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Paperback
First published November 11, 2014
The poetic splendor and sublimity of David Ferry's Gilgamesh is entirely of his own making, and his great poem is no more indebted to earlier versions of its story than is anything of Shakespeare's to North's Plutarch.And maybe that's the right spirit in which to approach this version. However, I found myself missing the grain of the original. For example, the resonant opening phrase of the epic in Andrew George's translation is He who saw the Deep. Ferry writes him who knew the most of all men know – which simply sounds awkward. Ferry also smoothes away many details from the opening tablet. Compare the flavor of the creation of Enkidu, first in Ferry's iambic pentameter:
Aruru listened and heard and then createdThe George translation has, to my ear, much more texture:
out of earth clay and divine spittle the double,
the stormy-hearted other, Enkidu,
the hairy-bodied man of the grasslands,
powerful as Ninurta the god of war,
the hair of his head like the grain fields of the goddess,
naked as Sumuqan the god of cattle.
The goddess Aruru, she washed her hands,I love that "offspring of silence" and "barley" rather than "grain fields." On the other hand, Ferry's version of Gilgamesh's retort to the goddess Ishtar (Tablet VI) is earthy and swift. When the voyeur goddess catches Gilgamesh emerging from his bath, she doesn't mince words.
took a pinch of clay, threw it down in the wild.
In the wild she created Enkidu, the hero,
offspring of silence, knit strong by Ninurta.
All his body is matted with hair,
he bears long tresses like those of a woman:
the hair of his head grows thickly as barley,
he knows not a people, nor even a country.
"Be my lover, be my husband," she spoke and said.But Gilgamesh – knowing the fates of her previous lovers including a shepherd bird, a lion, a wild horse and an unlucky goatherd – is having none of it:
"Give me the seed of your body, give me your semen."
I have nothing to give to her who lacks nothing at all.Snap!
You are the door through which the cold gets in.
You are the fire that goes out. You are the pitch
that sticks to the hands of the one who carries the bucket.
You are the house that falls down. You are the shoe
that pinches the foot of the wearer. The ill-made wall
that buckles when time has gone by. The leaky
waterskin soaking the waterskin carrier.