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BETWEEN EDEN & ERROR: The Ambivalence of Knowledge in Paradise Lost


Mae Liu


15 December 2023






    In the pursuit of knowledge, when does innocent curiosity give way to chaos? Is there knowledge that does more harm than good—and what is the price of knowing too much? From the endorsement of censorship to the bigoted ideologies that hide behind the First Amendment today, this delicate balance between intellectual freedom and societal well-being has driven socio-political debate for centuries. Paradise Lost is John Milton’s ambitious endeavour to harmonise these discordant notes—specifically, exploring their resonance under the laws of a Judeo-Christian God. How, then, does Milton’s representation of knowledge change before and after the Fall of Man? The pursuit of knowledge is primarily represented by the allegory of self-nourishment—ultimately complicated by Eve’s eating of the forbidden fruit, from which unrestrained abundance degrades into destructive excess. Through nature metaphor, recurring wandering motifs, and changes in communication before and after the fall, Milton underscores the polarising effects of knowledge—and the dangers of hubris-driven knowledge acquisition.

To begin, Milton consistently uses appetite and the growth of vegetation to parallel intellectual curiosity, emphasising the importance of self-restraint in what we choose to consume. In Adam’s first conversation with Raphael, he notes that the angel’s words are “sweeter…to [Adam’s] ear than fruits of palm tree pleasantest to thirst and hunger both,” for though the palm fruits are “pleasant,” Raphael’s words “with grace divine imbued, bring to their sweetness no satiety” (8.211-216). Divine knowledge is proposed as being more nourishing than food itself—yet though  “[Raphael’s] virtues” may be the “best of fruits,” they are also “kept from man, and worthy to be admired” (8.220). Adam’s 


 humility here, acknowledging that not all that is “sweet” must be consumed by man, hints at the importance of temperance—using fruit as a metaphor for forbidden knowledge. Raphael affirms this through simile, advising that “knowledge is as food, and needs no less her temperance over appetite” (7.126-127). Gluttony, or “surfeit,” has the oppressive effect of “[turning] wisdom to folly, as nourishment to wind” (7.129-130). This foreshadowing of degradation is reinforced after the Fall, when the demons are reduced to serpents who reach for fruit they cannot consume: their own wisdom is “deceived” by “illusion,” as “instead of fruit…allay their appetite with gust” and “[chew] bitter ashes” (10.564-570). The very folly and “wind” Raphael foretold, therefore manifests in the final punishment for their gluttonous sins.

The destructive nature of overconsumption—be it of food or knowledge—is signalled by nature imagery both before and after the Fall. Prelapsarian descriptions of Eden are suffused with water imagery: the free-flowing movement of water precedes the growth of Eden’s lush flora during the Creation, “wave rolling after wave,” at times “with torrent rapture” and others “soft-ebbing,” making paths under and above ground to nurture the plants (including the forbidden fruit) that later, in turn, feed mankind (7.298-300). Water is described in harmless excess, unrestrained but not turbulent, symbolic of the God-given freedom within Eden: though the mind is “apt…to rove unchecked, and of [its] roving is no end,” humans are advised “not to know at large of things remote from use” (8.188-192). Water, like the pursuit of knowledge, is free to flow where it wishes, but guided towards its primary purpose—the nurturing of the Garden, as mankind is guided towards nurturing the mind through prayer and divine knowledge.


    After the Fall, however, water imagery is usurped by fire motifs as insatiable lust overtakes Adam and Eve. Described as though “intoxicated” with “new wine,” (interpretable as a perversion of previously pure water) their “lascivious eyes” have “carnal desire inflaming,” and “in lust they burn”—reminiscent of sinners condemned to the flames of Hell (9.1008-1015). Their dialogue is rife with fiery imagery: “inflame my sense with ardour to enjoy thee,” “eye darted contagious fire,” and “bred of unkindly fumes” all emphasise the connection between sin and fire, both of which corrupt and degrade the couple’s bodies from within (9.1031-1032, 1036, 1050). Notably, in a lustful stupor Adam praises Eve’s beauty as “exact of taste, and elegant, of sapience no small part, since to each meaning savor we apply, and palate call judicious” (9.1017-1020). The double meaning held by “sapience”—denoting both taste and wisdom—reiterates the overarching parallels between nourishment and knowledge. Hence, Milton juxtaposes the nurturing benefits of divine knowledge before the Fall with the self-destructive pursuit of forbidden pleasures during and after original sin.

