I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the

Host: The theater was empty — an old playhouse with peeling red velvet and chandeliers that still remembered the grandeur of centuries past. The dust hung thick in the air, catching the glow of the stage lights like golden fog.

The stage itself was bare, except for two figures — Jack, sitting on the edge with his coat folded beside him, and Jeeny, standing at center stage beneath a single spotlight, staring out into the dark seats as though the ghosts of every audience still lingered there.

Outside, thunder murmured distantly — not the kind that frightens, but the kind that listens.

Jeeny: “Yeats once said, ‘I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.’”

Jack: (smirks) “A romantic way of saying, ‘Art will sort itself out.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe he meant that art answers to something deeper than taste — to the conscience itself.”

Host: Her voice carried through the hall, soft but sure, echoing faintly off the gilded balconies. The theater seemed to breathe again, awakening under her words.

Jack: “Conscience, huh? You think mankind’s got one left?”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “It must. Or we wouldn’t still be here, arguing about what’s beautiful, what’s true.”

Jack: “I don’t know, Jeeny. Look around. They stream content now, not stories. The conscience of mankind’s got a monthly subscription.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynicism talking, not truth.”

Jack: “Cynicism is truth when you’ve seen the machine. Art isn’t sacred anymore — it’s a product. The conscience Yeats trusted died the moment it got monetized.”

Host: Jack’s words echoed like stones hitting the wooden floor. Somewhere above, the chandelier trembled slightly, its crystals chiming faintly — as if the old theater itself disagreed.

Jeeny: “Then maybe conscience isn’t in the marketplace. Maybe it’s in the maker. Art doesn’t have to be pure — but the intention can be.”

Jack: “Intention doesn’t keep the lights on.”

Jeeny: “No, but it keeps the soul lit.”

Host: The spotlight flickered softly, and Jeeny stepped closer, her voice deepening.

Jeeny: “Yeats believed art was the mirror of humanity’s soul. And maybe he was right — even when that soul’s fractured, greedy, confused, it still reaches for beauty. Maybe that’s conscience enough.”

Jack: (leans forward) “So, what? Every pop song, every bad film, every empty museum exhibit — they all have moral weight?”

Jeeny: “Not moral — human. They reveal what we crave, what we fear, what we fail to understand. Even mediocrity has meaning. Yeats said to leave it to conscience, not to critics.”

Jack: “But conscience isn’t consistent. What one century calls genius, another calls madness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what makes art alive. It changes because we do.”

Host: Her eyes caught the dim light — a glint of conviction that made Jack pause.

Jack: “You really think mankind can be trusted to judge art? History’s full of burned books, banned painters, silenced poets.”

Jeeny: “And yet the ones worth remembering still found their way back. You can’t kill truth — it just waits.”

Host: The rain outside began again — a low, steady patter against the glass roof. Jack stood, walking slowly across the stage, his shoes creaking against the old boards.

Jack: “So you’re saying conscience is the final critic?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because conscience is the only audience that never lies.”

Jack: “I don’t buy it. Conscience is personal. Art’s collective. You put something in the world and people twist it into whatever they need. You can’t control the message.”

Jeeny: “You don’t have to control it. You just have to release it with honesty. After that, the world decides what it needs from it — and what it’s ready for.”

Host: The light shifted slightly, dimming on Jeeny and warming on Jack. His face softened, his tone quieter now — less combative, more confessional.

Jack: “You know, my first design — the one I told you about? It wasn’t for clients or money. It was for my mother. She loved gardens, so I built her one — a small courtyard with a bench made of recycled stone. Everyone said it was ugly. Uneven. Unprofessional. But she sat there every evening until she died.”

Jeeny: “Then you built beauty, Jack. Because it served love. That’s conscience.”

Jack: “I didn’t think of it that way. I just… wanted her to feel peace.”

Jeeny: “And you did. That’s what Yeats meant — art guided not by applause, but by decency. Not perfection, but purpose.”

Host: A hush fell over them — not silence, but the kind of stillness that settles when truth finds its form.

Jack: “So, art’s not for mankind’s approval — it’s mankind’s reflection.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And if that reflection disturbs us, that’s the conscience at work.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “So maybe bad art’s just an honest mirror.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “Exactly. Every vulgar play, every tone-deaf film — they still tell us something about who we are.”

Host: The laughter dissolved into warmth. The light dimmed further, leaving them in a pool of soft gold, surrounded by shadow and history.

Jack: “You ever wonder what Yeats would think of art today? TikToks and digital collages and AI poetry?”

Jeeny: “He’d still leave it to conscience. He’d trust that truth can’t be faked forever. The world will always know when something’s real — even if it takes time.”

Jack: “You sound like you still believe mankind’s good.”

Jeeny: “No. I believe mankind’s searching. That’s enough.”

Host: The chandelier swayed faintly as if nodding in agreement, scattering tiny constellations of light across the walls. Jeeny stepped closer to the edge of the stage, looking out into the empty rows.

Jeeny: “Look at this place, Jack. All these seats — thousands of people over a hundred years. They laughed, they cried, they judged, they forgot. But the art stayed. Because conscience isn’t perfect — it’s persistent.”

Jack: “So the artist’s duty is what? To trust the future?”

Jeeny: “No. To create in spite of it.”

Host: Jack’s gaze softened; he walked toward her slowly, stopping at center stage. The two of them stood there — framed by the echoing space, the smell of dust and history, the whisper of rain above.

Jack: “You ever think maybe conscience isn’t mankind’s to own? Maybe it’s art’s gift to mankind — the part that reminds us we’re still capable of truth?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Maybe that’s why Yeats trusted it. Because art, when it’s real, becomes the conscience itself.”

Host: The lights dimmed to near darkness, leaving only a faint circle around them. Jeeny’s face caught the last trace of light; Jack’s was half-shadowed — logic and faith standing side by side, neither triumphant, both necessary.

Jack: “So in the end, the arts will survive us.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because they are us.”

Host: A final rumble of thunder echoed distantly, as though the heavens had signed their agreement. Jeeny looked up, then back at Jack, her expression soft — almost serene.

Jeeny: “Yeats believed conscience and art were bound — not because we’re noble, but because we’re flawed. It’s the imperfection that keeps us honest.”

Jack: “And honesty… that’s where beauty lives.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The light faded completely now, leaving only their silhouettes — two figures in the timeless dark, surrounded by the invisible audience of humanity’s conscience.

Outside, the rain eased, leaving behind a hush so deep it felt sacred.

And in that silence — between the ghost of applause and the echo of their last words — something eternal lingered:

That art, superior or inferior,
is not for kings, critics, or markets to judge —
but for the conscience of mankind to remember, wrestle, and redeem.

And long after the lights go out,
long after names fade,
that conscience — imperfect, questioning, human —
will keep whispering to the dark:

Create. Reflect. Remember.