Passion for fame: A passion which is the instinct of all great

Host: The night had a restless pulse, like a heartbeat beneath the city’s skin. Neon signs flickered across wet pavement, their light breaking and reforming in puddles like fractured stars. The distant sound of traffic was a muted hum, steady and indifferent.

Inside a narrow rooftop bar, time seemed to pause. The air was thick with smoke and jazz, and the windows were fogged with the breath of dreamers and drinkers. At a corner table, Jack sat, leaning forward with his usual stillness — sharp features carved in the half-light, his grey eyes carrying the kind of weariness that only comes from ambition.

Across from him, Jeeny stirred her drink, watching him with that familiar mix of curiosity and quiet challenge. On the table between them lay an old notebook, open to a single line written in slanted script:

“Passion for fame: A passion which is the instinct of all great souls.”
— Edmund Burke.

Jeeny: softly, reading the words aloud “A passion for fame — the instinct of all great souls.” She looks up at him. “Do you believe that, Jack?”

Jack: without hesitation “Of course I do. Fame isn’t vanity; it’s proof. Proof that you’ve existed, that you’ve mattered. Every artist, every revolutionary, every thinker — they all crave immortality. Fame’s just another name for witness.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the tragedy? That people confuse recognition with meaning?”

Jack: “Meaning dies when no one remembers it. You could cure loneliness, write symphonies, build empires — but if no one knows, it’s as if you never did. Fame is the echo that keeps greatness alive.”

Jeeny: “Or the echo that distorts it.”

Host: A slow saxophone murmured through the speakers, its low, trembling notes weaving through the smoke. Jeeny’s eyes caught the faint reflection of the bar’s light, shimmering like candle flame — soft, steady, defiant.

Jeeny: “You sound like fame is some kind of afterlife. But it’s not eternal, Jack. It’s a flame that burns brightest right before it dies. Look at all the names that once meant everything — now they’re just footnotes in a forgotten book.”

Jack: “That’s the point. They were remembered at all. Even as footnotes, they changed something. The average person dies twice — once when their heart stops, and again when their name disappears. Great souls refuse the second death.”

Jeeny: “You mean they fear it.”

Jack: “Fear’s the root of most greatness. You think Michelangelo carved David because he was peaceful inside? He carved it because he was terrified — terrified of mediocrity, of silence, of dying ordinary.”

Jeeny: “And yet the need to be remembered often destroys the very beauty that could make you worth remembering.”

Host: The rain began outside again, a slow, steady drizzle tapping the windowpane. It blurred the lights of the city into rivers of color, like time itself melting down the glass. Jack’s fingers traced the rim of his glass — a small, rhythmic motion that betrayed unease.

Jack: “You talk like ambition’s a sin.”

Jeeny: “Not ambition — hunger. The hunger to be seen. The kind that consumes people from the inside out. The kind that turns art into advertisement, truth into branding.”

Jack: “Easy for you to say. You’ve never needed an audience to feel real.”

Jeeny: “And you’ve never tried feeling real without one.”

Jack: “Fame isn’t about vanity, Jeeny. It’s about impact. You build something, you want it to outlive you. Isn’t that what every artist does? Every poet, every architect — even every saint?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But saints sought grace, not applause. Burke said ‘great souls,’ not ‘great egos.’ There’s a difference.”

Jack: sharply “Is there? Without the instinct for fame, there’d be no innovation, no rebellion, no art. Fame is evolution’s way of ensuring humanity doesn’t sleepwalk through history.”

Jeeny: “Or it’s the trapdoor that makes us fall from it.”

Host: The music swelled — slow, smoky, filled with longing. Jack’s eyes hardened, but his voice softened, almost nostalgic.

Jack: “When I was younger, I used to dream about seeing my name on a book cover. I thought fame meant safety — that if people knew me, I couldn’t just disappear. That I’d finally matter to someone beyond myself.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I’m not sure if I wanted to be known, or just... seen. There’s a difference, isn’t there?”

Jeeny: nodding gently “Yes. To be seen is human. To be known — that’s intimacy. Fame gives you the first and steals the second.”

Jack: “Then why do people still chase it?”

Jeeny: “Because being forgotten feels like death — and most people would rather burn in public than fade in peace.”

Host: A waiter passed by, setting down another candle. The flame flickered, its glow warping across the bottles behind the bar. For a moment, it seemed the light itself was listening.

Jack: “You think you’re above it, don’t you? This ‘passion for fame.’ But don’t pretend you don’t crave it too. Every time you speak, you want to leave a mark. Every act of kindness, every belief — it’s all for the same reason. To matter.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “I don’t want to matter to everyone, Jack. Just to someone.”

Jack: “And what if that someone forgets you?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll have lived fully for a moment — and that’s enough. The great mistake is thinking we have to be immortal to be meaningful.”

Jack: “Tell that to history.”

Jeeny: “I’d rather tell it to humanity.”

Host: The jazz faded into silence. Outside, the rain softened to a whisper. The city, for once, seemed to be holding its breath — waiting for one of them to break the spell.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think fame is just loneliness in disguise — the louder the applause, the deeper the echo.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Fame feeds the ego, but empties the soul. It replaces connection with recognition — one nourishes, the other consumes.”

Jack: “But still... you can’t deny it’s human. Burke called it an instinct — not an addiction. Maybe it’s not something to resist, but to refine. Maybe fame is only toxic when it’s selfish.”

Jeeny: “And when isn’t it?”

Jack: “When it serves something greater than the self. When it builds, not brands. When it lifts others into your light, not shadows.”

Jeeny: “Then perhaps the true test of a great soul isn’t whether it’s remembered, but what it remembers to love while it burns.”

Host: Jack looked at her, long and hard, as if seeing her through a fog he had walked in for years. His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders finally easing.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe greatness isn’t about being seen by the world — it’s about being felt by it.”

Jeeny: quietly “And that’s what separates fame from legacy. One demands attention; the other earns it.”

Jack: “Legacy. That’s just fame with humility.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s love with endurance.”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jack’s lips. He reached for his drink, finally taking a slow sip, his reflection trembling in the glass. Jeeny’s eyes followed his, soft and steady, two small lights in a world too hungry for spotlight.

Jack: “So maybe Burke was right, but not in the way we think. Maybe the passion for fame isn’t about wanting to be known — it’s about wanting to become something worthy of knowing.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The instinct of great souls isn’t to be adored — it’s to create, to inspire, to echo in silence.”

Jack: “To fare forward, like voyagers of meaning.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back slowly then — the bar, the rain, the faint shimmer of light through glass. Two figures sitting at the edge of night, caught between vanity and truth, fame and feeling.

Outside, the city continued to breathe, vast and indifferent, unaware that somewhere high above it, two souls had just discovered that to be great was never about being seen,

but about daring to shine —
even when no one was watching.