The Odyssey

So, you ask me the name I am known by, Cyclops?...

Nobody—that’s my name.

Nobody—so my mother and father call me, all my friends.

Where one arms themselves for reading the Iliad, enduring its battles and grit, a different approach is needed for the Odyssey, Homers second masterpiece. It is better to say one launches upon the epic. We’ve left the beaches of Troy for the vast Mediterranean, with its diverse peoples and hostile monsters. The Trojan war is over—the Achaeans have won and return home. This second epic follows Odysseus journey back to Ithaca, which ends up taking an agonizing ten years. He is flown off course due to misfortune and the gods, and when he finally returns home he finds his estate ravaged by rude guests pining for his wife, Penelope. He murders them all and they live happy ever after.

While similar in language and mythology to the Iliad, the Odyssey is different enough to warrant a suspicion that Homer did not edit it. If he had, it must certainly have been in twilight years where the intensity of youth gave way to the nostalgia of old age. Regardless, the text acts as a marvelous twin to its predecessor: one celebrates courage in the face of death, the other intelligence in the face of life. One is local and magnified, the other is cosmopolitan and reductive. One restores hearth and family, the other destroys it. But the books also challenge each other somewhat, particularly in the Odyssey’s best chapter: Kingdom of the Dead. Here Odysseus chats with the shade of Achilles, who regrets his condition and wishes for life. Thus the deal fate gave to Achilles—fame or old age—is one Odysseus didn’t have to make. He got both. That scene put the entire epic in perspective for me, which I’ll expand on a bit.

The first half of the text is exquisite storytelling. We first follow Telemachus, Odysseus son, as he searches for his father, then we segue into Odysseus’s flashbacks as he recounts his epic travels to the Phaeacians, finally catching up to present tense once our hero gets back to Ithaca. These platforms frame the different episodes with appropriate lighting: Telemachus, both like his father and the readers, is lost and embarks on a quest to set things to right; Odysseus’ stories are set in a mythical fairyland past, hyperbole withstanding, which corresponds nicely with their content; and the reality dawns just in time for the present issue—Penelope’s plight—where the patriarch will assert himself and return order to the kingdom. This is an intricate and impressive narrative technique that lays the foundation for all future adventure/travel tales. Homer uses the text as the vehicle to explore the world, and though his geography is a bit off it’s still one of the most important perspectives of the “other” in early literature. Herodotus, for all his enchantment, has nothing on Homer.

Once we defeat the Cyclops and witches and sirens and monsters we finally encounter the most dangerous foe alive: wealthy bachelors. The second half of the epic follows Odysseus’ return to his country and estate—both in jeopardy and without a leader—and his method for setting things straight. He dons various disguises to test the faithfulness of his servants and survey the extent of the damage before deciding to act. The significance of the conceal-and-reveal tactic that repeats throughout the work escapes me. I guess one reason owes to Odysseus’ subtly in conjunction with his martial skill. I also see the value of viewing the common place under a foreign guise: fresh perspective is gained this way. But perhaps Homer is making a statement about perception. What we see is not necessarily what we get, and in this tale of discovering creatures both hostile and friendly we cannot base our judgments off of looks alone. Achilles may have hated one “who says one thing but hides another in his heart,” but that is reality’s norm. Odysseus understood this, and so adopted and excelled in this trait. Fighting isn’t the only answer, sometimes nuance is needed.

This is the big difference between Homer’s two works. The Iliad deals with destructive beauty, so grand and impressive it consumes itself in blazing glory. The Odyssey deals with quiet beauty: learning about others, seeing the world, constructing meaning from experience, the relationship between men and women (the Odyssey is in many ways a feminist work), restoring peace to your home, investing in family, and putting down the sword for a plowshare. Don’t get me wrong, Odysseus fights a lot in the text, but often it seems to make matters worse. Even in the spectacular climax where he murders Penelope’s suitors, their families come together to exact retribution on Odysseus. It takes a Deus ex Machina to finally restore peace and end the epic. I’m not sure what to make of this ending, and I daresay it undermines its own hero. But maybe that’s the goal. War must be curbed at some point so life can go on. We must protect what we love, but compromise and even ethical ambiguity are necessary to do so. The unrelenting pride that imbues these heroes must slack for civilization to progress. Thus future generations will lament for the end of the “heroic age,” even as they recognize their survival was contingent on its death.

