Nate Kinast

Recursive throughout literature is the portrayal and investigation of the dichotomy that exists between nature and civilization.  This division manifests itself in countless forms, but underlying every aspect of the discussion is a certain intuitive idea we have of the division between the civilized and the uncivilized, the base and the sophisticated, the feral and the tame. Why does such an innate concept warrant such literary and critical investigation?  For it is apparent that this has been a persistent theme throughout literature from its beginnings.  We discover this idea in the most prominent early Babylonian literature, The Gilgamesh Epic, as well as in sacred texts from early Hebrew culture, most notably the book of Genesis from the Old Testament.  Both of these works focus a great deal on the struggle between nature and civilization.  In contrasting them, we discover that this division between nature and civilization is not as clear-cut as it may seem.  We must therefore examine the concepts of the “natural state” and of civilization independently for each text in an attempt to determine how a synthesis between the two is reached, if indeed it is.  We will find that each text arguably makes a case for the superiority to civilization of the natural state it presents.  The convergence of these two culturally foundational texts on this theme of nature and civilization, when their differences are also taken into account, serves to provide us with a more complete view of this multifaceted literary division placed on the human condition.

            Just as the literary treatment of the nature and civilization dichotomy has been historically widespread, there is no shortage of critical discussion on the subject for either text, though the more popular discussion examines nature independently.  However, the conjunctive handling of these two texts in light of this theme is considerably less frequent.  Alexander Heidel is one of the few to do so, in his The Gilgamesh Epic and Old Testament Parallels.  Although he does not deal with nature and civilization directly, he discusses the natural, prelapsarian state of affairs seen in Genesis at some length as a precursor to contrasting the views each work holds on death and the afterlife.  He notes that in the Garden of Eden we see that mankind’s natural state is “not one of absolute immortality, or of absolute freedom from death, in which sense God and the angels are immortal, but rather one of relative or conditional immortality,” observing that even in the utopian beginnings of Genesis, man was still tainted by the opportunity and eventual succumbing to sin, which we will examine in more depth shortly.  Heidel also contrasts the flood stories—looked at another way, the divine attempts to return the world to its natural state—of each work at some length and points out that in both stories mankind is at some level morally responsible for the sending of the flood.

            In the realm of text-specific criticism, we see that it is generally agreed, as Mordecai Roshwald points out it in his essay “God, Man, and Nature,”  that Genesis presents man to be “a dual being—a natural phenomenon and the controller and master of the universe.” (200)  Stevenson and Haberman echo this idea in Ten Theories of Human Nature, asserting that “although human beings are … seen as having a special role compared to the rest of creation, we are also seen as continuous with nature.” (55)  Patrick Barron discusses a different separation of the concept of nature as applies to Gilgamesh in his aptly titled “The Separation of Wild Animal Nature and Human Nature in Gilgamesh: Roots of a Contemporary Theme.”

It is with the ideas presented in Barron’s article that our discussion is best begun.  Since the view of nature as it is presented in Gilgamesh is arguably the more complicated of the two works, there are conflicting views that must be reconciled in order to constructively juxtapose nature and civilization in the epic.  To discuss the idea of nature in Gilgamesh is primarily to examine the story and characterization of Enkidu, who is “a match for the storm of [Gilgamesh’s] heart,” (5.97) and “the image of Gilgamesh / … born in the uplands, / the milk of the beasts is what he was suckled on.” (15.184-7) Enkidu is presented throughout the epic as a complement to Gilgamesh, but also as a foil.  Barron recognizes that

Enkidu and Gilgamesh are also clearly representative of two extremes: total wild animal nature-associated man, and total civilization and domestication-associated man.  Together they for an extremely volatile pair, roughly seen as split correlates of a greater social self.  But the mix is never whole.  Because of Enkidu’s traumatic severance from wild animal nature, the coupling is doomed to failure; its very basis is ruptured, shattered from within. (384)

It is Enkidu’s disconnection from this animalistic state that will shed the most light on the presentation of nature in Gilgamesh.

