What we call progress is the exchange of one nuisance for another

Host: The night city stretched beneath a soft haze of streetlight — the kind of night that smelled faintly of exhaust and wet concrete, where the hum of electricity was constant, low, and oddly intimate. The skyscrapers blinked their coded lights into the dark, while an old tram rattled somewhere far below.

On a rooftop terrace littered with the leftovers of an unfinished dinner — empty wine glasses, an ashtray, and a single flickering candle — Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other. The air buzzed faintly with neon and irony, the pulse of the modern world wrapping around them like static.

Jeeny gazed at the skyline, her eyes reflecting the city’s glow — all that steel and light and effort pretending to be hope. Jack leaned back in his chair, cigarette in hand, his expression sharp with cynicism, his voice edged like glass.

Jeeny: “Havelock Ellis once said, ‘What we call progress is the exchange of one nuisance for another nuisance.’”

Jack: (smirking) “Finally, a philosopher with a sense of humor. That line could be the world’s obituary.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “You mean yours. You’ve been writing humanity’s obituary since I met you.”

Jack: “And we keep proving me right. Every invention is supposed to liberate us, but it just invents new chains. We cured boredom with technology — now we’re addicted to distraction. We built cities for freedom — now we drown in noise and loneliness. Progress is a rerun with better lighting.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like the problem’s the tools, not the hands that use them.”

Jack: “The hands are the problem too. Every generation thinks it’s smarter than the last because it builds faster. But faster toward what? We traded hunger for anxiety, plagues for pollution, ignorance for information overload. The nuisances just wear better suits.”

Host: The wind swept across the rooftop, playing with the loose pages of Jeeny’s notebook. Somewhere below, a car horn blared — long, impatient — and the sound dissolved into the hum of traffic.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly what Ellis meant. Progress isn’t perfection — it’s motion. It’s not meant to solve nuisance; it’s meant to refine it. Like life itself.”

Jack: “Refine? You mean reinvent the same mistakes with fancier excuses.”

Jeeny: “No. I mean evolution, Jack. The nuisances change because we change. The problems we face today would have been luxuries a century ago. We’ve just forgotten gratitude.”

Jack: “Gratitude doesn’t erase absurdity. People used to die of fevers — now they die of burnout. That’s not progress. That’s rebranding suffering.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re alive because of that same progress you mock. The medicine you take, the heat in your apartment, even the coffee you’re addicted to — all products of nuisance exchanged for another.”

Jack: (with a dry laugh) “Touché. But tell me this: if progress is so noble, why are we more miserable than ever? Depression rates climb, attention spans shrink, the oceans choke, and we keep telling ourselves this is advancement. Maybe Ellis wasn’t cynical — maybe he was merciful.”

Host: The candlelight trembled between them, the flame bending and righting itself in the wind, stubborn like the human spirit. Jeeny watched it, then spoke, her tone low but steady.

Jeeny: “Maybe misery is part of growing up as a species. Progress forces awareness — and awareness hurts. We used to fear darkness; now we fear meaninglessness. That’s still movement.”

Jack: “So you think pain is progress.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. The soul evolves the same way civilization does — by trading old comforts for new complexities. Maybe the nuisances are just mirrors, showing us what still needs growing.”

Jack: “Or showing us that growth itself is overrated. Look at the world. Everyone’s chasing better — better phones, better jobs, better lives — and no one stops to ask: better than what? We’re sprinting toward infinity with a limp.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “And yet, we keep running. That’s the miracle. Maybe Ellis wasn’t mocking progress; maybe he was admiring its irony. We’ll never stop chasing better, even when we trip over it.”

Host: The rain began, slow and thin, the drops catching the last of the candle’s glow before dying on the table. The city lights blurred into streaks across the window of the night. Jack sighed, leaned forward, and stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray.

Jack: “You know what I think? Humanity doesn’t want peace. We want purpose. And purpose always comes with problems. Maybe that’s why we invent nuisances — so we have something to fix.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Maybe progress isn’t the exchange of nuisances, but the art of giving our problems meaning.”

Jack: (intrigued) “Meaning?”

Jeeny: “Think about it. Every struggle carries the illusion of purpose. The farmer fought weather, the industrialist fought scarcity, the modern man fights time. We keep inventing new battles so life doesn’t feel empty. Ellis was right — nuisance is inevitable. But progress is learning to love the fight.”

Jack: “So you’re saying progress is an addiction to hope.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’re wired to believe the next thing will make us whole — even when we know it won’t. That’s our curse and our glory.”

Host: The rain thickened now, drumming lightly against the metal railing. The candle flickered out with a sigh of smoke, leaving only the soft light from the skyline. Jack looked across the rooftop — at the blurred city glowing like a restless constellation — and his voice dropped to something almost tender.

Jack: “You know, I don’t hate progress. I just hate how easily we confuse convenience for meaning. We build faster machines, but not deeper hearts.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe progress isn’t in the machines at all. Maybe it’s in how we learn to feel again — in spite of them.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You think that’s possible? To stay human when the world feels mechanical?”

Jeeny: “Only if we remember the nuisance of being human — the questions, the doubt, the hunger to understand. That’s the one nuisance worth keeping.”

Host: A moment passed — long, reflective — the kind that makes silence feel intelligent. The rain softened to a whisper. Jeeny closed her notebook and looked at Jack, her expression full of quiet certainty.

Jeeny: “Maybe progress isn’t the story of getting better. It’s the story of staying awake.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Even when it hurts.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The storm passed as quickly as it had come. The air felt clean again — the kind of freshness that only follows rain and revelation. Below, the city pulsed on, unchanged yet somehow renewed.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, watching the clouds part to reveal a few faint stars — stubborn, timeless, undeterred by the artificial light below.

Host: And as the wind carried away the last smoke of the extinguished candle, Ellis’s words lingered — not as cynicism, but as a mirror:

That what we call progress is not perfection,
but persistence —
the tireless exchange of one imperfection for another,
the restless hum of a species learning, breaking, rebuilding.

And somewhere beneath the noise, between invention and regret,
the human heart —
still fragile, still seeking —
remains the most beautiful nuisance of all.