But there’s a positive aspect of all this civil duplicity: the art of fiction. What I love about Odysseus is how he’s a story-teller. He constantly weaves narratives—both ‘true’ and ‘false’—to enchant and deceive his audience. Much like Prospero in the Tempest, Homer’s protagonist is almost conscious of his life’s apparatus. He knows he is in a story; both creating and disseminating it. His name, as with Achilles, is what needs to survive, no less than his country and family. It’s part of his legacy. It’s why I find the epic so inspiring: it depicts a man who navigates life’s difficulties with intelligence, meets challenges with bravery, and ultimately invests in civilization. Odysseus doesn’t let fate or the gods rule him; he pushes on, both with an eye on the past (root meaning of ‘nostalgia’ is ‘love of home’) and mind to the future. It’s because of him that we coin all great adventures odysseys.

The Iliad

Bird-signs! Fight for your country—that is the best, the only omen!

The Iliad is peculiar. It's the greatest story of ancient Greece (though it predates their golden age), was the envy Rome (they attempted to match it—and failed), has become one of the most well-known and celebrated stories of western culture (though few read it), and stands as one of mankind’s greatest masterpieces (though it was composed three thousand years ago by illiterate barbarians). The parenthetical statements express my confusion with the text’s status in our society: celebrated but not read, studied but not replicated, ancient but not obsolete. What's the best way to approach this famous-yet-remote tale?

Let’s begin by summarizing the story. “The Song of Ilium,” or Troy, actually only focuses on about ten days out of a 10 year war. Paris, a prince of Troy, steals the wife of Menelaus, King of the Spartans, and brings her back to his home city. Menelaus and his brother Agamemnon rally the tribes of Greece (collectively called the Achaeans) and sail to Asia Minor where they siege the city for 10 years, eventually conquering it with a ruse. The ten-day period the Iliad covers concerns Achilles, the greatest hero of the Greeks, who gets mad at Agamemnon for stealing his girlfriend. Achilles withdraws from the fighting until Hector, the greatest hero of the Trojans, kills his cousin. Achilles returns and kills Hector, desecrates his corpse, but eventually returns the body to Troy after the father of Hector implores Achilles for mercy. The tale ends with Hector being buried.

Historically speaking the tale is fiction. A league of Greek tribes did siege the city of Troy around 1200 BCE, though this was probably due to the control of the Hellespont rather than love. Following the death of so many adult males coinciding with devastating fires of capital cities, Greece submerged into a dark age. Here the “Trojan War” was preserved and transmuted within an oral tradition that bound the communities together. Homer, a chief bard and editor of the Iliad, helped the story get written down around 800 BCE. We know that this was only one of a few epics circulating around this time, but all we have are Homer’s. Greece was to draw inspiration from these works for centuries to come, eventually holding the epics as golden standards of art. They’ve retained a similar status ever since.

Does the Iliad still live up to its reputation? Absolutely. Written as a long poem in elevated (“heroic”) language, the story is primarily a war drama. Horrific yet beautifully rendered fight scenes litter the book, and I have yet to find their superior. Homer’s masterful use of similes, where combat is contrasted with analogues of peace, gives poise to senseless butchery:

Patroclus rising beside him stabbed his right jawbone,
ramming the spearhead square between his teeth so hard
he hooked him by that spearhead over the chariot-rail,
hoisted, dragged the Trojan out as an angler perched
on a jutting rock ledge drags some fish from the sea,
some noble catch, with line and glittering bronze hook.

Framing violence within scenes of calm and banality has two effects. We are jarred by how identifiable the act is, now that our imaginations have tethered the two activities together. But we also see through the lens of a warrior, whose kaleidoscope vision transforms scenes of war into peace, and peace into war. These two walks of life blur and the dichotomy fades: the world isn’t divided into soldiers and civilians. We’re both. War and civilization are inexorably joined, and both are given equal weight. This is exemplified within Achilles’ famous shield; scenes of destruction live alongside scenes of creation, and though we may favor one over the other, both make up the circle of life.

Achilles (left) slays Hector. From a red-figured volute-krater 

(a large ceramic wine decanter), ca. 500–480 B.C.E.

The tale’s length gives it time to breathe. Every fight, every character, and every speech is equally respected. For being a communal work the unity is incredible; Homer was an excellent editor. The many digressions propel the story’s fated ending ever closer: Hector will die and Troy will fall. There is no suspense in ancient Greece (stories are known well beforehand). But the choices and conflicts that plague our characters are somehow not diminished. Indeed they even know their destinies beforehand. The Iliad has been described as “courage in the face of death,” and I agree. Everyone seems to understand how arbitrary their lives are, yet they’re infused with such pride, such determination. Heroes are unabashed in their beliefs, almost aggressively so. And it’s not as if there’s only one perspective here to celebrate; the wide cast of characters in this drama each have their own unique vision. Achilles is war incarnate, Odysseus marries intelligence with strength, Nestor revels in oration, Hector protects civilized values, Paris embraces love, Helen is beauty incarnate, and even minor characters find time to postulate claims.

