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Underneath A Chestnut Tree A Park In Paris ...

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FEEDING THE BIRDS, DEAR?

An Extraordinary Afternoon in Paris

Anne Frank & Edith Piaf

A fictional encounter between two real women,

inspired by their lives, their words,

their music and the history that shaped them.

Chapter One: The Little Sparrow

PARIS

Springtime.

The sort of afternoon that makes one wonder why anyone ever bothers with winter.

The chestnut trees were beginning to dress themselves in their finest green.

The flowerbeds were bursting with colour, the fountains were playing their familiar watery tunes, the great city was behaving as though it had never done anything more dreadful than overcharge an Englishman for a cup of coffee.

Which, of course, was nonsense.

Paris had seen revolutions, executions, invasions, occupations, uprisings and more political scandals than a respectable historian could comfortably fit into a lifetime.

Yet every spring, she put on her prettiest frock, dabbed a little perfume behind her ears and pretended to be innocent.

The French have always been rather good at that.

It was shortly after two o'clock.

In a quiet corner of the Jardin du Luxembourg, away from the more fashionable promenades.

A young girl sat alone upon a wooden bench.

She was perhaps fifteen years old.

Her dress was blue.

Not an expensive blue, nor a particularly fashionable one.

Just a simple, rather pretty blue cotton dress with a white collar,

neatly pressed and carefully buttoned.

Her dark hair fell around her face.

She had thoughtful eyes.

Eyes that seemed to have seen considerably more than fifteen years ought to permit.

She looked neither happy nor sad.

Merely, thoughtful.

Beside her sat a small paper bag full of breadcrumbs.

Every so often, she reached inside, took a little handful and scattered them upon the gravel.

Immediately, several sparrows appeared.

They hopped, fluttered, argued, pecked.

Occasionally behaved with the sort of appalling manners,

normally reserved for politicians at an International Conference.

The girl watched them with considerable amusement.

"You are terribly greedy," she told one particularly plump fellow.

The sparrow looked up.

“Not, very polite either."

He helped himself to another crumb.

"Honestly! You remind me of someone I used to know."

She smiled.

Then, quite unexpectedly, the smile disappeared.

For a moment, her thoughts seemed to travel somewhere

far beyond the beautiful Parisian gardens.

Somewhere, dark.

Somewhere, without birdsong.

Somewhere where even the smallest noise

could become a matter of life and death.

She shook her head gently.

"No," she whispered. "Not today."

She scattered another handful of crumbs.

It was then that a woman appeared along the path.

She was very small.

Almost painfully thin.

Her black coat hung loosely from narrow shoulders,

her dark hair framed a face that seemed to have been carved by sorrow,

laughter, sleepless nights and rather too much champagne.

She looked an old sixty.

In truth, she had never lived to reach fifty.

But time, which had never been particularly kind to her,

had apparently decided to finish the job anyway.

She walked slowly.

Not because she was in any particular hurry,

but because her body had long ago ceased cooperating with her ambitions.

She carried a small handbag.

Her shoes were black.

Her stockings were slightly crooked.

She possessed the unmistakable air of a woman,

who had spent a lifetime being told what she ought to do,

while doing precisely as she pleased.

She stopped beside the bench.

Looked at the birds.

Then at the girl.

"Vous nourrissez les oiseaux, ma chère?"

Feeding the birds, dear?

The girl looked up.

"Ja," she replied automatically.

Then, realising the woman was speaking French, she smiled apologetically.

"Oui, madame. Les moineaux sont mes préférés."

Sparrows are my favourites.

The woman smiled.

"Ah! Les moineaux!"

She looked down at the little birds.

"Moi aussi, ma chérie."

I like sparrows very much too.

"May I sit?"

"Please."

The woman lowered herself carefully onto the bench.

For a moment, neither spoke.

The sparrows continued their feast.

Then the woman opened her handbag.

Removed a cigarette.

Searched for a lighter.

Failed to find one.

Searched again.

Muttered something in French that would have made a priest reconsider his vocation.

The girl giggled.

"Have you lost something?"

"My lighter."

"Perhaps you shouldn't smoke."

The woman looked at her.

"Perhaps you shouldn't interfere."

The girl burst out laughing.

The woman grinned.

"What's your name, little one?"

"Anne."

"Anne what?"

"Frank."

"Anne Frank."

She repeated it thoughtfully.

"A good name. Strong. Simple.

Easy to remember."

“Yours, madame?"

"Édith."

"Édith what?"

The woman hesitated.

Then smiled.

"Piaf."

Anne considered this.

"Piaf?"

"Yes."

"Like a sparrow?"

Édith's smile widened.

"Exactly like a sparrow."

Anne looked at the birds.

Then back at the woman.

"How extraordinary!"

"Why?"

"Because sparrows are my favourites!"

Édith laughed.

"Then, my dear Anne Frank, I suspect we are going to get along very well."

Somewhere above them, in the branches of a chestnut tree,

a small brown sparrow began to sing.

Neither woman knew it yet.

But the afternoon was about to become one of the most extraordinary conversations

that had never taken place.

Chapter Two: Two Girls Who Grew Up Too Quickly

"Where are you from?" asked Édith.

"Germany originally. Frankfurt.

But I grew up in Amsterdam."

"Ah, Holland!"

Anne nodded.

"And you?"

"Paris."

"Have you always lived here?"

"Good heavens, no! I've lived everywhere.

Streets, rooms, hotels, dressing rooms, hospitals.

Occasionally somewhere respectable, although never for very long."

Anne laughed.

"Were you happy as a little girl?"

Édith looked at her.

It was such an innocent question.

And such a difficult one.

"Sometimes."

"Only sometimes?"

"Isn't that enough?"

Anne considered this.

"I don't think so."

"Neither do I, darling.

But life seldom consults us about these matters."

She leaned back against the bench.

"My childhood was rather untidy."

"Untidy?"

"Very."

"How?"

"Well, my mother was a singer.

My father was an acrobat.

I spent some of my childhood with my grandmother, who ran a brothel."

Anne's eyes widened.

"A what?"

"A brothel."

"I know what a brothel is!"

"Then why did you ask?"

"I wasn't expecting you to say it!"

Édith laughed so loudly that several sparrows took flight.

"Darling, if you spend your life expecting respectable answers, you will be terribly disappointed."

Anne grinned.

"Did you like living there?"

"Some of the women were very kind to me."

"Really?"

"Of course. A woman's occupation does not tell you everything about her heart."

Anne thought about that.

It was a rather wonderful observation.

One she might have written down.

If only she had her diary.

"My father was a businessman," Anne said.

"A respectable one?"

"Very."

"Poor man."

Anne laughed.

"He was lovely."

"Then he was a rare businessman."

"He was patient. Intelligent. Kind.

He used to help me with my studies."

"And your mother?"

Anne's expression changed.

"My mother..."

She paused.

"We didn't always understand one another."

Édith nodded.

"Ah."

"I was sometimes very unkind to her."

"Were you?"

"I thought she didn't understand me. I thought nobody understood me."

"That sounds remarkably like being fifteen."

Anne smiled faintly.

"I suppose."

"Did she love you?"

"Yes."

"Did you love her?"

Anne looked down.

"Yes."

"Then perhaps the rest was simply unfinished business."

Anne was silent.

Unfinished business.

What a curious expression.

How much of human life was unfinished business?

How many apologies were never spoken?

How many embraces were postponed?

How many people went to bed angry with someone,

never imagining that tomorrow might not arrive?

"I wish..." Anne began.

Then stopped.

Édith waited.

"I wish I could speak to her again."

Édith's face softened.

"So do I."

"Your mother?"

"My daughter."

Anne turned.

"You had a daughter?"

"Yes. Marcelle."

"What a pretty name."

"She was a pretty little thing."

"Where is she?"

Édith looked towards the fountain.

"She died when she was two."

Anne's hand stopped inside the paper bag.

"Oh."

For once, the girl who loved words could find none.

"I'm terribly sorry."

Édith shrugged.

Not because it did not matter.

But because some sorrows become so deeply buried

within us that even speaking of them feels like disturbing a grave.

"Thank you."

"Did you miss her?"

Édith turned.

"Every day."

Anne nodded.

"I think I understand."

Édith studied the girl.

"Do you?"

"Not exactly. But I know what it is to lose people."

"Who did you lose?"

Anne looked at the sparrows.

"Almost everyone."

The woman said nothing.

A little breeze moved through the trees.

Somewhere, a child was laughing.

A distant church bell rang.

Paris continued being Paris.

Entirely indifferent to the extraordinary sadness sitting upon one of its benches.

After a while, Édith reached into her handbag again.

"Would you like a cigarette?"

Anne stared at her.

"I'm fifteen!"

"So?"

"Fifteen!"

Édith raised an eyebrow.

"Darling, I've been fifteen three times. It doesn't improve with practice."

Anne burst out laughing.

For a few glorious seconds, both women forgot their sorrows.

Chapter Three: The Girl Who Could Not Go Outside

"Tell me about Amsterdam," said Édith.

Anne brightened.

"Oh, it was wonderful before the war."

"Before the war?"

"Yes."

"Did you have friends?"

"Lots. I went to school. I loved reading. I liked the cinema. I wanted to be a writer."

"A writer?"

"Yes."

"What sort?"

"All sorts! Stories, novels, perhaps journalism."

Édith nodded approvingly.

"A dangerous occupation."

"Writing?"

"Certainly. People will forgive a singer almost anything if she sings beautifully enough.

But a writer who tells the truth? Governments find those terribly inconvenient."

Anne smiled.

"I liked writing."

"Then you should write."

"I did."

"Good."

"I kept a diary."

"Excellent. Diaries are wonderful. You can insult people without having to apologize."

Anne giggled.

"I did rather a lot of that."

"Then you were using it correctly."

Anne grew thoughtful.

"It wasn't just that. I wanted to understand myself. And other people.

I wanted to make sense of everything."

"Did you?"

"Not really."

"Nobody does, darling. That's why philosophers have jobs."

Anne laughed.

Then Édith asked:

"What happened during the war?"

The laughter faded.

Anne looked down at her hands.

"We had to hide."

"Hide?"

"Yes."

"From whom?"

"The Nazis."

Édith became very still.

Anne continued.

"My family was Jewish."

Édith nodded.

"We had to leave Germany because of what was happening there.

We thought Holland would be safe."

"But it wasn't."

"No."

Anne shook her head.

"They invaded. Then came the restrictions.

We couldn't do ordinary things anymore."

"Such as?"

"Go where we wanted. Attend the schools we wanted. Visit places. Live normally."

She looked towards the open park.

"Eventually, we couldn't even go outside."

Édith glanced at the sunlight.

"Outside?"

Anne nodded.

"We hid in rooms behind my father's business premises.

Eight of us."

"For how long?"

"More than two years."

Édith stared at her.

"Two years?"

"Yes."

"Without going outside?"

"Not once."

Édith looked around the gardens.

At the trees.

The fountain.

The children.

The sunshine.

The sparrows.

"Mon Dieu."

Anne smiled sadly.

"You see why I like sitting here?"

Édith said nothing.

"I used to look out at the sky whenever I could.

Sometimes I could see a little bit of a tree."

