In general, the art of government consists of taking as much

Host: The rain fell in a thin, silver curtain outside the café window, each drop striking the glass like a faint, rhythmic warning. The city beyond was restless — cars moving through puddles, horns echoing through the wet air, and people hurrying home under the blur of streetlights.

Inside, the air was warm with the smell of coffee and the low murmur of a world pretending not to notice its own fatigue.

Jack sat at a corner table, his grey eyes reflecting the dull glow of a hanging lamp. His suit jacket was still damp from the rain. Jeeny sat across from him, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup, her expression calm — too calm, the kind of calm that came just before disagreement.

On the table between them lay a crumpled newspaper, its front page screaming about taxes, budget cuts, and some new political scandal.

Jeeny: quietly, reading from her phone “Voltaire once said, ‘In general, the art of government consists of taking as much money as possible from one class of citizens to give to another.’”

Host: Her voice was soft, but the words carried the sharpness of a blade — irony wrapped in civility.

Jack: smirking faintly “He said that in the 1700s, didn’t he? Amazing how nothing’s changed but the suits.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical, even for you.”

Jack: “No, that’s factual. Governments don’t evolve, they just rebrand. The same old con — take from the many, feed the few, and call it policy.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jack: “It is. Voltaire just had the guts to say it out loud.”

Host: The waitress passed by, the clink of cups and spoons filling the brief silence. Outside, the rain began to fall harder, turning the window into a living painting of motion and distortion.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? I think Voltaire wasn’t condemning government — he was diagnosing it. Power always moves wealth. The question is — toward what purpose?”

Jack: leans forward slightly “Purpose? You think there’s purpose in taxes that drain the working class while billionaires play shell games offshore?”

Jeeny: “And yet those same taxes build hospitals, roads, schools — the spine of civilization. We can’t live in a vacuum of self-interest.”

Jack: “Oh, sure. Until those hospitals close, the roads crumble, and the schools turn into warehouses for underpaid teachers. You’re describing the idea of government, not the reality.”

Jeeny: “And you’re describing a wound without mentioning the infection. The system’s corrupt because people are.”

Jack: chuckles bitterly “You mean because people are greedy? You just defined politics.”

Host: The light flickered. A low thunder rumbled somewhere far away. The café felt smaller, as if the walls were leaning closer to hear them argue.

Jeeny: “But not all greed is evil, Jack. Sometimes it’s survival. The rich hoard out of fear of losing, the poor fight out of fear of hunger. Governments are just the middlemen trying to balance panic.”

Jack: laughs softly “Balance panic? Governments manufacture panic. They need it — it’s how they justify control. The art of government isn’t leadership, it’s leverage.”

Jeeny: “So what, you’d rather live without one?”

Jack: “I’d rather live under honesty. At least a thief on the street doesn’t smile while he robs you.”

Jeeny: “But anarchy doesn’t feed the hungry. Laws, even corrupt ones, hold back chaos. Without that structure, you don’t get freedom — you get famine.”

Jack: leans back, voice low “You sound like Hobbes now. ‘Life without government is nasty, brutish, and short.’ Maybe it’s true — but at least it’s honest.”

Host: A pause. The rain slowed to a whisper. The café had grown quiet, save for the hum of a single overhead light.

Jeeny: “Do you know what scares me, Jack? It’s not the corruption. It’s the apathy. People don’t fight anymore — they scroll, they tweet, they forget.”

Jack: “That’s the beauty of modern governance. You don’t need to silence the people anymore. Just entertain them.”

Jeeny: sadly “Bread and circuses. Voltaire saw it coming.”

Jack: “He always does. The man wrote satire so sharp it drew blood.”

Jeeny: “But cynicism isn’t wisdom. You can’t build anything if you only mock the foundation.”

Jack: “Then tell me how you build anything clean on a dirty floor.”

Jeeny: “You don’t. You clean the floor first.”

Jack: grimly “And who does the cleaning? The same hands that spilled the dirt?”

Host: The wind outside picked up, rattling the glass. The streetlights flickered as if unsure whether to stay awake.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s a saying — every revolution begins with the poor and ends with the powerful. Maybe that’s Voltaire’s cycle. Money never disappears; it just changes owners.”

Jack: “Exactly. Redistribution — that’s the art form. Governments are just auctioneers of justice. Whoever pays more gets more mercy.”

Jeeny: “And yet… even flawed justice is better than none.”

Jack: leans in, voice edged with exhaustion “Better for whom, Jeeny? Tell that to the miners in Congo dying for lithium, so we can drive electric cars and feel virtuous. Or to the farmers taxed to death so their land can be bought by corporations. Who’s winning, exactly?”

Jeeny: quietly “No one. That’s the tragedy.”

Jack: “No, that’s the design.”

Host: The tension was a wire pulled tight between them — fragile, humming, dangerous.

Jeeny: “So what do you want then, Jack? Burn it all down?”

Jack: “No. I want accountability. A system that stops pretending to be moral while feeding on those it swears to protect.”

Jeeny: “But morality isn’t a system. It’s a choice. Governments can’t have consciences — only people can.”

Jack: softly “And when people give up theirs, the system fills the void.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not about who holds the money — but who still remembers why it matters.”

Host: Her words cut through the smoke-filled air, clean and sharp. Jack looked down at the table — at the faint reflection of his own face in the coffee’s dark surface.

He looked tired. Not just physically — but in the way someone looks when truth feels heavier than hope.

Jeeny reached across the table, her fingers brushing the edge of his hand, grounding him in silence.

Jeeny: softly “You’re not wrong, Jack. Voltaire wasn’t wrong either. Power corrupts, and government feeds on the illusion of fairness. But still… someone has to keep the lights on.”

Jack: half-smiles “And someone has to question who pays the bill.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both of those someones are us.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. Maybe.”

Host: The rain stopped. Outside, the city lights gleamed on the slick streets, turning puddles into small, shimmering mirrors.

Inside, the café felt lighter, calmer. The air between them softened — not agreement, but understanding.

Jeeny lifted her cup again, and Jack raised his glass. For a moment, neither spoke. The storm had passed, but its truth still lingered in the air — sharp, necessary, human.

And as they sat beneath the flickering lamp, Voltaire’s words seemed to echo one last time — not as accusation, but as warning:

that every government, no matter how noble its speech,
is just a reflection of the people it governs —
and that justice, like power, is only ever borrowed,
never owned.