But none of it matters. The great conflict in the Iliad—and this is a story of many conflicts—is of barbarism versus civilization. The Achaeans are, if we can use such reductive terms, the bad guys. They siege the walls of hallowed Troy for a woman and their own twisted sense of pride. The Trojans have families, art, allies, technology, temples, wealth, and everything else civilization entails. But it’s not enough; in the end Ilium falls to the wrath of Achilles. It’s not their character, views, or beliefs that doom Troy, simply their inability to defend themselves against aggression. Hector, for all his humanity, could not defeat the Achaeans.

The ending of the epic provides a ray of hope. Achilles’ submission to Priam’s request—his ability to feel empathy for his enemy—is both surprising and puzzling. At first light his decision is of little consequence. Troy will still burn to the ground, Achilles will soon meet his fate, and Zeus will get his way. But amongst all this death and chaos such a small act of kindness, particularly from the cruelest man, means a great deal. A redemptive choice that rebels, even impotently, against fate is heroic. More so than proficiency on the battlefield. Homer both celebrates and insults warfare; with the same breath destroys civilized values and infuses them with meaning. Achilles, by returning Hector, regains some of his humanity. It’ll change nothing, but it’s precious all the same.

This rare tenderness is worlds away from the idiocy of the gods, who rule and play with men’s fate without any regard for their well-being or value. Zues, Athena, Hera, Apollo: these are characters in a story. They are not real or logical; they represent the chaotic forces that destroy or make men’s lives. Their comical antics make the human tragedy that much more painful to experience. They will not be forced to endure the consequences of their decisions. They are incapable of change or loss that would bring significance to their existence. They simply are, and so cannot identify with humanity. It is a good thing both Helen and Achilles shed their destructive selfishness for self-criticism. It is no compliment to be called godlike.

I adore The Iliad: an artistic creation that houses such maddening destruction, with gems of hope and beauty if one is brave enough to look. Homer’s community, slowly reclaiming their civilized life from dark barbarism, poured hundreds of years of hard-earned wisdom into this epic tale. They would not abandon their past, not completely, but they would learn from it. And what they learned was courage in the face of death; art in the face of destruction; and simple human decency in the face of war.

The Book of Genesis

Then the LORD God said, “See, the man has become like one of us, knowing good and evil; and now, he might reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life, and eat, and live forever.”

Genesis, along with the early chapters of Exodus, is undoubtedly the most popular book of the Hebrew Bible. It’s probably the only portion people manage to read, and for good reason. Compared to the history, genealogy, philosophy, laws, prophesy, and poetry of other books, the fables of Genesis carry charm and digestible wisdom. Here the rich heritage of the Mesopotamia and Egypt drip down into Hebrew folklore and our faith. Meant to be viewed as allegorical tales, imbued with ancient and time-typical morals, we read these stories not to learn about the universe, but ourselves.

“Hebrew” means wanderer. This is important, as the historical context of the biblical Semites helps explain some of the Bible’s obscurity. We must picture nomadic sheep-herders wandering across desert for suitable land to graze, where in their downtime they constructed, copied, and altered various middle-eastern and near-eastern mythologies. Thus the Garden of Eden is a typical paradise fable where knowledge, sex, and human agency spoil the bliss of primitive man. It reveals a growing self-awareness in humanity's early psyche. The eating of the forbidden fruit entails guilt and suffering, but also adventure. The loss of innocence is required for maturity and memorable experience.

Cain and Able, as rivals symbolizing the conflict between pastoral and agricultural communities, also initiate the Bible’s tone. No matter what pearls of truth and beauty are thrown before us these are still bronze-age uneducated tribesmen, and will act accordingly. There’s is a harsh world ravished by war and capricious gods. The uneasy yet desperate faith people put into their divinities is a double edged sword; sometimes they will like your gifts, sometimes they will not. One of the many running themes pulsating through this text is the Hebrew’s fundamental doubt in Yahweh. The Bible is clearly an advocate of the god, but there are ample stories demonstrating why he’s untrustworthy. It is not until his personality is drastically altered and updated during the Babylonian exile does he gain popularity.