"A tree?"

"A chestnut tree."

Édith looked up.

Above them, the great chestnut branches were moving gently in the breeze.

Anne followed her gaze.

"Funny, isn't it?"

"What?"

"How something so ordinary can become the most beautiful thing

in the world when you can't have it."

Édith swallowed.

"Yes."

"I used to dream about walking outside.

Feeling the wind. Hearing birds. Not having to be quiet."

"Quiet?"

"We had to be careful. Especially during the day. People were working below us."

Anne paused.

"You couldn't run. You couldn't shout. Sometimes you couldn't even flush the toilet."

Édith looked horrified.

"Not flush the toilet?"

Anne nodded solemnly.

Édith shook her head.

"Darling, I could survive without champagne.

I could perhaps survive without cigarettes. But that..."

Anne laughed.

Then, just as quickly, she stopped.

"Sometimes we laughed too."

"I'm glad."

"We had arguments. Silly arguments. About food. About space. About everything."

"Eight people shut together for two years? I'm surprised there weren't murders."

Anne smiled.

"Sometimes I thought there might be."

They laughed.

But beneath the laughter was something neither needed to explain.

Fear.

Not the brief fear of a thunderstorm.

Not, the nervousness before a performance.

But the kind of fear that moves into your home, sits at your table,

sleeps beside your bed and waits patiently for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

"Did they find you?" Édith asked quietly.

Anne looked at her.

"Yes."

The word seemed to fall between them like a stone into deep water.

"And then?"

Anne did not answer immediately.

"We were arrested."

Édith closed her eyes.

"Where did they take you?"

"First to a transit camp.

Then Auschwitz. Later, my sister Margot and I were sent to Bergen-Belsen."

Édith's face had lost its colour.

Anne continued softly.

"It was terrible."

There were no elaborate descriptions.

No dramatic speeches.

Just those three words.

It was terrible.

Sometimes the greatest horrors require the fewest words.

"Did your sister survive?" Édith whispered.

Anne shook her head.

"No."

“Your mother?"

"No."

"Your father?"

Anne looked up.

"Yes."

Édith exhaled.

"Thank God."

Anne smiled.

"He was a good man."

"I believe you."

"He always believed in me."

"Then he was a wise man."

Anne looked at the paper bag.

"I never got to say goodbye properly."

Édith reached across and took her hand.

For a long time, neither spoke.

Then Anne looked at her companion.

"Édith?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Did you live through the war?"

Édith hesitated.

"Yes."

"In Paris?"

"Yes."

Anne looked directly into her eyes.

"Then you must have seen the Germans."

Édith's fingers tightened around her handbag.

"Yes."

"And the Nazis?"

"Yes."

Anne nodded slowly.

Then asked the question that would change the entire afternoon.

"Did you sing for them?"

Chapter Four: The Song and the Swastika

For the first time since sitting down,

Édith Piaf seemed genuinely uncomfortable.

Not embarrassed.

Not offended.

Uncomfortable.

There is a difference.

Embarrassment is what one feels when one's stockings fall down in public.

Discomfort is what one feels when somebody asks a question whose answer cannot be made respectable by changing the subject.

Édith looked towards the fountain.

"Yes," she said.

Anne waited.

"I sang during the occupation."

"For Germans?"

"Sometimes."

"For Nazis?"

Édith took a long breath.

"Some of the Germans who came to hear me were undoubtedly Nazis."

Anne looked at her.

"Why?"

Édith turned.

"Why did I sing?"

"Yes."

"Because I was a singer."

Anne frowned.

"That doesn't seem a very good answer."

"No," Édith admitted. "It doesn't."

A sparrow landed beside Édith's shoe.

She looked down at it.

"Life under occupation was complicated."

Anne said nothing.

"People still had to eat. Work. Survive.

Some resisted. Some collaborated.

Some tried to keep their heads down.

Some did things they later regretted."

“Some helped the Nazis."

"Yes."

Anne's voice was very quiet.

"Some helped them find people like me."

Édith closed her eyes.

"Yes."

"People who hadn't done anything wrong."

"I know."

"Children."

"I know."

"Babies."

Édith's voice was almost inaudible.

"I know, Anne."

The girl looked away.

For several minutes, the only sounds were the fountain,

the birds and the distant traffic.

Then Édith spoke.

"I had Jewish friends."

Anne turned.

"Did you?"

"Yes. One was a pianist named Norbert Glanzberg.

He was a gifted musician. He was in danger, and I helped him."

Anne studied her.

"That was brave."

"Others helped him too."

"Did you know what was happening to the Jews?"

"We knew people were being persecuted. Arrested. Taken away.

We heard rumours of terrible things. But knowledge came in pieces,

people did not all know the same things."

Anne nodded.

“Did you ever go to Germany?"

"Yes."

"To sing?"

"Yes. I performed for French prisoners of war there."

Anne considered this.

"French prisoners?"

"Yes."

"Did it help them?"

"I hope so."

"Did it help you?"

Édith looked surprised.

"What do you mean?"

"Did it make you feel better about singing during the war?"

Édith looked at her for a long moment.

"Perhaps."

Anne nodded.

"That's what I thought."

There was no cruelty in her voice.

Only, an extraordinary honesty.

Édith almost smiled.

"You would have made a formidable journalist."

"I intended to."

"I can see that."

Anne leaned forward.

"People sometimes say they had no choice."

"Sometimes they didn't."

"Sometimes they did."

"Yes."

"And sometimes they simply didn't like the choices."

Édith nodded slowly.

"Yes, Anne. Sometimes that too."

The girl scattered a few more crumbs.

"Do you think people can do good things and bad things?"

"Certainly."

"The same person?"

"Especially the same person."

Anne thought about this.

"Then perhaps the difficult part is deciding which things matter most."

Édith smiled sadly.

"And who gets to decide?"

Anne looked at her.

"The people who were hurt, perhaps."

Édith lowered her eyes.

It was a devastating answer.

Not because Anne had shouted.

Not because she had accused.

But because she had spoken so gently.

After a while, Édith said:

"People later accused me of being too friendly with the Germans."

"Were you?"

"I knew Germans. I performed before German audiences.

There were photographs, rumours, accusations.

I also helped people who were in danger."

"Then why didn't you simply refuse to sing?"

Édith looked at her.

"I cannot tell you that I made every choice for noble reasons. I was ambitious.

I loved performing. I wanted to keep working. Yes, I wanted to survive."

Anne listened.

"I don't know what I would have done in every circumstance," Édith continued.

"It's easy to be brave in stories. Harder when the danger is standing outside your door."

Anne looked down.

"I know something about that."

"Yes," Édith whispered. "You do."

Then Anne said something that surprised them both.

"I don't hate you."

Édith looked up.

"I wasn't asking you not to."

"I know."

Anne smiled faintly.

"But I don't think you should ask me to say it was all right."

Édith nodded.

"No."

"Because it wasn't all right."

"No."

“Some people never got to explain their choices."

Édith's eyes filled.

"No, Anne. They didn't."

The girl reached into the paper bag.

Found the last large piece of bread.

Broke it in two.

And handed half to Édith.

"Here."

Édith looked at it.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Feed the birds."

Édith smiled through her tears.

"Is that forgiveness?"

Anne shook her head.

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"A piece of bread."

Édith Piaf laughed.

Not a polite laugh.

Not a theatrical laugh.

A genuine, helpless, wonderfully human laugh.

"Mon Dieu, child! You are impossible!"

Anne grinned.

"So I've been told."

So together they fed the sparrows.

(Historical note: Piaf's performances during the occupation and in Germany, her assistance to Jewish musician Norbert Glanzberg, and the post-Liberation scrutiny of her conduct are documented. Accounts of her helping large numbers of prisoners escape are disputed. The dialogue and personal explanations here are fictional, not quotations or established testimony)

Chapter Five: The Woman Who Sang Her Heart Out

"Did you always want to be a singer?" Anne asked.

Édith smiled.

"Not exactly."

"What did you want to be?"

"Alive, mostly."

Anne laughed.

"That's not a profession."

"It was a full-time occupation in my childhood."

"How did you become famous?"

"By singing in the streets."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Just standing there?"

"Yes."

"With no orchestra?"

"Not initially."

"No piano?"

"No."

"No beautiful dress?"

"Certainly not."

Anne looked delighted.

"How wonderful!"

Édith raised an eyebrow.

"Wonderful? Darling, I was poor, cold, hungry and frequently surrounded by people who thought a young woman singing on the pavement was an invitation to behave disgracefully."

Anne considered this.

"Perhaps not entirely wonderful."

"Precisely."

"But you must have had a beautiful voice."

Édith shrugged.

"I had a voice."

"Did people stop to listen?"

"Sometimes."

"And then?"

"One day, a nightclub owner named Louis Leplée heard me singing."

"And?"

"He gave me a chance."

"Was he kind?"

"In important ways, yes."

"Did he give you your name?"

"He helped make it famous. He called me La Môme Piaf."

"The Little Sparrow!"

"Exactly."

Anne looked at the birds.

"Because you were small?"

“Scruffy. And rather noisy."

Anne laughed.

"You still are."

Édith gave her an indignant look.

"Madame Frank! Such disrespect!"

"Sorry, Madame Sparrow."

"That's better."

Anne leaned closer.

"Did you enjoy being famous?"

Édith considered the question.

"Sometimes."

"Only sometimes?"

"Fame is a peculiar creature.

It promises to make you loved by everyone,

then leaves you wondering whether anyone actually knows you."

Anne frowned.

"I don't understand."

"Imagine walking into a room where everyone knows your name."

"That sounds lovely."

"Now imagine nobody wants to know who you really are."

Anne thought about that.

"Oh."

"Exactly."

"Did you have lots of friends?"

"Lots of acquaintances."

"That's different."

"Very."

“Lovers?"

Édith threw back her head and laughed.

"Good heavens, child! Have you brought a notebook?"

Anne blushed.

"I was only asking!"

"Well, yes. I had lovers."

"Lots?"

"Enough to keep the newspapers entertained."

Anne giggled.

"Were you ever married?"

"Yes."

"More than once?"

"Twice."

"Did you love them?"

"Yes. In different ways."

"Did they love you?"

Édith paused.

"Some people love the person. Some love the idea.

Some love the applause that comes with standing beside them."

Anne nodded.

"I think that's rather sad."

"So do I."

Then Édith smiled.

"But love itself? Ah, Anne! Love is magnificent!"

"Even when it hurts?"

"Especially when it hurts, although I wouldn't recommend making a career of that."

Anne laughed.

"Did you ever meet somebody you truly loved?"

Édith's expression changed.

"Yes."

"Who?"

"A boxer."

Anne blinked.

"A boxer?"

"Marcel Cerdan."

"A boxer!"

"Must you repeat everything?"

Anne giggled.

"Sorry."

"He was wonderful."

"Handsome?"

"Very."

"Strong?"

"Naturally."

"Kind?"

Édith's eyes softened.

"Yes."

"What happened?"

Édith looked towards the distant trees.

"He died in a plane crash."

Anne stopped smiling.

"Oh, Édith."

"Yes."

"That's terrible."

"It was."

"Did you ever stop loving him?"

