Not to discriminate every moment some passionate attitude in

Host: The winter sun hung low over the city — a pale, ghostly coin caught between steel-grey clouds. The air shimmered with that peculiar brightness that comes just before the cold deepens, when everything glows as if lit from the inside. The café windows were steamed over, the glass hazed by breath and warmth. Inside, the murmur of voices, the clink of cups, and the faint notes of a violin leaking from the old radio wove together into something almost tender.

Jack sat by the window, coat still on, a small notebook open before him, half-filled with lines that had stopped meaning anything halfway through. Jeeny arrived moments later, brushing snow from her hair, her cheeks pink from the wind. She dropped her gloves on the table and smiled that tired, radiant smile that only existed on cold days.

She carried with her a book — slim, ivory-paged, the title barely legible from years of handling: The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry.

As she sat, she opened to a page marked by a pressed violet, and read aloud softly, almost like she was reciting something holy:

"Not to discriminate every moment some passionate attitude in those about us, and in the very brilliancy of their gifts some tragic dividing on their ways, is, on this short day of frost and sun, to sleep before evening." — Walter Pater.

Jack: raising an eyebrow “That’s beautiful. In a sort of melancholy way. He’s saying if we don’t notice people — really notice them — we’re sleepwalking through life.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Not just notice, Jack. Discriminate. He means to distinguish, to discern — to look into someone’s brilliance and see where it will break.”

Host: The sunlight outside thinned, reflecting off the melting snow in sharp white shards. A gust of wind rattled the window, and the light shifted across Jeeny’s face — first gold, then pale, then shadow.

Jack: “That’s a grim way to look at beauty. He’s basically saying that every gift carries its own downfall.”

Jeeny: softly “Doesn’t it?”

Jack: pausing “Maybe. But that’s a heavy burden — to look at everything you love and see the tragedy in it.”

Jeeny: “It’s not tragedy he’s pointing to. It’s awareness. The willingness to see how fleeting things are. Pater was saying: Don’t sleep before evening. Don’t go numb before the day’s done.”

Host: The waiter passed by, setting down two cups of coffee, the steam swirling between them like ghosts of thoughts. Jack watched it rise, curl, vanish.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But isn’t that exhausting? Living like that — noticing everything, feeling everything?”

Jeeny: “Of course it’s exhausting. That’s the point. The cost of wakefulness is fatigue.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand hovered over her cup, fingers trembling just slightly, not from cold but from thought. Outside, a couple passed, laughing, their breath visible, their laughter bright and brief.

Jack: after a pause “You know, I think that’s why most people prefer to sleep before evening. To dull it. To stop feeling everything so sharply.”

Jeeny: nodding “Maybe. But the ones who don’t — the ones who stay awake through all of it — they burn brighter. Even if only for a short day of frost and sun.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked steadily, a rhythm marking time’s slow unraveling. The café filled with that golden-hour light that makes everything — faces, chairs, reflections in the glass — look like memory before it’s even over.

Jack: leaning forward, voice low “So you’d rather burn out early than fade gently?”

Jeeny: quietly “I’d rather feel something while I can.”

Host: The coffee steam curled upward again, and in it, the faint shape of a face seemed to appear — theirs, mingled, blurred by warmth and proximity.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve been reading too much Pater. Or maybe too much tragedy.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “They’re the same thing, aren’t they? He wasn’t just writing about beauty — he was writing about mortality. Every passionate attitude, every gift, every flaw — it’s all evidence that we’re alive for a moment and gone the next.”

Jack: “So, awareness is the only way to cheat death.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Awareness is death — the small kind. The kind that happens every time we realize the moment is already leaving.”

Host: Jack looked out the window. The street was shining now — wet, silvered, alive. A bus passed, leaving a cloud of fog and exhaust in its wake. The people outside walked quickly, scarves flying, hands clutching paper cups of warmth.

Jack: quietly “You know, it’s strange. We spend so much time trying to escape pain, but the things that hurt the most are usually what make us feel most alive.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. That’s what he meant. The wise see that — that passion is both the light and the burn.”

Host: The violin song on the radio changed — slower now, almost mournful. The light from the window hit the side of Jack’s face, highlighting the thin shadow beneath his eyes.

Jeeny: continuing, almost to herself “He says not to discriminate some passionate attitude in those about us — meaning we should see that every soul burns differently. Some people’s brilliance is their downfall. Others are destroyed by their kindness. But to ignore that — to not see both the beauty and the flaw — is to ‘sleep before evening.’”

Jack: after a pause “So to love someone is to stay awake to their tragedy.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To love is to witness.”

Host: The café door opened briefly; a burst of cold air swept through, then disappeared as the door shut again. The moment passed.

Jack: staring at his notebook “You know what scares me most, Jeeny? That I’ve already been asleep. For years.”

Jeeny: reaching across the table, softly touching his hand “Then it’s time to wake up.”

Host: He looked at her — really looked — and for a brief, impossible instant, it felt as though everything in the world was made visible: the fragility in her smile, the fatigue in her eyes, the tenderness that trembled in her every breath.

Jack: quietly, almost reverently “You ever wonder why Pater called it a short day of frost and sun?”

Jeeny: nodding “Because beauty never lasts long enough. Because life’s brilliance always comes with cold edges.”

Host: The light outside dimmed, the sky dissolving into that blue-grey just before dusk. The snowflakes began again, slow, deliberate, each one illuminated by the café’s warm interior glow before disappearing into the pavement below.

Jeeny: whispering “So let’s not sleep before evening, Jack. Let’s watch everything — the frost, the sun, the brilliance, the break. Let’s stay awake for all of it.”

Jack: softly, with a small, aching smile “Even if it hurts?”

Jeeny: “Especially if it hurts.”

Host: The radio song ended. The light faded. And in the reflection on the café window — two figures remained, side by side, framed by the dying sun and the beginning snow.

They didn’t move. They didn’t speak.

They simply watched — the day ending, the world continuing, the beautiful tragedy of being alive unfolding before them.

And somewhere in the silence, Walter Pater’s voice seemed to whisper through the frost and the glass:

“To sleep before evening — that is the true sin. To live without wonder, without recognizing in every spark of another’s soul the fleeting miracle of the whole.”

The night came.
The frost deepened.
And yet — they did not sleep.