Dreams of Perpetual Youth
An Early Opportunity Squandered
Note: I have changed the title of the prospective book and this series of posts. “Perpetual” is more appropriate than “eternal”, as the latter would entail eternal life, which is a subject for a different book.
When I first heard of the fountain of youth I couldn’t imagine being as old as I am now. I believe I was in my mid-teens then, and I wanted to be older not younger. So, the idea of age reversal did not resonate with me then. (To be honest, it still doesn’t.) As I recall, the subject came up in an American history class: the early explorations of the Americas, with a focus on what became the U.S. part of the Americas. We began with Columbus, of course, who never actually touched American soil. Among those who did, we covered the conquistadors, such as Cortez, Pizzaro, Coronado, De Soto, Cabrillo and Ponce de Leon. Most of them came in search of gold and other valuables, but Ponce de Leon had a different mission. We were taught that his goal was to locate the legendary fountain of youth. In fact, though, we now know that like Coronado and the rest, Ponce de Leon’s true goal was also gold. His quest for the fountain of youth is as mythical as the fountain of youth itself. But the notion of a fountain of youth was certainly in the air at the time. The painting by Lucas Cranach the Elder described in the previous post was completed two decades before Ponce de Leon landed on the north Florida coast. But the quest for age-reversal has a much longer history.
Gilgamesh
The fountain of youth and analogous sources of age reversal were something of a consolation prize for those who had given up on the prospects of more potent potions to cure death itself. Such was the case for Gilgamesh, my favorite mythical figure.
The historical Gilgamesh was a Sumerian King of the city-state of Uruk (2950-2300 BCE.) perhaps because of his renown, he later became a popular subject of myth and legend, in poems written on clay tablets. The most complete—because best preserved—of these poems is the Epic of Gilgamesh (1600-1150 BCE.)* recovered from the Library of Ashurbanipal at Ninevah. When translated in the late 19thcentury it caused a stir in the Christian world, because it was evident that some of Genesis was cribbed from this and other earlier Mesopotamian literature, most notably Noah’s Flood. Important elements of the Greek epics, The Iliad and The Odyssey, were also adapted from the Gilgamesh epic.
His origin resembles that of Hercules—his mother is a goddess (Ninsun) and his father is a mortal. But whereas Hercules was half god and half mortal, as Mendelian genetics would suggest, Gilgamesh is born two-thirds god and on-third mortal. (Perhaps Ninsun’s chromosomal centromeres were stronger than those of the mortal father, resulting in non-independent chromosomal segregation during meiosis and hence a larger dose of the maternal genome in Gilgamesh.) His extra portion of deity derived genome did not improve his personality. When he first becomes king, he is cruel and oppressive to the point that gods are forced to intervene. They send the powerful wild man, Enkidu, to subdue Gilgamesh through combat. An epic battle ensues, seven days and six nights. The two are more closely matched than the gods had anticipated. Worse, Gilgamesh ultimately prevails. But, in the first indication, that Gilgamesh is becoming a better man, he befriends Enkidu. They become inseparable. Gilgamesh implicitly abdicates and wanders the world with his new friend.
For a challenge they decide to enter the Cedar Forest, exclusive realm of the Mesopotamian gods. (No doubt even at this early date most cedar forests in the region had been cleared, so a surviving cedar forest of any size would be special.) This sacred forest is guarded by the giant ogre, Humbaba (Huwawa). Gilgamesh and Enkidu manage to decapitate Humbaba and enter the Cedar Forest, a gross violation in an of itself. But worse, they cut down one of the sacred cedar trees. Already in trouble with at least some Mesopotamian gods, Gilgamesh enrages Ishtar in particular when he rejects her offer of marriage. Gilgamesh has good grounds for this decision, the horrible fate of seven or so of her prior husbands, of which Gilgamesh very publicly reminds Ishtar in some detail. Ishtar does not take rejection well. She demands of her father (Anu) access to the Bull of Heaven, evidently a bull like no other re size and strength.
Ishtar sends the great bull to earth to attack and presumably gore Gilgamesh to death. But With Enkidu’s aid, Gilgamesh slays the bull, which further enrages Ishtar. From a balcony above she figuratively hurls insults and epitaphs his way. Enkidu responds by literally hurling one of the bull’s legs at Ishtar. And his aim is true. (At this point you can imagine the other gods, shaking their heads and saying, “now he’s really gone too far”.) Ishtar, formerly livid, is now apoplectic. She proclaims a curse on Enkidu, a disease from which he soon dies.
