Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it

Host: The café sat at the edge of the city, tucked beneath a tangle of bare winter trees, their branches like veins against the gray sky. The windows were fogged with warmth and reflected neon, and outside the streets glistened from the rain that had just passed. The air inside smelled of coffee and history — both bitter, both comforting.

Host: At a corner table near the window, Jack sat stirring his drink, though the sugar had long dissolved. Jeeny sat across from him, her coat still damp at the shoulders, eyes thoughtful but lit with quiet humor. A half-finished copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover lay open between them — the pages wrinkled from the drizzle.

Jeeny: (gently) “D. H. Lawrence once wrote, ‘Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.’”
(She looks up from the book.) “You know, Jack, that’s one of those lines that feels heavier the older I get.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Because it’s true. The world burns, and we throw dinner parties.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Tragedy has become background noise — like traffic. Always there, just muffled enough for comfort.”

Jack: “And we call that resilience.”

Jeeny: “But maybe it’s not resilience. Maybe it’s denial dressed in poetry.”

Host: The rain began again — soft, rhythmic, tapping against the glass like memory trying to be let in. A couple at a nearby table laughed too loudly, their voices briefly cutting through the quiet, then fading.

Jack: “You know, when Lawrence wrote that, the world had just crawled out of a war. Everyone was pretending not to be broken.”

Jeeny: “Pretending — yes. Because facing the truth might have shattered what little they had left.”

Jack: “So they made art. They made love. They danced. They built cities. And they told themselves that moving forward was healing.”

Jeeny: “But it wasn’t?”

Jack: “It was survival. Different thing entirely.”

Host: She leaned forward, elbows on the table, tracing the rim of her cup. The window behind her glowed — the streetlight outside refracting through the rain, painting her silhouette in gold and gray.

Jeeny: “Do you think that’s what we’re doing now — surviving instead of living?”

Jack: “Of course. We’ve just made it fashionable.”

Jeeny: (half-smiling) “Call it progress. The world collapses in high definition now.”

Jack: “Yeah. But we’ve learned to filter tragedy — crop it, caption it, upload it, and scroll past.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s our defense. If we feel everything, we’d never stop crying.”

Jack: “Lawrence would’ve hated that. He believed in feeling — in burning. In the body’s truth, even when it hurt.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Especially when it hurt.”

Host: The light flickered overhead, briefly casting the room in shadow. The hum of the espresso machine filled the silence, a low, steady rhythm — the modern heartbeat of distraction.

Jack: “You know what’s tragic, Jeeny? Not that we suffer. That we suffer without wonder. That we endure without astonishment.”

Jeeny: “Because astonishment feels naïve now. People equate sensitivity with weakness.”

Jack: “And numbness with strength.”

Jeeny: (softly) “We’re afraid of sincerity — of feeling too much in a world that calls apathy maturity.”

Host: The rain grew louder, blurring the world outside into abstraction — headlights became comets, figures became shadows, the city itself became watercolor.

Jeeny: “I think what Lawrence meant was that we live in contradiction — tragedy all around, but no room left to mourn. So we joke, we scroll, we drink — anything but confront the ache.”

Jack: “And the ache keeps us human. Without it, we’re just systems — functional, efficient, and hollow.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you still believe in tragedy as something sacred.”

Jack: “I do. Because tragedy means we cared enough to lose.”

Host: A pause fell — long, weighted, almost holy. Outside, a taxi splashed through a puddle; the sound felt distant, irrelevant.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder if refusing to take the age tragically is actually courage? Maybe it’s our way of spitting in fate’s face — of saying, ‘You can break us, but you can’t make us despair.’”

Jack: (after a moment) “Maybe. But sometimes I think laughter’s just the sound we make when the crying runs out.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe laughter is courage. Maybe that’s the only way to keep walking through the ruins — to keep joking, loving, working, even when the world feels like it’s ending every week.”

Host: She said it softly, but her voice carried — a quiet defiance that seemed to hum in the air.

Jack: “You know, there’s something beautiful about that — the refusal. The audacity of joy in a tragic world.”

Jeeny: “That’s what he meant, I think. We refuse to take it tragically not because we don’t see the pain — but because we refuse to let the pain define the story.”

Jack: “We still write. We still sing. We still fall in love — knowing everything breaks.”

Jeeny: “That’s not denial. That’s rebellion.”

Host: The rain softened, turning from percussion to whisper. The light in the café dimmed to a warm glow. For a moment, the world outside seemed to pause — as if listening.

Jack: “You ever think maybe that’s humanity’s greatest art form? Enduring without surrendering. Suffering without bitterness.”

Jeeny: “And laughing anyway.”

Jack: “Especially then.”

Host: She smiled — the kind of smile that didn’t deny sorrow but invited it to sit down and have coffee. The kind of smile that makes despair hesitate.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, for a tragic age, we’re doing okay.”

Jack: “Are we?”

Jeeny: “We’re still talking about meaning instead of money. That’s something.”

Jack: (grinning) “For now.”

Host: The waiter passed, collecting empty cups. Outside, the storm began to fade, leaving puddles that reflected the city lights like fragments of another universe.

Host: And as they rose to leave, Lawrence’s words echoed softly between them — not as cynicism, but as wisdom carved from endurance:

that ours is a tragic age,
but tragedy is not defeat;
that refusing to take it tragically
is not blindness,
but bravery;
and that to keep laughing, loving, and living
amid ruin
is the greatest art of all —
the art of being human.

Host: The rain stopped. The world exhaled.

And somewhere between the puddles and the light,
Jack and Jeeny walked —
two small sparks in a sorrowful century,
refusing, gently,
to go dark.