Édith shook her head.

"No."

Anne thought for a moment.

"Perhaps that's what love really is."

"What?"

"Something that doesn't stop just because the person isn't there anymore."

Édith turned towards her.

For a moment, she looked very old.

Then very young.

Then simply human.

"Yes," she whispered. "Perhaps it is."

Chapter Six: The Diary and the Microphone

"Tell me about your diary," Édith said.

Anne brightened immediately.

"Oh, I loved it!"

"More than boys?"

Anne laughed.

"Sometimes!"

"Then it must have been a very good diary."

"It was a present for my thirteenth birthday."

"What did you write?"

"Everything."

"Everything?"

"Almost."

"About boys?"

"Yes."

"Your parents?"

"Yes."

"People who annoyed you?"

"Especially them."

Édith grinned.

"Then I should very much like to read it."

Anne smiled.

"I used to imagine I was writing to a friend. I called her Kitty."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted somebody I could tell everything to."

"Didn't you have friends?"

"Of course. But sometimes you need someone who listens without interrupting."

Édith nodded.

"That is a rare quality."

"Especially, among adults."

"Particularly, among adults."

They laughed.

Anne looked thoughtful.

"Writing made me feel free."

"Even when you were hiding?"

"Especially, then."

Édith considered this.

"Singing was like that for me."

"How?"

"When I sang, I could become something larger than my circumstances."

"Even when you were unhappy?"

"Especially when I was unhappy."

Anne smiled.

"So your songs, were like my diary.

Édith looked at her.

"Perhaps."

"Except everybody could hear yours."

“But nobody could hear yours?"

Anne looked down.

"Not then."

A strange silence followed.

One of those silences that seem to contain something waiting to be discovered.

Édith looked at Anne's face.

"Do you know, little one, I think words and music are the two most extraordinary inventions humanity ever stumbled upon."

Anne smiled.

"More extraordinary than aeroplanes?"

"Certainly."

"Telephones?"

"Absolutely."

"Chocolate?"

Édith hesitated.

"Now you're being unreasonable."

Anne burst out laughing.

"Why words and music?"

"Because they can reach places that armies cannot."

Anne thought about this.

"Armies can reach almost anywhere."

"Yes. But they cannot make someone love them."

"Some people love armies."

"Usually from a safe distance."

Anne giggled.

Édith continued.

"An army can occupy a country. It can destroy a building.

It can frighten a population.

But it cannot force a person to believe something in the privacy of their own soul."

Anne looked at her.

"Sometimes they try."

"Yes."

“Sometimes people pretend."

"Yes."

“Sometimes people believe terrible things."

Édith nodded.

"That too."

Anne leaned back.

"Then perhaps words can be dangerous as well."

"Very."

"Words helped make people hate us."

Édith looked at her.

"Yes."

"Speeches. Newspapers. Posters. Lies."

"Yes."

"Then words aren't always good."

"No."

"Neither is music."

Édith frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Armies march to music."

The singer fell silent.

Anne continued.

"People sing patriotic songs before going to war.

They sing while celebrating victories.

Sometimes they sing about killing people."

Édith nodded slowly.

"You're right."

"So perhaps words and music are like knives."

"Knives?"

"They can cut bread."

Anne looked down at the crumbs.

"Or they can hurt somebody."

Édith smiled.

"Then the question is not whether the knife is good."

"But who is holding it."

“Why."

Anne nodded.

"I think I'd like to write about that."

Édith grinned.

"Please do. Then when you become famous, remember where you heard it."

Anne laughed.

"You're already famous!"

"Darling, that has never stopped anybody wanting more credit."

Chapter Seven: A World That Never Learns

The afternoon had grown warmer.

Children sailed little boats upon the pond.

Couples wandered beneath the trees.

An elderly gentleman sat reading a newspaper with the solemn expression of a man discovering that civilization had once again failed to consult him.

Édith watched a young woman walking past,

talking animatedly into a small rectangular object.

"What on earth is she doing?"

Anne followed her gaze.

"I don't know."

"She appears to be arguing with a cigarette case."

The woman laughed into the object.

Then began speaking again.

Anne looked fascinated.

"Perhaps it's a telephone."

Édith stared.

"A telephone?"

"Yes."

"Without wires?"

"Apparently."

"Mon Dieu."

A young man passed them, looking down at another little screen.

Then another.

And another.

Soon it seemed half the people in the park were staring into their hands.

Édith shook her head.

"Paris has gone completely mad."

Anne laughed.

"Perhaps they're reading."

"Then why are they walking into trees?"

Almost immediately, a young man stumbled against the edge of a flowerbed.

Édith pointed triumphantly.

"You see!"

Anne giggled.

"I wonder what they're looking at."

"Probably, themselves."

"Why?"

"Because humanity has always been fascinated by itself. It has merely invented a more expensive mirror."

Anne laughed.

Then grew thoughtful.

"Imagine being able to communicate with anyone in the World."

"Wonderful."

"Instantly."

"Extraordinary."

"Without having to hide letters or wait for the post."

Édith nodded.

"Yes."

"Perhaps people would understand one another better."

Édith looked around.

"Would they?"

Anne frowned.

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Because hearing somebody is not the same as listening to them."

Anne considered this.

Édith continued.

"People have always had the ability to speak.

It has never prevented them from being spectacularly stupid."

Anne laughed.

"You're rather cynical."

"I'm French."

"Is that the same thing?"

"Frequently."

They smiled.

Then Anne asked:

"Do you think there are still wars?"

Édith looked away.

"I imagine so."

"But after everything that happened?"

"Yes."

"After all those people died?"

"Yes."

Anne shook her head.

"Why?"

Édith sighed.

"Power. Territory. Fear. Pride. Religion. Money. Revenge.

The usual ingredients."

"But surely people learned?"

"Some did."

“The others?"

Édith looked towards the newspaper.

"Some people learn history. Others merely repeat it with better machinery."

Anne sat quietly.

Then asked:

"Do people still hate Jews?"

Édith's expression became grave.

"Some do."

"Even now?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Édith shook her head.

"There is no sensible answer to that question."

Anne looked down.

"Do they still hate people because of their religion?"

"Yes."

"Their colour?"

"Yes."

"Where they come from?"

"Yes."

"Who they love?"

"Yes."

Anne looked genuinely bewildered.

"But why?"

Édith reached for a cigarette, remembered Anne's disapproval, and put it away again.

"Because some people find it easier to hate a stranger than to question themselves."

Anne thought about that.

"Then perhaps the World hasn't changed very much."

"Oh, it has changed enormously."

"How?"

"Machines. Medicine. Travel. Communication. Science."

"And people?"

Édith smiled sadly.

"People are still working on it."

Anne looked towards the children playing beside the fountain.

"Perhaps we should start with them."

"The children?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because they aren't born knowing whom they're supposed to hate."

Édith considered this.

"No. They have to be taught."

"Then perhaps we should stop teaching them."

Édith smiled.

"My dear Anne, you have just proposed something so sensible

that I fear no government will ever adopt it."

Anne burst out laughing.

Chapter Eight: The Things We Regret

"Do you have regrets?" Anne asked.

Édith looked at her.

"How much time have you got?"

Anne laughed.

"Plenty."

"Then we may need another bench."

They smiled.

Édith looked down at her hands.

"Yes. I have regrets."

"About what?"

"People I hurt. People I trusted. Things I said.

Things I didn't say. Decisions I made when I was frightened or foolish."

Anne nodded.

"Me too."

Édith raised an eyebrow.

"At fifteen?"

"Yes!"

"Good heavens. You started early."

Anne giggled.

"I regret being unkind to my mother."

"You've told me."

"I regret arguing with my sister."

"Did you love her?"

"Very much."

"Then she knew."

Anne looked uncertain.

"Did she?"

Édith nodded.

"People who love us often know more than we realize."

Anne thought about this.

"Do you regret singing during the war?"

Édith looked at her.

The question had returned.

But this time, it sounded different.

Less like an accusation.

More like a genuine attempt to understand.

"I regret anything I did that may have helped make an unjust situation seem ordinary."

Anne listened.

"I cannot undo the past," Édith continued. "I cannot pretend that helping some people automatically answers every question about my conduct."

Anne nodded.

"That seems fair."

"Does it?"

"Yes."

Édith smiled faintly.

"Thank you."

Anne looked towards the sky.

"I sometimes wonder whether people spend too much time trying to prove they were right."

Édith laughed.

"Darling, entire governments have been built upon that principle."

"Instead of admitting they were wrong."

"Precisely."

"Why?"

"Because admitting you're wrong requires courage."

"And being right?"

"Sometimes merely requires a loud voice."

Anne giggled.

Then she grew serious.

"Do you think people can change?"

Édith considered this.

"Yes."

"Even bad people?"

"Some."

"Even people who have done terrible things?"

"Some."

"How?"

"By recognizing what they have done. Taking responsibility.

Trying to repair what they can. And not doing it again."

Anne nodded.

"That sounds difficult."

"It is."

"Perhaps that's why people prefer pretending."

Édith laughed.

"You really should have become a journalist."

Anne smiled.

"I know."

Then, after a pause, she asked:

"Do you think forgiveness is always necessary?"

Édith shook her head.

"No."

Anne looked surprised.

"Really?"

"No. Forgiveness may be a gift, but it should never become another burden placed upon somebody who has already suffered."

Anne considered this carefully.

"Then perhaps understanding is different from forgiving."

"Very different."

“Forgiving is different from forgetting."

"Absolutely."

Anne looked at Édith.

"Because if we forget what happened, we might let it happen again."

Édith nodded.

"Yes."

Anne smiled sadly.

"Then I hope people remember."

Chapter Nine: The Little Girl Who Wanted to Grow Up

"Tell me something happy," Édith said suddenly.

Anne looked surprised.

"Happy?"

"Yes. We've spent half the afternoon discussing war, death,

guilt and the appalling behaviour of humanity. Even I have my limits."

Anne laughed.

"What would you like to know?"

"What did you want from life?"

Anne brightened.

"Oh, lots of things!"

"Such as?"

"I wanted to travel."

"Where?"

"Everywhere!"

"Very sensible."

"I wanted to see Paris."

Édith spread her arms.

"Well, here you are!"

Anne looked around.

"Yes."

For a moment, her face shone.

"I wanted to see London too."

"Rain."

"Rome."

"Priests."

"New York."

"Noise."

Anne laughed.

"You're impossible!"

"I've been told."

"I wanted to write books."

"Naturally."

“Perhaps fall in love."

Édith smiled.

"Ah!"

Anne blushed.

"Don't!"

"Don't what?"

"Make that face!"

"What face?"

"That face!"

Édith laughed.

"Was there a boy?"

Anne hesitated.

"Yes."

"Tell me everything."

"No!"

"Was he handsome?"

"Sometimes."

Édith burst out laughing.

"Sometimes?"

"Well, you know what I mean!"

"Did he kiss you?"

"Édith!"

"That's a yes, then."

Anne covered her face.

"You are dreadful!"

"Thank you."

They laughed together.

Then Édith asked:

"Did you want children?"

Anne looked thoughtful.

"Perhaps."

"How many?"

"I don't know."

"Boys or girls?"

"Either."