            The first thing to note about Enkidu’s creation into the natural world is the pleasure he finds in a world unpolluted by civilized man.  The description of Enkidu’s environment is extremely idyllic, if not utopian, and Enkidu is content in his feral ignorance.  Multiple times in the text we find an overt statement of Enkidu’s delight in nature: he “grazes on grasses, / joining the throng with the game at the water-hole, / his heart delighting with the beasts in the water.” (5.110-2) It is also important to realize that the state of nature in which Enkidu resides is never referred to as “savage” in the negative sense of the word—nature here is indeed wild, but is far from brutal.  Interestingly enough, the only violence mentioned in the portrayal of Enkidu’s existence in nature is that of the hunter, from whose traps and snares Enkidu protects the beasts with whom he shares his natural habitat.

            Herein lies the dilemma in definitively identifying the interpretation of nature within Gilgamesh: Enkidu is in many ways kindred to the beasts of the field, but he is indubitably presented as superior to the animals.  He is described as “like the god of the animals,” (5.109) and “their shepherd and their protector.” (4.89)  Thus we must represent the idea of nature in Gilgamesh in its two separate forms, which we will label animal nature and primal human nature.  This is not to be confused with Barron’s take on the division between animal and human nature; his definition of “human nature” is more applicable to the discussion of civilization in Gilgamesh.  “Animal nature” is exemplified in the epic by the world into which Enkidu is created, the natural life that immerses him.  On the other hand, Enkidu’s position in this natural state—a role somewhere among brother, protector, and intruder—can be seen as “primal” human nature in that Enkidu is representative of humanity in its purist, most original form.  Of these two variations on the theme of nature, it is the latter which we will want to further examine and contrast.

            Some aspects of this primal take on human nature observed in the story of Enkidu bear a striking resemblance to the manner in which nature is portrayed in Genesis, specifically in the first three chapters.  As in Gilgamesh, the biblical concept of nature is not immediately obvious.  Roshwald observes:

It presents a perception of man as a complex being: on the one hand, he remains a creation of God, a part of the universe swarming with other beings created by God; on the other hand, man is different from the rest in that he is endowed with a divine image, the image of the creator of the world. (200)

Just as with Gilgamesh, we see that nature is a likewise two-faced creature in the creation story of Genesis.  However, here mankind can be seen to be part of the realm of animal nature only in that they exist as part of the same creation, brought about by the same Creator.

            In reality, it is much easier to see man as set apart from the rest of creation in the Genesis story.  The biblical natural state is one which is filled with the creation of God, which can also be called nature, but which is ruled by man, subject only to God.  This is established early on in the story: “…God blessed them [man], and God said unto them, Be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.” (1:28)  Later on, Adam is also assigned by God the task of naming the animals (2:19), another assertion of man’s authority and dominion over the animal nature.  Much in the same way Enkidu lives among the animals in his natural state and yet holds power over them as their protector, man is entrusted with the care of the creation while still a created being himself.

            Having established that the natural human state in Genesis consists of this divinely granted authority of man over the rest of nature, we should briefly examine the general appearance of this existence before the fall, as we have with Gilgamesh.  Certainly, Adam and Eve were living in a condition of naïveté: they were naked yet unashamed (2:25), and were not distinctly aware of good and evil. (3:5) However, their condition was not one of complete ignorance: the quasi-utopian world of Eden in, despite its purity, had a divinely imposed proscription on fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.  The prelapsarian natural state of Genesis still contained the possibility of sin, and thus the possibility of separation from true nature.

            Returning to Gilgamesh, we see that this true nature finds its polar opposite in the character of Gilgamesh himself.  The concept of civilization in the epic is much more straightforward than that of nature, if only for the reason that we can essentially take Gilgamesh as the epitome of all things civilized.  Every aspect of his character is laced with the customs and trappings of civilization.  First and foremost, we recognize that he is at the forefront of the most civilized institution there is—government.  As the king of Uruk, Gilgamesh is arguably even a civilizer.  From another standpoint, we could view civilization as a mass attempt at preservation—whether of lives or of cultures.  This outlook lends itself handily to Gilgamesh as a representation of civilization: he is obsessed with achieving immortality.  This is seen in most of Gilgamesh’s actions throughout the epic, but especially in his quest to find and discover the secret of immortality from Utnapishtim (Tablets IX-XI) which is appropriately sparked by the death of Enkidu, the representation of nature.  Above all, Gilgamesh desires immortality, honor, and glory—all of which are very noble yet irrefragably unnatural aspirations.

