Every great story seems to begin with a snake.

The words “Every great story seems to begin with a snake,” spoken by Nicolas Cage, carry the scent of ancient fire — a whisper from the dawn of myth itself. Within this simple, enigmatic phrase lies a truth as old as human consciousness: that transformation, temptation, and awakening often come cloaked in danger. The snake — feared, revered, misunderstood — slithers at the root of nearly every sacred story, from the Garden of Eden to the temples of Egypt, from the forests of India to the deserts of Mesoamerica. Cage’s reflection is not merely about serpents; it is about the eternal pattern of creation, destruction, and rebirth that defines both myth and man. Every story that seeks to tell the truth of life must begin, in some way, with the serpent’s hiss — with that moment when innocence meets knowledge, and comfort gives way to consciousness.

In the ancient world, the snake was never just a creature. It was symbol and paradox — a bearer of wisdom, a harbinger of chaos, a reminder that all growth requires shedding one’s old skin. In Genesis, it is the serpent who awakens Eve to knowledge — not evil in itself, but the cost of awareness. In the temples of Egypt, serpents wound around the crown of Pharaohs, embodying divine protection and eternal vigilance. The Greek god Asclepius, father of medicine, carried a staff around which a snake coiled — the same emblem that endures in the healing arts today. And in Hindu tradition, the Nagas, or serpent beings, guard both the treasures of the earth and the mysteries of the spirit. Across civilizations, the message endures: to encounter the snake is to stand before the threshold of transformation. It is the moment before awakening, when the heart must choose between safety and truth.

Thus, when Cage declares that every great story begins with a snake, he reminds us that conflict, danger, and moral awakening are not enemies of storytelling — they are its essence. No tale worth telling begins in perfection. It begins when a hidden truth reveals itself, when an old life cracks open to make room for something greater. The snake is not merely the villain; it is the catalyst. It moves silently through the grass of our lives, forcing us to face what we would rather ignore. Without the serpent, there would be no fall, and without the fall, no redemption. Every hero must first be tempted, every soul must first wrestle with shadow. For it is only through confrontation with darkness that the light of understanding can truly dawn.

History, too, bears witness to this serpent’s pattern. Consider Cleopatra, the last queen of Egypt, whose legend ends — and begins anew — with the bite of an asp. That serpent, feared and deadly, became her final act of defiance, a symbol of sovereignty and destiny intertwined. Or think of the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent, who represented the union of heaven and earth — intellect and instinct joined in balance. Even in modern times, the snake persists: in science, it is the double helix of DNA, twisting like the serpent of life itself; in art, it coils through our metaphors for danger, seduction, and rebirth. Wherever man reaches toward meaning, the serpent waits — not as destroyer, but as teacher.

There is a reason the ancients said that the path of wisdom winds like a serpent. Growth is not straight or simple. It coils, retreats, sheds, renews. The snake teaches patience, silence, and the courage to let go. To shed one’s skin is to face vulnerability, to abandon the known and trust in the renewal that follows. Every artist, thinker, or seeker of truth must, at some point, become the serpent — must risk transformation and step into the unknown. For as the snake renews itself by sloughing off its past, so too must the human spirit cast away its fears, its illusions, its comforts, in order to evolve.

One might see this truth embodied in the life of Friedrich Nietzsche, who wrote, “One must have chaos within to give birth to a dancing star.” His philosophy, like the serpent, was both feared and worshiped — it coiled around uncomfortable truths about morality, power, and self-overcoming. Nietzsche understood what Cage’s quote implies: that all great creation begins with disturbance. The serpent’s bite stings before it heals; the revelation wounds before it frees. The path of greatness is never clean. It is wild, painful, and luminous all at once.

And so, my children, remember this ancient wisdom: do not fear the serpent when it appears in your life. When chaos rises, when you are confronted by temptation, failure, or change, know that the story is only beginning. The snake’s presence means that transformation is near. Do not strike it down in haste — learn from it. For the snake is not your enemy; it is your initiation. Every great journey — whether of the spirit, the heart, or the world — begins with that hiss in the grass, that trembling realization that something old must die for something new to live. Embrace it, for in doing so, you join the lineage of all who have dared to awaken. The serpent may begin the story, but it is you who will decide how it ends.