He who believes in freedom of the will has never loved and never

Host: The night was a velvet hush over the river, thick with fog and the faint murmur of the city beyond. A row of lamps stretched across the bridge, their light trembling on the water like fragile truths unsure of themselves. Beneath one of those lamps, the rain fell with delicate persistence, soft but unrelenting.

Host: In a small bar tucked under the arch of the bridge—half hidden from the world—Jack sat with his back to the door, cigarette smoke curling above his head like a private weather system. Jeeny arrived late, her coat soaked, her hair glistening with rain. She carried that quiet fervor again, the kind that made even silence feel like it was listening to her.

Host: The bartender wiped the counter, the radio hummed a half-forgotten tune, and outside, the river carried away everything that ever pretended to be still.

Jeeny: “Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach once wrote, ‘He who believes in freedom of the will has never loved and never hated.’ I read it again last night, and it wouldn’t leave me.”

Jack: He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that hides both recognition and resistance. “You’d like that quote. It sounds tragic enough to be poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s not tragic—it’s true. When you love or hate someone, Jack, you’re not choosing to. You’re overtaken. It’s not reason—it’s surrender.”

Jack: “And that’s exactly why it’s dangerous. You’re saying we’re not responsible for our feelings. That’s just an excuse for chaos. People ruin lives with love and justify cruelty with hate. If it’s all beyond our will, then what’s left of morality?”

Host: The rain drummed harder against the window, a subtle percussion that filled the spaces between their words. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes bright, unflinching.

Jeeny: “I’m not saying we’re not responsible for our actions, Jack. I’m saying love and hate begin before the will can intervene. They’re the proof that we’re human, not mechanical. Freedom ends where passion begins.”

Jack: “That’s philosophy for surrender. If you really believe that, you’re saying we’re slaves to feeling. That’s not humanity, that’s instinct.”

Jeeny: “Instinct is part of humanity. Tell me, Jack—did you ever decide to fall in love? Did you ever choose the person who could break you?”

Host: Her voice softened, but her words struck like arrows wrapped in silk. Jack looked away, the cigarette ember glowing between his fingers, then dying slowly.

Jack: “You’re confusing impulse with fate. Sure, the spark isn’t chosen. But what you do with it—that’s where freedom lives.”

Jeeny: “And yet every action that follows starts with something we didn’t ask for. Every choice is born of emotion, not logic. You think you’re free, but you’re just arguing with what your heart already decided.”

Host: The bartender dimmed the lights. The bar shrank into a smaller world of shadow and breath. Outside, a train crossed the bridge above, its rumble shaking loose a few drops from the ceiling.

Jack: “So you’re saying love’s a form of possession?”

Jeeny: “No—love is possession. Not of another, but of yourself. It takes you. It burns reason out of you. Freedom of the will? The moment you truly love, you lose it.”

Jack: “And hate?”

Jeeny: “The same. You think it’s a choice to despise someone? Hate comes uninvited. It’s love’s dark twin—it knows your heart better than your mind ever will.”

Host: For a moment, only the sound of rain filled the space. Jack’s face was half-lit, his eyes grey and distant, like someone staring into a memory he never wanted to revisit.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s been burned.”

Jeeny: “Haven’t we all?”

Host: She smiled faintly, but her hands trembled as she lifted her glass. The liquid shimmered in the low light, amber and trembling, like courage pretending to be calm.

Jack: “I’ve loved, Jeeny. And I’ve hated. But I’ve also walked away. That takes will.”

Jeeny: “No. That takes pain. You walk away when the feeling crushes you, not when you will it to stop. Don’t confuse survival with freedom.”

Host: The air between them tightened. The rain slowed, but the silence pressed heavier. Jack leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, measured growl—the sound of a man trying to stay rational inside a storm.

Jack: “Then what are we? Just victims of chemical weather? The heart strikes, we fall, and call it destiny? That’s a dangerous excuse for a thousand sins.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s not an excuse—it’s an explanation. Love and hate are storms we walk into knowing we can’t control the wind. We’re still accountable for where we land, but not for the thunder.”

Host: A thunderclap answered her, far in the distance, as if the night itself agreed. The light flickered. Jack looked up briefly, then laughed—a dry, humorless sound.

Jack: “You sound like the philosophers who said man is ruled by passion and not will. Schopenhauer, Nietzsche... even Spinoza said the same. They all ended up drowning in their own logic. Because if you take away will, you take away responsibility.”

Jeeny: “And if you pretend will is pure, you take away truth. Be honest, Jack. Every decision you’ve ever made—wasn’t it influenced by someone you loved, or something you feared?”

Jack: “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I was powerless.”

Jeeny: “It means you were human.”

Host: The clock behind the bar struck midnight. Its chime was low and hollow, echoing through the small room like a judgment neither could escape. The river outside surged softly, reflections breaking apart and reforming as if the water itself couldn’t decide who it wanted to be.

Jack: “So you’re saying love and hate free us from freedom.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They’re the proof that freedom was never absolute. They strip us bare—show us what we really are beneath choice: creatures of emotion. Beautifully enslaved.”

Host: The words hung in the air, shimmering between pain and beauty. Jack’s fingers drummed lightly on the table, his eyes tracing the rim of his glass.

Jack: “Then maybe we need both—the illusion of will and the fire of feeling. Without the first, we’re chaos; without the second, we’re machines.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But when you love, you stop caring about balance. You stop caring about control. You stop being free, and you start being alive.”

Host: The rain had softened to a whisper, the fog outside lifting slightly. A faint glow from the rising moon touched the river, turning it to liquid silver.

Jack: “And yet people kill for love, destroy for hate. How do you justify that?”

Jeeny: “I don’t. I mourn it. But that’s the cost of being alive with feeling. Freedom of the will isn’t lost—it’s sacrificed.”

Jack: “Willingly?”

Jeeny: “Unwillingly—and that’s the tragedy.”

Host: He exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air. For a moment, his face softened, the cynicism folding away into something raw and unguarded.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe love was a choice. That if you were strong enough, you could control it. But you’re right—it’s more like falling asleep. You fight it, then surrender. And when you wake, you can’t remember the moment you let go.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. You don’t choose the dream. It chooses you.”

Host: The camera would linger there—a table between two souls, a half-empty glass, a dying cigarette, a night too honest for comfort. Outside, the river carried their reflections downstream, dissolving them into the dark.

Jeeny: “So maybe that’s what she meant. If you’ve truly loved—or truly hated—you’ve seen the death of free will. You’ve tasted something bigger than choice.”

Jack: “And something more dangerous.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it owns you.”

Host: The last lamp above their table flickered, dimmed, then steadied again. A fragile, golden glow rested on their faces—two travelers who had wandered into the heart of what it means to feel.

Host: And as they sat in silence, the river whispered the truth Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach had left for them long ago:

that freedom is the dream of the untouched heart—
and love, the moment that dream is surrendered to something far more real.