The worst vice of the solitary is the worship of his food.

Host: The evening stretched long and golden, its light spilling through the cracked blinds of a narrow apartment perched above a forgotten street. The city hummed below — the low murmur of distant traffic, the faint clatter of cutlery from a neighboring window, the sigh of a world half-fed and half-hungry. On the small wooden table, two plates sat untouched. The steam from Jeeny’s bowl of soup curled lazily, like a ghost unwilling to leave.

Jack leaned back in his chair, a cigarette balanced between his fingers, its smoke tracing thin silver lines into the dim air. His eyes — grey, distant — watched Jeeny with the calm intensity of a man dissecting an old truth. Jeeny sat opposite, hands folded, shoulders slouched but eyes ablaze.

The quote had been read from an old book — Cyril Connolly’s: “The worst vice of the solitary is the worship of his food.” It lingered between them, sharp as knife steel and just as personal.

Jeeny: “You think he meant it literally, Jack? That solitude turns us into gluttons — worshipers of what fills our mouths because nothing else will?”

Jack: “I think he meant exactly what he wrote. When you’re alone long enough, you need something to believe in. For some, it’s God. For others, it’s art. For most… it’s pleasure. Food just happens to be the easiest one to access — a small religion in a world of empty rooms.”

Host: The light flickered on the wall, catching the subtle tremor in Jeeny’s fingers as she lifted her spoon, then set it down again without tasting.

Jeeny: “You call it religion, but you say it like it’s sin. What’s wrong with loving the only thing that comforts you? The taste, the smell, the warmth — it reminds you you’re still alive.”

Jack: “It’s not love, Jeeny. It’s compensation. When you worship what should simply sustain you, you stop growing. You shrink into the small pleasure of a bite, and mistake it for meaning. That’s not living — that’s surrender.”

Host: A low wind pressed against the windowpane, its cry mingling with the faint hum of the city below. The clock on the wall ticked — precise, indifferent.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what people do, Jack? We all find gods to fill our loneliness. Some pray to success, some to fame, some to love. Is the solitary man’s hunger really worse than the businessman’s ambition or the lover’s obsession?”

Jack: “At least those aim beyond the self. Food worship is inward, indulgent. It’s a loop. The man eats, feels full, feels empty again, eats again. No dialogue with the world — just a monologue of consumption. That’s what Connolly meant by vice. It’s not the eating. It’s the worship.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a priest of logic. But hunger, Jack — hunger is the most human thing there is. When you live alone, even the smallest ritual becomes sacred. A meal is a ceremony. You bless it because no one else is there to share it.”

Host: The silence between them deepened. The steam from the bowl dimmed, fading into the cool air. Jack drew deeply from his cigarette, then exhaled a long, silver trail that curled above them like incense from a temple.

Jack: “I knew a man once — an old writer in Paris. Lived alone for twenty years. Used to spend his afternoons walking through markets, touching fruit like relics. He’d spend hours preparing dinner, only to eat it in silence. He called it art. But when he died, all they found were notebooks full of recipes and no stories left. He thought he was celebrating life. He was just avoiding it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe his recipes were his stories. Who decides what deserves to be called art? Van Gogh painted bread and chairs and loneliness — the things of everyday survival — and turned them into eternity. Maybe that man did the same, just with taste instead of color.”

Jack: “But Van Gogh painted for the world. He didn’t eat for it.”

Jeeny: “Are you sure? Maybe every artist eats their own pain before they can feed it to others.”

Host: The air grew thick, charged with the slow burn of unspoken things. Outside, a car horn echoed, distant and melancholic, then vanished into the night.

Jack: “Connolly was warning us, Jeeny. The solitary turns inward too far. The worship of food is just the symptom — the disease is isolation itself. Humans aren’t built to exist as temples unto themselves.”

Jeeny: “And yet we all do, Jack. Every one of us. We pretend to share, to connect, but every bite, every word, every love — it’s filtered through the self first. Solitude isn’t a disease. It’s the truest mirror.”

Jack: “And what do you see in that mirror? A saint or a prisoner?”

Jeeny: “Both. A saint who finds holiness in survival, and a prisoner who still manages to dream of taste.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, but her eyes were steady. Jack leaned forward, the faint glow of the cigarette ember reflecting in his gaze — a small, flickering sun caught between two stubborn worlds.

Jack: “You romanticize survival. You turn it into poetry. But what about when that survival becomes addiction? When people start worshiping their small comforts — food, drink, screens — because facing the void is harder?”

Jeeny: “And what if that small comfort keeps them from falling into that void entirely? The poor man who eats bread slowly, with reverence — he’s not a sinner, Jack. He’s finding beauty where the world gives him nothing else.”

Jack: “But don’t you see? That’s the trick. The world wants you to worship your crumbs. Because then you stop asking why you’re starving.”

Host: The temperature in the room seemed to drop. The cigarette smoke lingered, unmoving. Jeeny’s lips parted, her breath caught between defiance and sorrow.

Jeeny: “Then what do you worship, Jack? The emptiness itself?”

Jack: “I worship the truth. Even if it’s bitter.”

Jeeny: “Truth without warmth is starvation.”

Jack: “And warmth without truth is intoxication.”

Host: The two voices collided — sharp, burning — like flint striking steel. The first rain began to fall outside, slow and uncertain, like hesitant tears against the glass.

Jeeny: “So what would you rather be, Jack — a starving man who sees clearly, or a fed one who dreams beautifully?”

Jack: “Neither. I’d rather build something that lasts longer than either hunger or illusion.”

Jeeny: “But you can’t build without hunger. Even your logic feeds on it.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming softly on the roof, creating a rhythm that filled the long pauses between words. Jack’s hand trembled as he crushed the last ash from his cigarette. His eyes softened, their cold edge thawing under Jeeny’s gaze.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s holiness in the small acts. Maybe Connolly wasn’t condemning the worship of food, but warning us to know when we’ve made an altar out of our loneliness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not the food that’s the vice — it’s forgetting why we eat. To live, to share, to love. To feel less alone for a few moments.”

Host: A faint smile broke on Jeeny’s lips, delicate as light on water. Jack’s shoulders eased, the harsh lines of his face relaxing into something almost human, almost weary.

Jack: “So maybe the solitary isn’t damned for worshiping his food… but for forgetting the world it comes from.”

Jeeny: “And the salvation, then, is in remembering that even a solitary meal carries the echo of others — farmers, bakers, mothers, strangers. We never truly eat alone.”

Host: The rain slowed, softening into a whisper. The last curl of steam from the bowl vanished into the cool air. For a moment, neither spoke. The world outside their window was a blurred watercolor of light and shadow — alive, breathing, waiting.

Jack reached for his fork, took a slow bite, and looked up.

Jack: “You were right. It’s better when it’s shared.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The camera would linger there — two souls, quiet at last, the table between them no longer a battlefield but a communion. The rain subsided. The city lights flickered like tired stars.

And for that brief, fragile moment, even solitude tasted like grace.