This is the artist, then, life's hungry man, the glutton of

Host:
The studio was chaos incarnate — a cathedral of dust, paint, and brilliance. Canvases leaned against one another like forgotten saints. Half-finished sculptures loomed in the dim light, their marble faces caught between existence and imagination. The air was thick with the scent of turpentine, sweat, and mad devotion.

Outside, the city slept, its rhythm a distant heartbeat. Inside, Jack worked — his shirt rolled up, his hair damp, his hands trembling. A cigarette smoldered in the corner of an ashtray, its smoke twisting upward like a tired ghost. Across the room, Jeeny watched him, sitting cross-legged on a stool, a cup of coffee in hand, her gaze a mixture of awe and quiet concern.

Jeeny: softly “Tom Wolfe once wrote, ‘This is the artist, then, life’s hungry man, the glutton of eternity, beauty’s miser, glory’s slave.’”

Jack: without looking up “Yeah. Sounds about right. Though I’d add ‘sleep’s enemy’ to that list.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “He wasn’t describing comfort. He was describing hunger — the kind that never stops.”

Jack: setting his brush down, turning toward her “You think it’s hunger, Jeeny? Or addiction? Because I’m not sure I can tell the difference anymore.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe they’re the same thing — hunger with purpose.”

Jack: bitterly “Purpose doesn’t make it noble. It just makes it harder to quit.”

Host: The lamplight above flickered, casting shifting shadows on his half-finished painting — a storm of color, chaos, and revelation. The figure on the canvas looked human, but only barely. It was part body, part ache.

Jeeny: gently “Wolfe called the artist a ‘glutton of eternity.’ That’s not about greed. It’s about appetite — about wanting more life than one lifetime can hold.”

Jack: quietly “And what do we do with it? That hunger?”

Jeeny: softly “We feed it until it devours us.”

Jack: smirking “You say that like it’s romantic.”

Jeeny: after a pause “It’s not. It’s tragic. But tragedy’s what beauty costs.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, tapping softly on the windows — a metronome for the confession unfolding in the half-light. Jack leaned back against the table, exhaling deeply, the smoke from his cigarette merging with the lamplight.

Jack: quietly “You know, people talk about artists like they’re blessed. Gifted. But Wolfe got it right — we’re slaves. Glory’s slaves. Bound to something invisible, irrational, insatiable.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “And yet, you’d never trade it, would you?”

Jack: after a long pause “No. I wouldn’t. That’s the curse. You can hate the hunger, but you can’t live without it.”

Jeeny: softly “Because the hunger is life.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. I don’t live between paintings. I wait.”

Jeeny: looking at him gently “And when you create?”

Jack: smiling faintly “That’s when I stop dying.”

Host: The sound of thunder rolled faintly through the city. The lamp hummed, the room glowing with a strange, sacred exhaustion. Every surface shimmered with the residue of obsession — paint, dust, and breath.

Jeeny: softly “You know, Wolfe’s words… they sound grand. But really, they’re just truth. The artist doesn’t create for beauty or fame. He creates because silence hurts too much.”

Jack: quietly “Silence is starvation. I’d rather choke on beauty than die of stillness.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “See? That’s what makes you both brilliant and broken.”

Jack: dryly “Mostly broken.”

Jeeny: gently “No, Jack. Just human — magnified.”

Host: The lightning flashed through the window, illuminating the chaos of the room — brushes, sketches, canvases, and a thousand dreams clawing their way toward reality. It wasn’t madness. It was metamorphosis.

Jack: softly “You know, sometimes I think being an artist is just a polite form of madness. You keep trying to trap eternity in pigment, sound, or words. But eternity doesn’t want to be caught.”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe it does. Maybe it just wants to be seen, for a second — by someone mad enough to try.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So we’re translators for the infinite.”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. And every translation costs a little of your soul.”

Jack: quietly “Then my debt’s long overdue.”

Jeeny: gently “No. You’re just paying in installments.”

Host: The rain intensified, the sound merging with the hum of the lamp. In the flicker of light, the unfinished painting seemed to move — its form pulsing with life, as if responding to the conversation, breathing through the silence.

Jeeny: after a long pause “You ever wonder why art feels like both creation and destruction?”

Jack: nodding slowly “Because it is. Every brushstroke builds something new while erasing something of you.”

Jeeny: quietly “That’s why Wolfe called us misers — we hoard beauty because we know it can’t last.”

Jack: softly “Beauty’s a currency that only loses value when you stop looking.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Then you must be rich.”

Jack: bitterly “No. Just indebted to everything I’ve ever loved.”

Host: The studio clock ticked softly. It wasn’t measuring time — it was measuring effort. The hours already lost to obsession. The lifetime being traded piece by piece for something immortal that may never arrive.

Jeeny: quietly “You know, Jack… you talk like it’s punishment. But maybe it’s grace. To hunger for eternity is still to believe in it.”

Jack: softly “Belief doesn’t fill you. It just keeps you starving.”

Jeeny: gently “And maybe that’s the art — staying hungry. Refusing to be satisfied by anything less than everything.”

Jack: smiling faintly “The glutton of eternity.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly.”

Jack: after a pause “You think there’s peace for people like us?”

Jeeny: quietly “Not peace. But purpose.”

Jack: softly “And that’s enough?”

Jeeny: smiling “It’s more than most people ever find.”

Host: The rain eased, the night softened. The city outside exhaled. The lantern’s flame steadied, its glow bathing the studio in gold — like forgiveness, like morning arriving early.

Jack turned back to his painting, his expression calmer now, less desperate. Jeeny watched him, her eyes kind, knowing that this moment — fragile, fleeting — was the only heaven artists ever got.

And as the first stroke of color broke the silence again, Tom Wolfe’s words lingered in the air like a prayer for all who dare to make something eternal from the temporary:

That the artist is both devourer and devotee,
glutton of beauty,
slave of glory,
architect of ache.

That his curse and his calling
are one and the same —
to hunger for what cannot be owned,
to chase what cannot be caught,
to worship what always vanishes.

And yet to create anyway —
because in that endless, aching pursuit,
he touches the divine
for just a moment —
and that moment
is forever.

Fade out.