This was Eden, once, in the eyes of the Unenlightened. It looked different, seen without the mediation of judgement, or discerning taste. Then, these weeds were made lush by pleasure in their variety, the vines made miracle by their novelty, their fruit. The trees were shade, the waters, refreshment, both small, but clean, unused: known directly, and without prejudice. What snake need tempt her but time? She was beautiful, and time was her enemy: it required only that one vine be greener, one spring more pure, and, in time, it would be chosen. It required only that one tree bear more sweetly, and, in time, its fruit would be preferred. This, she would say, is good. This is not good. No serpent is needed, and no particular fruit, to teach discrimination: only time, and a memory for sensation. Now, it is only weeds, shrivelled vines, scrawny trees which hardly bear: a haven for insects, and snakes. No angel need bar the way but choice: elsewhere are grapes, thick and tempting. No guardian, except the snake, flat-eyed and sated, for whom nothing is new.