"Would you have been a good mother?"

Anne considered this seriously.

"I hope so."

Édith smiled.

"I think you would."

Anne looked at her.

"Why?"

"Because you ask questions."

"Is that enough?"

"No. But it's a beginning."

Anne nodded.

"I wanted to grow old."

Édith's smile faded.

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"How old?"

"Oh, terribly old!"

"How terrible?"

"Sixty!"

Édith looked scandalized.

"Sixty! Child, that's practically ancient!"

Anne giggled.

"With, grey hair."

"Disgraceful."

"And spectacles."

"Hideous."

“Lots of books."

"Now you're talking."

“Perhaps grandchildren."

Édith looked at her.

Anne smiled.

"I think I would have liked that."

The singer reached across and took her hand.

For a long time, neither spoke.

Then Anne said quietly:

"That's what makes me sad."

"What?"

"Not just dying."

Édith waited.

"Not getting to find out who I might have become."

The words hung in the spring air.

Édith looked at the young girl beside her.

And suddenly understood something she had not considered before.

Death does not merely take away a life.

Sometimes it takes away all the lives that person might have lived.

The books never written.

The children never born.

The friendships never made.

The places never visited.

The apologies never spoken.

The discoveries never discovered.

The love never experienced.

An entire universe of possibilities.

Gone.

And yet...

Édith looked at Anne.

Perhaps not entirely gone.

Chapter Ten: No Regrets?

"Did you ever sing a song about regrets?" Anne asked.

Édith laughed.

"Darling, I made a career out of them."

"Really?"

"Almost."

"Did you regret your life?"

Édith considered the question.

"I regretted parts of it."

"But not all?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because even the painful parts helped make me who I was."

Anne frowned.

"That sounds rather convenient."

Édith looked at her.

"Convenient?"

"Yes. People say suffering makes us stronger.

But perhaps sometimes it simply makes us suffer."

Édith stared.

Then slowly smiled.

"That's a very good point."

Anne continued.

"I don't think children should have to suffer just to become interesting adults."

"Neither do I."

" I don't think people should be grateful for terrible things happening to them."

"No."

"Perhaps they can learn something from them. But that doesn't make the terrible things good."

Édith nodded.

"You're right."

Anne smiled.

"Good."

Édith laughed.

"You enjoy being right, don't you?"

"Very much."

"Then you really are a writer."

They sat quietly.

After a while, Édith began humming.

Very softly.

A melody Anne did not recognize.

There was something in the sound that made the air itself seem to listen.

Anne turned.

"What a beautiful voice."

Édith smiled.

"Thank you."

"Will you sing?"

"Here?"

"Yes."

"In the park?"

"Why not?"

Édith looked around.

"People might recognize me."

Anne grinned.

"Would that be so terrible?"

Édith sighed dramatically.

"Very well."

She sat a little straighter.

Closed her eyes.

Began to sing.

Not loudly.

Not theatrically.

There was no orchestra.

No spotlight.

No velvet curtain.

No fashionable audience.

Just a small, thin woman on a park bench.

Singing a wordless melody to a girl in a blue dress.

And somehow, it was enough.

The notes rose gently through the branches.

A nearby couple stopped walking.

An old man lowered his newspaper.

A child looked up from the fountain.

Even the sparrows seemed momentarily uncertain whether to continue eating.

When Édith finished, Anne was crying.

"Oh, darling!" Édith exclaimed. "Was it that bad?"

Anne laughed through her tears.

"No!"

"Then why are you crying?"

"Because it was beautiful."

Édith smiled.

"That's allowed."

Anne wiped her eyes.

"I wish I could sing like that."

Édith looked at her.

"Perhaps you can."

Anne shook her head.

"No."

"Have you tried?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"My sister complained."

Édith roared with laughter.

"Then perhaps you should stick to writing."

Anne giggled.

"Perhaps."

Then Édith said:

"Besides, not every song needs a voice."

Anne looked puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

"Some songs are written."

Chapter Eleven: The Book That Went Around the World

The shadows had begun to lengthen.

A gentle golden light spread across the gardens.

Édith looked at Anne.

"Tell me, little one. What happened to your diary?"

Anne hesitated.

"I don't know."

"You don't?"

"No."

"Did you take it with you?"

Anne shook her head.

"When we were arrested, everything happened so quickly."

Édith nodded.

"Perhaps somebody found it."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps somebody kept it safe."

Anne smiled faintly.

"I hope so."

Édith looked at her for a long moment.

Then something curious happened.

A book appeared upon the bench between them.

Neither had placed it there.

Neither had seen anyone approach.

It was a small book.

It’s cover bore a photograph of a young girl.

Dark hair.

Thoughtful eyes.

A familiar face.

Anne stared.

"That's me."

Édith picked it up.

Looked at the cover.

Then at Anne.

"Yes."

Anne's hands began to tremble.

"What is it?"

Édith turned the book over.

Read the title.

Then slowly handed it to her.

Anne opened it.

Her eyes moved across the first page.

Then, the second.

Then, the third.

She looked up.

"These are my words."

Édith nodded.

"My, diary."

"Yes."

"But how?"

Édith smiled.

"Perhaps your father kept his promise."

Anne looked at her.

"What promise?"

"To believe in you."

Anne looked back at the book.

Then noticed something else.

There were other copies appearing beside it.

One in French.

Another in English.

Another in Spanish.

German.

Italian.

Japanese.

Hebrew.

Languages Anne could not identify.

She stared in astonishment.

"What are these?"

"Translations."

"Of my diary?"

"Yes."

"All of them?"

Édith nodded.

Anne looked overwhelmed.

"But why?"

"Because people wanted to read it."

"People?"

"Millions of people."

Anne looked up sharply.

"Millions?"

"Yes."

"Why would millions of people want to read my diary?"

Édith smiled.

"Because you told them something they needed to hear."

Anne shook her head.

"But I was only a girl."

Édith took her hand.

"Yes."

"An ordinary girl."

"Yes."

"I wasn't famous."

"No."

"I hadn't done anything important."

Édith's eyes filled.

"Oh, Anne."

The girl looked at her.

"You have no idea."

Anne looked down at the books.

"Did people like it?"

"Very much."

"Did they understand?"

"Some did."

"And the others?"

Édith smiled sadly.

"Some are still learning."

Anne looked at the book again.

"Did it make people kinder?"

Édith hesitated.

"Some."

"Did it stop wars?"

"No."

"Did it stop people hating Jews?"

"No."

Anne lowered her eyes.

"Then perhaps it didn't do very much."

Édith turned towards her.

"Listen to me, little sparrow."

Anne looked up.

"A book cannot force humanity to become decent.

A song cannot end every war. A painting cannot feed every hungry child."

Anne listened.

"But they can change a person."

"One person?"

"Yes."

"Is that enough?"

"Sometimes one person changes another. And another. And another."

Anne thought about this.

Édith continued.

"Your diary travelled to places you never got to visit. It entered homes you never saw.

It reached people who had never met a Jewish child.

It made them see you not as a number, not as a victim, not as a name in a history book."

She paused.

"But as Anne."

The girl began to cry.

"Just Anne?"

"Just Anne."

Édith smiled.

"The girl who argued with her mother.

Who liked boys. Who complained about adults.

Who dreamed of becoming a writer."

Anne laughed through her tears.

“Who fed sparrows."

"Exactly."

She looked at the books.

"Did I become a writer?"

Édith put her arm around her.

"Oh, my darling."

Anne looked up.

"You became one of the most widely read young writers in the World."

For a long time, Anne said nothing.

Then she whispered:

"Does my father know?"

Édith smiled.

"Yes."

Anne closed her eyes.

And cried.

Not because she was sad.

Not entirely.

But because somewhere, somehow, something she had loved had survived.

Her words.

Her thoughts.

Her dreams.

The little girl who had once been forced to remain silent had finally been heard.

Chapter Twelve: The Last Crumb

The sun was beginning to set.

The gardens glowed in the soft light of evening.

The sparrows had eaten almost all the breadcrumbs.

Édith looked into the paper bag.

"Empty."

Anne smiled.

"Almost."

She found one final crumb.

Very small.

Hardly enough for a bird.

She held it between her fingers.

A tiny sparrow hopped towards her.

"Here you are," she whispered.

The bird pecked at the crumb.

Then fluttered onto the back of the bench.

Édith watched it.

"Funny little creatures."

Anne nodded.

"Yes."

"So small."

"Yes."

"So ordinary."

"Yes."

“Yet they survive in the most extraordinary places."

Anne smiled.

"Perhaps that's why I love them."

Édith looked at her.

"Perhaps."

For a moment, they sat in silence.

Then Anne asked:

"Édith?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Do you think people are good?"

Édith considered the question.

"Some."

"Do you think people are bad?"

"Some."

"And most people?"

Édith looked towards the distant figures walking through the park.

"Most people are a rather untidy mixture of both."

Anne nodded.

"I think so too."

"Does that disappoint you?"

"Sometimes."

"Does it frighten you?"

"Sometimes."

"Does it make you stop hoping?"

Anne looked at the sparrow.

"No."

Édith smiled.

"Good."

Anne turned.

"Do you think the world will ever become peaceful?"

Édith sighed.

"I don't know."

"Do you think people will ever stop hating one another?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think they'll ever learn?"

Édith looked at her.

"Perhaps."

Anne smiled.

"That's enough for me."

Édith laughed softly.

"Hopeful little creature."

Anne grinned.

"Stubborn old sparrow."

They laughed together.

Then Anne asked:

"Do you think we could meet again?"

Édith looked at her.

"I should like that very much."

"Here?"

"Why not?"

"Tomorrow?"

Édith smiled.

"Perhaps."

Anne looked thoughtful.

"Will you bring some bread?"

"Certainly."

“But no cigarettes."

Édith looked scandalized.

"Madame Frank! You are becoming positively dictatorial!"

Anne burst out laughing.

"Only about cigarettes."

Édith stood slowly.

Anne rose beside her.

For a moment, they faced one another.

The famous singer.

The unknown girl who had become famous without knowing it.

Two daughters.

Two survivors of very different kinds of suffering.

Two women whose lives had been shaped by the same terrible century.

One who had been given too little time.

The other who had tried to cram several lifetimes into the years she possessed.

Édith opened her arms.

Anne stepped forward.

They embraced.

Not as celebrities.

Not as historical figures.

Not as symbols.

But simply as two human beings who had spent an afternoon listening to one another.

When they separated,

Édith kissed Anne gently upon the forehead.

"Au revoir, mon petit moineau."

Goodbye, my little sparrow.

Anne smiled.

"Tot ziens, Édith."

Then she paused.

"Édith?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for telling me about my book."

Édith smiled.

"Thank you for reminding me why songs matter."

Anne looked puzzled.

"Why do they?"

Édith looked towards the setting sun.

"Because sometimes, darling, a little beauty

is the only thing standing between a human being and despair."

Anne considered this.

Then smiled.

"I think words can do that too."

Édith nodded.

"Yes."

"Even little words?"

"Especially little words."

They began walking together along the path.

Neither seemed particularly interested in where they were going.

Perhaps that was because, for once, neither had anywhere she needed to be.

At the garden gate,

Anne stopped.