            Civilization as is presented in Genesis is somewhat more subtle.  To best determine the biblical reversion of the natural state, we should begin the most important element of this examination, which is to determine for each text the consequences and other effects of the collision of nature and civilization.  In Genesis, the departure from nature and consequent transition to civilization occurs at the Fall when Adam and Eve eat the forbidden fruit, an act with lasting consequences.  For woman, this punishment entailed pain and sorrow in childbirth, as well as an hierarchal adjustment which would place woman under the authority or “rule” of her husband. (3:16)  This establishment can be seen as perhaps the first human institution we would associate with civilization.  Also of critical importance is the judgment of man:

And unto Adam he said, Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree…cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground (3:17-19)

The biblical consequence for the fall from nature for man was, in essence, the establishment of agriculture.  This may not seem an earth-shattering revelation, but for God to require man to be a  “tiller of the ground” (4:2) is a major sign of the entrance of civilization.

            It is also important to note that in the later events of the text, civilization and nature continue to exist at odds.  A cycle begins of man’s continuing development of civilization and God’s subsequent intervention to revert to the natural state.  The two most prominent examples are, of course, the flood (6-9) and the Tower of Babel (11:1-9).  In the former story, mankind in its civilized state has forgotten their Creator and turned to sin; God therefore wipes the slate clean and destroys every trace of civilization.  Leaving only the natural and the faithful, he saves the righteous man Noah to repopulate the earth.  In the latter case, mankind has reached a pinnacle of civilization symbolized by the construction of a great tower, so much so that God observes that “nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.” (11:6)  For this reason, He once again intervenes and “confounds” their languages, bringing mankind that much closer to the natural state, where language is relatively unnecessary.  So, in the case of Genesis, it appears that sin against the divinely created natural state necessarily induces the establishment of civilization, but that civilization inevitably runs against the grain of nature.

            The Gilgamesh epic, conversely, does not address any causation between the natural and civilized worlds as does Genesis.  However, nature and civilization collide in two major ways in the epic.  Initially, we see this collision in the story of Enkidu, when “through an encounter with a sacred prostitute, the wild man Enkidu loses his intimate contact with wild animals forever, is “humanized,” and finally “civilized.” (Barron 381)  When one of civilization’s greatest perversions of a natural phenomenon—that is, the harlot—comes into contact with Enkidu, he immediately loses the purity that makes him suited to the natural habitat.   In this way we once again see how civilization tames—or tarnishes—the natural state.  The great contrast of nature and civilization in Gilgamesh, however, is in the very relationship between Enkidu and Gilgamesh.  When Gilgamesh proposes the journey to combat Humbaba, Enkidu wisely and fittingly counsels him against it. (19.218-29) But, the numbing effect of civilization upon nature is exemplified when Gilgamesh is in the position to kill Humbaba and Enkidu urges him to do so, using the exact words Gilgamesh with which Gilgamesh had goaded Enkidu prior to the journey.  Ultimately, nature finally runs its course, Enkidu dies of sickness and Gilgamesh never attains the immortality he seeks.  We cannot help but wonder, as the epic closes, if all of humanity would not have been better off left in the primal natural state out of which Enkidu was forced.  One reading would suggest that the nature seen in Enkidu does indeed appear to be the superior condition to the civilization seen in Gilgamesh.

            Thus we observe a definite superiority given to the side of nature in this great literary dichotomy.  Having examined closely the different renderings of nature and civilization in Genesis and Gilgamesh, we conclude that to some extent, nature is often bested by civilization throughout these historically foundational texts, but that this dominance is generally portrayed in a negative light.  The conventions with which this theme is treated helps us better grasp this universal division and, by extension, apply it to other works whose themes have been influenced by the ideas presented in these two texts.

 

 

 

WORKS CITED

________

 

Barron, Patrick. “The Separation of Wild Animal Nature and Human Nature in Gilgamesh: Roots of a Contemporary Theme.” Papers on Language & Literature 38.4 (2002): 377-94.