Noah is a plagiarized diluvial tale from Sumerian legend; we see its superior in Gilgamesh. But the Hebrews found it relevant for their God, who errs, regrets, is quick to destroy his mistakes, picks favorites, and creates deals. The recreation story is a tad anti-climactic, but with it comes some semblance of progress in God’s morals, and in an omnipotent being that is always welcome.

Abraham is the great looming father of all monotheistic people, but one can doubt whether his God was also Moses’ God. If we take his word for it, we can assume he adopted Yahweh as a family deity while in Canaan which his successors exported to Egypt during the famine. There Yahweh accumulated a cult following which Moses found and converted to. (His journey is plotted in Exodus.) With Abraham I imagine he told his children, lying through his teeth, that Yahweh would protect and support the family if they stayed faithful to him. This makes no claim to monotheism, or even henotheism, but simply that they hedge their bets. And while God spared Isaac at the last moment of Abraham’s test, we suspect this was a later revision to a more honest story about human sacrifice.

The covenant with Abraham’s descendants was later limited to the more hopeful kids: Isaac and Jacob respectively. But it’s this promise to the privileged few that lies at the center of the Hebrew Bible; around it everything revolves. No amount of moralizing or proselytizing can ever change this fact. Ultimately God offered a select group of desert Semites a deal. If they worshiped him and him alone, he would give them a small piece of land in the Eurasian near-east. In return for obeying his laws they’d breed like rabbits and rule the Promised Land in prosperity. Unfortunately for the Hebrews the gods of Egypt and Assyria, Babylon and Persia, Greece and Rome were far more powerful than a tribal war-god of the Levant. Jerusalem fell multiple times, eventually for good, and it wasn’t until the stubborn prophets killed Yahweh and recreated him in a more civilized image, embedded with their hopes, that he would become ‘God’ and rule most of the Earth. This phoenix was of course Jesus Christ, and we’ll explore him later.

The story of Joseph, the last protagonist of Genesis details the Hebrew’s entry into Egypt. Judging by how refined and charming this tale is we can see a clear improvement in God’s writing by this time. As we know Joseph, son of Jacob, is almost killed and abandoned by his brothers, who by a twist of fate later need his help. Jealousy, reversal of fortune, dream interpretation, tricks, forgiveness, and brotherly love make this the most well developed story of the text. We also have our first real example of God’s tender and subtle protection for those he loves.

Before we end this review it’s worth taking a good look at Yahweh. Because of the Bible’s composite nature this Hebrew god is a bit schizophrenic (the Exodus deity is much different than the one in Genesis, and so on) but we can see a few chief traits. It’s noteworthy that this is the first and perhaps only character portrayal of a single deity in world literature. We always see the gods quarreling with each other and mankind in other religions, but none are given the space to develop individually. The God of the Hebrew Bible is first and foremost alone. He creates the universe apparently out of boredom or loneliness, and takes joy in life and creation. He walks through the Garden of Eden in the cool of the day, and talks with both mankind and his heavenly court (see Job). And while he makes reference to a polytheistic pantheon there is always a sense of alienation. Yahweh seems to define himself in opposition to other divinities and mortals. He’s vain enough to bribe a small group of nomadic tribesmen to worship him, but seems more like a new parent learning the trade than an all-knowing, all-powerful being.

In his defense God never claims to be omniscient or omnipotent, or even ethical. Those claims are all postulated by his adherents. He makes mistakes, sometimes repents, and is taught compassion more from humans than the other way around. He certainly approves of murder, racism, theft, and rape (though only under the right conditions) and also awards the clever trickster over the honest, hardworking man; as seen in Able and Jacob over Cain and Esau. Looking at Genesis we must conclude that God is not role model to followed, but merely a complex and fascinating character. Just as the Hebrews grow from meaningless tribes to a powerful nation-state, so must we view Yahweh as a deity trying to make his way in a world of multiple and powerful gods. With the help of some of the most tenacious people in history--the Jews--Yahweh succeeds, and becomes the most powerful god the world has ever seen.

As a whole Genesis is a spectacular introduction to the Hebrew Bible. Ignoring the boring genealogies, we have a wonderful collection of near-eastern fables and raw tribal tales. It combines the brutish wisdom and tender hopes of a people who see in their history divine significance, and in their future eternal prestige. I can’t say I believe any of these stories, but to question their authenticity would miss the point. The Bible does what any good fiction does: imbues our life with meaning and purpose through engaging narrative. Indeed, it lives up to its reputation as being written by a god.