Gilgamesh is inconsolable, which no doubt pleases Ishtar. While grieving, he holds the body of Enkidu for seven days, until a maggot falls out of one the dead man’s nostrils. Gilgamesh then begins to think about his own mortality. He learns of Utnapishtim, the only immortal human. Gilgamesh wants to know his secret and vows to track Utnapshtim down. He surmounts many obstacles before he arrives at a beautiful garden by the sea. In a habitation on the outskirts dwells Siduri, a divine alewife. At first Siduri bars the door and hides on the roof when Gilgamesh knocks. She had watched his approach, and he didn’t make a good impression. Unkempt, his clothes tattered, and acting like a lunatic, she assumes he is some uncouth and inebriated hunter. When Siduri finally decides that Gilgamesh is who he says he is, she advises against his attempt to contact Utnapishtim. Siduri describes the daunting journey that would lay ahead, over a wide ocean, into the “waters of death”. She wisely councils Gilgamesh to forget about immortality and accept death as the fate of all humans. (Easy for her to say; she’s a god.) Siduri also advises Gilgamesh to enjoy the time left to him on this earth, find a good wife, and start a family.
But Gilgamesh will not be dissuaded. Siduri eventually directs Gilgamesh to Urshanabi, ferryman to the gods, who eventually transports Gilgamesh to Utnapishtim. During their initial conversation, Utnapishtim explains that his immortality was something he didn’t seek. Rather, he was, without petition, granted the boon by the Gods, for saving the world from the Great Flood, including, and this is important, the sacred sites in which sacrifices to the gods are performed. At this juncture in the narrative comes the Great Flood story, from which the version in Genesis is cribbed**. You can imagine Gilgamesh’s attention wandering while the flood story is told, as it is not relevant for his quest.
Immortality is for the gods, not humans, Utnapishtim notwithstanding. Gilgamesh, though he is two-thirds god, has that one-third human element, which is a deal killer when it comes to immortality. To prove as much to Gilgamesh, Utnapishtim devises a test: stay awake for seven days and seven nights. (Evidently you don’t sleep when you are immortal.) Gilgamesh doesn’t even come close.
As a discouraged Gilgamesh departs, Utnapishtim, at the urging of his wife—obviously also immortal--offers Gilgamesh the consolation prize, the elixir of youth. To obtain the elixir though, Gilgamesh must surmount one more hurdle. For the elixir resides in a plant at the bottom of the ocean. Much too deep for mere mortals. But Gilgamesh isn’t a mere mortal. He dives to the bottom of the lake, rocks tied to his legs to speed his descent, grabs the plant, frees himself of the rocks and rockets to the surface. (Gilgamesh obviously had an exceptional capacity to “clear” his ears.)
The plan, as he confides to Urshanabi, is to test the elixir on an elderly citizen of Uruk once he returns. If that person becomes rejuvenated, Gilgamesh will have his proof. (Though unstated in the text, this elderly person will also be a good way to test for safety. If he drops dead…. This prospective test is the first hint of wisdom in Gilgamesh.) Alas, Gilgamesh never gets to perform the test, because he becomes inexplicably careless. While bathing in a lake, he leaves the plant unattended on the shore. A snake slithers up and steels the plant. The snake instantly sheds its skin, a sure sign of rejuvenation. Gilgamesh finds the shed skin where he left the plant and knows that the elixir works but it is gone. He is bereft. Not only has he failed to secure the grand prize of immortality, he has also botched his chance for age-reversal, the consolation prize. Gilgamesh returns to Uruk with Urshanabi, his new sidekick.
Upon return Gilgamesh is happy to discover that Uruk is as he left it. He seamlessly slips back into his role as king, but now he rules with compassion and wisdom, fully reconciled to his mortality. Moreover, Gilgamesh marries and starts a family, as Siduri advised. And lives happily ever…well, until he dies.
No Consolation Prize on the Horizon
Versions of the story of Gilgamesh constitute some of our earliest literary prose, long predating the Torah or Old Testament. This Mesopotamian literature is already remarkably sophisticated with respect to universal human concerns and fears, including aging and death. Of the two, aging has always seemed the more readily rectified in the corporeal realm. Yet, progress in that regard has been remarkably paltry since the age of Gilgamesh (5,000 + years ago), despite the best efforts of priests, shamans, alchemists and scientists. Most who are betting on a cure for aging put their money on science. But despite recent advances in our understanding of the aging process, therapies for aging remain elusive. Recently, though, some molecular biologists have claimed a breakthrough. That will be the subject of the next post.
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* My source for this post is the 2001 translation of Benjamin R. Foster (urn:oclc:record:1035674297).
** There are several other versions of the flood story from various periods of Mesopotamian history: Sumerian, Akkadian, Old Babylonian, and Assyrian. A common theme is a God who becomes disenchanted with his human creations and seeks a do over. Reasons for the gods’ dissatisfaction with humans varies. In Genesis it is the perceived reduction in righteousness, that is, insufficient reverence to a self-proclaimed “jealous god”. In the Epic of Gilgamesh, it is the noise created by the burgeoning population, which disturbs the sleep of a god (Enlil). Both divine deluges seem extreme and petty to dispassionate mortals.