When I was in my 20s it did occur to me that there was something

Host: The pub was nearly empty, the hour long past when conversation turns from laughter to truth. The fireplace still crackled in the corner, throwing out soft orange light that painted the walls in flickers of warmth and shadow. Outside, the Irish rain fell steady and fine — the kind that doesn’t soak you at once, just keeps touching you until you’re cold.

At the back of the room, Jack sat at a worn oak table, a pint half-drunk before him, the foam slowly dying into silence. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on the table, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger. The air between them hummed with the weight of an unfinished conversation.

Jeeny: “John McGahern once said, ‘When I was in my 20s it did occur to me that there was something perverted about an attitude that thought that killing somebody was a minor offence compared to kissing somebody.’”

Host: Jack’s grey eyes lifted, a flicker of wry amusement breaking the solemn quiet.

Jack: “That’s the most Irish observation I’ve ever heard — soaked in irony and truth at the same time.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than irony. It’s accusation. He was pointing a finger at the hypocrisy of a world that fears intimacy more than violence.”

Jack: “Yeah. A world that pardons brutality but blushes at tenderness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We punish the wrong sins.”

Host: The fire popped, sending a small ember spinning into the air before it vanished. Jack leaned back, his jaw tightening as if the thought itself hurt to hold.

Jack: “You know, when you look at history, that’s all it is — centuries of people sanctifying death and censoring love.”

Jeeny: “Wars glorified, kisses condemned.”

Jack: “We teach boys to fight before we teach them to feel. And then wonder why they don’t know how to stop.”

Jeeny: “That’s what McGahern was getting at — how twisted it is that violence gets moral pardon while affection gets moral panic.”

Host: The rain grew heavier outside, pressing gently against the window. Inside, the soft murmur of the bartender cleaning glasses filled the quiet.

Jack: “You think it’s religion’s fault? Or culture’s?”

Jeeny: “Both. Religion sanctified suffering; culture inherited the shame of the body. Between the two, joy became suspect.”

Jack: “And guilt became tradition.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We built entire societies on the idea that purity lies in repression — and then we act surprised when repression turns poisonous.”

Host: Jack took a long drink, the glass catching the firelight. His voice came out lower now, quieter, heavy with memory.

Jack: “I remember when I was a kid — priests came to our school to talk about sin. They spoke for an hour about lust and pride, and not one minute about cruelty. Not one word about kindness.”

Jeeny: softly “Because kindness doesn’t serve authority. Fear does.”

Jack: nodding slowly “And that’s how they controlled us — not by forbidding killing, but by making love shameful.”

Host: The firelight shimmered across Jeeny’s face. Her eyes were bright — not with tears, but conviction.

Jeeny: “You know, when I first read that quote, I thought it was just clever. But the older I get, the more I realize — it’s the most tragic truth about civilization. We’ve normalized destruction but pathologized desire.”

Jack: “Yeah. We call it ‘justice’ when we bomb cities, but ‘indecency’ when two people kiss in public.”

Jeeny: “Or ‘immorality’ when love crosses the wrong lines — race, gender, class. We make laws to protect power, not tenderness.”

Jack: “Because tenderness threatens power. You can’t rule people who know how to love each other.”

Jeeny: “That’s why the first thing authoritarianism does is outlaw intimacy — whether it’s between people, or between art and truth.”

Host: Jack’s hand rested on the table, absently tapping. A single drop of rain trickled down the window, carving its own slow path.

Jack: “You know, maybe McGahern was too gentle for the world he lived in. He saw that love was subversive — not romantic, but revolutionary.”

Jeeny: “Because love creates equality. It erases hierarchy. It reminds us that everyone, no matter how poor or lost, has something worth touching gently.”

Jack: “That’s the kind of equality the powerful can’t tolerate.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the poets keep writing it. The artists keep painting it. The lovers keep kissing — even when the law says not to.”

Host: The rain softened. The pub’s clock ticked steadily, the rhythm like a heartbeat under their words.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How morality can be more obscene than sin.”

Jeeny: “Because morality, when it’s about control, becomes cruelty wearing a halo.”

Jack: “And cruelty’s always been socially acceptable, as long as it’s done politely.”

Jeeny: “We’ve just learned to hide it under uniforms, flags, and prayers.”

Host: Jack glanced toward the fireplace, where the flames were smaller now, more ember than flame.

Jack: “So what’s the answer, Jeeny? How do you fix a world that’s more offended by affection than by apathy?”

Jeeny: “By teaching people that love isn’t weakness. That it’s the only kind of strength that doesn’t require an enemy.”

Jack: “You think that’ll ever happen?”

Jeeny: “Not easily. But every time someone chooses compassion over cruelty, we move one step closer.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, his cynicism softening into something like belief.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what McGahern was trying to say — that the greatest rebellion isn’t in defying authority, but in daring to be tender in a violent world.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To kiss when it’s easier to turn away. To forgive when it’s fashionable to hate.”

Jack: “To feel, even when feeling hurts.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The fire gave one last pop, collapsing softly into its own ashes. The room dimmed, but their faces still glowed in the last orange light.

Outside, the rain slowed to a whisper. Somewhere, a church bell rang once — distant, mournful, but clear.

Jack raised his glass slightly.

Jack: “To McGahern.”

Jeeny: “To love — the real kind, the dangerous kind.”

Jack: smiling “The kind that might just save us.”

Host: They drank in silence. The camera lingered — two figures in the dying glow of a fire, a world beyond them still obsessed with power, punishment, and shame.

And as the light faded to black, John McGahern’s words whispered like a confession the world still needed to hear:

That morality without mercy is sin.
That tenderness is not temptation, but truth.
And that the most radical act in any age —
is not to fight,
but to love,
when loving is forbidden.