"Édith?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Do you think people will remember us?"

Édith laughed.

"Oh, Anne!"

"What?"

"Between your books and my records, I suspect we'll be bothering them for centuries."

Anne giggled.

"Good."

"Good?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Anne looked back towards the bench.

"Because perhaps one day they'll finally listen."

Édith smiled.

"Perhaps."

Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she added:

"Although I wouldn't hold my breath. Humanity has a remarkable talent for missing the point."

Anne burst out laughing.

The two little sparrows disappeared into the Parisian evening.

Epilogue: Feeding the Birds, Dear?

The following morning, the bench was empty.

The gardens were beautiful.

The chestnut trees swayed gently.

The fountains played.

Children laughed.

People hurried past, staring at their little screens.

Somewhere in the city, a young woman was reading The Diary of a Young Girl.

Somewhere else, an elderly gentleman was listening to Édith Piaf.

A schoolteacher was explaining the Holocaust.

A musician was practicing a song.

A child was learning about kindness.

And somewhere, sadly, somebody was teaching another child to hate.

The World continued.

Beautiful.

Cruel.

Magnificent.

Absurd.

Capable of extraordinary tenderness.

& equally extraordinary stupidity.

Upon the bench sat a small paper bag.

Inside was a single crumb.

Beside it lay a little handwritten note.

Nobody knew who had left it.

The handwriting was neat.

Young.Almost childish.

It read:

Please feed the sparrows.

They are very small.

But their songs can travel a very long way.

Beneath it, in rather untidy French handwriting, somebody had added:

For heaven's sake, listen to them.

A small brown sparrow landed upon the bench.

Looked around.

Pecked at the crumb.

Then began to sing.

THE END

For the children whose lives were stolen before their dreams could be realized.

For those who survived and carried their memories.

For those who used their voices when silence was easier.

And for everyone who still believes that humanity might one day learn to listen.

Two Little Sparrows. One Spring Afternoon.

A Song that Never Ended. 🐦❤️🇫🇷

Musings ©copyright.ChristianDion2026

Happy Friday "Bouy's & Girls"

2026-11-06T22:11:13.604+05:00

"AYE AYE, CAPTAIN !!! "

" A TOLD YA !!! " It Took A While... RUSSELL BRAND FOUND GUILTY OF RAPE !!!! ... "AT LAST !!!! "

2026-11-05T22:36:04.394+05:00

RUSSELL BRAND "GULITY"

A Lass, Ye Talentless Pratt ...

As so "Called" Funnyman/Actor

Russell Brand.

Finds his popularity plunge.

He may think it's come to a halt.

Oh, No...

There's way bigger drops to come.

Couldn't happen to a nicer person.

Just wait for the lawsuits.

From his One-Night Stands

Start to Pile Up!!!.

Amongst many other much Darker Things.

Which he Won't SURVIVE !!!

STAY TUNED !!!

Happy Bonfire Night … "E, By Gum !!! "

2026-11-05T22:03:10.208+05:00

" As Ta Got A Match, Mate? "

COCO & DIOR AT THE "V&A" Museum ...

2026-11-05T06:00:00.000+05:00

THE EMPEROR

HAS NO CLOTHES !!!

Or, Coco Chanel & Christian Dior

Spend a Night at the Museum

A Gloriously Camp, Occasionally Scandalous, thoroughly Mischievous adventure in Fashion, Fame, Fortune & the Extraordinary business of getting Dressed.

A fictional encounter between two very real fashion legends.

Chapter One: Two French Ghosts &

A Very British Fog

London.

November.

11:47 p.m.

The sort of November night that makes even the pigeons consider emigrating.

A thick fog had descended upon

South Kensington, wrapping the elegant Victorian buildings in a grey blanket so dense that the street lamps appeared to be illuminating nothing more substantial than boiled cabbage.

Outside the Victoria and Albert Museum,

a black Rolls-Royce materialized from the mist.

It stopped.

Its rear passenger door opened.

Out stepped a small, slender woman wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, a string of pearls, a neat little hat and an expression suggesting that the entire British nation had committed some unforgivable social error.

Behind her emerged a distinguished gentleman in an immaculate dark overcoat, silk scarf, polished shoes and a hat that had clearly cost more than the average British family earned in a week.

The woman surveyed the building.

"Well, Christian. Here we are."

The gentleman adjusted his scarf.

"Magnificent architecture, Coco."

"Rather gloomy."

"It is Victorian."

"That explains it.

The British have always had

an extraordinary talent, for making even

Pleasure look like a punishment."

He smiled.

"Perhaps we should knock?"

She turned.

"Knock?"

"At the door."

"Christian, darling, it is nearly midnight."

"Precisely."

"We have been "DEAD" for decades."

"Yes."

"Then who, exactly,

do you propose should answer?

The Archbishop of Canterbury?"

Christian Dior sighed.

Gabrielle Bonheur Chanel,

better known to the world as Coco.

Had not become any easier to deal with since departing the earthly plane.

If anything, death had made her more opinionated.

An achievement many had previously considered impossible.

"Besides," she continued,

"I have absolutely no intention of paying an admission fee to look at my own clothes."

"Nor mine," Dior replied.

"Then come along."

She marched towards a side entrance.

The door was locked.

Coco examined it.

"How inconvenient."

"Shall we return tomorrow?"

"Christian!"

"What?"

"We are ghosts."

"Oh!!!"

"Honestly!!! Sometimes I wonder how you ever managed to design a collection."

She walked straight through the door.

Dior hesitated.

"That cannot possibly be hygienic."

"COME ALONG!"

He followed.

So, on a foggy November night,

two of the most influential designers in the history of fashion entered

one of the world's greatest museums.

Without tickets.

Without permission.

Most importantly, without the slightest intention, of behaving themselves.

Chapter Two: The Museum of Beautiful Imprisonment

The galleries were silent.

Long corridors stretched into darkness, lined with treasures from centuries of human creativity.

Jewellery.

Textiles.

Furniture.

Paintings.

Sculptures.

Of course, clothes.

Thousands upon thousands of garments, representing humanity's extraordinary determination, to cover its nakedness while simultaneously attracting attention to it.

Coco stopped before an elaborate

18th Century gown.

Its skirts were enormous.

Its waist impossibly narrow.

It's decoration extravagant.

"Good Heavens."

Dior approached.

"Exquisite."

"Exquisite? Christian, that woman must have required planning permission to enter a room."

"Look at the embroidery."

"Look at the width!"

"The craftsmanship!"

"The inconvenience!"

"The elegance!"

"The fire hazard!"

Dior folded his arms.

"You never appreciated grandeur."

"I appreciated women being able to sit down."

"Fashion is theatre."

"Fashion is life."

"Fashion is fantasy."

"Fashion should not require three servants and a structural engineer merely to visit the lavatory."

He chuckled.

"Some things never change."

"Unfortunately, Christian, some things do."

She examined another display.

A corset.

A particularly formidable example.

She stared at it with the expression of someone examining a medieval torture device.

"That," she announced, "is not underwear. It is an instrument of revenge."

"Some women enjoyed the silhouette."

"Some prisoners become accustomed to their cells."

"You're being dramatic."

"I am being practical."

"An unusual claim from a woman wearing pearls to burgle a museum."

She gave him a look.

A dangerous look.

The sort of look that, in life, could have reduced an entire fashion house to tears.

"Careful, Christian."

He bowed slightly.

"Naturally, Mademoiselle."

They continued.

Eventually they reached the twentieth-century collections.

There, standing proudly beneath the soft gallery lighting, was a silhouette that caused Coco to stop dead.

Which, considering her present condition, was quite an accomplishment.

She stared.

A fitted jacket.

A dramatically cinched waist.

A full, sweeping skirt.

Dior's, famous New Look 1947.

Coco slowly turned towards him.

"Oh, for heaven's sake."

Dior smiled.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"It looks like a woman has been gift-wrapped."

"It restored elegance after the war."

"It restored corsets after women had finally escaped them."

"It celebrated femininity."

"It celebrated the upholstery industry."

"Women adored it."

"Some did."

"Many did."

"Some probably wondered why they needed several metres of fabric to buy a loaf of bread."

Dior approached the display with genuine affection.

"After years of deprivation, rationing and hardship, people wanted beauty.

They wanted hope.

They wanted something extravagant."

Coco's expression softened.

Only slightly.

"I understand that."

He looked surprised.

"You do?"

"Naturally. I simply believe hope should allow a woman to breathe."

He laughed.

"I believe beauty sometimes deserves a little inconvenience."

"Spoken like a man who never had to wear a girdle."

They stood together before the dress.

Two giants of fashion.

Two entirely different philosophies.

Two people who, despite their disagreements, understood something the modern world was rapidly forgetting.

A garment could be more than clothing.

It could be an idea.

A declaration.

A rebellion.

A dream.

Or, in certain unfortunate circumstances, a very expensive mistake.

Chapter Three: The Kardashian Revelation

They entered a gallery exploring contemporary fashion and its relationship with popular culture.

A digital screen flickered into life.

Images appeared.

Red carpets.

Celebrity appearances.

Designer gowns.

Social media photographs.

Reality television personalities.

Coco stopped.

"Christian."

"Yes?"

"Who are these people?"

He studied the screen.

"Apparently, the Kardashians."

"Are they royalty?"

"No."

"Actresses?"

"Some have appeared in television programmes."

"Singers?"

"Not principally."

"Designers?"

"They have fashion and beauty businesses."

"Ah! Industrialists!"

"Among other things."

Coco leaned closer.

"Why are there so many photographs of their bottoms?"

Dior coughed.

"Coco!"

"It is a perfectly reasonable question."

"Apparently, they are enormously influential."

"Influential in what?"

"Fashion.

Beauty.

Lifestyle.

Popular culture."

"Good heavens. In my day one needed to accomplish something before becoming celebrated."

Dior raised an eyebrow.

"That is not entirely true, Coco. Society has always adored celebrity."

"Yes, but at least our celebrities occasionally pretended to have a talent."

He laughed.

"These women have built enormous businesses."

"Then they are clearly not fools."

"Indeed."

"And that,"

Coco continued, "

is what interests me."

She studied another photograph.

"People dismiss them as frivolous, yet they have persuaded millions to follow their appearance, purchase their products and discuss their lives."

"Quite remarkable."

"Remarkable? Christian, it is genius!"

He looked astonished.

"You approve?"

"Of their business instincts? Absolutely. Of everything else? Certainly not."

She pointed towards the screen.

"Look at the faces."

"What about them?"

"So similar."

"Perhaps that is the fashion."

"Precisely the problem."

She folded her arms.

"Fashion should encourage individuality. Yet here we have millions of women apparently attempting to resemble the same handful of celebrities."

Dior nodded thoughtfully.

"Beauty has always had fashionable ideals."

"Yes, but now the ideals can be manufactured."

"Cosmetic procedures?"

"Procedures.

Filters.

Digital alterations. Lighting.

Editing.

Artificial perfection."

She paused.

"Christian, we used to alter dresses to fit women."

"And now?"

"Now women are encouraged to alter themselves to fit the dress."

Dior fell silent.

It was a rather uncomfortable observation.