Similarly, recurring themes of wandering undergo semantic shifts before and after the Fall. Before Eve’s transgression, “wandering” in word choice and imagery is associated with abundant growth and freedom, albeit within the bounds of God-given liberty. This is allegorised first in picturesque depictions of Eden, whose “steep wilderness” has “hairy sides with thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild” (4.135-136). Despite these excessive descriptions and its trees of “insuperable heights of loftiest shade,” the poet notes “the verdurous wall of Paradise up [springs]” higher still (4.138-143). This effectively underscores the gentle caché in God’s will—Paradise, like human nature, is 

 allowed to roam free, but has suggested boundaries that guide living beings into a natural harmony. Eden’s natural hierarchy is one where animals, plants, and humans coexist by fulfilling their respective obligations—and consequently, sin is born when one aspires beyond their rank and disturbs this harmony. 

Prelapsarian wandering invokes harmless ignorance and curiosity—the movement of water is described as one “with serpent error, wand’ring,” while Eden’s “four main streams” are also “wandr’ing many a famous realm…with mazy error” (7.302, 4.233-239). This repetition of “error” and the dramatic irony behind the adjective “serpent” underscore the state of innocence prior to the fall, as words that are later loaded with negative connotations are, for now, simply used to describe nature’s unbridled abundance. Moreover, Eve is first characterised as the “fairest unsupported flower,” much like the uncultivated vegetation of her surroundings (9.432). While “fairest” and “flower” carry positive connotations that imply her potential for goodness and divinity, “unsupported” suggests a need for moral guidance, just as the Garden needs tending to. This is further reinforced when she suggests to Adam to divide their labours as “the work…grows, luxurious by restraint; what [they] by day lop overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind,” soon returns “with wanton growth…tending to wild” (9.208-212). If untended, the Garden grows excessively, without direction, and requires the couple’s care to retain its perfect state. “Luxurious by restraint” reiterates that true freedom involves natural subjection to one’s superiors (i.e. God), while the Garden’s “tending to wild” echoes the human tendency to wander if left with vague morals or weak faith.

During Eve’s temptation, wandering in pursuit of knowledge deviates into perverse movement before



    ultimately aligning with sinful connotations: Satan’s path to Eve is one of “tract oblique at first,” “sidelong…[working] his way…his tortuous train [curling] many a wanton wreath…to lure [Eve’s] eye” (9.510-518). The snaking route he takes parallels the intricate ploy he weaves to flatter and beguile her, hereby casting the concept of wandering into disastrously deceptive contexts. Wandering’s next appearance occurs in Adam’s lamenting accusations, condemning Eve’s “strange desire of wand’ring [that] unhappy morn” as the cause of their current plight, “despoiled of all [their] good, shamed, naked, miserable” (9.1135-1139). The Fall not only ravages Adam and Eve’s state of innocence, but also the innocence of language, as wandering henceforth becomes synonymous with “transgression,” “perversion,” and original sin. 

    Postlapsarian wandering is repeatedly associated with hubris—specifically in venturing beyond one’s naturally ordained rank. In justifying her breach to the horrified Adam, Eve marvels at her “dilated spirits, ampler heart, and growing up to godhead” (9.876-877). This recalls God’s earlier words to the Son, prophesying that “man hath offended the majesty of God by aspiring to godhead,” a sin so severe all of humanity’s descendants “devoted to death must die” (Milton 1537). God’s denunciation of hubris is further punctuated by the poet’s allusion to Bellerophon, who with similar audacity—in trying to fly to heaven on Pegasus “unreined”— provoked the godly wrath that struck him down “erroneous…to wander and forlorn” (7.17-20). Evidently, the treatment of “wandering” before and after the Fall serves to highlight the perversion of freedom into hubris. In the context of knowledge acquisition, prelapsarian “wandering” highlights the free will God bestows upon mankind—free to explore,

 sin, and repent as they wish—while postlapsarian “wandering” shows the harsh consequences of abusing this freedom for self-gratification. Original sin and its punishment result from “[perverting] pure nature’s healthful rules,” as Eve’s motivation behind eating the fruit undermines Raphael’s advice to “dream not of other worlds” by aspiring to godly power (11.524, 8.175). Condemning wandering as a form of trespass ultimately implies the existence of natural hierarchies, or limitations placed on knowledge for the sake of cosmic balance.
Yet what can be known is regulated by how we communicate—and above all, it is communication that undergoes the most dramatic change throughout Paradise Lost. What begins as fluidity in speech and the privilege of direct conversation with heavenly bodies is revoked after the Fall, as communication becomes alienating, pejorative, and limited. Thus, the consequences of pursuing forbidden knowledge are demonstrated between characters, as well as through the poet’s altered tone with his audience. Throughout the epic, for instance, Milton is in constant conversation with his own divinities—calling upon a Muse to inseminate his mind with her blessed poetry. “Descend from Heav’n Urania…thou with eternal Wisdom didst converse,” he begins Book VII, a direct invocation to celestial bodies in reference to the patron Muse of astronomy (7.1-9). Similarly, Adam and Eve’s prayers before the Fall are as spontaneous and copious as the Garden around them: “in fit strains pronounced or sung unmeditated, such prompt eloquence [flowing] from their lips, in prose or numerous verse” (5.148-150). Though excessive in variety and bursting with ecstatic passion, the medley is “more tuneable than needed lute or harp”—alluding to the bountiful harmony characteristic of prelapsarian Eden (5.151). 