The Epic of Gilgamesh

…walk on the wall of Uruk, follow its course
around the city, inspect its mighty foundations,
examine its brickwork, how masterfully it is built,
observe the land it encloses: the palm trees, the gardens,
the orchards, the glorious palaces and temples, the shops
and marketplaces, the houses, the public squares.

 The Epic of Gilgamesh is mankind’s oldest written long narrative. This alone would make it precious, but we also have the fortune of it being a terrific story. Almost five thousand years ago a legendary King of Sumeria, King Gilgamesh, ruled the city of Uruk. He was part man and part God, a mighty warrior, and keeper of secret wisdom. He was also a lousy king. By constantly tormenting his people he drove them to beseech their gods for relief. And so the gods created a foil to Gilgamesh, a companion that would keep him in check. This companion was Enkidu, a wild man raised by animals on the Mesopotamian savannas. A temple prostitute is sent to seduce and civilize Enkidu, who through the act of sex gains “reason and understanding.” Enkidu then travels to Uruk and fights Gilgamesh. The brawl ends in a stalemate and they become best friends.

    Together the two go on adventures slaying monsters; first the ogre Humbaba guarding a cedar forest on nearby Mount Lebanon, then the “Bull of Heaven” sent by the gods to terrorize Uruk. As divine punishment for slaying these creatures, Enkidu is sentenced to death via illness. Gilgamesh is devastated, and after giving his friend a royal funeral he leaves Uruk to wander the wild. His goal is to find Uta-napishti—the man to whom the gods gave immortal life. Gilgamesh hopes to gain immortality himself and avoid Enkidu’s fate. However, after the long and perilous journey immortality is denied to him. Gilgamesh returns home, empty handed, where he finds solace in the beauty and achievements of Uruk.

    The epic has remarkable structure given its age. A young, brazen, but fundamentally good hero is in need of some guidance and self-control. He finds an equal with whom he can befriend and identify. The adventures they go on are fun to follow and embody a spirit of exploration and courage. The world is primordial and alien, making Uruk a haven to both our heroes and the reader.  Gilgamesh and Enkidu aren’t the sharpest tools in the shed, but we grow to enjoy their tender relationship. It’s their bond of brotherhood that centers the epic.

    It’s likewise Enkidu’s death that serves as the catalyst for Gilgamesh’s rite of passage into maturity. The journey to the Tavern at the End of the Earth, ostensibly in search of immortality, instead provides Gilgamesh with much needed wisdom. And it’s the journey home at the end, where he boasts of Uruk’s foundations and achievements to his boat man, that we see the story come full circle. Gilgamesh has indeed “seen the Deep.” And so have we.  

This modern impression of an ancient cylinder
seal shows a bearded hero, kneeling and
raising an outstretched lion above his head.

The epic is best seen as a coming of age story, not just for Gilgamesh, but for all mankind. His path from an arrogant, reckless youth to a proud and reflective maturity matches our own. The narrative also has impressive economy: the text only runs about 100 pages and yet manages to explore many different subjects, including humanity's break from nature, the question of good governance, the value of brotherhood and community, the power that women have in a society dominated by men, the arbitrary actions of cosmic forces, and most significantly, how humans should best deal with our mortality. Unfortunately the epic is not finished and pieces are still being discovered, but with some imagination you can easily fill in the gaps.

    My favorite line (which strangely doesn’t come from the standardized version of the story, but an earlier one) sums up the moral.

Gilgamesh, where are you roaming? You will never find the eternal life that you seek. When the gods created man kind, they also created death, and they held back eternal life for themselves alone. Humans are born, they live, then they die, this is the order that the gods have decreed. But until the end comes, enjoy your life, spend it in happiness, not despair. Savor your food, make each of your days a delight, bathe and anoint yourself, wear bright clothes that are sparkling clean, let music and dancing fill your house, love the child who holds you by the hand, and give your wife pleasure in your embrace. That is the best way for a man to live.

    Gilgamesh ultimately realizes that investing in society is the only real path to immortality. We’re not here for long, so enjoy life when you can and make sure to leave a lasting legacy for your children to inherit.

    What makes Gilgamesh so appealing is that, despite its incredible age, it has an astonishing immediacy to it. And that’s because the people of Uruk are civilized, so their problems are our problems. And refreshingly the story answers, in a simple and honest way, the questions it raises. A good king is good to his people. Celebrate life and revel in your community. Be proud of your nation and take care of it. The fact that the epic can resolve these profound issues—baked into an engaging adventure tale—makes it a story for the ages.

