manuscript. Georg-August-Universität Göttingen. Zgoll, Annette, and Christian Zgoll, editors. 2020. Mythische Sphärenwechsel: Methodisch neue Zugänge zu antiken Mythen in Orient und Okzident. Mythological Studies 2. Berlin: De Gruyter. Zgoll, Annette and Christian Zgoll. 2021. “Lugalbandas Königtum und das Feuer des Prometheus: Merkmale, Funktionen und Interpretationen von Mythen über eine Herkunft vom Himmel.” In Was vom Himmel kommt. Stoffanalytische Zugänge zu antiken Mythen aus Mesopotamien, Ägypten, Griechenland und Rom, edited by Gösta Gabriel, Brit Kärger, Annette Zgoll, and Christian Zgoll, 571–607. Mythological Studies 4. Berlin, Boston: De Gruyter. Zgoll, Christian. 2019. Tractatus mythologicus: Theorie und Methodik zur Erforschung von Mythen als Grundlegung einer allgemeinen, transmedialen und komparatistischen Stoffwissenschaft. Tractatus mythologicus. Mythological Studies 1. Berlin: De Gruyter. Zgoll, Christian. 2020. “Myths as Polymorphous and Polystratric Erzählstoffe: A Theoretical and Methodological Foundation.” In Mythische Sphärenwechsel: Methodisch neue Zugänge zu antiken Mythen in Orient und Okzident, edited by Annette Zgoll and Christian Zgoll, 1–82. Mythological Studies 2. Berlin: De Gruyter. Zgoll, Christian. 2021. “Grundlagen der hylistischen Mythosforschung: Hylemanalyse, Stratifikationsanalyse und komparative Analyse von mythischen Erzählstoffen.” In Was vom Himmel kommt. Stoffanalytische Zugänge zu antiken Mythen aus Mesopotamien, Ägypten, Griechenland und Rom, edited by Gösta Gabriel, Brit Kärger, Annette Zgoll, and Christian Zgoll, 11–52. Mythological Studies 4. Berlin: De Gruyter.

Index Adab 238, 243 Adad 128 Adapa 83–85 Adapa and the South Wind 9, 13, 76, 82–85 Aeneid 104 Agga 32, 45 Akkad 217, 225, 238, 244, 245, 248, 249, 250 Akshak 238, 251–252 Alalakh 186 Alulu 27 An 29, 31, 37, 43, 49, 82, 248, 298, 305, 322 Anshar 120–122, 123, 124, 125, 139 Antu 179 Anu 77, 78, 83, 123–124, 128, 179 Anuna 120, 197, 298 Anzu 126–129, 139, 140, 151, 152–153, 156–158, 160, 169 Anzu 101, 106, 113, 117, 118, 126–130, 131, 139 Apsû 100–101, 102, 103 Arali Steppe 328–330, 333–334 Aratta 151, 152, 154, 155, 158 Aristotle 4–5 Ashur 224, 225, 227 Assurbanipal 260, 272, 275 Assyria 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 221, 223, 226, 228, 266, 269, 276 Assyrian Royal Inscriptions 264 Atra-hasis 2, 9, 14, 106–107 Augustus 104 Awan 238, 251–252 Baal 101 Babylon 11, 15, 186, 214, 216, 218, 224, 225, 226 Babylonia 214, 215, 216, 217, 221, 226–227, 228, 242, 244, 251, 252, 253, 266, 269, 276 Babylonian Chronicles 228 Belet-ili 128, 129 Bel-etir 15, 258, 260–262, 264, 265, 267–279 Bel-etir Incantation 266 Bel-etir Narrative 258–279 Bibie 269 Birhurturra 32 Bull of Heaven 31, 43, 47, 49, 78, 82, 165, 171t, 173