Especially for a man who had spent much of his career celebrating a highly specific silhouette.

Coco noticed.

Naturally.

"Don't look so innocent, darling. We helped create some of these expectations."

Dior nodded.

"Perhaps we did."

"At least we should have the decency to admit it."

They watched another celebrity glide across the screen in an extraordinarily revealing gown.

Dior considered it.

"That is certainly daring."

"Daring? Christian, there is so little fabric that a determined moth could render her completely naked."

"Perhaps that is the intention."

"Then why employ a designer? A pair of scissors and a strong breeze would achieve the same result."

They both laughed.

Somewhere in the museum, a motion detector registered a disturbance.

The security guard glanced at his monitor.

Nothing.

He returned to his crossword.

A wise decision.

Chapter Four: The Influencers Have Arrived

The next screen presented a montage of social media personalities.

Young women and men posing in luxury hotels.

Opening enormous boxes.

Displaying handbags.

Attending fashion shows.

Promoting cosmetics.

Filming themselves walking down streets.

Filming themselves eating breakfast.

Filming themselves doing absolutely nothing.

Coco watched in growing fascination.

"What is an influencer?"

Dior consulted the explanatory display.

"Someone whose online presence can affect the purchasing decisions of others."

"Like an advertising executive?"

"Not exactly."

"A model?"

"Sometimes."

"A salesperson?"

"Often."

"A journalist?"

"Occasionally."

"A designer?"

"Some are."

Coco considered this.

"So the profession consists of being several things without necessarily being particularly accomplished at any of them?"

"That would be unfair."

"Probably. But entertaining."

Dior smiled.

"Some are genuinely creative. They photograph beautifully, communicate effectively and introduce new designers to enormous audiences."

"That I admire."

"Others simply promote products."

"That I understand."

"Some receive considerable sums for a single photograph."

Coco turned.

"How considerable?"

He mentioned an enormous figure.

She stared.

"FOR A PHOTOGRAPH?"

"Apparently."

"Of themselves?"

"Yes."

"Wearing somebody else's clothes?"

"Yes."

"Which somebody else has given them?"

"Frequently."

Coco removed her hat.

Placed it on a nearby bench.

Then sat down.

"Christian."

"Yes?"

"I believe I have died in the wrong century."

He laughed so loudly that a nearby mannequin trembled.

"Imagine,"

she continued, "

what I could have accomplished with this internet."

"Quite a lot, I suspect."

"I could have advertised my perfume to the entire planet before breakfast."

"Indeed."

"Sold handbags in every country."

"Certainly."

"Insulted my competitors internationally."

"Without question."

"Never once had to leave the Ritz."

Dior shook his head.

"That last part would have suited you."

She smiled wickedly.

"But there is something terribly wrong."

"What?"

"Influence without responsibility."

He considered her words.

"Explain."

"If millions of people listen to you, then surely what you say matters."

"Naturally."

"If you encourage them to buy things they cannot afford, to dislike their own bodies, to envy lives that may not even exist, then you are doing more than selling a handbag."

"You are selling dissatisfaction."

"Exactly."

Dior studied the screen.

A young woman was presenting her latest collection of luxury purchases.

Behind her stood a wardrobe large enough to house a small family.

"Perhaps," he said quietly, "the modern world has confused possessing beautiful things with living a beautiful life."

Coco smiled.

"Christian, darling, that is almost profound."

"Almost?"

"Don't become accustomed to compliments."

Chapter Five: Supermodels, Super Egos and Supermarket Prices

They entered another gallery.

Photographs of famous models filled the walls.

Naomi Campbell.

Cindy Crawford.

Linda Evangelista.

Christy Turlington.

Kate Moss.

Contemporary runway stars.

Dior's face brightened.

"Now, this I understand."

"Naturally. Beautiful women wearing beautiful clothes."

"Extraordinary presence."

"Extraordinary cheekbones."

"Wonderful posture."

"Wonderful publicity agents."

He laughed.

"You're impossible."

"Merely observant."

Dior studied a photograph of

Naomi Campbell.

"She has magnificent command of the runway."

"Indeed."

"And Kate Moss possessed an extraordinary ability to give clothes an attitude."

Coco nodded.

"Some models have genuine artistry."

"Exactly."

"But," she continued, "When did the model become more important than the garment?"

Dior considered this.

"Perhaps when the public became more interested in personalities than craftsmanship."

"Precisely."

She gestured towards the photographs.

"In our day, we created clothes. The models presented them. The clients purchased them."

"Now?"

"Now the model becomes a celebrity,

the celebrity becomes a brand, the brand becomes a business, somewhere at the bottom of the arrangement is a poor dress wondering why nobody has noticed it."

Dior smiled.

"Fashion has always required spectacle."

"Yes, but spectacle should have a purpose."

"Sometimes the spectacle itself is the purpose."

"Then we have arrived

at the circus."

She paused.

"Although I must admit, some of these women are magnificent."

Dior looked delighted.

"A compliment!"

"Don't get excited."

She approached a display of contemporary runway photographs.

One model wore an enormous sculptural creation.

Another appeared to be enveloped in transparent plastic.

A third was dressed in something resembling a collapsed tent.

Coco stared.

"Christian."

"Yes?"

"Has there been a shortage of mirrors?"

He examined the designs.

"Experimental fashion."

"Experimental?"

"Designers exploring form, structure and meaning."

"Darling, I have seen more convincing structures after an earthquake."

Dior laughed.

"Some runway garments are not intended for everyday wear."

"Clearly. One would require a police escort to cross the road."

"They challenge conventions."

"So does walking into a restaurant wearing a lampshade. That doesn't make one a genius."

He smiled.

"Yet you were a revolutionary yourself."

Coco stopped.

That had struck a nerve.

"Quite right."

"Your clothes shocked people."

"They liberated people."

"Some said they were ugly."

"Some people have dreadful taste."

"Some people say that about these designs."

She looked again.

Then, unexpectedly, smiled.

"Touché, Christian."

He bowed.

A small victory.

He intended to savour it.

Chapter Six: Project Runway, Project Nonsense

The museum's educational display introduced the designers to television fashion competitions.

A programme began.

Contestants rushed about a studio.

Fabric flew.

Sewing machines rattled.

A clock counted down.

A judge frowned.

A designer cried.

Another designer shouted.

Someone announced that the challenge would determine their future.

Coco watched.

Dior watched.

Neither spoke.

Eventually Coco whispered:

"Christian."

"Yes?"

"Are they designing clothes or defusing a bomb?"

He laughed.

"Apparently, they have very little time."

"Why?"

"Because it makes entertaining television."

"Does the fabric become more beautiful under threat?"

"Not necessarily."

"Does the stitching improve?"

"Probably not."

"Does creativity flourish?"

"Sometimes."

"Then why is that woman crying into a sewing machine?"

"Pressure."

"Ridiculous."

The programme continued.

A judge criticised a garment.

Another praised it.

A third declared that the designer had failed to communicate a clear vision.

Coco leaned forward.

"Who is that?"

"A judge."

"Has she ever designed anything?"

"I don't know."

"Then why is she judging?"

"Perhaps she understands fashion."

"Understanding fashion and creating fashion are two entirely different occupations."

Dior nodded.

"Criticism can be useful."

"Certainly. But humiliation is not instruction."

A contestant was eliminated.

Dramatic music thundered.

The young designer began to weep.

Coco stood up.

"Enough!"

The screen flickered.

"These people are being treated like gladiators!"

Dior smiled.

"Fashion houses have not always been gentle places, Coco."

She looked at him.

"Neither have television studios, apparently."

He folded his arms.

"We should not pretend our own workshops were entirely free from pressure."

"Quite true."

"Or harsh criticism."

"Also true."

"Or impossible deadlines."

"Christian, are you trying to ruin my argument?"

"Merely tailoring it."

She smiled.

"Very clever."

They watched another contestant proudly present a beautifully constructed gown.

For a moment, both designers were silent.

Then Dior spoke.

"That young person has talent."

"Yes."

"Real talent."

"Determination ."

"Perhaps these programmes do

some good."

Coco nodded reluctantly.

"They give opportunities to people who might never enter the traditional fashion establishment."

"Exactly."

"People without wealthy families."

"Yes."

"Without connections."

"Indeed."

"Without the correct surname."

Dior looked at her.

"Now that is something worth celebrating."

Coco smiled.

"Provided somebody remembers to teach them how to sew."

Chapter Seven: The £5 Dress and the £40.000 Handbag

They reached a display examining the environmental and social consequences of fashion.

Photographs showed enormous piles of discarded clothing.

Textile waste.

Polluted waterways.

Overfilled landfills.

Garment factories.

Workers producing clothes at extraordinary speed.

Coco stopped smiling.

Dior read the information carefully.

Neither spoke for some time.

Finally he said:

"How much?"

Coco examined a label.

"Five pounds."

"For a dress?"

"Apparently."

"Five pounds?"

"Yes."

"But the fabric alone..."

"I know."

"The cutting..."

"I know."

"The sewing..."

"I KNOW, CHRISTIAN!"

He stared at the photograph.

"How is that possible?"

Coco's expression hardened.

"Somebody, somewhere, is paying the difference."

They walked slowly along the display.

Dior looked troubled.

"Affordable clothing is not inherently wrong."

"Of course not."

"People deserve to dress well regardless of income."

"Absolutely."

"But clothing cannot be infinitely cheap without consequences."

Coco nodded.

"Here is the terrible irony."

"What?"

"We spent our lives trying to make women feel better through clothing."

"Now?"

"Some parts of the industry make clothes so disposable that neither the garments nor the people producing them are properly valued."

Dior examined a photograph of discarded textiles.

"Look at the waste."

"Extraordinary."

"Entire mountains of clothes."

"Some barely worn."

"Such extravagance."

"Such stupidity."

They stood before another image showing workers in a garment factory.

Coco looked closely.

"These women."

"What about them?"

"They are the ones making the clothes."

"Yes."

"Yet they are almost invisible."

Dior nodded.

"The fashion world celebrates the designer, the model, the celebrity and the brand."

"But rarely the person at the sewing machine."

He sighed.

"We knew the names of many people in our ateliers."

"Depended upon their skill."

"Every stitch mattered."

"Every seam."

"Every fitting."

"Every alteration."

Dior placed a hand against the glass.

"Perhaps the greatest tragedy is that the world has forgotten the value of making something properly."

Coco considered him.

"Not entirely."

She pointed towards a small display featuring contemporary designers working with recycled materials, traditional techniques and sustainable production.

"Look."

Dior smiled.

"Hope."

"Possibly."

"New generations."

"New ideas."

"New methods."

"Perhaps ," Coco added, "a return to the simple notion that a garment should survive more than three trips through a washing machine."

Dior laughed.

"You're incorrigible."

"Naturally."

Then she glanced at a photograph of a luxury handbag.

Its price was displayed beside it.

She stared.

"Christian."

"Yes?"

"Forty thousand pounds."

"For what?"

"A handbag."

He examined it.

"Interesting construction."

"It looks like a shopping bag."

"Perhaps the materials are exceptional."

"Perhaps it contains a small apartment in Paris."

"Luxury is about more than materials."