Ancient Egypt

Thutmose, Model Bust of Queen Nefertiti, c. 1340 BCE,
limestone and plaster, New Kingdom, 18th dynasty, Amarna Period
(Egyptian Museum and Papyrus Collection/Neues Museum, Berlin)

Works discussed:

• The Tale of Sinuhe
• Egyptian Love Poems
• Setne Khamwas and the Mummies
• Stela of Taimhotep
  

________________________

As for death, ‘Come’ is his name:

every one whom he summons, they come to him at once…

In several of these texts there is communication between the dead and the living. How exactly do these two realms interact? Do the living profit from being contacted by the dead? In what manner can the dead be assisted by the living?

The land of the living and the "land beyond" have an open relationship. They communicate and influence each other at will, and even though the latter is often more powerful and informed than the former, it's life that's coveted most. In fact it may be said that all of Ancient Egypt's society was geared towards making death more bearable--that is, more like life. So the answer is mostly  'no', the living rarely were better off when interacting with the dead, either because they meddled in affairs beyond their control, or because the dead wanted something from them.

What the dead wanted were the luxuries and simple pleasures that life affords: food, friendship, even a cool breeze on a warm day. The living aided the dead by providing them these comforts--or at least their symbols--in their tomb. Early on Egypt would include the real thing, often killing servants, pets, and even family members to be buried with the patriarch. But over time they saw the foolishness in this, so simulacra were substituted for living things. But the inert remained: valuables, art, and of course, words.

The stela of Taimhotep.

What, finally, is the governing tone of the "Stela of Taimhotep"? Is the speaker of the text despairing to death? Is there hope for those beyond the grave? Why does the speaker try to communicate with the living?

The Stela is bleak. I'm not sure if it's done as a genuine attempt to guilt people into providing the comforts I spoke of earlier--in this case water, wind, and incense--or as a warning to its readers to appreciate life. Overtly it achieves both, with Taimhotep urging her husband to "follow your heart", and despairing of the cruelty of death. She denies the standard consolation of religion, which says we will be reborn in light, but only stresses the darkness, hunger, and eternal isolation of the beyond.

I want to say Taimhotep longs for life--some of her language implies this--but there's more a bitterness about what dying entails. Death's inexorability, and the futility of the living to alleviate it, almost negates her pleas for relief. The most striking line is when she tells visitors to "be fearful for me", as if all death is a form of hell. Taken together with the imposing image of the stela itself, and we're left with a gnawing urgency that's hard to place.

There is an interesting interplay between the comic and tragic elements in Setne Khamwas and the Mummies. What sort of genre is this work? Why are there comic elements in a tale with such a serious undertone? How does the comic relate to the tragic?

The animated film director Don Bluth once observed (and often practiced) that as long as a story has a happy ending, it can go as dark or sad as needed in the middle and still leave a satisfying residue when finished. Setne Khamwas proves this to be false. In the first half, Naneferkaptah's theft of Thoth's magic book has disastrous consequences, leading to the deaths of his wife and son followed by his own suicide. After this heavy tale Setne barely registers a response and gingerly steals the book for his own gain. When he subsequently suffers an illusion to rape Tabubu and murder his family to do so, his boobery at being discovered naked by the Pharaoh (all of it resembling a bad dream) is so jarring that we're in fact left in a confused emotional state.

While ostensibly an example of a tragicomedy, it's hard for me to explain these conflicting tones. I wonder if the original frame of this story was a grave warning to would-be coffin-thieves (ubiquitous in ancient Egypt) that morphed into something comedic over time, as the reality of the powerlessness of the dead seeped into the popular consciousness. Hence we have a wacky adventure tale resting on an older layer of Egyptian religious injunctions.

If this is not so, I can only guess that the story sought to create a night/day juxtaposition, wherein the torture of death provides sharp relief against the fun of life, leading the reader to stick with one over the other. As with any tragicomedy, the comedic bits make the tragic bits more palatable.

In the Egyptian love poetry, the "Seventh Stanza" states, "If I see her, I'll become healthy" (16). How does this relate to the rest of the poem and other poems in this selection? What is the relationship between desire and satisfaction in these works, and does it seem hyperbolic? In what ways are the poems serious in their insistence of happiness in the beloved?

Though undermined somewhat by the knowledge that old male scribes likely wrote these (including the female pov ones) rather than young couples in love, I think the poems are standard courtship and pillow talk. Which is to say they are hyperbolic by definition, yet somehow never hyperbolic enough.

