Anger and hate against one we love steels our hearts, but

Host: The evening fog rolled in off the river, swallowing the city’s edges until all that remained were faint lights and the low hum of water against the pier. The air was cold, metallic — the kind that makes breath visible, that turns words into ghosts. A single lamppost flickered above a weathered bench near the dock, its light trembling across the wet cobblestones.

Jack sat there, collar turned up, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. His eyes were fixed on the river, unseeing but sharp, the kind of stare that comes only from old wounds reopened. Jeeny approached quietly, her footsteps muffled by the fog, carrying the stillness of someone who had already said too much once before.

She stopped a few feet away, the mist curling around her coat, her voice soft but deliberate.

Jeeny: “Edgar Rice Burroughs once wrote, ‘Anger and hate against one we love steels our hearts, but contempt or pity leaves us silent and ashamed.’”

Jack: without turning “That’s because anger still believes there’s something left to save. Contempt knows it’s already gone.”

Jeeny: slowly sitting beside him “You sound like you’ve lived that difference.”

Jack: dry laugh “Haven’t you?”

Jeeny: “I’ve lived the silence. The kind that doesn’t come from peace, but from exhaustion.”

Host: The river lapped softly against the posts, a rhythm like breathing — steady, resigned. The fog thickened, swallowing the far bank whole. Jack flicked the ash from his cigarette, watching the spark die on wet stone.

Jack: “Funny thing about hate. It feels sharp, alive — almost righteous. It lets you pretend you still care, just in reverse.”

Jeeny: “Because hate is grief in armor.”

Jack: turning to her now, voice low “And contempt?”

Jeeny: “Contempt is the funeral. The moment you stop hoping they’ll change — or that you will.”

Host: The wind shifted, cold against their faces, carrying the faint smell of iron and smoke. Somewhere far off, a boat horn sounded, distant and mournful — a sound that always felt like memory calling from another shore.

Jack: “I used to think indifference was the cruelest thing a person could give you. But now I think it’s pity.”

Jeeny: “Because pity doesn’t heal — it humiliates.”

Jack: “Exactly. It strips you of dignity, even when it’s meant to be kind.”

Jeeny: quietly “It’s a kindness with no respect.”

Host: The lamplight above them flickered, throwing their shadows against the fog like fading sketches. Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he brought the cigarette to his lips again. Jeeny noticed, but said nothing. Some tremors weren’t meant to be steadied — they were meant to be seen.

Jack: “You ever love someone so much that when they finally stopped seeing you, you started hating them just to feel visible again?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But hate never brought them back. It just made me a stranger to myself.”

Jack: nodding slowly “That’s the steel Burroughs was talking about. Anger makes the heart hard enough to survive — but not soft enough to forgive.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t softness, Jack. It’s surrender. It’s putting down the weapon before it kills you.”

Jack: after a pause “And what if you’re still holding the memory?”

Jeeny: “Then the memory’s holding you.”

Host: The fog thickened further, curling around their words until everything beyond the bench disappeared. It was as if the world had shrunk to just the two of them, suspended in the gray between past and peace.

Jack: “When I was younger, I thought contempt was power — that walking away without anger meant I’d won. But really, it just meant I’d stopped feeling.”

Jeeny: “That’s not power. That’s mourning.”

Jack: “Mourning without the right to grieve.”

Jeeny: softly “Because you can’t eulogize what’s still breathing somewhere in your heart.”

Host: A long silence fell. The river moved with the sound of something ancient — patience, maybe. Jeeny leaned forward, clasping her hands, her voice quiet but steady.

Jeeny: “You know, Burroughs wrote about heroes and beasts — but this quote, it’s not about heroism. It’s about the wild in us that refuses to die quietly. Anger is our last defense against heartbreak. It says, I still care enough to burn.”

Jack: “And when the fire goes out?”

Jeeny: “Then you’re left with the ashes of contempt — and the shame of realizing you stopped fighting too soon.”

Host: The rain began again, soft at first, then steadier. Jack let it fall on his face without flinching. The cigarette hissed and died between his fingers. He didn’t move to relight it.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I’d rather someone scream at me than look at me with pity. At least anger means there’s still something human between us.”

Jeeny: “Because anger still imagines a bridge. Pity builds a wall.”

Jack: “And silence?”

Jeeny: “Silence is the graveyard between them.”

Host: The lamplight flickered again, brighter for a heartbeat, then dimming — as if the night itself had exhaled. Jeeny stood, the fog parting slightly around her.

Jeeny: “You can’t carry both love and hate forever, Jack. One will devour the other.”

Jack: looking up at her, weary but honest “And if I don’t know which one’s left?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to forgive not them — but yourself.”

Host: The wind quieted, leaving only the soft patter of rain on the river’s surface. Jeeny reached out, brushed the wetness from his sleeve, and then turned toward the path leading away from the water.

Jack stayed behind for a moment, watching her shape fade into the mist. The rain blurred everything — the lamplight, the river, even his reflection. But somehow, the world felt gentler for it.

And as he finally rose to follow, Burroughs’ words lingered in the fog like a benediction —
not about war or love or pride,
but about the terrible beauty of being human:

That anger can make us strong,
but only forgiveness can make us whole;
that hate is proof we still feel,
but pity is the quiet admission that we’ve forgotten how.

And somewhere in between —
in the trembling space between rage and regret —
lies the hardest kind of peace:
the one we make with ourselves.