I was friends with Susan Sontag the last four years of her life.

Host: The rain had been falling since morning, soft and relentless, soaking the cobblestones of Montparnasse Cemetery until they glistened like a mirror of the sky. Paris was quiet, heavy with the kind of silence that feels both sacred and exhausted. A single umbrella, black and trembling in the wind, hovered over Jeeny as she stood beside an unmarked grave, a small bouquet of white lilies clutched tightly in her hand.

Host: Jack stood a few paces away, his coat collar turned up, raindrops sliding down his cheekbones like tears he would never admit to. They had come here after reading Marina Abramović’s words — a single quote that lingered in their thoughts like smoke:

“I was friends with Susan Sontag the last four years of her life. She had this amazing charisma and so much energy, but she had a sad little funeral in Montparnasse in Paris.” — Marina Abramović

Host: The sentence hung between them like a memory neither of them owned but both understood.

Jeeny: softly “It’s strange, isn’t it? How someone can fill the world with light and still leave it in darkness.”

Jack: gruffly “That’s the irony of fame. You spend a life being adored by strangers and die surrounded by silence.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s not fame—it’s loneliness. Even brilliance doesn’t protect you from being forgotten.”

Jack: watching the rain hit the gravestones “Sontag wasn’t forgotten. Her books, her ideas—they live. Maybe that’s the only kind of immortality people like her get.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it feel like a tragedy anyway?”

Jack: shrugs “Because we’re human. We mistake legacy for love.”

Host: A gust of wind bent the umbrella, scattering raindrops across their faces. Jeeny’s voice trembled, but not from cold—something deeper, like grief borrowed from someone else’s life.

Jeeny: “You know, I read that Abramović stayed with her to the very end. She said Sontag was full of charisma and energy—until the last day. Imagine that… to burn so brightly even when your body’s failing.”

Jack: nodding “That’s the kind of energy that kills you and keeps you alive at the same time. The kind that refuses to go quietly.”

Jeeny: “And yet… a sad little funeral.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. Maybe death humbles the noise.”

Jeeny: gazing at the grave “But doesn’t it feel wrong? To live a life that large and end it so small?”

Jack: turning toward her “What’s the right size for an ending, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Something… worthy. Something that says, I mattered.”

Jack: “You think the universe throws us parades when we go? It doesn’t. It just keeps spinning.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why we need each other—to notice when someone’s gone.”

Host: The rain eased, replaced by a fine mist that hung like breath over the cemetery. The sky lightened, but the air still carried the scent of wet stone and memory.

Jeeny: “It reminds me of when my grandmother died. She was the kindest person I knew, but only five people showed up at her funeral. I remember thinking—this can’t be it. This can’t be how we measure a life.”

Jack: “And how do we measure it then?”

Jeeny: “By presence. By the hearts we’ve touched, not the crowd that claps.”

Jack: quietly “And yet… the crowd still matters.”

Jeeny: “Only to the ones who never learned to be alone.”

Host: Jack’s gaze dropped to the grave—small, unassuming, with a single engraved name: Susan Sontag. A light dusting of petals clung to the stone like remnants of applause.

Jack: “You ever notice how geniuses always die twice?”

Jeeny: “Twice?”

Jack: “First when they stop breathing. Second when people stop understanding them.”

Jeeny: after a pause “Then maybe Sontag hasn’t died yet. Not really.”

Jack: half-smiling “You’re an optimist.”

Jeeny: “No. I just believe words outlive silence.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why Abramović remembered her funeral. Maybe it wasn’t sad because it was small—maybe it was sad because she deserved witnesses.”

Jeeny: “And maybe she had one. Maybe that was enough.”

Host: The wind shifted again, carrying the sound of church bells from somewhere beyond the cemetery walls. The tone was low, mournful, yet strangely hopeful.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something poetic about it. The woman who wrote about the pain of others dying quietly in the city of light.”

Jack: “Poetic, sure. But also cruel. The world devours brilliance, then moves on to the next spark.”

Jeeny: “But brilliance doesn’t need the world’s permission to exist. That’s the thing. It just is. Sontag’s funeral wasn’t small—it was distilled. A whisper after a lifetime of thunder.”

Jack: chuckling softly “You’d make a good eulogist.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I’d make a good witness.”

Host: The sky began to break. The rain stopped entirely, leaving behind a fragile quiet. The cemetery shimmered in the new light, each headstone glinting like a secret.

Jeeny: “What do you think it’s like… to know your legacy will outlive you, but your life might not be remembered kindly?”

Jack: “I think it’s lonely as hell.”

Jeeny: “And still worth it?”

Jack: “If you ask Sontag—or Abramović, or anyone who gives their life to art—I think they’d say yes. Because they’re not chasing comfort. They’re chasing eternity.”

Jeeny: “But eternity doesn’t hold your hand when you die.”

Jack: “No. But it keeps your voice alive when no one else remembers what you said.”

Host: Jeeny knelt, placing the lilies gently on the grave. Her fingers lingered there a moment, brushing the cold stone as if greeting something unseen.

Jeeny: whispering “Maybe death just teaches us what kind of silence we leave behind.”

Jack: after a long pause “And what kind of noise we were.”

Host: The two stood, side by side, facing the rows of graves, each one a name once spoken in love, or anger, or fame. The rain clouds drifted away, revealing a faint blue between them.

Jeeny: “Do you think we’ll have anyone at ours?”

Jack: smirking “You will. You always make people feel something. I’ll be lucky if someone remembers to turn off the lights.”

Jeeny: smiling through the ache “Then I’ll leave you a candle.”

Jack: quietly “And I’ll bring you flowers.”

Host: The camera would have lingered there—two figures among the stones, the light soft, the air clean after the rain. Not mourning, but reflecting. Not grieving, but learning.

Host: They began to walk toward the gate, their footsteps echoing softly on wet stone. Behind them, the grave of Susan Sontag glowed faintly under the sun’s timid return.

Host: And though the world might call her funeral “sad” and “small,” in that moment, the truth stood clear:

Host: A soul like hers never needs a crowd to be remembered.
A witness is enough.

Host: The wind stirred the petals one last time, and as they drifted into the air, the words seemed to whisper through the trees —
that the measure of a life is not in who attends your ending,
but in who still feels your presence after you’re gone.