The quoted line epitomizes the rhetorical theme of these works: there is a lack in these people's lives, or more appropriately a hole, that love fills. One is sick until their love makes them healthy. One is a ring to be worn on a finger. One is a maid to dress their mistress. One has the body with which to fill and satiate the hungry partner. Even a quick glance when passing a doorway where the crush lives is enough to liven one's day. In short, these poems frame love as incomplete until consummated, not just in sex, but in recognition that lovers are two components which ache incessantly for each other. The creative imagery and symbolism used to communicate this is part of what makes these poems so enjoyable.

The Tale of Sinuhe in “hieratic” writing on papyrus.

In The Tale of Sinuhe, the narrator constantly years to return to his homeland. What is the conception of "place" that is enunciated here? Why is it important to die in one's homeland? Look up Sir Walter Scott's poem "Breathes There the Man" (from "The Lay of the Last Minstrel"). Does this correspond with The Tale of Sinuhe?

To Sinuhe 'home' is not merely a location, as if a geographic landmark that can be found on a map. It is nothing less than the epicenter for the entire universe: a Polaris to which all compass's point. It calls to him everlasting, heard less with his ear than his heart. The need to die in this land--at the very least be buried there--completes a person's narrative by having their soul return from whence it came (i.e., their life has come full-circle). Put another way, one's homeland is an integral part of their identity, without which they cannot be considered whole.

Sir Walter's Scott's poem is indeed fitting for Sinuhe, and may be taken as a fruitful interpretation of his feelings. If a difference may be found, it's the political element that scared Sinuhe into staying away from Egypt until invited to return. I cannot imagine Scott being intimidated in this way, as he explicitly renounces the merits of any life away from one's "native land."

Is the ancient Egyptian understanding of the state of the dead predicated upon a certain course of action in life? Does the afterlife of the Egyptians, as found in these texts, encourage virtuous action in life? Does it order humans toward a particular good or end?

I didn't see any evidence of this. Which is, in fact, standard for ancient religions: "sinning" was not an immoral act, but simply an act offending a deity. Worship and religion weren't about being good people, but in being rewarded or punished for placating or insulting cruel gods. Egyptian literature reflects this. There is ritual behavior, but none of it enunciates or even implies a moral code.

The only "end" Egyptian religion aims for is the proper burial of the dead so they may have a suitable afterlife. (Interestingly, early on in Egyptian history mummification was reserved only for the Pharaoh, then the priestly class and other important elites, to eventually anyone with the coin to buy it.) Some have joked that all of ancient Egyptian life was reduced to preparing for death, not via any kind of moral performance as in Christianity, but simply in digging one's grave.

Creation and the Cosmos

A detail from the Hellenistic altar of Pergamon,
ca. 164–156 B.C.E., that shows the giant
Alcyoneus being forcibly separated from the
earth goddess, Gaia, by Athena

WORKS DISCUSSED:

• Cannibal Spell for King Unis (2325 BCE)
• Enuma Elish (1500 BCE)
• The Great Hymn to Aten (1350 BCE)
• The Book of Genesis (1000—300 BCE)
• Hesiod (800 BCE) 
• Theogony
• Works and Days
• Early Greek Philosophers (700—500 BCE)
• Thales
• Heraclitus
• Empedocles
• Anaxagoras
• Lucretius (100—50 BCE)

• The Way Things Are

______________________________

Tell me, O Muses who dwell on Olympos,
and observe proper order for
each thing as it first came into being.

S

elected above are various cosmologies--origin stories about the cosmos--from five major cultures in the ancient Mediterranean and Near East: Egyptian, Mesopotamian, Hebrew, Greek, and Roman. It's fascinating to compare these stories, because for all their differences they include common themes that can't be chalked up to cross pollination. They appear to be ingrained in the human psyche from the earliest times, shared by everyone.

        To begin with, in each account humans believed that the universe operates by a discoverable set of laws, whether constructed by deities or scientific principles. And while it was recognized that life comes with an element of chaos, there's also an effort to explain (and therefore control) it. In other words, we believe that the universe is not merely arbitrary or random.

    Each also believed, to some degree, in the divine or supernatural. No perspective--not even the philosophers--dare deny the gods, and they probably would not understand our modern perception of a strictly material and natural universe. The conviction that the cosmos must have been made via intelligent design, with appealable omniscient interveners, is universal among humans. It in part stems from man's inability to understand certain patterns, which appear inexplicable and (ostensibly) defy explanation. Deities then become "gods of the gap."