"Indeed. It is also apparently about finding people willing to pay forty thousand pounds for somewhere to keep their lipstick."

They both laughed.

But the laughter faded.

Because the contrast between a five-pound dress and a forty-thousand-pound handbag had revealed something neither could ignore.

Fashion had become an industry capable of extraordinary beauty.

And extraordinary absurdity.

Sometimes simultaneously.

Chapter Eight: Paris, Mon Amour

A large photograph of Paris illuminated the gallery.

The Seine.

The Eiffel Tower.

The grand boulevards.

The elegant façades.

The city that had shaped both their lives.

Coco approached it.

For once, her expression was gentle.

"Paris."

Dior stood beside her.

"Home."

They remained silent.

Then Coco spoke.

"Do you think she has changed?"

"Of course."

"For better?"

"In some ways."

"For worse?"

"In others."

"How diplomatic."

Dior smiled.

"Cities are living things, Coco."

"Paris is more than a city."

"Yes."

"She is an attitude."

"A history."

"A culture."

"A collection of contradictions."

"A beautiful woman who knows exactly how beautiful she is."

Dior laughed.

"And charges accordingly."

Coco smiled.

"Quite."

They considered the changes that had occurred since their lifetimes.

Paris was still a centre of haute couture.

Still home to legendary fashion houses.

Still attracting

designers,

artists,

craftspeople and dreamers from around the world.

But the business had changed.

Fashion houses had become global corporations.

Luxury had become an enormous international industry.

The relationship between French identity and international creativity had grown increasingly complex.

Dior spoke thoughtfully.

"Would our houses have survived without changing?"

"Probably not."

"Would we have approved of every change?"

"Certainly not."

"Then perhaps we should be careful."

Coco looked at him.

"Careful?"

"Not to confuse nostalgia with wisdom."

She smiled.

"Christian, darling, you are becoming annoyingly philosophical."

He continued.

"Paris has always changed. Artists have always arrived from elsewhere. New ideas have always challenged old traditions."

"Quite true."

"France has always argued about what it means to be French."

"Usually over lunch."

"Naturally."

Coco studied the photograph.

"But I worry about the loss of craftsmanship."

"So do I."

"The little workshops."

"The skilled hands."

"The apprentices."

"The knowledge passed from one generation to another."

"The independent designers."

"The small businesses."

Dior nodded.

"That is where much of fashion's soul resides."

Coco turned towards him.

"What of the great luxury companies?"

"They preserve many remarkable skills."

"Yes."

"Employ thousands of people."

"Yes."

"But they must also satisfy shareholders."

Coco sighed.

"Ah, shareholders."

Dior smiled.

"You sound disappointed."

"Christian, darling, there is nothing wrong with making money."

"Naturally."

"I made plenty."

"Indeed."

"But there is something rather vulgar about allowing money to become the only measure of success."

He nodded.

"Beauty cannot always be calculated on a balance sheet."

"Nor can imagination."

"Nor originality."

"Nor courage."

Coco looked again at Paris.

"Do you know what I miss?"

"What?"

"The excitement."

"Of what?"

"Of creating something nobody had seen before."

Dior smiled.

"That still happens."

"Does it?"

"Of course."

"Then perhaps Paris is not finished."

"Paris will never be finished."

Coco laughed.

"Neither will the French. They will still be arguing about it when the rest of the world has moved to Mars."

Chapter Nine: The Changing Shape of Womanhood

They entered a gallery devoted to fashion and identity.

Garments from different periods demonstrated how clothing had reflected changing expectations of gender, class, sexuality and beauty.

Coco examined a contemporary ensemble.

"Interesting."

Dior looked surprised.

"You approve?"

"I do."

"Why?"

"Freedom."

"Of movement?"

"Of choice."

She gestured towards the displays.

"Women can wear trousers,

dresses,

suits,

trainers,

evening gowns,

whatever they please."

"Within the expectations of their societies."

"Naturally. Freedom is rarely complete."

Dior examined a beautifully tailored trouser suit.

"Elegant."

"Very."

"Comfortable ."

"Even better."

He smiled.

"You have always been fond of trousers."

"Because women have legs, Christian. It seemed absurd that fashion should pretend otherwise."

They continued.

A display addressed the changing representation of bodies in fashion.

Different sizes.

Different ages.

Different identities.

Different expressions of beauty.

Dior considered the garments.

"Fashion is becoming more inclusive."

"In some ways."

"That is good."

"Certainly."

"But there are still narrow ideals."

"Of course."

Coco stopped before a photograph of a mature woman modelling contemporary clothing.

"Magnificent."

Dior nodded.

"She has presence."

"She has character."

"Experience."

"Confidence."

"Wrinkles."

He looked at her.

"Wrinkles?"

"Yes, Christian. Those extraordinary little marks that prove a person has actually lived."

He laughed.

"Not everybody wishes to display them."

"Then they may do as they please. But nobody should be made to feel ashamed of growing older."

Dior smiled.

"That is a rather generous philosophy."

"Do not spread it around. I have a reputation to maintain."

They passed another display.

A dramatic gown worn by a male performer.

Dior examined it.

"Beautifully constructed."

Coco nodded.

"Excellent shoulders."

"The embroidery."

"Superb."

He smiled.

"Would such a garment have surprised our contemporaries?"

"Some of them."

"And you?"

Coco considered.

"Christian, I spent my life challenging the rules of how women should dress. It would be rather hypocritical to insist that men must obey rules I found ridiculous."

Dior laughed.

"Quite."

She studied the gown again.

"Besides, if a man wishes to wear a magnificent dress, the least he can do is wear a magnificent one."

"Naturally."

"Bad tailoring is an offence regardless of gender."

They both nodded solemnly.

On this matter, there could be no disagreement.

Chapter Ten: The Ghosts of Their Own Past

It was approaching three in the morning.

They had wandered through centuries of fashion.

Argued about beauty.

Mocked celebrity.

Defended craftsmanship.

Questioned consumerism.

Nearly caused a supernatural incident involving a particularly unfortunate pair of designer shoes.

Now they found themselves before displays featuring their own work.

Coco approached a Chanel suit.

Dior stood before one of his gowns.

For several minutes, neither spoke.

The silence was unusual.

Almost alarming.

Finally Dior said:

"Do you ever wonder whether we were right?"

Coco turned.

"About what?"

"Everything."

She laughed softly.

"Good heavens, Christian.

What a question."

"We believed so passionately in our ideas."

"Naturally."

"We fought for them."

"Yes."

"We criticised one another."

"Frequently."

"And yet here we are."

"Dead?"

"Remembered."

Coco looked at the suit.

"That is a strange thing."

"What?"

"To see something you created outlive you."

Dior nodded.

"I remember the first time I saw a woman wearing one of my designs in the street."

"What did you feel?"

"Pride."

"Naturally."

"Fear."

"Fear?"

"That she might not be happy in it."

Coco smiled.

"That is the difference between a designer and a manufacturer."

He looked at her.

"Explain."

"A manufacturer worries whether the garment will sell."

"A designer?"

"Worries whether the person wearing it will feel extraordinary."

Dior smiled.

"Beautifully put."

"Thank you."

A pause.

Then Coco added:

"Although I also worried whether it would sell. I had bills to pay."

They laughed.

But Dior's expression soon became serious.

"We were not perfect, Coco."

"No."

"We made mistakes."

"Many."

"We could be cruel."

"Certainly."

"We were ambitious."

"Terribly."

"Sometimes our ambition came at a cost to others."

Coco looked away.

For a moment, the woman who had spent a lifetime constructing an image of invulnerability appeared strangely vulnerable.

History had not been equally kind to every part of her life.

Her wartime conduct and associations had become subjects of enduring scrutiny and controversy.

Dior, too, understood that fashion did not exist outside history, politics or the compromises of survival.

Neither could honestly claim that beauty excused everything.

"No," Coco said quietly. "We were not saints."

"Far from it."

"Perhaps that is something the modern world should remember."

"What?"

"That talent does not automatically make a person virtuous."

Dior nodded.

"Nor fame."

"Nor wealth."

"Nor influence."

"Nor beauty."

They stood together.

Two extraordinary talents.

Two complicated human beings.

Two legacies that continued to inspire admiration, argument and examination.

Then Coco broke the silence.

"Still, Christian."

"Yes?"

"My suit is rather lovely."

He laughed.

"Indeed it is."

"Your gown..."

"Yes?"

She hesitated.

"...is not entirely dreadful."

Dior clutched his chest.

"Mon Dieu! A compliment!"

"Don't make me regret it."

Chapter Eleven: The Girl With the Mop

At 3:15 a.m., a young cleaner entered the gallery.

Her name was Elsie.

She was twenty-three years old.

She worked nights at the museum, studied fashion design whenever she could afford the time, and lived in a tiny rented room with a sewing machine that sounded like an elderly tractor attempting to climb a mountain.

Her clothes were inexpensive.

Her trainers were worn.

Her cardigan had been repaired several times.

But her dress was extraordinary.

Not because it was expensive.

It wasn't.

Not because it carried a famous label.

It didn't.

Not because a celebrity had worn it.

Nobody famous had ever seen it.

It was extraordinary because it had been made with imagination.

The fabric came from discarded curtains.

The lining from an old silk blouse.

The buttons from a charity shop.

The design was entirely her own.

Coco noticed immediately.

"Christian."

"Yes?"

"Look."

He turned.

The young woman was pushing a cleaning trolley.

"At what?"

"The dress."

He examined it.

"Interesting."

"Very."

"The proportions are good."

"Excellent."

"The waistline."

"Beautifully judged."

"The movement."

"Natural."

"The fabric."

"Unexpected."

"The construction."

"Remarkable."

Coco smiled.

"Who designed it?"

They approached.

Elsie, unaware of their presence, was humming softly.

Coco leaned closer.

"She made it herself."

"How do you know?"

"Look at the stitching."

Dior examined it.

"Hand-finished."

"Yes."

"Carefully."

"Very."

"The fabric has been reused."

"Precisely."

They watched her work.

She paused before one of Dior's gowns.

Studied it.

Then took a small notebook from her pocket.

She began sketching.

Dior looked delighted.

"She understands the shape."

Coco nodded.

"She is not copying."

"No."

"She is learning."

"Exactly."

Elsie moved towards a Chanel display.

She studied the jacket.

Then sketched again.

This time she changed the proportions.

Altered the pockets.

Adjusted the sleeves.

Coco smiled.

"Cheeky little thing."

Dior laughed.

"She is improving your design."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Look."

Coco examined the sketch.

A long silence.

Then:

"Hmm."

Dior grinned.

"Hmm?"

"Not bad."

"Not bad?"

"Quite good."

"Quite good?"

"Oh, shut up, Christian."

Elsie closed her notebook.

She sighed.

"If only I could afford proper fabric."

Neither ghost spoke.

"If only somebody would give me a chance."

Dior looked at Coco.

Coco looked at Dior.

Something passed between them.

An understanding.

A recognition.

They had spent hours discussing the modern fashion industry.

Its wealth.

Its vanity.

Its celebrity.

Its excess.

Its contradictions.

Here, in the middle of the night, was a young woman who possessed the one thing neither money nor fame could guarantee.

Talent.

Real talent.

