For a writer only one form of patriotism exists: his attitude

Host: The café was closing for the night, its dim yellow lights flickering over half-empty cups and the faint perfume of ink, coffee, and rain. The windows were streaked with mist from the storm outside, blurring the city into a watercolor of neon and memory.

A typewriter sat on the corner table — an old, heavy relic in a room of laptops and phones. Beside it, Jack sat hunched, his fingers stained with ink, his grey eyes dark with fatigue. Across from him, Jeeny was reading from a small notebook, her voice low, soft, deliberate — every word shaped like a secret.

Between them, a candle burned down to its last inch, its flame trembling but steady, like something refusing to be silenced.

She looked up, met his gaze, and spoke —

“For a writer only one form of patriotism exists: his attitude toward language.” — Joseph Brodsky

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Leave it to Brodsky to turn patriotism into a moral test.”

Jeeny: “He’s right. For a writer, the nation isn’t land or flag — it’s language. It’s the only country that can’t exile you unless you stop writing.”

Jack: “Or unless the words stop obeying.”

Jeeny: “You think language obeys anyone?”

Jack: “Once. Maybe. Back when words still meant what we said.”

Host: The rain pressed harder against the windows, as if the city were listening. The sound of a bus engine hummed faintly outside, muffled and distant, like the rhythm of another world moving past theirs.

Jeeny: “Language isn’t a tool, Jack. It’s territory. It’s soil, history, weather. You don’t just use it — you belong to it.”

Jack: “And what happens when your language betrays you? When the words you love get twisted by propaganda or emptiness?”

Jeeny: “Then you defend it. That’s what Brodsky meant — that writing is resistance. Every sentence is a way of saying, I still believe this language has a conscience.”

Jack: “Conscience?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Language remembers who we are — and what we’ve done. Even when we lie, words keep the truth archived somewhere inside their meaning.”

Host: The candlelight trembled, reflecting in the window beside them — two faces mirrored in the glass, flickering between presence and shadow.

Jack: “So patriotism is grammar now? Syntax as salvation?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Syntax is structure. Structure is integrity. If a writer loses respect for that — for how words breathe and break — then what’s left? Empty slogans. Commercials pretending to be poetry.”

Jack: “You sound like every editor I ever hated.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like every writer who mistakes rebellion for sloppiness.”

Host: The tension between them softened — not as conflict ends, but as fire becomes warmth. Outside, the rain slowed, leaving behind a wet shimmer on the cobblestone street.

Jack: “You think Brodsky was loyal to Russian or English?”

Jeeny: “Neither. He was loyal to rhythm. To the truth inside words — no matter the alphabet.”

Jack: “So that’s what you call patriotism — not allegiance, but stewardship.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You tend to your language like it’s land. You nurture it, you challenge it, you protect it from decay. That’s how a writer loves a country — through clarity.”

Jack: “And when clarity becomes dangerous?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s doing its job.”

Host: The candle sputtered, catching again. The shadows on the walls swayed gently, as if language itself were breathing.

Jeeny leaned forward, her tone quieter now — almost reverent.

Jeeny: “You know, I think every writer has two homelands — the one they were born in, and the one they build out of words. One can collapse, but the other survives.”

Jack: “And both demand loyalty.”

Jeeny: “No. The real one only asks for honesty.”

Jack: “Honesty’s dangerous. It gets people exiled.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it matters.”

Host: The rain had stopped entirely. Outside, the streetlights glowed amber, painting the wet pavement with soft reflections — like sentences rewritten by light.

Jack reached for his pen, spinning it idly between his fingers, eyes fixed on the candle’s flame.

Jack: “You know, I used to think patriotism was love of place. Then I started writing. Turns out it’s love of precision — love of saying what you mean even when it costs you.”

Jeeny: “Especially when it costs you.”

Jack: “So that’s the test? To stay faithful to truth when everyone else sells it for applause?”

Jeeny: “To stay faithful to language — because that’s where truth lives.”

Host: The silence between them deepened — not absence, but reverence. Outside, the city exhaled, steam rising from the streets, carrying whispers of a thousand unwritten stories.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how words change when you’re honest with them? They stop performing. They start confessing.”

Jack: “And what do they confess?”

Jeeny: “Everything we’re too afraid to say out loud.”

Jack: “So writing’s confession, and language the priest?”

Jeeny: “No. Language is the mirror. It shows you who you are — whether you like it or not.”

Host: The candlelight wavered, caught in a small gust from the open window. The curtain billowed, and the smell of wet pavement and jasmine drifted inside.

Jack: “You think Brodsky wrote that out of pride or pain?”

Jeeny: “Both. Because love of language is always bittersweet. It gives you a voice — and takes away your silence.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what exile really is. Not losing your home — but losing your words.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And every time you write, you reclaim a little of that lost ground.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked, its rhythm syncing with the quiet hum of the espresso machine. Somewhere, a door creaked. The night was thinning — that hour where even truth grows tired but refuses to sleep.

Jack picked up his notebook and flipped to a blank page. The paper gleamed softly in the dim light.

Jack: “So tell me, Jeeny — what’s your homeland in words?”

Jeeny: “Empathy.”

Jack: (after a pause) “And yours?”

Jack: “Defiance.”

Jeeny: “Then between us, we’ve built a country.”

Host: The candle went out, leaving only the blue glow of the city through the fogged window.

They sat in silence for a moment — two voices belonging not to a nation, but to the language itself.

And as the first light of dawn crept across the table, Joseph Brodsky’s words lingered in the air like a quiet anthem —

that for a writer, true patriotism isn’t allegiance to borders,
but devotion to clarity,
to truth,
and to the fragile, infinite country of language itself.