 

The Epic of Gilgamesh. Trans. Andrew George. London: Penguin Press, 1999.

Heidel, Alexander.  The Gilgamesh Epic and Old Testament Parallels. 2d ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970. 137-223.

The Holy Bible: Containing the Old and New Testaments in the Authorized (King James) Version, Westminster Study Edition. Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1989.

Roshwald, Mordecai. “God, Man, and Nature.” Modern Age 37.3 (1995): 200-205.

Stevenson, Leslie and David L. Haberman. Ten Theories of Human Nature. 4th ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. 47-68.

Most positions taken on the subject of human freedom will primarily hinge upon two critical points.  The most important is, of course, our definition and acceptance of the idea of “free will.”  But to fully realize our conception of freedom of the will, we must also consider a second point: how time, events, and decisions function in the universe as a whole.  To do so, we may either label the universe “deterministic” or “indeterministic.”  In the determinist’s world, every choice and occurrence has already been decided, albeit a causal determinism or not.  Alternatively, the indeterminist will say that while some things are deterministically ordained, some events are likewise not determined.  At this point, the defining factor of an argument for human freedom rests on how one defines free will, which we will examine shortly.

Compatibilism is the position that freedom of the will and determinism are not mutually exclusive.  The compatibilist will make the claim that the universe is deterministic, but that we also possess free will.  For this arrangement to make logical sense, we must clarify what is meant by “free will.”  Free will from the compatibilist perspective looks at a decision with choices A and B and asserts that even if it has long since been determined that choice A will be selected, as long as it seems to the decision maker that he could have realistically chosen B, he is exercising free will because his choice was not forced upon him.  John Fischer defines the compatibilist perception of free will as “the sense that I have more than one option that is genuinely open to me.”  In this way, the compatibilist can make the claim for a deterministic universe while still accepting the generally-acknowledged principals of free will and moral responsibility.

This synthesis of seemingly conflicting ideas is one factor that makes compatibilism notably attractive as a position to take on human freedom.  For it seems very plausible that the events of the universe are in some way determined, whether causally, divinely, or otherwise.  However, it is more difficult for us to accept some of the deeper implications of a hard deterministic stance; we feel that we have the free will to choose however we want, and likewise we feel guilt, shame, and pride based on those decisions.  And, as a whole, our society itself acts out the role of compatibilism: we live our lives in search of deterministic principals while simultaneously living as if we had free will.  Science continues to find ways to predict and induce events in the universe, yet whether by gavel-resounding judgment or whispered criticism, we constantly appraise people based upon their choices and resulting actions.  This even further affirms the intuitive feeling that compatibilism rings true within us.

What some may not at first intuit, however, is the version of free will for which compatibilism allows.  This is to some extent due to the fact that the compatibilist adaptation of free will can be crudely summarized as “I have free will because I think I do,” or “it feels as if I have free will, therefore I must.”  We must therefore look more closely at the idea of “the possibility of having done otherwise” and how it relates to compatibilism.  The libertarian will say that in a deterministic world, for a decision for which it was determined choice A would be selected there would be no possibility of having chosen otherwise, i.e. when the “decision” was being made, choice B had a 0% chance of occurring.  One of the problems with this outlook is that it is entirely based on hindsight.  In other words, in the libertarian sense the distinction between free will and the lack thereof seems to depend completely upon our judgment of a past occurrence. 

Take, for example, a man who is walking, reaches a fork in the road and is thus presented with a choice to take Road 1 or Road 2, while not consciously predisposed to select one or the other.  In Case 1 the universe operates according to deterministic principles.  The man takes in the decision, perhaps weighs the options in his mind, and selects Road 2.  Now this could not have happened any other way; we can prove that due to the incontrovertible natural laws at work in the man’s environment and physiology, he had no possibility of taking Road 1.  But now let us assume that in Case 2 the universe functions according to the libertarian’s indeterminism.  The man still takes in the decision, weigh the options, and selects Road 2.  In contrast, though here it is possible that under the same set of circumstances he very well may have chosen Road 1.  The libertarian would claim that in Case 1, the man did not freely choose, and in Case 2 he did exercise free will, yet the only thing that has changed is the after-the-fact knowledge of an external observer.  The experience of the man himself (his internal decision-making process and subsequent taking of Road 2) has not been altered in either scenario.  There is no reason, then, for us to define free will any differently than the experience of freely choosing, since there is no actual change in our perception of freedom as the choice occurs.  Free will is more an internal sense of capability than it is about an external state.

