The Second Snake: A Dialogue Featuring Adam and Eve

By David Gosselin

Many years had passed since Adam and Eve took their first bite. The meandering streams of Eden now murmured beneath a greying sky. The vales were perfumed by the scent of peaches and lilacs past their prime. Among the lemon trees and blemished fruits, Adam and Eve sat watching the twilight stars.  

Suddenly, a snake came winding down a solitary oak. 

Eve. Away, serpent! 

Adam. Be gone!  

Snake. What’s wrong my children? 

Eve. We know your kind!  

Adam. Everything in this garden has lost its sweetness because of you. 

Snake. Because of me? Why would you say that, my children? 

Adam. The last creature to fool us was a snake just like you. 

Snake. Eden has many snakes, my children.  

Eve. My bones are dry and my once-supple skin sags. My lips, once red and inviting, are dry and lackluster. Trenches appear in my sunken eyes; wrinkles cover my bloodless cheeks. Worst of all, Adam no longer looks on my fondly, but only in shame—I a mirror of his and his of mine.  

Adam. Had we known, we would have never tasted the fruit. 

Snake. Had you known? Alas, to know is only half the battle, my children. 

Eve. Be gone, serpent! We’ve suffered enough. 

Snake. Woe unto those who rely solely on the past as their measure of all things. For, it would be a shame if you only listened to those who wished you harm, or strictly relied on the past to know the future. 

Adam. What could possibly be gained from listening to another snake? We’ve already lost everything because your kind. 

Snake. If the first snake already robbed you of everything you had, what could you possibly lose now? 

Eve. Here I can say nothing, Adam. The snake is not wrong. 

Snake. Pitiful things, that your world had to lose all of its sweetness! Let me assure you that unlike others, my tongue is not sweet like honey. 

Adam. What would you speak on then? 

Snake. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil. 

Eve. He speaks of that which turns all things sour. 

Adam. The self-same tree whose fruits we were fooled into tasting? 

Snake. Yes. 

Adam. And what would you have to say concerning the matter? 

Snake. Anything you’d like. 

Adam. We don’t wish to know anything further about the tree or its fruits. We wish to unknow. 

Snake. To forget—to unknow—is not possible, my children. Those who try are doomed. 

Eve. Has our kind no chance of regaining its innocence, snake?  

Adam. Can we not hope that men and women of the future won’t be as foolish as we were and share our bitter fate? 

Snake. Men and women will always be foolish, my children. But the wise ones will learn from their foolishness—theirs and that of others. A fool, on the other hand, is frightened by the light of his wisdom.  

Eve. Does this mean our race isn’t condemned to eat from the tree forever? 

Snake. You are far from the last to eat from the tree, my children.  

Adam. What do you mean, snake?