Base souls have no faith in great individuals.

Host: The streetlights were still burning, though the night had nearly bled into dawn. A soft rain had just fallen, leaving the cobblestones slick and shimmering, as if the earth itself had wept and now smiled again.

A small, forgotten alley café — its sign flickering in tired amber — stood open for the few souls who refused to sleep when the world told them to. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, steam, and reflection.

Jack sat at the corner table, his coat damp, his hair still dripping faintly from the mist. Across from him, Jeeny warmed her hands over a cup of coffee, her eyes catching the faint light, like two lamps burning quietly in a storm.

Neither spoke for a while. The world had grown still — and stillness, in such hours, often summoned the deeper truths.

Jeeny: “Rousseau once said, ‘Base souls have no faith in great individuals.’”

Jack: “Hmm. He had too much faith in people to begin with.”

Jeeny: “You disagree?”

Jack: “I think he underestimated how much mediocrity hates brilliance.”

Host: The rain outside began again, a fine, steady curtain that blurred the windows. Their reflections merged faintly in the glass — a dialogue of light and doubt.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what he meant. The small soul can’t recognize greatness — not because it doesn’t see it, but because it feels exposed beside it. It’s envy disguised as reason.”

Jack: “Or self-defense. People don’t like being reminded of what they’ll never be. They call it arrogance, pretension, narcissism — anything to bring the extraordinary back down to their level.”

Jeeny: “Is that cynicism or honesty?”

Jack: “Both. You think the masses adored Socrates? They poisoned him. They worshiped Christ and crucified him. Greatness has always been a crime to the ordinary.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without the ordinary, who would remember the great? Every genius needs an audience — even if it’s hostile.”

Host: Jack smirked, a faint, sharp curve of irony. The smoke from his cigarette coiled in the air between them — a fragile bridge made of gray and breath.

Jack: “So what are you saying? That the mediocre give meaning to the magnificent?”

Jeeny: “In a way, yes. The contrast proves the point. Greatness shines brighter against indifference. A diamond is invisible in light, but stunning in darkness.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But it doesn’t save the diamond from being thrown away.”

Host: Jeeny laughed softly, but her eyes were fierce.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve been thrown before.”

Jack: “Maybe I have. Or maybe I’ve just watched enough great people fall to stop pretending it’s noble.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? The fall doesn’t erase the greatness — it proves it. The crowd only tears down what threatens their illusion of equality.”

Jack: “Equality is a beautiful lie. The world loves the idea that everyone’s special. But the truth is, most people are frightened of those who actually are.”

Host: His voice had grown darker now — not bitter, but honest, like the edge of a knife that had stopped pretending to be anything else.

Jeeny: “You think all admiration is false, then?”

Jack: “No. But it’s conditional. People love greatness until it demands something of them — until it forces them to change, to rise, to face their own smallness.”

Jeeny: “And yet… without faith in greatness, civilization collapses. Every movement, every renaissance, every act of courage began with someone believing in someone else.”

Jack: “You’re right — but belief always comes late. After the miracle, not before it. After the sacrifice. After the blood. Only when the great are gone does the world start to love them.”

Host: The rain beat harder against the window now, its rhythm almost human — impatient, pleading, eternal.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the tragedy of greatness — not being unloved, but being loved too late.”

Jack: “And yet, the great still chase it. They burn themselves for the light they’ll never stand beneath.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s what separates them from the base. The great don’t wait for applause. They move, even when no one understands.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the air — a soft defiance against the world’s dull roar. Jack leaned back, his gray eyes flickering with thought, like the last ember of a dying fire that still refused to go out.

Jack: “You make it sound like a duty — to be misunderstood.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every great individual is, by definition, alone. Faith in them requires courage — and courage is rare.”

Jack: “You’re describing saints.”

Jeeny: “No. Just humans who dare to live by a higher truth.”

Host: The candle between them flickered, its flame bending in the draft. Outside, the city stirred faintly — a car passing, a voice calling, the first hints of morning seeping through the rain.

Jack: “So what happens to the rest of us — the ones too afraid to be great?”

Jeeny: “Then at least don’t destroy those who are. That’s all Rousseau was asking — for the base soul to resist its instinct to hate what it cannot be.”

Jack: “But envy is easier than admiration. It costs nothing.”

Jeeny: “And faith costs everything. Which is why it’s holy.”

Host: The light outside had changed — faint streaks of silver now pierced the clouds, touching the puddles on the street, turning them into scattered fragments of sky.

Jack watched the reflection, a small, reluctant smile ghosting his lips.

Jack: “You ever think maybe Rousseau was pleading with himself when he said that? That maybe even great men doubt their own greatness sometimes?”

Jeeny: “Of course they do. That’s why they need faith too — not in others, but in the fire inside them. Because when the world mocks it, someone has to keep it alive.”

Host: The rain finally ceased, and for a brief moment, the world felt washed clean — as if creation itself had paused to listen, and decided to forgive.

Jeeny stood, pulling her coat tight, her eyes bright with something like victory — or mercy.

Jeeny: “The base soul cannot see the great one, Jack — but the great soul must still believe in the base. Otherwise, there’s no humanity left at all.”

Jack: “You sound like Rousseau himself now.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe I just refuse to stop believing in people, even when they disappoint me.”

Host: Jack rose, his movements slow but certain. They walked toward the door together, their shadows stretching long across the wooden floor.

Outside, the air was new, the sky breaking open to a fragile blue. The city’s noise had not yet returned, and for a moment — just a moment — the world felt worthy of greatness again.

The Host watched them go, and in the quiet that followed, their conversation lingered like the aftertaste of truth:

Greatness does not need faith to exist. But faith in greatness — that is what keeps humanity from sinking into the ordinary.