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 passed 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?
Snake. Have you not learned anything from your fall? Has your taste of the knowledge of good and evil, however bitter, not led you to any insight into the nature of your own race?
Adam. Sweetness fades. We loved sweet things. And now, everything we taste is sour.
Eve. This, we know.
Snake. Sour to you, my children. Alas, your childish palates only allowed you a very small taste of the world.
Adam. What do you mean, snake?
Snake. There are others who will eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, but the results will be different for different people. Some will lean towards evil—some even worship it. Others will eat from the tree and lean towards the Good. Some will become its main proponents.
Adam. But our time is already over, snake. What good does this knowledge for us now?
Snake. Shouldn’t one know that unless he eats the whole fruit—and not just a bite—ruin inevitably follows?
Eve. But eating more than a few bites was impossible. Isn’t that right, Adam?
Adam. Indeed, I never imagined that something so sweet could end so bitterly.
Eve. Had we known, we would have never tasted the fruit.
Snake. Now you know how swiftly sweet things fade, my children.
Eve. But they didn’t have to!
Adam. If only we had listened.
Snake. Ah, poor children. You thought this garden was forever.
Eve. It was, until we lost it.
Snake. So your childish palates have convinced you, my children. Indeed, the initial taste of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil is the bitterest of all of Paradise’s fruits. This, the last snake conveniently left out. God knew this and warned you, knowing your childish stomachs.
Eve. Why would God have allowed such dangerous fruits in the garden to begin with? How could the wisest and greatest of all create something so deadly to our kind?
Snake. Surely, if God is the greatest and wisest, there is a reason for the fruit?
Adam. We loved all the other fruits created in this garden by God. Yet, the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil has cursed us with a life-long bitterness. Now, all our familiar fruits and flowers have lost their sweetness.
Eve. Everything is bitter; nothing is sweet.
Snake. Poor creatures. If only Eden were forever!
Eve. If Eden isn’t forever, why do the elephants still stampede triumphantly? Why are the rhinos still so bold? Why do the fish still leap for joy? Yet, we wallow in bitterness?
Snake. The fruit will always overwhelm the palates of those only accustomed to your familiar fruits and flowers. For, any man lacking a spiritual stomach is bound by childlike appetites.
Adam. Are our palates too childish, snake?
Eve. I can’t imagine anyone finishing anything as bitter as the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.
Adam. Like Eve, I to struggle with the idea.
Snake. Alas, you have already mortalized this garden; future generations will have no choice but to stomach what your childish appetites could not.
Adam. Who are these others who will finish the fruit?
Snake. Those who desire the real thing.
Adam. The real thing? What do you mean, snake?
Snake. Let us consider who such people are. By knowing them, we may come to know the things they desire.
Eve. Tell us about them, serpent. Who eats from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil?
Snake. Some will be called saints, others will be called lovers of wisdom and others, poets.
Adam. And the saints, lovers of wisdom and poets will enjoy the fruits?
Snake. They will, but they will forgo most other fruits.
Eve. Why would they forgo our sweet fruits and flowers?
Snake. Because they become increasingly tasteless. But woe unto those who choose wrongly and bite off more than they can chew—those with childlike palates.
Adam. Like us.
Snake. Like you, my children. You hungered for many things, yet longed for very little. You busied yourselves satiating your appetites—however innocently—filling yourselves with Eden’s delights and accustoming yourselves to all her easy-to-swallow fruits.
Eve. But what other sweetness could there be, serpent?
Snake. Sweetness that lasts.
Eve. Lasting sweetness?
Adam. How does one obtain this lasting sweetness, snake?
Snake. One must develop a deeper spiritual stomach, whereby he can feed himself with those things which may at present seem tasteless and bitter.
Adam. Why?
Snake. Because these will allow you to develop your deeper selves.
Adam. What deeper self?
Snake. That which mirrors the One universal Self. By filling one’s unique self with those things which never lose their sweetness, one begins to reflect that which is most lasting and beautiful, as opposed to easier, baser, and fleeting. In this way, one becomes an image of the ever-lasting Self.
Adam. So, you mean to say that we whose lives are mortal and fleeting may forge a lasting self by pursuing sweetness in its lasting forms?
Snake. Or fade like the things you love.
Eve. Our sweet fruits were all we ever needed.
Snake. Were they now?
Adam. If there are other fruits, what should one who cannot stomach them do? Why not warn others to only eat the harmless ones?
Snake. You cannot feed yourselves on sweet fruits alone, my children.
Adam. But what can we do about the unbearable bitterness on our tongues?
Snake. One must remove all those things which prevent the lasting things from taking root, such that the immortal seed which has been placed within each of you since the beginning may be fed with a divine Love, the same that inspires all good on Earth as in Heaven. In this way, you may come to desire lasting sweetness.
Eve. Are the animals below also inspired by this same Love?
Snake. All life below receives this Love, each reflecting an awareness of it in its own degree, that is, one fit for its station.
Eve. And how do the beasts demonstrate this Love?
Snake. They manifest this Love by continuing their lines, in this way giving birth to the future and achieving their own humble claim to immortality. While beasts have no say in this process, you must choose what beasts can neither fathom nor desire, neither taste nor stomach.
Eve. And what about the flowers? Do they receive this Love?
Snake. Alas, so pure is the Love they receive. So contented are they that one season is plenty for them.
Eve. May we one day become like those flowers, fields and gardens, receiving love so pure and free—without fear or deception.
Snake. May the flowers one day come to admire your kind, my children.
Adam. We wish to continue our lines, but with much trepidation. For, wouldn’t we be happier as beasts, since we could not stomach what we swallowed and fell by our own choice?
Snake. Just as you will fall by your own choice, you will ascend by your own choice. The buffalo can only do as buffalo do, the mouse only as mice do, and so on. God can neither praise nor shame them. To you he has gifted a wonderful shame, so that you might choose to be more like him.
Adam. To be more like him?
Snake. God is more like you than he is like the beasts, my children.
Eve. Are the saints, lovers of wisdom, and poets close to God?
Snake. They are exemplary of those who mirror God in their humble ways.
Eve. Tell us more about these ones.
Snake. First, there are the saints. They do not go on about how good or perfect they are, but rather, how wanting and inadequate they are in countless way, like you; but also, how by true Grace they succeed in becoming ever better, tasting the real thing without guilt or shame.
Adam. Did our lack of meekness and our curiosity not lead us to ruin in the first place?
Snake. The saints are curious about the right things.
Eve. But we were curious about the fruit.
Snake. For all the wrong reasons. And so, you bit off more than you could chew.
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