Obscenity, which is ever blasphemy against the divine beauty in

Host: The library was lit by a dozen dying candles, their flames trembling like thoughts that refused to fade. The tall windows were fogged with evening mist, and outside, a storm gathered — low, slow thunder crawling across the sky. Rows of ancient books lined the walls, the air thick with the scent of ink, dust, and centuries of rebellion.

Host: At the center of the room sat Jack, leaning against a table strewn with open volumes — philosophy, poetry, politics — his grey eyes sharp, restless, and weary from too much knowing. Across from him, Jeeny sat upon the edge of the table, one leg tucked beneath her, her dark eyes glowing with that strange mix of tenderness and fire.

Host: Between them, lying like a candlelit wound, was an open page from Percy Bysshe Shelley, the words as alive as the flame that licked their edges:

“Obscenity, which is ever blasphemy against the divine beauty in life, is a monster for which the corruption of society forever brings forth new food, which it devours in secret.”

Host: The storm cracked softly in the distance — as if nature itself bowed in agreement.

Jack: “You know,” he said, his voice low, “Shelley had this maddening habit of moralizing beauty. He saw it as sacred — as though ugliness was sin itself.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t moralizing,” she said. “He was lamenting. He wasn’t condemning obscenity in the puritanical sense — he was mourning how we destroy beauty when we corrupt what is good.”

Jack: “But what’s obscene anymore?” he asked, leaning forward. “We’ve desensitized ourselves to everything. Violence, lust, greed — we consume it like air. Shelley thought obscenity was hidden, devoured in secret. Now it’s the currency of attention.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “That’s what makes his words prophetic. He saw it coming — a world where beauty becomes spectacle, and spectacle replaces meaning.”

Host: The thunder rolled closer now, shaking the tall windows slightly. The candlelight flickered, throwing their shadows long across the shelves.

Jack: “He calls it a monster,” Jack murmured, tracing the page with his finger. “Fed by corruption, hidden from sight. The monster’s not just what’s indecent — it’s what’s indifferent.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said. “Because real obscenity isn’t the body. It’s the soul’s neglect. It’s beauty forgotten, compassion mocked, innocence commodified.”

Jack: “So obscenity isn’t what shocks us — it’s what numbs us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “Every time we look at suffering and feel nothing, the monster eats again.”

Host: The storm intensified — wind pressed against the glass, making the flames bend and dance wildly.

Jack: “You know,” he said, “I always thought blasphemy was about rejecting the divine. But maybe it’s the opposite — maybe it’s forgetting it.”

Jeeny: “Shelley would agree,” she said. “For him, the divine wasn’t God — it was life itself. The beauty in love, in thought, in nature. When we degrade those things, we commit the only true obscenity.”

Jack: “And society,” he said, “feeds that degradation. Our art, our politics — everything turns toward consumption. Even outrage has become entertainment.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy,” she said softly. “We’ve turned everything sacred into spectacle. We mistake irony for wisdom and vulgarity for honesty.”

Host: Lightning flashed, illuminating their faces — Jack’s expression, hard and haunted; Jeeny’s, illuminated with conviction.

Jack: “But maybe,” he said, “we need obscenity to remind us of what’s sacred. Without corruption, would we even know beauty?”

Jeeny: “That’s the oldest argument,” she said. “That contrast defines value. But Shelley didn’t see it that way. He believed beauty exists independent of ugliness — that it’s not defined by its opposite, but desecrated by it.”

Jack: “You think he was idealistic.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “He was desperate. He saw a world losing reverence. He used poetry as protest — not against sin, but against indifference.”

Host: The fire in the hearth sputtered, sending sparks across the stone floor — tiny bursts of rebellion against the coming dark.

Jack: “So the corruption of society,” he said, “the one that feeds the monster — that’s not just political. It’s spiritual.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said. “When we stop protecting wonder, when beauty becomes cheap, when truth becomes performance — that’s when the monster feasts.”

Jack: “And we feed it willingly,” he said bitterly. “Through gossip, cruelty, cynicism — all disguised as realism.”

Jeeny: “Because cynicism feels safer than hope,” she said quietly. “But hope — even fragile hope — is what keeps the divine alive.”

Host: The storm crashed closer now — a deep roar that filled the room like the sound of the earth exhaling.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Shelley meant by the ‘divine beauty in life,’” he said. “Not perfection — but reverence. The ability to still see grace amid the ruin.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “Obscenity isn’t what offends the senses. It’s what offends the soul — the desecration of that grace.”

Jack: “And yet,” he said, “we’re surrounded by it — the noise, the cruelty, the spectacle. Maybe that’s why his words still feel holy. They grieve for a beauty we’ve forgotten how to worship.”

Jeeny: “Maybe,” she said, her voice a whisper, “the only way to fight obscenity is to create beauty again — fiercely, deliberately, even if no one listens.”

Host: The candle nearest her went out, its smoke curling like an afterthought into the air.

Jack: “So every act of creation,” he said slowly, “is rebellion against the monster.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said. “Because every honest word, every kind act, every pure work of art — it starves it.”

Host: The thunder rolled once more, softer now, as if even the storm had quieted to listen.

Jack: “You think that’s enough?” he asked. “Art against corruption? Beauty against decay?”

Jeeny: “It’s not enough,” she said. “But it’s the only thing that lasts.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the library a cathedral of shadows and flame. The two of them — philosopher and poet — sat surrounded by the ghosts of wisdom and the echoes of defiance.

Host: On the table, Shelley’s words glowed faintly in the last flicker of light:

“Obscenity, which is ever blasphemy against the divine beauty in life, is a monster for which the corruption of society forever brings forth new food, which it devours in secret.”

Host: And as the storm outside finally broke into silence, their faces softened — not in peace, but in purpose.

Host: Because beauty, when defended, becomes sacred again. And in a world that feeds monsters in secret, every act of reverence — every refusal to stop seeing wonder — is an act of holy resistance.