Even in the centuries which appear to us to be the most monstrous

Host: The museum was empty after hours. Only the quiet buzz of the emergency lights and the hum of the city outside remained. Through the tall windows, the world glowed in shades of amber and ink — night pressing against glass, rain tracing slow, fragile lines across it.

Rows of paintings watched from the walls — saints, sinners, revolutions, lovers — all frozen mid-miracle. The air smelled faintly of varnish, old stone, and time.

Jack stood before a massive canvas, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his black coat. His eyes, grey and guarded, moved over the chaotic beauty of it: a storm of light and shadow, angels half-erased, faces half-remembered. Behind him, Jeeny’s footsteps echoed softly, the sound of thought given weight.

The security lights flickered, and for a moment, the whole gallery seemed to breathe.

Jeeny: “Baudelaire once wrote, ‘Even in the centuries which appear to us to be the most monstrous and foolish, the immortal appetite for beauty has always found satisfaction.’”

Jack: without turning “You think he meant that as comfort or condemnation?”

Jeeny: “Both. He saw what we refuse to admit — that even in chaos, people still look for something to love.”

Jack: “Or to distract them. Beauty’s a drug, not a cure.”

Host: Jeeny stopped beside him, her reflection overlapping his in the glass that protected the painting. The two figures merged — one sharp, one soft — like light and shadow trapped in dialogue.

Jeeny: “But even a drug can save you, if it keeps you from dying.”

Jack: smirking faintly “Or it makes you forget what dying means.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes forgetting is survival.”

Host: Outside, thunder rolled across the city — deep, distant, as if the world itself were remembering its anger.

Jack: “You really believe beauty can redeem us? Look around. War, greed, politics — every age claims to be civilized, but it’s just new costumes for the same monsters.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every age paints. Every tyrant dies, but the frescoes remain. Every broken heart still writes poetry. That’s the hunger Baudelaire was talking about — the appetite that refuses extinction.”

Jack: “You think that’s noble?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s necessary.”

Host: Jack’s eyes moved from the painting to her. The light caught his face at an angle that softened the lines — he looked younger, for just a moment.

Jack: “So we make art to survive our own ugliness?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Beauty doesn’t erase the monstrous; it balances it. It’s proof that even while we destroy, we still know how to create.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But I’ve seen people use beauty like armor — to hide how rotten they are underneath. Kings, dictators, billionaires — they build cathedrals to their vanity.”

Jeeny: “And yet, those cathedrals still inspire awe. The artist’s sin doesn’t erase the holiness of what they made. That’s the paradox — beauty transcends even the hands that soil it.”

Host: The rain outside quickened, streaking down the glass like liquid silver. The sound filled the hollow space of the gallery, soft but endless.

Jack: “So you think beauty’s immortal.”

Jeeny: “Not beauty. The desire for it. That’s what outlives us. Every cave painting, every sculpture, every melody — it’s all one long echo of the same longing.”

Jack: “For what? Perfection?”

Jeeny: “No. For meaning. Perfection dies fast. Meaning survives imperfection.”

Host: A soft light spilled from the ceiling above them, illuminating a single sculpture at the far end of the hall — a cracked marble figure of a woman, headless, arms missing, yet graceful beyond comprehension.

Jack walked toward it slowly, drawn by something he couldn’t name. The marble caught the faint shimmer of rainlight, turning its fractures into veins of silver.

Jack: “You see this?” he gestures to the statue “It’s broken. Incomplete. Yet people still call it beautiful. Why?”

Jeeny: “Because the cracks make it human.”

Jack: “Human — or forgivable?”

Jeeny: “Maybe those are the same thing.”

Host: Jack stared at the sculpture for a long moment. The world seemed to contract around it — the sound of rain, the rhythm of breath, the flicker of fluorescent light.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think we chase beauty because it reminds us of what we lost. Or what we’ll never be.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But maybe we chase it because it reminds us we’re still capable of wanting.”

Jack: quietly “That’s a dangerous hope.”

Jeeny: “The only kind worth having.”

Host: The thunder came closer this time, rattling the windows. A streak of lightning illuminated the gallery for an instant — every painting, every sculpture, every face from history alive for that single pulse of light.

Then darkness again. Silence.

Jack: “So you’re saying Baudelaire wasn’t naïve — he was defiant.”

Jeeny: “Yes. He looked at a rotten world and still said: ‘There is beauty here. Find it.’ That’s not optimism. That’s rebellion.”

Jack: “And rebellion’s just another kind of art.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To seek beauty when the world’s burning — that’s creation’s bravest act.”

Host: The rain softened, tapering into a whisper. The museum lights steadied, and their reflections reappeared in the glass — two figures in the presence of ghosts.

Jeeny moved closer to the statue, reaching out without touching it.

Jeeny: “This survived centuries of war, flood, greed. Maybe that’s what beauty is — endurance disguised as grace.”

Jack: “And ugliness, then?”

Jeeny: “Ugliness is beauty without courage.”

Host: Jack’s lips twitched into something almost like a smile — small, uncertain, but real.

Jack: “You know, I used to think beauty was weakness. A luxury for those who couldn’t handle truth.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: after a long pause “Now I think it’s the only truth we can stand to look at.”

Host: She turned toward him, her eyes reflecting the dim light, warm against the shadows. The rain had stopped completely now.

Jeeny: “Then maybe you finally understand what Baudelaire meant. Even in the darkest centuries — the ones that break us — beauty doesn’t die. It just waits for someone brave enough to see it.”

Jack: “And someone foolish enough to believe in it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe foolishness is the last pure form of faith.”

Host: A long silence followed — not empty, but sacred. The rain clouds outside began to thin, revealing a pale slice of moonlight that crept through the window, resting on the fractured marble figure.

Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, watching the light crawl slowly over the stone.

Jack: “Even broken things shine, don’t they?”

Jeeny: “Especially broken things.”

Host: The moonlight lingered a moment longer, then faded, leaving the sculpture half-lit, half-shadowed — perfect in its imperfection.

As they turned to leave, their footsteps echoed softly through the hall, mingling with the quiet hum of centuries.

And somewhere, between ruin and revelation, Baudelaire’s words seemed to breathe again — not as nostalgia, but as truth:

That no matter how monstrous the age, the hunger for beauty survives — eternal, restless, immortal — the one appetite that never dies.