He who is incapable of feeling strong passions, of being shaken

Host: The theatre was asleep.
The velvet curtains hung heavy with memory; the stage floor bore the scuff marks of a thousand forgotten performances. A single lamp burned center stage — the “ghost light,” they called it — glowing faintly against the dark rows of empty seats, protecting the sacred space from silence itself.

The air smelled of dust, makeup, and ghosts.

Jack stood in the middle of it all, still in costume — shirt unbuttoned, collar loose, his face streaked with the remnants of stage paint. His breathing was slow, deliberate, like someone coming down from battle.

Jeeny sat in the front row, her coat still on, watching him with that deep, knowing stillness. The kind of stillness that feels like listening.

Jeeny: “Sarah Bernhardt once said, ‘He who is incapable of feeling strong passions, of being shaken by anger, of living in every sense of the word, will never be a good actor.’”

Host: The words floated between them like smoke. Jack tilted his head slightly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jack: “She would’ve hated me, then.”

Jeeny: “No. She would’ve said you’re pretending not to feel.”

Jack: “That’s what acting is, isn’t it? Pretending.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Acting is revealing.”

Host: The light from the ghost lamp flickered as if stirred by the weight of her words. Somewhere, a loose board creaked — the theatre breathing with them.

Jack: “Revealing what?”

Jeeny: “The parts you spend your whole life trying to hide.”

Jack: “You make it sound like confession.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every night you walk out there and confess to strangers — fear, love, rage, desire — all the things polite life doesn’t let you say.”

Host: Jack looked up toward the balcony, where the shadows of old applause still seemed to linger.

Jack: “You think that’s passion — or performance?”

Jeeny: “Both. Passion gives the performance its blood. Without it, you’re just moving your mouth in the dark.”

Jack: “And if you feel too much?”

Jeeny: “Then you bleed. That’s the price of art.”

Host: Jack walked to the edge of the stage, the wooden boards creaking beneath his boots. He stared down at Jeeny, his eyes fierce but tired.

Jack: “You ever get tired of being human?”

Jeeny: softly “Only when I forget what it means.”

Jack: “And what does it mean?”

Jeeny: “To feel everything. To love until it burns. To rage until it cracks you open. To live so deeply that the quiet feels unbearable. That’s what Bernhardt meant. You can’t fake fire, Jack. You either burn or you don’t.”

Host: The silence between them thickened — not empty, but electric.

Jack: “You think that’s living? Letting passion wreck you?”

Jeeny: “No. Letting it remake you.”

Jack: “You talk like it’s holy.”

Jeeny: “It is. Passion’s the only proof we’re alive.”

Host: Jack turned away, pacing across the stage. His hands ran through his hair, still damp with sweat. The air shimmered faintly around him — not from heat, but from memory.

Jack: “You know, every time I walk out there — I feel like I’m lying. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s soul for two hours. The applause feels like forgiveness I don’t deserve.”

Jeeny: “Because you think passion needs to be pure. It doesn’t. It just needs to be felt.”

Jack: quietly “And if I’ve gone numb?”

Jeeny: “Then the stage becomes your battlefield — where you fight to feel again.”

Host: He froze, the weight of her words settling over him like dust.

Jeeny: “That’s why Bernhardt was right. An actor who doesn’t feel deeply isn’t acting — he’s decorating emptiness. Audiences don’t come for perfection; they come for permission — to feel what they can’t in their own lives.”

Jack: murmuring “Permission…”

Jeeny: “Yes. You give them that. Every time you break. Every time you burn.”

Host: Jack sank down onto the stage floor, his back against the wooden frame. He looked out into the empty seats, imagining faces — eyes watching, hearts waiting.

Jack: “Funny. The more I perform, the less I recognize myself. Like every emotion I show on stage steals a piece of me.”

Jeeny: “Then stop guarding yourself. The more you resist, the less real it feels.”

Jack: “So you want me to surrender?”

Jeeny: “Not surrender. Suffer beautifully.”

Host: Her words were soft but sharp — a dagger wrapped in silk. Jack met her eyes; something flickered there — fear, admiration, maybe both.

Jack: “You make it sound romantic.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s truth. Acting without feeling is death with applause.”

Host: The ghost light swayed slightly as a draft passed through. The faint hum of the city seeped in — car horns, sirens, the heartbeat of reality outside the temple of illusion.

Jack: “You ever wonder why we keep doing this? The same emotions, the same stories, over and over — tragedy, love, betrayal, redemption. You’d think we’d run out.”

Jeeny: “Because we’re trying to understand ourselves, one role at a time. Every play is another attempt to answer the same question: What does it mean to be human?”

Jack: “And what’s your answer?”

Jeeny: “That to live truthfully, you must be willing to break publicly.”

Jack: “You really believe pain is the proof of life?”

Jeeny: “Not pain — feeling. Even rage. Even despair. They’re all just shades of the same fire.”

Host: He stood again, the light tracing the sharp lines of his face, his shadow stretching across the stage like an unspoken truth.

Jack: “You know what’s terrifying? That she was right — that the best actors aren’t the best liars, they’re the best sufferers. The ones who bleed without warning.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because pain tells the truth faster than language ever could.”

Host: The clock backstage struck midnight, the chime echoing through the theater like applause for ghosts.

Jack: “You think it’s worth it? Giving your soul to strangers?”

Jeeny: “If it wakes something human in them — yes.”

Jack: “And when it breaks you?”

Jeeny: “Then you bow, take the pain, and turn it into art. Because that’s what it means to live in every sense of the word.”

Host: The ghost light flickered one last time before dimming, leaving only the faint outline of their silhouettes — two souls caught between truth and theater, reality and art.

Jack: “You know, I used to think the stage was escape. But it’s not. It’s confrontation — with yourself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The stage doesn’t free you, Jack. It reveals you.”

Host: The darkness deepened until only their voices remained.

Jeeny: “She was right, you know — Bernhardt. You can’t be a good actor if you can’t feel deeply. Because acting isn’t about pretending to live — it’s about living so fiercely that the pretending becomes real.”

Jack: whispering “Then maybe that’s the only way to live at all.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the vast emptiness of the theater glowing faintly in the aftermath of their words. Outside, the night continued — indifferent, endless — but inside, something sacred had been said.

The ghost light burned once more, a single flame against the dark, whispering across time and silence:

That art — and life — demand not perfection,
but passion.

And those who cannot feel deeply
will never truly act,
never truly live,
and never truly be remembered.