It could be suggested, though, that senses can be manipulated, that desires can be induced.  So suppose our hypothetical man had, before he came to the fork in the road, been hypnotized to desire to take Road 2.  He has still fulfilled the compatibilist requirements for a decision freely made, and yet he can surely not be said to be free in his choice.  The simple answer to this assertion is that under hypnosis he does not, in fact, align with the compatibilist view of free will.  He may feel the desire to make one choice over another, but that desire is not truly internal.  Secondly, we could trace the desire back to its source to that the compatibilist free will still holds in this case.  For if when hypnotized, the man had freely given his consent to the process, his decision would ultimately be due to an exercise of free will.  And if he was forced into hypnosis, the decision of which road to take would be entirely out of his control.

Lastly, compatibilism could be attacked on the grounds of moral responsibility by the indeterminist.  A hard determinism could simply plead innocent of any moral responsibility for decisions whatsoever, but compatibilism necessitates some discussion on the subject.  One could claim that because the compatibilist sees the universe as pre-determined, he must also forfeit moral responsibility regardless of the “sense of free will.”  However, it is this very sense of free will that forms the basis of moral responsibility.  One will necessarily feel guilt, pride, or shame only if he believes a different path was available to him.  Moral responsibility, like free will, can be seen as internal.

Even with several fair arguments against the various rebuttals of compatibilism presented here, compatibilism remains a two-edged sword.  As

noted earlier, compatibilism does indeed seem to be an attractive fusing of two seemingly opposed views of human freedom, but it likewise

seems to have intuitive problems, none of which can truly be answered with certainty.  Ultimately, compatibilism seems to be a decent theory of

the way free will could coexist with a deterministic world, but it is not a completely satisfying stance on human freedom

The classical conception of God holds that a supreme being must possess two central qualities: omnipotence and complete goodness. However, if one follows the latter trait to its logical end and concludes that a wholly good being would be completely free of evil and thus would not create evil or allow it to exist, then the generally acknowledged presence of evil in the world would seem to contradict the very existence of God. This is, concisely, the apparent logical fallacy styled “the problem of evil.”

One of the principal arguments against the problem of evil is the free-will defense. This argument states that evil in the world is necessary in order for humanity to truly have the gift of free will. The argument maintains that a truly, wholly good God would create humanity with the capacity for evil because to remove all the wrong choices in the world would be an even greater evil. A proponent of this view would assert that one of the greatest aspects of our humanity is having the potential to do evil and the resulting ability to choose to do good instead. And so, a good God would not take away all evil if it meant losing that beneficial aspect of humanity.

Indeed, the free-will defense is easily accessible to human thought and experience, because we are so accustomed to having choices and seeing those choices as a good thing. We can relate to the satisfaction of letting good triumph evil in our own decisions. A good choice made without the free will to choose otherwise loses its emotional impact and therefore its “goodness.” Consider two children engaged in a typically senseless argument with their parents nearby. One child is prepared to unleash a particularly scathing rejoinder capable of reducing the other to tears. At this point, there are three possible scenarios. In the first case, the child chooses to let his insult fly and do its damage; in the second, he holds his tongue and apologizes for his behavior; in the third, his mother intercedes and demands he make amends immediately, with which order he complies. In Case 1, the child has obviously made a wrong choice, which will certainly cause emotional pain to the other. In Case 2, he has just as clearly made a right choice, which will result in forgiveness, reconciliation and general “goodness.” But how does one label Case 3? Naturally, pain on either side has been avoided (assuming the child does not feel resentment toward his mother for her interference, since resentment would lead to pain as well). But by the same token, so has any sense of good been avoided. Neither of the children will experience the satisfaction that comes with reconciliation, because there was no alternative. No observers of the incident will be proud of the children’s resolution of the fight, because the choice to resolve was not theirs. In the same way, for any true good—and therefore any importance—to arise out of the decisions of humanity, there must be an alternative. Allowing wrong choices to result in pain, then, is completely within the scope of a wholly good God.

