The thing that amazes me most when I read classics, especially the ancient ones, is that although in some ways they show a world totally foreign to me, after all they always talk about things that concern me as belonging to the human race. The Epic of Gilgamesh is no exception, in fact, in a very clear and effective way it reflects on the issues that accompanied every human thought for thousands of years, the concepts that have racked the brains of the early hominids as soon as they could have a little time to think about something that wasn't just sustenance and survival, that is usually the triptych life-love-death. The fear of the latter by Gilgamesh in particular hit me very much: Enkidu, the friend that I love, has turned to clay; and am I not like him? Will I not lie down and never to get up? (my translation from italian version) The pain of losing a loved one, and together the anxiety of knowing that sooner or later that would be our fate, too: I would say that these feelings haven't changed a bit, and also a hero as Gilgamesh, a demigod, suffers in the same way. The great charm of an old classic is further increased by the fact that being the oldest written story it probably comes from stories that were passed down since the dawn of civilization, even humanity, and in fact in some ways, especially with the character of Enkidu, they seem to remember a bit, to repeat, to fix the history of mankind.
A reading in itself maybe not engaging (especially with all those irritating repetitions and gaps) but definitely exciting and fascinating, and still beautiful since precious, genuine, immortal testimony.