Epic poetry exhibits life in some great symbolic attitude. It

Host: The library was nearly empty, the last echo of turning pages fading beneath the hum of the lamps. Rows of bookshelves stood like silent witnesses, their spines glinting with years of wisdom and dust. Outside, a storm pressed against the tall windows, streaking them with threads of rain. The smell of old paper and ink hung thick in the air, mixed with the faint aroma of coffee gone cold.

At a long oak table, Jack sat hunched over a book — a collection of poems whose edges were frayed from use. He traced a line with his finger, as if following a path into memory. Across from him, Jeeny flipped through a notebook, her pen moving in small, deliberate motions. The light caught her hair, turning it into strands of quiet gold.

Between them lay a question neither had yet spoken aloud.

Jeeny: (without looking up) “You’re reading Abercrombie again.”

Jack: “Mm-hmm.”

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes.”

Jack: “That’s because he’s right. I just can’t decide why.”

Jeeny: “Which line?”

Jack: (reading softly) “‘Epic poetry exhibits life in some great symbolic attitude. It cannot strictly be said to symbolize life itself, but always some manner of life.’”

Host: The lamp beside them flickered, as if reacting to the words. Outside, the wind rose, rattling the panes in rhythm with the thought.

Jeeny: “You love that line.”

Jack: “Because it’s true. Epic poetry — the Iliad, the Divine Comedy, Paradise Lost — they don’t show life, not really. They show what life means when it’s tested, when it’s stretched to its edge.”

Jeeny: “So you think art isn’t about reality?”

Jack: “Reality is boring. Art is about essence — the distilled truth. No one writes an epic about someone paying bills or waiting for a bus.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You’d be surprised. Maybe that’s exactly the epic of our time.”

Host: Jack looked up from the book, one eyebrow raised, the lamplight catching the faint lines near his eyes — lines carved not by age but by thought.

Jack: “You really think a story about mediocrity can be epic?”

Jeeny: “Not mediocrity — endurance. Isn’t that what all epics are about anyway? Humans enduring the impossible?”

Jack: “Achilles had armies. Odysseus had gods. We have parking tickets.”

Jeeny: “And yet we still suffer. We still love. We still lose. Isn’t that the same struggle, just smaller in scope?”

Host: The rain outside intensified, the sound of it like applause for her argument. Jack leaned back, closing the book, his fingers tapping lightly on the cover.

Jack: “You think poetry can exist in the ordinary?”

Jeeny: “Not just exist — thrive. Abercrombie said epic poetry represents ‘some manner of life.’ Maybe our manner is quieter now, less heroic, more human.”

Jack: “That sounds romantic. But an epic needs heroes.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the hero is the one who doesn’t stop trying, even when no one’s watching.”

Host: The light flickered again, softer now. A small smile touched Jack’s lips, the kind that comes not from victory, but from reluctant respect.

Jack: “You’d turn a grocery list into an Odyssey if you could.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Maybe I already have. Every trip through the aisles is a journey — temptation, choice, regret.”

Jack: “So the self-checkout machine is the Cyclops?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And the receipt is the prophecy reminding us we’ve spent too much.”

Host: Jack laughed, quietly, the sound breaking the rhythm of rain for a heartbeat. The tension that had filled the air dissolved into something lighter, like fog lifting from the sea.

He leaned forward again, elbows on the table.

Jack: “Alright, poet. If life itself isn’t an epic, then what part of it is?”

Jeeny: “The moments when we decide. That’s where the hero lives — in choice.”

Jack: “Choice?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not in grand gestures or wars, but in how we react. When we choose kindness over anger, love over indifference. That’s the battle.”

Host: Her voice softened on the last word, and the storm outside seemed to hush for a moment, as if in agreement. The library felt smaller now — not enclosed, but intimate, sacred.

Jack stared at the candle’s flame near the window — the only light that didn’t flicker.

Jack: “So every life could be an epic, then. Even mine.”

Jeeny: “Especially yours.”

Jack: “Why especially?”

Jeeny: “Because you fight the hardest battles — the ones no one sees.”

Host: His eyes met hers, and for a second, neither of them spoke. The silence between them held its own rhythm, its own verse.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe epic poetry isn’t about heroes anymore. Maybe it’s about witnesses — people who see the small heroics that no one applauds.”

Jeeny: “Like showing up. Or forgiving. Or starting over.”

Jack: “Or staying when you could leave.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The storm outside began to ease, the rain slowing to a whisper. The windows glistened, streaked with silver lines of moonlight peeking through the clouds.

Jeeny gathered her notebook, sliding it into her bag, her movements slow and thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You know, Abercrombie’s line — it’s not just about poetry. It’s about us.”

Jack: “Us?”

Jeeny: “We’re not symbols of life. But we represent a manner of life. Two people trying to understand it — that’s our epic.”

Host: Jack smiled, closing the book gently. He stood, moving toward the window, his reflection blending with the wet glass — man and myth, reality and symbol.

Jack: “Then what’s our theme?”

Jeeny: “Survival. Connection. The courage to keep looking for meaning.”

Jack: “And the ending?”

Jeeny: “There isn’t one. That’s what makes it epic.”

Host: The moonlight finally broke free from the clouds, flooding the room in soft, silver glow. Jack turned from the window, and Jeeny met his gaze — steady, unguarded, true.

For a brief moment, they stood there — two souls framed in the stillness of words and weather — realizing that the epic of life isn’t written in the grand, the heroic, or the divine.

It’s written in every small defiance of despair, every quiet act of love, every breath that keeps us here.

Host: And as the light filled the library, the books around them seemed to whisper in approval — thousands of stories, countless manners of life — all telling the same truth in different tongues:

That being human is the greatest poem ever written.