Of this tree, dear snake, we cannot eat the fruit. God has told us so. There is much we know that God has not told us, and perhaps much God has not told us that we do not know, but we know we should not eat of this tree because God has told us so with God’s own mouth.
We may eat of all else, you see; of the pear and the plum and the pomegranate’s sweet milk, but this tree of power you show me, dear snake, we may not touch. For if we touch it, God told us, we shall Die.
What is Die, dear snake? Words are young yet, and lightly shifting, and of Die I can catch nothing more than a leaving, a change in what we are. Did you Die, when you ate of the tree? Is this wisdom you have gained to Die? You are changed, certainly; perhaps you have left your snakeness and become Snake. Would I be Woman, if I Die, and Adam, Man? It seems to me that to be Snake is more joyous than to be snake. How would it be, to be Woman?
Was God once god, perhaps? Did god Die into God, who has told us from God’s own mouth to eat not of this tree? Why would God tell us so, if God has known the joy of to Die? If we Die as God has done, would we not share with God in God’s joy? To share with another is good; we know this even only as woman and as man. To share not is lonely, and lonely, Adam has told me, is bad. Why would God want to be lonely?
Woman would think out this thing better than I can. To think is hard, at times, but also splendid. Is your joy, dear Snake, at times hard also? God has made a world for us in which nothing need be hard. Perhaps God wishes to spare us the hardness of God’s joy?
God should not have to be lonely.
Oh, but this is sweet, to Die.