The art of storytelling is reaching its end because the epic side

Host: The room was dim and heavy with silence. A single lamp burned on a cluttered desk, its yellow glow carving small islands of light among the chaos of papers, books, and ashtrays. Outside, the rain fell without hurry, tracing quiet rivers down the windowpane. The city beyond was muffled—a world of neon reflections and forgotten music.

At the desk, Jack sat with his elbows buried in scattered manuscripts, an untouched glass of whiskey beside him. Across from him, Jeeny leaned on the windowsill, watching the streetlights flicker and fade. Her reflection blurred against the glass, ghostly, like a thought that refused to leave.

The air was thick with something unspoken—melancholy, maybe, or memory.

Jeeny: softly, as if to herself “Walter Benjamin once said, ‘The art of storytelling is reaching its end because the epic side of truth, wisdom, is dying out.’”
She turns from the window, her voice low but clear. “You believe that, Jack? That storytelling’s dying?”

Jack: without looking up “It’s already dead. We just keep dressing up the corpse in new words.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked once, then again—too loud in the stillness.

Jeeny: smiling faintly, walking toward him “That’s dramatic, even for you. Stories aren’t dying—they’re just changing shape.”

Jack: picks up a worn notebook, flipping it open absently “Changing shape? Into what? Ads? Tweets? Empty sound bites pretending to mean something?”
He glances up, his grey eyes tired but burning. “Benjamin wasn’t talking about storytelling as entertainment. He meant storytelling as wisdom. The kind that used to pass through generations, around fires, through silence. The kind that made people listen.”

Jeeny: sits on the edge of the desk, her voice gentle but firm “Maybe wisdom isn’t dying. Maybe it’s hiding. We’ve just gotten too loud to hear it.”

Jack: leans back, scoffing softly “Hiding? Or retreating? We turned truth into content and called it progress. We used to tell stories to remember who we were. Now we tell them to sell who we want to be.”

Host: A faint rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. The lamp flickered. In the small space between their words, the world seemed to inhale.

Jeeny: “That’s not entirely fair. There are still stories that move people—films, books, even strangers on the internet telling their truths. Isn’t that still storytelling?”

Jack: his voice sharp but sorrowful “That’s confession, not storytelling. Confession begs for sympathy. Storytelling offers perspective.”

Jeeny: tilts her head, thoughtful “So you’re saying storytelling is about distance. The storyteller stands apart, sees the whole picture.”

Jack: nods slowly “Exactly. The storyteller used to be a bridge between experience and understanding. Between the living and the listening. But now everyone’s too busy shouting their own experience to learn from someone else’s.”

Host: The rain pressed harder against the glass, blurring the city into watercolors. The sound filled the spaces between them—a rhythm older than words.

Jeeny: softly, almost whispering “Maybe that’s why people feel lonelier now. We’ve traded the shared fire for a thousand glowing screens.”

Jack: his voice dropping, quieter now “And every story’s become smaller. Private. Disposable. The epic side of truth—like Benjamin said—that’s gone. The sense that your story connects to something ancient, something universal.”

Jeeny: “You mean myth.”

Jack: smiles faintly “Exactly. Myth. The spine of civilization. We don’t build myths anymore. We manufacture trends.”

Host: The lamp light trembled, a fragile glow against the storm. Jeeny watched him for a long moment, her eyes soft but unyielding.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the storyteller’s job now—to remind people what myth feels like. To slip it back into the noise. Even if no one’s listening.”

Jack: laughs quietly, shaking his head “You think that’s enough? Whispering wisdom into the void?”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “It’s better than silence. Silence kills meaning faster than ignorance ever could.”

Host: A long pause. Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The rain slowed to a drizzle, tapping softly like a heartbeat against the window.

Jack: quietly “You know what the real tragedy is? We’ve become so clever at analyzing stories that we forgot how to feel them. Every film’s a metaphor, every book a critique. No one just listens anymore—they dissect. We’ve turned art into autopsy.”

Jeeny: leans in, her tone softer “And yet, here you are—still writing.”

Jack: glances up, half a smile tugging at his lips “Habit.”

Jeeny: smiles “Hope.”

Jack: chuckles quietly “Same difference.”

Host: The wind rattled the windowpane, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Jeeny stood and walked to the shelf, tracing her fingers along the spines of old books—faded titles, worn leather, names of authors long turned to dust.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe storytelling’s not ending. Maybe it’s molting. Every age sheds one skin to grow another. Maybe the old fire isn’t gone—it’s just waiting for a new language to burn in.”

Jack: quietly “And who’ll light it?”

Jeeny: turns, her expression both defiant and tender “We will. The ones who still care about the weight of words. Who still write not to impress, but to connect. The storytellers who remember that the truth isn’t meant to trend—it’s meant to endure.”

Host: Her words lingered like the fading echo of thunder—strong, echoing, necessary. Jack looked at her then, not with cynicism, but with the faint glimmer of belief. The kind of belief that hurts because it still hopes.

Jack: softly “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the story isn’t ending. Maybe it’s just... waiting for its listener.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “It always is.”

Host: The camera would pull back now—the desk, the lamp, the rain. Two figures surrounded by the ghosts of language, sitting in the half-light between despair and faith.

Outside, the storm began to pass. The sky lightened just enough to hint at dawn.

And as the scene dissolved into silence, the words of Walter Benjamin seemed to rise once more, like an echo through time:

“The art of storytelling is reaching its end because the epic side of truth, wisdom, is dying out.”

But perhaps—if Jack and Jeeny were right—
truth was only changing its voice,
and wisdom was not dying,
but sleeping.

Waiting for those brave enough
to wake it with a story.