Wood burns because it has the proper stuff in it; and a man

Host: The morning mist hung low over the construction site, veiling the cranes and steel beams in ghostly white. The sound of hammers, distant and rhythmic, blended with the soft whir of a generator. Dust hung in the air, glittering faintly where sunlight broke through.

At the edge of the site, beside a weathered shipping container turned makeshift office, Jack stood with his jacket slung over one shoulder, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a stack of planks, her hair caught by the wind, her eyes watching him with a quiet mix of curiosity and defiance.

Host: The world around them was half-built—walls without rooms, windows without glass, a skyline still dreaming itself into existence.

Jeeny: “You know what Goethe said? ‘Wood burns because it has the proper stuff in it; and a man becomes famous because he has the proper stuff in him.’”

Jack: (smirks) “Ah, Goethe. Always knew how to make arrogance sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s not arrogance—it’s truth. He’s saying greatness isn’t luck. It’s chemistry. Like wood waiting for flame.”

Jack: “Chemistry? No, Jeeny. It’s chance. The right time, the right people, the right spotlight. Half the world’s geniuses die poor. Half the famous ones can’t tie their own shoes.”

Jeeny: “That’s because fame isn’t always greatness, Jack. But Goethe wasn’t talking about fame the way tabloids mean it. He meant recognition born from authenticity. When someone has that fire inside—the ‘proper stuff’—the world can’t help but see it.”

Host: The wind picked up, scattering a few sheets of blueprints across the ground. Jack bent down, caught one, the paper snapping like flame in his grip.

Jack: “Fire, huh? You ever think about what happens to wood after it burns? All that ‘proper stuff’ turns to ash. Maybe that’s the price of being great—consumed by your own brilliance.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even ash has memory. When wood burns, it gives light. That’s what matters. The world needs the warmth, Jack.”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaled a cloud of smoke that curled upward—grey against the brightening sky.

Jack: “Tell that to Van Gogh. The man died unknown, ear missing, mind broken. His wood burned plenty. But nobody saw the light until he was gone.”

Jeeny: “And yet, his flame still burns, doesn’t it? That’s what I mean—the fire outlives the wood. Fame isn’t the fire’s purpose; it’s its echo.”

Host: A group of workers passed behind them, laughing, shouting over the noise of machines. The world moved on, building, hammering, breaking—indifferent to philosophy. But between Jack and Jeeny, the air held still, heavy with thought.

Jack: “You sound like you believe greatness is destiny. That people are born with this ‘stuff.’”

Jeeny: “Not born with it. Built. Layer by layer—through struggle, heartbreak, persistence. Wood doesn’t start as firewood, Jack. It has to weather storms first. The same with people.”

Jack: (grins faintly) “You’re poetic today.”

Jeeny: “No. Just honest. I’ve seen too many people stop before the spark. They think failure means they’re missing something essential. But Goethe’s point is the opposite—it’s already in you. You just have to burn.”

Host: The sun began to pierce the fog, casting long shadows across the half-finished steel skeleton. Jack stepped closer, flicked his cigarette into a puddle, where it hissed briefly and died.

Jack: “You really think it’s that simple? That if someone burns hard enough, they’ll shine?”

Jeeny: “Not shine. Transform. The way pressure makes diamonds, or heat tempers steel. You can’t fake substance. You either have it—or you cultivate it until you do.”

Jack: “But who decides what’s ‘proper stuff’? Society? Critics? God? Most people with potential never get seen.”

Jeeny: “Because they confuse the world’s approval with their own worth. Having the proper stuff isn’t about being seen, Jack—it’s about being true to what burns in you. The rest is noise.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked away, toward the skyline—the cranes swaying slightly, like giant pendulums measuring the weight of his thoughts.

Jack: “You really believe that? That what’s inside determines everything?”

Jeeny: “Don’t you? You’ve seen it yourself. Some people break under pressure; others turn it into motion. The difference isn’t talent. It’s resilience—the way wood either rots in the rain or waits for flame.”

Host: Jack said nothing. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small folded photo—an old one. Two young men in their twenties, smiling beside a half-built workshop. One was Jack; the other, a friend long gone.

Jeeny noticed, her eyes softening.

Jeeny: “You never talk about him.”

Jack: “He had the spark. The real thing. Built machines that could’ve changed industries. But life… didn’t give him the stage. He died fixing something he invented.”

Jeeny: “Then his flame didn’t die, Jack. You’re still carrying it.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around the photo before he slid it back into his pocket. The wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of cut wood and iron dust.

Jack: “Maybe Goethe was right. Maybe there’s something in us—something that decides whether we ignite or decay. But what if the world never brings the match?”

Jeeny: “Then you strike your own.”

Host: The words hung there—sharp, luminous, defiant. Jack stared at her, the corner of his mouth twitching into the ghost of a smile.

Jack: “You always know how to ruin a perfectly good cynicism.”

Jeeny: “That’s my job.”

Host: The machinery roared back to life nearby, shaking the ground slightly. Workers shouted orders, metal clanged. The world was noisy again—but the silence between them still felt sacred, like the pause between spark and flame.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny about wood, Jack?”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “The same heat that burns it also reveals its scent.”

Jack: (quietly) “And maybe that’s what fame really is—not being seen, but being felt.”

Host: The sunlight broke fully through now, flooding the site in gold. Dust turned to glitter in the air. Jack picked up a piece of raw timber, ran his hand along the grain.

Jack: “Proper stuff, huh? Feels ordinary.”

Jeeny: “So does genius—until it burns.”

Host: They stood together, surrounded by unfinished walls, their silhouettes caught between light and shadow, potential and proof.

A gust of wind carried the scent of sawdust and something else—hope, maybe. The camera pulled back, rising slowly over the site as the workers returned to their rhythm, the sounds of hammers echoing like a heartbeat.

Host: The world kept building. The flame kept waiting. And somewhere, in the quiet chambers of the human soul, Goethe’s whisper lingered—the proper stuff is already there; it only needs the fire.