Shakespeare will not make us better, and he will not make us

Host: The library was nearly empty, the kind of stillness that hums rather than sleeps. Golden light spilled through tall windows, cutting across the dusty air like ribbons of something sacred. Bookshelves, towering and ancient, lined the walls — their spines faded, their titles whispering centuries of confessions. Somewhere, a clock ticked like an old man remembering.

Jack sat at a heavy oak table, his grey eyes scanning a worn copy of Hamlet, its pages soft from touch, its corners curled by years of thought. Jeeny sat across from him, legs tucked under her chair, tracing the edge of her own book with slow, deliberate fingers.

The air smelled faintly of paper, ink, and autumn rain.

Jeeny: “Do you ever notice how reading Shakespeare feels like eavesdropping on humanity?”

Jack: “On humanity? More like on our neuroses.”

Jeeny: “Harold Bloom would agree — at least partly. He said, ‘Shakespeare will not make us better, and he will not make us worse, but he may teach us how to overhear ourselves when we talk to ourselves.’”

Jack: “That’s a very poetic way to say literature is therapy for narcissists.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s about self-awareness. About catching the sound of your own mind when it thinks no one’s listening.”

Host: The light shifted as a cloud passed. Shadows rippled across their faces — the soft tremor between reflection and revelation.

Jack: “Overhearing ourselves. That’s an interesting phrase. You think Bloom meant that literally?”

Jeeny: “In a way. Shakespeare’s characters don’t just speak — they think aloud. Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth — they’re mirrors, talking back to the person reading them. Every soliloquy is an echo chamber for the soul.”

Jack: “Or a reminder that we’re all just overcomplicated animals pretending to be profound.”

Jeeny: “You’d rather call introspection a performance?”

Jack: “Isn’t it? You talk to yourself long enough, and suddenly you think you’ve discovered meaning. But maybe you’ve just rehearsed it.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, the kind of smile that hides both tenderness and challenge. She leaned forward, her eyes catching the flicker of lamplight.

Jeeny: “Even rehearsed meaning is still meaning, Jack. Shakespeare teaches us how to overhear that — the rehearsals of our hearts. The private arguments, the contradictions we dress as wisdom.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re in love with your own thoughts.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m just learning to listen to them.”

Host: A student nearby turned a page — the softest sound in the world, yet somehow it broke the tension for a breath. The rain outside began again, soft, persistent, like the punctuation of an unfinished poem.

Jack: “So you really believe reading old tragedies can teach us something about ourselves?”

Jeeny: “Not teach. Reveal. Bloom said Shakespeare might help us ‘accept change in ourselves as in others, and perhaps even the final form of change.’ That’s what I think he meant — death. Transformation.”

Jack: “So Hamlet’s existential whining is your guide to acceptance?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a mirror for fear. And when we see our fears clearly, they stop owning us.”

Jack: “You think art can do that — free us from ourselves?”

Jeeny: “Not free us. But make us aware of the cage. And sometimes that’s enough.”

Host: Jack closed his book, the sound echoing softly in the vast room. He looked out the window, watching the rain slide down the glass in long, trembling lines.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always thought people read Shakespeare to feel smarter. To belong to some literary tribe.”

Jeeny: “Maybe some do. But for others, it’s survival. To find language big enough to hold their confusion.”

Jack: “You think confusion needs a language?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because silence eats people alive.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now. The moment stretched, not in tension but in quiet recognition.

Jack: “You really believe literature changes us.”

Jeeny: “No. I believe it lets us notice we’re changing — which might be the same thing.”

Jack: “You’re quoting Bloom again.”

Jeeny: “I’m living him.”

Host: Jack chuckled, though the sound was soft, almost fragile.

Jack: “You know what I think? I think people use Shakespeare like a confession booth. They read Macbeth to feel guilty, Lear to feel old, Romeo and Juliet to remember what dying for love once felt like — or what they wish it did.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not morality. It’s empathy. We read him to understand that our contradictions are shared — that even kings and fools wrestle the same ghosts.”

Host: The lamplight flickered; the bulb hummed, weary from burning too long.

Jack: “So, Shakespeare doesn’t make us better or worse. He just reminds us we’re the same as we ever were.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But he also shows us that sameness isn’t stagnation — it’s the pulse of being alive.”

Jack: “You’re starting to sound like a poet.”

Jeeny: “I’m just borrowing his courage.”

Host: Outside, thunder rolled faintly, low and distant, like an orchestra warming up for a storm. Inside, their silence turned inward — two souls listening for the sound of themselves.

Jack broke it first.

Jack: “You know, there’s something both beautiful and cruel about what Bloom said — that Shakespeare teaches us to overhear ourselves. Because sometimes, what you overhear… you can’t unhear.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Self-awareness doesn’t comfort — it confronts.”

Jack: “And you’re okay with that?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only honest way to live.”

Host: The rain stopped. The clock struck eight. The librarian dimmed the lights one by one. The room grew darker, warmer, quieter — like the closing act of something ancient.

Jack gathered his things slowly. The book slipped from his hand and fell open — Hamlet, Act V, Scene II.

He read aloud, voice low:

Jack: “If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come — the readiness is all.”

Jeeny looked at him, her eyes soft, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “That’s it, Jack. Acceptance. The final form of change.”

Jack: “You make it sound peaceful.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe tragedy just teaches us to stop fighting time.”

Host: The lamplight caught her face for a final moment before fading out completely. Outside, the rain had cleared, leaving the world washed, reflective.

Jack stood, his book pressed to his chest, the words still echoing somewhere behind his ribs.

Jack: “So maybe Bloom was right — Shakespeare doesn’t save us. He just shows us the mirror and leaves the room.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s enough — to be reminded that the self, however fleeting, is still worth overhearing.”

Host: They stepped into the night. The streetlights shone across the wet pavement, reflecting their silhouettes — two quiet readers in a city that had forgotten how to pause.

As they walked, the rain returned — soft again, almost tender — and for a moment, neither spoke. They simply listened.

To the sound of their own footsteps.
To the whisper of their thoughts.
To the quiet miracle of overhearing themselves.