    Lastly, there's the need, not just to understand the universe, but to spread that understanding to others, whether for power-purposes or simply to establish cultural solidarity. A person who holds the key to the origin of the cosmos would be seen as an authority figure within the community, just as the community needs a cohesive mythology to rally behind. Given that there were various competing cosmologies in the ancient world, many within a given culture in fact, imposing a single unifying theorem is imperative for those in charge.

Akhenaten and his family make an
offering to Aten, the sun god

T

his is especially apparent in the ancient writings of Egypt, Mesopotamia, and the Levant. Enuma  Elish, The Great Hymn to Aten, and The Book of Genesis are each ultimately about conferring power on God's chosen, whether from Marduk, Aten, or Yehweh. This doesn't diminish their artistic value, but it's something to keep mind. Enuma Elish is the most egregious here, with the upstart Marduk slicing through the existing Babylonian pantheon, and given credit for much of the universe's creation. His stark and aggressive rise mirrors that of his cult, who needed theological backing for their ascension to the top of such a powerful culture. It's literally a universe-rending "retcon", rewriting (mythological) history to such an extent it makes Orwell sound tame by comparison.

    The Hymn to Aten at least has an awe and reverence for our personal star that elevates the work to an endearing enunciation of how important the sun is to life on Earth. While demonized at the time, there is a compelling simplicity to this proto-monotheism. Why attend to the countless gods of the Egyptian pantheon when the one that matters is stamped right there in the sky? And of course the Hebrews took this logic to its furthest conclusion. For initially being an ex post facto justification for the House of David's control of Israel, The Book of Genesis is astonishing in its breadth and aspiration, especially if you agree that Yahweh won history's long theomachy. 

    But my favorite is The Cannibal Spell for King Unis. While it was written to accompany and empower the dead Pharaoh on his quest in the afterlife, really the text reveals the beauty with which the ancient Egyptians viewed the world. They looked at the most common routine in our solar system—the orbit of celestial objects—and saw a story: as stars and lesser gods litter the night sky, the Pharaoh is the blaze who wipes the horizon clean, devouring all in his wake. As night creeps back and the King weakens, he must be reborn the next morning. Or replaced? Regardless, it’s a spectacular process.

    The work quoted in the intro, from Hesiod, is a tad different. His Theogony has no political undertone and seems to revel in myth for its own sake. The bard is nostalgic for the gold and silver ages of his peoples' past, and is pessimistic about his contemporary world. He suggests that life is manipulated by cosmic forces, and man must endure, rather than forge, his future. This reflects the Greeks' rather complicated relationship with free will: they believed in an all-powerful fate that you could not evade, but could, oddly enough, defy. (It's like being chained to a carriage: you can wiggle in resistance all you want, but it's still taking you wherever it wants to go.) Opposed to this is the Prometheus myth, where technology, intellectual courage, and the will to survive is what progresses mankind. Thus civilization is juxtaposed with a more savage and barbaric past.

A modern impression made from an Akkadian seal from
ca. 2200 B.C.E. depicting the sun god riding a boat
with a dragon head—suggesting how the civilized god has
defeated and co-opted the forces of chaos (the dragon).

A

real shift from the above is found in the philosophers and proto-scientists of the Greeks and Romans. They constructed a natural universe governed by predictable mathematical and scientific laws, though they do not renounce the divine, and strive to incorporate theology into their theories. The biggest point of departure is in presentation. The early Greek philosophers approach something closer to our conception of scholarly work, focusing on clarity, objectivity, and specialized terms. That said, it's important to keep in mind that both "myth" and "science" strive to capture truth, and the former should not be considered fiction in the way we conceive it. The actual point of disagreement between these cosmologists is in the details of the universe they reveal, as well as the definite principles governing them. But both ask the same questions: What are the operative laws of the cosmos? Do gods exist? How involved are they? What about magic and science divorced from theology?

    This synthesis is best encapsulated in Lucretius, who argued for a natural and explainable cosmos that does not, and indeed cannot, include interference from deities. Under this paradigm the universe contains an infinite amount of infinitesimal atoms, which combine and swerve to explain all physical matter and motion. But ironically he ascribes to Venus many of the wonders that he also imputes to his atomic theory. On the surface this looks like a simple contradiction, but it makes sense if we view Venus not as a god or muse, but as a symbol.

    A symbol of what? What else but the passion to understand the universe itself. Lucretius' masterstroke is to attribute the prime motivator for his work to the same spirit that generates life, gives it meaning, and bonds all organisms together. An all-permeating force that predates mankind and will also outlast it. Thus we are not the center of the universe: its fitness doesn't depend on us. The cosmos is marvelous all on its own.