Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes; adversity not

Host: The city lay under a grey curtain of rain, its streets glistening like molten glass under dim lamplight. A small café, tucked between bookshops and antique stores, breathed with the scent of coffee, wet coats, and lonely souls. Inside, steam curled above half-empty cups, condensation sliding down the windows like tears.

Jack sat by the window, his broad shoulders hunched, his grey eyes distant, fingers drumming against the table. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, her brown eyes quiet but alive, reflecting the outside storm like mirrors of warmth.

The evening was still, except for the heartbeat of rain.

Jeeny: “Francis Bacon once said, ‘Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes; adversity not without many comforts and hopes.’”

Jack: (smirking) “That’s a nice way to make poverty sound romantic, isn’t it? Philosophers always did have a knack for turning pain into poetry.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they simply saw what most people ignore — that comfort isn’t found in abundance, Jack. It’s found in meaning.”

Host: The light from a passing car swept across their faces, leaving shadows to chase the words between them.

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t pay rent. Or fix a broken boiler. Or put food on the table. You talk about meaning like it’s something you can live on. But when you’ve seen prosperity, Jeeny — real prosperity, where everything works, where you can breathe without counting what’s left in your wallet — you’d understand why people fear to lose it.”

Jeeny: “And yet, those very people live in fear every day, don’t they? They have the wealth, the comfort, but never the peace. Look around — billionaires surrounded by security guards, politicians who can’t sleep without medication, families torn apart by inheritance. Is that prosperity, Jack? Or just fear disguised as success?”

Host: The rain pressed harder against the window, each drop a tiny echo of tension building between them.

Jack: “You think adversity is better? Tell that to someone who’s lost everything. Tell it to a man on the street, freezing under a bridge, dreaming of a warm bed. You think he finds ‘comfort and hope’ there?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said softly, her voice trembling, “because I’ve seen it. My father lost his factory when I was sixteen. He went from owning to borrowing, from commanding men to fixing their machines. But I never saw him broken. He found something — a quiet faith in his hands, in the small repairs he made. He said, ‘When you’ve lost everything, Jeeny, what remains is who you are.’ That’s comfort. That’s hope.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “You call that hope? I call that resignation. He learned to settle, not to hope. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. He learned to endure. And endurance is a form of hope — the kind that doesn’t shout, but breathes quietly in the dark.”

Host: A waiter passed by, the soft clatter of cups cutting through the thick air. Outside, a bus roared, sending a spray of water across the sidewalk. The café’s clock ticked with a slow, patient rhythm, marking the unseen war between logic and faith.

Jack: “You talk about endurance like it’s a virtue. But I’ve seen it crush people too. My brother — he worked himself half to death when the recession hit. Kept telling himself it was temporary. He waited for ‘comforts and hopes’ that never came. He died before he ever saw daylight again.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And yet, he must have loved something enough to fight for it. Maybe that’s what Bacon meant — that even in adversity, we still dream. Even when we’re broken, we still reach. That’s not comfort — that’s courage.”

Jack: “Courage doesn’t save you from ruin.”

Jeeny: “No, but it saves your soul from decay.”

Host: Jack’s eyes hardened, but behind them flickered a faint sadness, the kind that comes from too many truths colliding.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the story of Viktor Frankl? He survived the concentration camps, lost his family, his freedom, his dignity — yet he wrote that those who had a ‘why’ to live could bear almost any ‘how.’ Even in the darkest adversity, he found comfort — not because life was kind, but because his suffering had meaning.”

Jack: “Frankl was an exception. Most people crumble.”

Jeeny: “But even if one man didn’t, doesn’t that prove the possibility exists? That there’s a spark in us that survives no matter how much the world tries to extinguish it?”

Jack: “Possibility doesn’t equal probability. People love these stories because they make misery sound noble. But when hunger hits, or your child is sick, all philosophy burns away.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But have you noticed, Jack, how even in those moments, people still pray, still sing, still hold one another? Look at war zones — mothers rocking their children, strangers sharing bread. That’s the comfort Bacon spoke of. It’s small, but it’s everything.”

Host: A long silence fell. The rain softened, as if tired of the argument. Jeeny’s hand rested near Jack’s cup, almost touching. He stared at it — the small, fragile gesture of peace.

Jack: “You make it sound so easy — to find light in darkness. But prosperity, Jeeny… prosperity gives choice. That’s what everyone really wants. To choose. To control. To be free from fear.”

Jeeny: “And yet, they’re not free. That’s Bacon’s point, don’t you see? Prosperity traps us in fear — fear of loss, fear of change. You call it control, but it’s only another kind of prison. Adversity, at least, strips away the illusion. It forces us to see what’s real.”

Jack: “Real? You mean the suffering, the humiliation, the despair?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because in that rawness, we remember we’re human.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked out the window, watching the rain dissolve into thin mist. His reflection merged with Jeeny’s — two faces, one blurred, one still.

Jack: “So you’re saying we should welcome hardship?”

Jeeny: “Not welcome — understand it. Let it teach us what comfort never can.”

Jack: “And prosperity?”

Jeeny: “Accept it — but don’t worship it. Let it serve you, not enslave you.”

Jack: “That’s a pretty sentiment, but when you’ve clawed your way up from the bottom, you don’t risk falling again. You build walls. You keep the rain out.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but walls keep out the light too.”

Host: Her words lingered, fragile and luminous. Jack looked at her, truly looked — as if realizing for the first time that the woman across from him wasn’t just talking about philosophy, but about him.

Jack: (softly) “You really believe comfort exists in adversity?”

Jeeny: “I believe hope does. And that’s enough.”

Host: The café lights flickered, then steadied. The rain eased into a fine drizzle, leaving the street shining, like a wound beginning to heal.

Jack leaned back, his eyes calmer now, his voice lower.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe prosperity is just a quiet kind of fear. Maybe adversity… has its own strange mercy.”

Jeeny smiled faintly. “It does. It strips you down, but it also reminds you — you’re still here. Still breathing.”

Jack: “Still hoping.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: They sat in silence, listening to the gentle rhythm of the rain against the glass. Outside, the city glowed under the faint halo of streetlights, fragile yet enduring.

And in that small moment, between the fading storm and the coming night, both understood the quiet truth of Bacon’s words — that prosperity and adversity are not enemies, but mirrors of the same human heart.

The light shifted, touching their faces with a final warmth, before dissolving into the darkness — leaving behind only the echo of hope.