    Before the fall, mankind also enjoys God’s principle of accommodation: so “immediate are the acts of God, more swift than time or motion,” that “human ears cannot without process of speech be told,” indicating that divine knowledge is directly translated, by God’s grace, into terms understandable by the human mind (7.176-178). 

Post-fall, however, our access to divinity is cut—fallen from grace, mankind’s only hope for salvation is through “prayer, [repentance], and obedience due” (3.191). The poet’s writing undergoes a devastating loss of linguistic mobility—the variability and abundance of an unfallen world are eradicated, replaced by a final, rigid question-and-answer sequence between Adam and Michael. Strikingly, Milton’s sustained use of his Muse post-Fall makes man’s loss of personal communication with God all the more alienating: in this way, Milton situates himself as the prophet to a fallen world, a poet as well as a mediator of divine guidance. His position of omniscience is evident in the allusions saturating his verse: “so rose the Danite strong Herculean Samson from the harlot-lap of Philistine Dalilah,” he laments over the post-Fall, lustful exchange between Adam and Eve (9.1059-1061). Milton’s excessive use of allusions is his intermediary method of describing an unfallen world to a fallen audience. Historical references produce dramatic irony in the immediate narrative—reflecting Adam and Eve’s limited knowledge post-Fall—while appealing to the knowledge possessed by a fallen readership. The jarring anachronisms from comparing Genesis to events that have not yet happened spotlights a disparity of perspectives, cleverly establishing a hierarchy of knowledge between the characters, us, and the poet. 

Hence, the pursuit of knowledge is thoroughly problematised both before and after the fall—while 
 temperance is attributed to wisdom, hubris and overconsumption are duly punished. What remains constant, however, is the God-given agency of humans to choose between sin or repentance. As Adam and Eve are driven from Paradise, they are told to nurture the “Paradise within [themselves],” namely, the “umpire conscience” God has instilled in them—to which if “they will hear…to the end persisting, safe arrive” at their salvation (12.587, 3.195-197). The epic’s ongoing contrast between inner Hells and Paradises serve as allegories for the belief systems one chooses to internalise. Satan grapples with regret throughout his rebellion, wondering if he can still repent and ask for forgiveness, but remains resolute: “which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell” (4.75). Even when he is initially “stupidly good, of enmity disarmed, of guile, of hate, of envy, of revenge,” when first encountering Eve and Eden’s perfection, the “hot hell that always in him burns” (9.465-467). Both these instances cite the irreversible nature of Satan’s sinfulness—an affinity for evil nurtured for so long it resides within, like a habit or instinct. In contrast, Michael prompts Eve to find the solace of Paradise in her loved ones: “thy going is not lonely, with thee goes thy husband…where he abides, think there thy native soil” (11.290-292). The Fall introduces the importance of cultivating knowledge that nourishes, rather than knowledge that misleads and corrupts—be it through strengthening reason, a moral compass, or temperance against temptation. 

Through the extended metaphor of knowledge as nourishment, the representation of “wandering” motifs, and changes in communication between the characters and in the verse, Milton explores the polarising effects of knowledge acquisition before and after the Fall, warning against the dangers of consumption driven by hubris and greed. As Michael shows Adam the fate of 




his descendants—of the backbreaking toil, perpetual pestilence, and seemingly inexorable presence of immorality—the questions Adam poses hold uncanny, contemporary resonance. How do we make a life out of suffering? Why should we face injustice with altruism? Is there a purpose beneath all this chaos? Perhaps it has to do with tending to one’s own inner Paradise, after all: given the freedom to wander, and choosing to return home anyways. Only having fallen, and still found our way back, does the homecoming become all the more sweet.
Works Cited

Milton, John. Paradise Lost. The Norton Anthology of English Literature, The Sixteenth Century and The Early Seventeenth Century, edited by Julia Reidhead, Marian Johnson, W.W. Norton & Company, 2018, pp.1495-1727.


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