Is it not by love alone that we succeed in penetrating to the

Host: The concert hall lay empty, long after the applause had faded. The faint echo of strings still trembled in the air — music hanging like mist, refusing to fully leave. The stage lights were dim now, a soft golden haze lingering over the empty chairs and the silent piano at center stage.

Host: At the edge of the orchestra pit, Jack sat on the steps, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. The glint of a forgotten metronome sat beside him, ticking faintly — steady, relentless. Jeeny walked barefoot across the wooden floor, her footsteps almost soundless, her hand brushing along the rail as though feeling for the ghost of a note.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Igor Stravinsky once asked, ‘Is it not by love alone that we succeed in penetrating to the very essence of being?’”
(She turns to Jack, her voice soft but bright with thought.) “He was talking about music, wasn’t he? About how art — real art — has to come from love.”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. But not just romantic love. The kind of love that listens. The kind that dissolves the barrier between yourself and what you’re creating.”

Jeeny: (sitting beside him) “You mean — empathy, attention, surrender.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s how you touch the essence of anything. Whether it’s a person, a piece of music, or life itself — you have to fall in love with it enough to disappear inside it.”

Host: The metronome clicked in the silence — patient, impartial, counting time that no longer needed to be kept.

Jeeny: “I remember reading that Stravinsky thought of music as something alive, something that existed before we played it. He just tried to find it. Maybe that’s what he meant — that only love can really make you listen deeply enough to find what’s already there.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “That’s what creation really is, isn’t it? Not inventing, but revealing. Love’s the light that makes the invisible visible.”

Jeeny: “And the inaudible audible.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The stage lights dimmed further, leaving only the faint glow from the balcony lamps. Outside, through the high windows, the night pressed in — vast and silent, like a waiting audience.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We use the word ‘love’ for everything — for people, art, ideas — but we rarely mean it in its purest sense. Stravinsky wasn’t talking about possession or pleasure. He was talking about union.”

Jack: “Union through attention. The kind of love that stops asking, What do I get from this? and starts asking, What does this need from me?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Yes. The love that listens first.”

Jack: “And speaks only if it has something true to say.”

Host: The air between them thickened with that kind of silence only music leaves behind — the silence that isn’t absence, but reverence.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Stravinsky was also talking about being human. About how love — not reason, not ambition — is what lets us truly understand life. We study people, analyze them, but only love lets us feel them.”

Jack: “Yeah. Analysis divides. Love connects.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that dissolves the boundary between the observer and the observed.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what the ‘essence of being’ is — that moment when separation ends. When you stop standing outside life, and start being part of its rhythm.”

Host: A faint draft stirred the sheet music on a nearby stand. The pages rustled softly, like something breathing. The sound was small, but alive — the whisper of art itself remembering it was born from love.

Jeeny: “You ever think that’s what real art is? Not an expression of talent, but of tenderness?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Yeah. Great artists don’t perform — they commune. They stop trying to show something and start trying to feel it completely.”

Jeeny: “And the audience feels it too — because love translates perfectly, no matter the language.”

Jack: “Exactly. Love’s the only true universal.”

Host: The metronome clicked again, its rhythm slow, steady, unchanging — like a heartbeat that refused to rush.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You know, Stravinsky said that when he composed, he felt possessed — like he was both inside and outside himself. Maybe that’s what love does. It’s the bridge between the self and the infinite.”

Jack: “Yeah. Love’s not about losing yourself. It’s about finding the part of you that belongs to everything else.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful, Jack.”

Jack: “It’s Stravinsky’s fault. He started it.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “True.”

Host: The laugh echoed through the hall, light and human against the grand, empty space. It lingered for a moment, then faded, leaving behind the warmth of shared silence.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was a kid, I thought love was something that just happened to you — like lightning. But now, I think it’s something you practice.”

Jack: “Like music.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every day, you tune yourself — learn to listen better, forgive quicker, give more freely.”

Jack: “And sometimes, the song still goes off-key.”

Jeeny: “Of course it does. But love’s what keeps you playing.”

Host: The rain began outside, soft and rhythmic — a natural percussion joining their quiet reflection. The sound wove itself into the hall, becoming part of the music that was no longer being played.

Jeeny: “It’s funny — Stravinsky wrote about love, but his compositions were full of chaos, dissonance. It’s like he knew love wasn’t peace. It’s tension, too.”

Jack: “Yeah. The dissonance is part of the harmony. That’s what makes it human. If love were perfect, it wouldn’t reach us.”

Jeeny: “So maybe that’s what he meant by the ‘essence of being.’ The beauty isn’t in perfection — it’s in compassion. In staying connected, even when it hurts.”

Jack: “Especially when it hurts.”

Host: The rain intensified, tapping the roof in syncopation, like a thousand small instruments joining the silent orchestra.

Jeeny: (softly) “You ever feel like music and love are the same thing?”

Jack: “Yeah. Both require you to listen more than you speak. Both exist only in the moment. And both, when they’re real — leave silence sweeter than before.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s poetry.”

Jack: “No — that’s Stravinsky’s aftertaste.”

Host: The metronome stopped, its ticking finally spent. The stillness that followed was profound — not empty, but alive with everything that had just been said and felt.

And in that silence,
his words seemed to resonate through the room —
not as philosophy, but as truth:

that love is the ultimate act of perception;
that it is through love we touch the core of existence,
not by owning, but by understanding;
not by naming, but by listening.

Host: Jeeny reached over, resting her hand lightly on Jack’s.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know, if there’s an essence to being, maybe it’s this.”

Jack: “What — sitting in the dark, talking about love?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “No. Sitting in the dark and not feeling alone.”

Host: The rain eased, leaving behind the faint sound of dripping from the eaves — steady, calm, eternal.

The stage, though empty, felt alive again — filled with the echo of something greater than sound.

And as the lights dimmed fully,
the night itself seemed to hum the quiet truth
that love alone — patient, curious, open —
is the only music
that ever touches the soul.