The characteristic political attitude of today is not one of

Host: The rain outside fell with a kind of cold insistence, washing the city in long, silver streaks of fatigue. It wasn’t a storm — just a steady drizzle, enough to make everything shimmer without ever truly cleansing it. The streetlights flickered over slick pavement, and through the window of a dimly lit bar, the world looked like a watercolor bleeding at its edges.

Inside, the bar was quiet — half-empty, half-forgotten. A radio murmured low in the background, narrating the day’s political headlines in that detached, weary tone that suggested even the broadcaster had stopped believing the words.

At a small table near the back, Jack sat nursing a whiskey that had long since lost its warmth. Across from him, Jeeny traced circles in the condensation on her glass, her eyes thoughtful, restless.

Between them lay an open notebook, its pages filled with quotes and fragments. One line, written in bold ink, had started their argument — a single sentence by Herbert Read, underlined twice:

“The characteristic political attitude of today is not one of positive belief, but of despair.”
— Herbert Read

Jeeny (softly): “You think he’s right? That politics today is just organized despair?”

Jack: “It’s not just politics. It’s the whole damn atmosphere. Everyone’s angry, but no one’s convinced.”

Jeeny: “Maybe conviction died when empathy did.”

Jack: “No — conviction died when it stopped paying.”

Host: A soft chuckle escaped him, bitter, quiet. The sound of rain against glass filled the space between them like punctuation.

Jeeny: “You don’t really believe that.”

Jack: “I do. Look around. Everyone’s performing outrage for their side, but no one actually believes in anything anymore. They just want to be seen believing.”

Jeeny: “That’s not despair, Jack. That’s exhaustion.”

Jack: “Same thing in slow motion.”

Host: She leaned back, crossing her arms, the amber light from the bar lamp falling across her face — revealing not anger, but a kind of deep disappointment.

Jeeny: “You make it sound hopeless.”

Jack: “It is hopeless. We’ve traded ideology for identity, truth for tribe. Herbert Read saw it coming — people can’t live on belief anymore because belief requires vulnerability, and vulnerability is dangerous.”

Jeeny: “You mean because it asks you to feel?”

Jack: “Exactly. And feeling doesn’t win elections.”

Host: The bartender passed, wiping down tables, humming absently — the only melody left in a room filled with silence and unspoken truths.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? Despair still takes energy. You can’t despair unless you care about something. Apathy is worse.”

Jack: “So you think there’s hope in despair?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Despair means you remember what could’ve been. That memory — that ache — is the ember of belief, even if it’s dying.”

Jack: “You sound like someone defending a candle in a hurricane.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who stopped carrying matches.”

Host: He looked up at her, half a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth — not amusement, but admiration for her stubbornness.

Jack: “You know, Read wrote that in the 1930s. Europe was burning, fascism rising. And he still thought despair was an attitude, not a destiny.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe despair isn’t the absence of belief. Maybe it’s belief wounded — belief grieving.”

Jack: “Belief after betrayal.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, its rhythm now steady, relentless. A siren wailed faintly somewhere in the distance — the city’s voice, tired but unbroken.

Jeeny: “You ever think we expect too much from politics? Maybe we’re asking institutions to save souls.”

Jack: “Politics used to be about possibility. Now it’s just maintenance. Everyone fighting to keep their side from collapsing instead of imagining something better.”

Jeeny: “So you think imagination is political?”

Jack: “It has to be. Without imagination, you’re just managing decline.”

Host: She leaned forward, her voice gaining that quiet intensity that always came when she believed too much for her own good.

Jeeny: “You know what I think despair really is? The sound of people who still care, realizing no one’s listening.”

Jack: “And belief?”

Jeeny: “Belief is what you whisper to yourself after the shouting ends.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, the sharp edge of cynicism in them dulling to something almost tender.

Jack: “You’d make a terrible politician, you know that?”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because you still think hearts matter.”

Jeeny: “They always do. Politics just forgot it’s supposed to serve them.”

Host: The bar lights flickered, and for a moment, everything felt suspended — two people caught in the slow drift of history’s fatigue. Outside, the rain pooled in the street, reflecting the world upside down.

Jack: “You ever wonder what belief feels like now? In a world this fractured?”

Jeeny: “It feels like art, I think.”

Jack: “Art?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Fragile. Personal. Useless to some — essential to others. It doesn’t fix anything, but it keeps something human alive.”

Jack: “Then despair is the politics of people who’ve forgotten how to make art.”

Jeeny: “Maybe despair is what happens when the world stops imagining itself differently.”

Jack: “So you still believe in the future?”

Jeeny: “I believe in trying to.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of realism and grace. The rain slowed. The siren faded. Somewhere, a door closed, soft but final.

Jack raised his glass slightly — not a toast, but a gesture of truce.

Jack: “To despair.”

Jeeny: “To remembering that we still care.”

Jack: “And to the fools who refuse to stop believing.”

Jeeny: “Which means us.”

Jack (smiling): “Exactly.”

Host: They clinked glasses — a small sound, almost fragile, but in it, there was something defiant. Something alive.

The camera pulled back, framing the small bar in the glow of its lonely light, two silhouettes outlined against the grey of the city beyond.

And above the murmur of rain, Herbert Read’s words echoed like a quiet truth whispered across time:

“The characteristic political attitude of today is not one of positive belief, but of despair.”

Because belief is brave, and despair is honest.
And between the two — in that fragile, trembling space —
humanity still tries to hope.

Host: Outside, the rain finally stopped. The city exhaled.
And for a moment, in that calm between storms,
Jack and Jeeny sat in silence —
not cured, not convinced —
but courageous enough to care anyway.