Cedar Forest 30, 43, 48, 77, 131, 139, 161, 162t, 163, 165, 167, 168, 171t, 173 “Cow of Sîn” 193, 194–195 Cuthean Legend of Naram-Sin 267, 270, 272, 277 Death of Dumuzi, The 321 Death of Gilgamesh, The 29, 32–33, 330 Der 224 Dimpikug 38 Dream of Dumuzi, The 321, 338 Dumuzi 16, 86, 285–288, 293, 296, 299, 303, 309–341 Ea 77, 83, 84, 85, 87, 101, 106, 120, 120–124, 128, 129, 195 Eana 252 Ebabbar 186 Egypt 227 Elam 15, 214, 215, 216, 217, 221, 223, 224, 225, 226, 227, 228 Enheduana 297 Enki 27, 29, 36, 37, 39–40, 44, 47, 86 Enkidu 27–32, 36, 39, 40, 44, 77, 78, 96–100, 108, 131, 135–136, 138–140, 150, 161–165, 167–168, 171–173, 176–178 Enlil 29, 31, 37, 43, 77, 104, 106, 162, 163, 164, 246, 248, 300 Enmebaragesi 30, 45–46, 49 Enmenuna 240 Enmerkar 151, 154, 252–253, 272, 277 Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta 117 Enuma Elish 2, 9, 11, 14, 94, 95, 100–107, 113, 117–128, 131, 136, 139 Epic of Gilgamesh 2, 9, 13–14, 29, 31, 32, 34, 35, 36, 41, 76, 77, 78, 80, 85, 93–100, 105, 106, 108, 113, 117–118, 130–141, 145, 149, 168, 169–177, 263, 270 Ereshkigal 29, 36, 37, 38, 39, 42 Erra and Ishum 106, 113 ershema no. 88 338, 340 ershema no. 165 (The Fly’s Promise) 308– 309, 314, 320–321, 324–326, 329–332, 336–341 Esagil-kin-apli 100 Esarhaddon 223–224, 227, 272

352 Etana 8, 27, 78–79, 93, 253 Etana Epic 78, 106 Euphrates River 29, 33, 35, 38–43, 97 First Campaign Cylinder 216 Fly’s Promise, The (ershema no. 165) 308– 309, 314, 320–321, 324–326, 329–332, 336–341 Geme-Sîn 193 Geshtin-ana 287, 325–334 Gilgamesh 9, 13, 27, 28–49, 77, 80, 82, 96– 100, 108, 131–132, 135–136, 138–140, 150, 151, 161–169, 171–174, 177–178, 179, 270 Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld 29– 30, 132 Gilgamesh and Agga 32 Gilgamesh and Huwawa 30–31, 145, 148, 161–170, 176, 179 Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven 31 Gizzida 83, 84 Gutium 243, 245, 250 Hallushu-Inshushinak i 226 Halule 214, 216, 217, 225, 228 Hamazi 238, 251–252 Hanbi 269 Hattusha 59, 60, 96, 186 Homer 264 Hubur 118 Hulalitu 272 Humbaba 31, 77, 96, 165, 168, 171, 173, 178 Huwawa 27, 28, 30–31, 43, 46, 47, 49, 161–165, 167–169 Humban-haltash i 225 Humban-haltash ii 227 Humban-nikash i 224, 226 Humban-nimena 215, 217, 225, 226 Iba 269 Igigi gods 106 Iliad 264 Imbappa 216 Inanna/Innana/Inana 29, 31, 43, 49, 81–82, 85–86, 87, 248, 285–288, 293, 296–303, 305–307, 309–320, 322–344 Ishtar 78, 171, 173, 179, 227, 246 Inana and Ebih 81–82

index Inana’s Descent to the Netherworld 16, 76, 82–83, 85–86, 285–288, 293, 295, 296, 299, 302, 306–320, 339–344 Inana and An 305 Inana and Bilulu 338 Inana and Shukaleduda 306–307 Inana B 297, 305 Ishtar-hundu See Shutruk-Nahhunte Ishtar’s Descent 9 Isin 237, 238–239 Kakka 120, 121, 124, 125 Kanesh (Nesha) 61–68, 70 Kish 32, 44, 45, 47, 216, 239, 245–251 Ku-Babu 239 Kuda 243 Kudur-Nahhunte 226 Kudur-Nahhunte ii 225, 227 Kulaba 32, 41 Kuyunjik 260 Lahmu and Lahamu 119, 120 Land of the Dead 29, 35, 36–39, 40, 42, 44, 86, 190–191, 196–198, 296–297, 299– 303 Larsa 186 Ludlul Bel Nemeqi 9, 105 Lugal-Ane 305 Lugalbanda 46, 145, 151–160, 161, 169 Lugalbanda duology 9, 148, 151, 160–161, 169–170, 176, 179 Lugalbanda and the Anzu Bird 145, 149, 150, 153–158, 159, 169 Lugalbanda in the Wilderness 145, 149, 150, 152, 154–155, 158–159 Lugalgabagal 31 Lugalzagesi 249 Marduk 11, 95, 100–107, 113, 118, 120, 124, 125, 139, 195 Mari 238, 251–252 Megiddo 96 Melid 227 Menanu See Humban-nimena Merodach-baladan ii 215, 216, 223–224, 227 Mesh-nun 238 Meturan 30, 32, 34, 38, 41, 42 Mashu, Mount 172 Mushezib-Marduk 216, 225, 228