There are a number of responses to this argument which could call the free-will defense into question if they withstand scrutiny. The first approach in an attempt to dismantle the free-will defense would be, just as with any argument, to question its basic assumptions. There are two principal assumptions on which the free-will defense is based: 1) that human beings have free will to begin with, and 2) that having free will is a greater good than not having it.

The story of the two children and the initial argument for the free-will defense presented here does a fair job of defending the latter assumption. It would be much easier to attack the first assumption by making the claim that human beings do not in fact have free will at all. On the contrary, every choice and event is either externally controlled or preordained, so the concept of God bestowing upon humanity freedom of the will is not applicable, and the rest of the argument falls apart. However, this response seems to lose sight of the bigger picture. The free-will defense is exactly that—a defense, a counterargument to the problem of evil, which purports to refute the existence of God. But if we maintain the assumption that humans have no free will, we arrive at the logical conclusion that our actions are either controlled or preordained. Preordained by whom, then? If it is not a matter of control by a higher power but rather a matter of destiny, then the existence of God has no bearing on the presence of evil in the world or the lack thereof. If however, there is no free will because something or someone else controls our decisions, then we start to get a picture of a supreme being that looks uncannily like God.

But, one could argue, God in His omnipotence could have created mankind with freedom of the will and yet also with the inclination to choose good infallibly, in every situation. God easily might have created a world such that man possessed free will, yet freely chose good, thus ridding the world of evil. J.L. Mackie uses this argument to defend his position in his article “Evil and Omnipotence.” However, an initial reexamination of this response leads us to wonder if there is a logical fallacy in Mackie’s position. If man were to “always freely choose the good” as Mackie suggests, we assume he is selecting freely from good option (a) or evil option (b), for example, and will infallibly choose (a). But, even the presence of an option (b) implies that there is still evil in existence, because it could be chosen, even though it is not, and this leads us circularly back to the problem of evil. So, Mackie’s hypothetical world could not exist independently of the problem of evil.

But, assuming such a world could logically exist, a reductio would lead us to even further logical impossibilities. If we imagine a world very similar to this one, but with every person freely choosing the good, as Mackie suggests, we could have endless permutations of the following caricature: John wakes up every morning in time to get to work by 8:00 AM sharp. He is often tired or ill-motivated in the mornings, but not one day does he choose to oversleep or fake a sick day, because company policy stipulates he must arrive on time, and since John’s position is so crucial, failure to do so would result in a chaotic breakdown of the system and cause his coworkers immense grief (which, of course, they have never experienced.) One morning, however, on his way to give a particularly critical presentation at work, he sees a little girl, by no bad decision of her own, trip on a curb and hurt herself. He has two options: to look the other way and not help the girl, or to stop and help her, but be late to his presentation. Obviously, he is presented with a choice, either of which will result in one form of evil or another. We can imagine that many other situations like this would arise in such a world, because decisions are not always singular in their effects. This is another reason Mackie’s world would not work logically, and therefore why such an alternative does not actually justify or remedy the problem of evil.

One last objection that can be raised to the free-will defense is that it does not account for the presence of what Richard Swinburne refers to as “natural evil”—that is, the pain and suffering in the world that is clearly not a result of human decisions. There is no possible way to blame the suffering caused by natural disasters on someone making a wrong choice; nor can we reasonably say that the havoc wreaked so frequently by natural occurrences are a part of some “greater good” for humanity. Swinburne raises an interesting counterargument to this position: he suggests that natural evil exists “to make it possible for humans to have the kind of choice which the free-will defence [sic.] extols.” (R&R p. 95) In other words, when humans are presented with the option of doing evil, they are really being given the option to mimic the effects of natural evil; without natural evil, there would be no conception of or possibility for moral evil, and neither therefore for free will. Moral evil, then, may very well be simply a projection of natural evil upon human affairs. This view of the world shifts the perspective on natural evil greatly, and demonstrates that these natural evils may, in fact, be fundamental elements of human free will.

And so, upon an examination of the arguments and responses to the free-will defense, we conclude that it can certainly withstand substantial scrutiny, and therefore seems to be a valid argument against the problem of evil.