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And then she said, "There's more," and asked us to turn to Page 99 in the Penguin edition. Gilgamesh is continuing on his quest for eternal life. She began reading quietly.

When he had gone one league the darkness became thick around him. For there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him. After two leagues the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him. After three leagues the darkness was thick, and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him. After four leagues the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him.

She was in a cadence now, almost like a chant. My friend and student Red Dobbins, definitive barometer of inauthenticity, eyes wild like a stallion in heat whenever he gets a whiff of it, was gazing down at the floor.

At the end of five leagues the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him. At the end of six leagues the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him. When he had gone seven leagues the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him. When he had gone eight leagues Gilgamesh gave a great cry, for the darkness was thick and he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him.

The girl in the front row who had been using her chair for a chaise lounge straightened up slightly. I was nodding in time with the beat.

After nine leagues he felt the north wind on his face, but the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him. After ten leagues the end was near. After eleven leagues the dawn light appeared. At the end of twelve leagues the sun streamed out.

She stopped, eyes gleaming. "See," she said. "There's no way we can stop. We have to go on, no matter what. It doesn't matter how much darkness there is."

The room was silent. Forty students and I listened. I thought of my mom and dad, dead now for 16 years, divorces, lost loves, failures of all kinds, and I was overwhelmed by a deep sense of inadequacy and sadness. I wished I could have slunk down under the desk and found my way to a spot under the pines outside.

Rebeka continued, "So, this is an extremely hopeful story. Gilgamesh goes on, like we all do. Even if he fails. He does fail, in the end, but it doesn't really matter. We do all die. There is no everlasting life, but there's still hope."

If there had been a clock in the room I would have heard it ticking. I wanted to hand her everything I owned right then and just retire to the mountains and live like a hermit forever. Everyone in the class just sat in silence. Nobody was God.

Finally, I stepped back onto the stage. Somebody had to do it. I mumbled, "Thank you. That was great," and dismissed the class. Red Dobbins stopped by the desk to say something. I didn't hear it. Rebeka packed up her books and walked out.

I lingered in the room after everybody left, thinking about the miracle of this profession, the vast desert of my psyche and the light that sometimes shatters the gloom.
salon.com | Sept. 17, 1999

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