353

index Nabonassar 214 Nabonidus Chronicle 212 Nabu-zer-kitti-lishir 227 Namtar 38, 194 Nanna 155, 293, 298, 300 Nanne 238 Naram-Sin 270, 277 Nasqat 258, 262, 268, 269, 272–275 Nergal 189 Nergal and Ereshkigal 9 Nesha See Kanesh (Nesha) Netherworld See Land of the Dead Netherworld Vision of an Assyrian Prince, The 266 Nimush, Mount 135–136 Ninazu 39 Nineveh 186, 260, 277 Ningeshzida 191 Ninlil 31 Ninmah 189 Ninshubur 83, 85–86 Ninsun / Ninsumun 31, 33, 38, 46, 77, 136– 137, 140, 171 Ninurta/Ningirsu 48, 126, 127, 128, 129, 140 Nippur 29, 34, 38, 42, 227, 238–239, 309 Nummuraya 269 Pazuzu 269, 272 Persia 217 Peshtur 30, 45, 46–47, 49 Poetics (Aristotle) 4 Qingu 102, 119, 120 Salla 269 Sargon ii 214, 226, 228, 272 Sargon of Akkad 224, 244, 249, 270 Sennacherib 214, 216, 224, 225, 226, 228, 272 Sherda 188, 191 Shamash 77, 78–79, 80, 171, 227 Shamash-ibni 269, 272 Shamash-shuma-ukin 214 Shamhat 77, 171 Shar-ur 128 Shiduri 138, 172, 178 Shukaletuda 306–307 Shulgi 115, 242, 251 Shuma-iddin 227 Shutruk-Nahhunte 216, 224

Shutruk-Nahhunte ii 226 Sidu 100 Siduri 80 Sîn 193 Sin of Sargon, The 266 Sîn-leqi-unnenni 29, 96, 99 Sippar 186, 223, 227 Sultantepe 186 Sumer 46, 298, 305 Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle 13, 28, 32, 33–35, 36, 39, 42, 44, 45, 46 Sumerian King List 15, 234–253 Susa 238–239 Tale of the Early Rulers 27, 28 Tale of Zalpa 13, 53–55, 58–61, 70, 71–73 Tamarmara 63–64, 69 Tammuz 83 Tannanu 216 Tell Haddad 32 Tiamat 95, 100–103, 118, 120, 122–125, 139 Tiglath-pileser iii 214 Tirigan 250 Udug-demon 194 Ugarit 96 Uhegalan 190 Uhushgalana 190 Umma 325, 326, 327, 333 Ummanigash See Humban-nikash i Unirgalana 190 Upshu’ukkinnakku 124 Ur 29, 42, 96, 115, 238, 242, 245, 251, 298 Ur-lugal 33, 38, 40–41 Ur-shanabi 80, 138, 172 Urtaku 227 Uruk 9, 29–32, 35, 39, 40–45, 47, 49, 95, 96, 97, 98, 108, 136–137, 151, 154, 155, 161, 171, 172, 186, 243, 244, 245, 248, 249, 250, 251, 252, 325, 326, 333 Usumurgalana 190 Uta-napishti 9, 80, 85, 96, 132, 138, 172, 173, 176, 178 Ziusudra 27, 28 Utu 14, 29, 30, 41, 45, 163, 166, 185–191, 193, 194, 196–202, 204 Utu-hegal 242–244, 245, 250 Virgil 104

354 Zababa 246 Zabalam 325, 326, 327, 333

index Zalpa 59, 62, 63, 71 Zeru-kinu 269