A love of making beautiful things.

Dior whispered:

"Perhaps we have been looking in the wrong places."

Coco nodded.

"Perhaps."

"The future of fashion..."

"...is not necessarily sitting in the front row of a fashion show."

"Or posing for photographs."

"Or counting followers."

"Or collecting sponsorships."

"Or appearing on television."

They watched Elsie return to her cleaning.

Dior smiled.

"Perhaps it is pushing a mop."

Coco laughed.

"Christian, darling, I think we have found our next collection."

Chapter Twelve: The Midnight Collection

Coco approached the young woman's notebook.

"Shall we?"

Dior looked surprised.

"Shall we what?"

"Help."

"How?"

She smiled.

"Christian. We are ghosts."

"Yes."

"We have spent the entire night walking through walls."

"Indeed."

"You are asking how we might interfere with a notebook?"

He considered this.

"Fair point."

Elsie placed her notebook on a nearby bench while she polished a display case.

A faint breeze passed through the gallery.

The pages fluttered.

One sketch changed.

Then another.

A sleeve became more elegant.

A collar more daring.

A skirt more fluid.

A jacket more beautifully balanced.

Elsie turned.

"That's odd."

She approached the notebook.

Looked at the drawings.

Frowned.

"I don't remember doing that."

Coco smiled.

Dior adjusted his scarf.

Elsie turned another page.

A new design appeared.

Then another.

Her eyes widened.

"Bloody hell."

Coco looked delighted.

"A woman after my own heart."

Dior laughed.

Elsie sat down.

She began sketching furiously.

Ideas flowed.

Shapes emerged.

Colours suggested themselves.

Fabrics came to life in her imagination.

For the first time in months, she forgot her exhaustion.

Forgot her bills.

Forgot the rejection letters.

Forgot the people who had told her that the fashion industry was impossible to enter without money or connections.

She simply created.

Coco watched.

Dior watched.

For a brief, extraordinary moment, the two legendary designers were no longer concerned with their own reputations.

They were concerned with somebody else's future.

"She will need help," Dior said.

"Naturally."

"Money."

"Possibly."

"Training."

"Certainly."

"Opportunity."

"Absolutely."

"Also Luck."

Coco smiled.

"Christian, darling, luck is simply opportunity wearing a very convincing disguise."

He considered this.

"That is rather good."

"Naturally."

Chapter Thirteen: The Gift Shop Incident

At 4:30 a.m., Coco announced that they should leave.

Dior agreed.

They had seen enough.

Or so he thought.

Unfortunately, they passed the museum gift shop.

Coco stopped.

Stared.

And gasped.

"CHRISTIAN!"

He hurried over.

"What?"

"LOOK!"

She pointed towards a display.

Tote bags.

Mugs.

Scarves.

Notebooks.

Pencils.

Keyrings.

Fashion-themed souvenirs.

Coco picked up a mug bearing the image of a famous designer.

She examined it.

"Good heavens."

Dior smiled.

"A souvenir."

"A souvenir?"

"Yes."

"They have put a fashion designer on a coffee mug."

"Apparently."

She turned it over.

"Fourteen pounds!"

Dior laughed.

"Quite reasonable by modern standards."

"Reasonable? Christian, this is ceramic advertising!"

She examined a tote bag.

"THIS?"

"A shopping bag."

"With a famous name printed on it."

"Yes."

"Twenty-five pounds!"

"Perhaps it is well made."

"It is a rectangle with handles!"

Dior was laughing uncontrollably.

Coco marched around the shop.

"Look at this nonsense!"

A notebook.

A pencil case.

A tea towel.

A decorative plate.

She stopped before a particularly unfortunate souvenir scarf.

The colours clashed.

The pattern was chaotic.

The fabric looked suspiciously synthetic.

She held it up.

"Christian."

"Yes?"

"Who designed this?"

"I have no idea."

"Then somebody should be arrested."

He collapsed into laughter.

"You're being unreasonable."

"Unreasonable? I have spent the entire evening defending craftsmanship, and here we have a scarf that appears to have been designed by a drunken kaleidoscope!"

Dior wiped tears from his eyes.

"Perhaps somebody will buy it."

"That is what frightens me."

She looked around.

Then smiled.

A dangerous smile.

Dior recognised it immediately.

"Coco."

"Yes?"

"What are you thinking?"

"Nothing."

"Coco."

"Merely a small improvement."

"Coco!"

But she had already begun.

The scarves rearranged themselves.

The handbags shifted.

The mannequins turned.

The window display transformed.

Within minutes, the museum gift shop had become a miniature fashion salon.

Elegant.

Imaginative.

Beautifully arranged.

Utterly unlike anything the museum's merchandising department had planned.

Dior surveyed the result.

"Magnificent."

Coco smiled.

"Naturally."

Then she found a piece of card.

A pen.

Then wrote a message.

She placed it prominently in the window.

STYLE IS ETERNAL. BAD TASTE, UNFORTUNATELY, IS IMMORTAL.

Beneath it she added:

With affection,

COCO & CHRISTIAN

Dior examined the sign.

"Affection?"

"Don't be difficult."

He smiled.

"Very well."

Chapter Fourteen: The Final Fitting

Dawn approached.

Outside, the fog was beginning to lift.

The first buses rumbled through South Kensington.

London was waking.

The two designers stood near the museum entrance.

Coco adjusted her hat.

Dior straightened his scarf.

"Well," he said, "that was an interesting evening."

"Educational."

"Entertaining."

"Occasionally horrifying."

"Frequently."

They looked back towards the galleries.

"Do you think fashion will survive?" Dior asked.

Coco smiled.

"Of course."

"Despite everything?"

"Despite everything."

"Why?"

"Because human beings will always want to express themselves."

"Through clothing?"

"Through everything."

She continued.

"Some will dress to impress."

"Some to seduce."

"Some to rebel."

"Some to belong."

"Some to stand apart."

"Some to conceal."

"Some to reveal."

"Some to celebrate."

"Some simply because it is cold."

Dior laughed.

"Quite."

Coco looked towards

the city.

"Fashion will survive because imagination will survive."

"Beauty ?"

"Beauty too."

"Craftsmanship?"

"If people are wise enough to preserve it."

"Individuality ?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"Whether people remember that being fashionable and having style are not necessarily the same thing."

Dior nodded.

They began walking towards the doors.

Then he stopped.

"Coco."

"Yes?"

"One final question."

"Go on."

"If you could return to the world of fashion today, what would you change?"

She considered this.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then:

"I would remind women that they are not obliged to become advertisements."

Dior smiled.

"Very good."

"You””?”

He thought.

"I would remind designers that their responsibility is not simply to create desire."

"What then?"

"To create something worthy of being desired."

Coco looked at him.

For once, there was no sarcastic reply.

Only a small smile.

"Christian."

"Yes?"

"That is rather beautiful."

He bowed.

"Merci, Mademoiselle."

They stepped through the museum doors.

Outside, the London fog swirled around them.

Their Rolls-Royce waited at the kerb.

The chauffeur opened the door.

Coco climbed in.

Dior followed.

"Where to?" asked the chauffeur.

Coco considered.

"Paris."

Dior smiled.

"Excellent."

"Via heaven."

"Naturally."

"And Christian?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think they have improved the uniforms of the angels?"

He laughed.

"I rather doubt it."

"Then we have work to do."

The Rolls-Royce disappeared into the fog.

Epilogue: The Morning After

At 7:15 a.m., the museum's head of security received an urgent telephone call.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"We have a problem."

"What sort of problem?"

"The gift shop."

"What about it?"

"Somebody has completely redesigned it."

A pause.

"Stolen anything?"

"No, sir."

"Broken anything?"

"No, sir."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Well, sir, the displays are magnificent."

"Magnificent?"

"Absolutely beautiful."

"Then why are you calling me?"

"Because the security cameras show two people entering the shop at approximately four-thirty this morning."

"And?"

"Well, sir..."

"Spit it out!"

"They appear to be Coco Chanel and Christian Dior."

A very long silence.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"That's what I thought, sir."

"Both dead."

"Yes, sir."

"For decades."

"Indeed, sir."

"Then clearly the cameras are faulty."

"Possibly, sir."

"Anything else?"

"Just one thing."

"What?"

"There's a handwritten sign in the window."

"What does it say?"

The security officer read it aloud.

STYLE IS ETERNAL. BAD TASTE, UNFORTUNATELY, IS IMMORTAL.

Another silence.

Then the head of security sighed.

"Well, at least somebody around here has a sense of humour."

He hung up.

Meanwhile, several floors above, Elsie was finishing her shift.

Her notebook lay open beside her.

She had drawn twenty-three new designs.

Each one more exciting than the last.

She smiled.

For the first time in years, she believed that her dream might actually come true.

Somewhere , far beyond the clouds, two French fashion legends were already arguing about the colour of the angels' wings.

"White, Christian? Always white?"

"It is traditional."

"It is boring."

"It is heavenly."

"It is unimaginative."

"What would you suggest?"

"Black."

"BLACK?"

"With pearls."

"COCO!"

"Perhaps a little gold."

"Mon Dieu!"

"But absolutely no polyester."

THE END

Or, as Coco might have said:

"Darling, fashion may fade, but stupidity never goes out of style."

💋🥂🇫🇷

Happy "HUMP DAY" Wednesday ....

2026-11-04T22:31:46.436+05:00

Happy Tuesday .. Please Remember to "VOTE !!! "

2026-11-03T23:35:41.962+05:00

" Prince to Princess "

One Library.Two Poets. 3.000 Years !!!

2026-11-03T06:00:00.000+05:00

HOMER & POE

Two Poets.

Three Thousand Years. Eight Billion Voices. & Precious Little Listening.

A Midnight Conversation

in the Library of Congress

A tale of words, wisdom, technology, humanity, and the extraordinary ability of mankind to say absolutely everything while understanding almost nothing.

Chapter One: The Night the Books Began to Whisper

There are certain places in this world where time behaves rather badly.

Old churches, ancient forests, forgotten railway stations, dusty theatres and, occasionally, libraries.

Especially libraries.

For a library is not merely a building filled with books.

It is a building filled with people who refuse to die.

Shakespeare still argues with kings.

Dickens continues to expose poverty.

Jane Austen quietly observes the absurdities of human behaviour. Oscar Wilde remains gloriously unimpressed by respectable society.

Somewhere on a shelf, a philosopher who has been dead for two thousand years is still waiting for someone to disagree with him.

Which is rather remarkable when you think about it.

The dead are not supposed to be so talkative.

Yet humanity has spent thousands of years carefully preserving their words while frequently ignoring the wisdom contained within them.

A curious habit.

But then, humanity is a curious species.

It invents magnificent things, discovers extraordinary truths, builds astonishing machines, and then uses a considerable proportion of its intelligence to argue with strangers about matters of absolutely no consequence.

One suspects the universe occasionally watches in disbelief.

It was precisely midnight when something unusual occurred inside the magnificent Library of Congress in Washington, D.C.

The last visitors had departed.

The librarians had finished their duties.

The great reading room lay silent beneath its magnificent dome.

Thousands upon thousands of books stood patiently upon their shelves.

History.

Science.

Poetry.

Philosophy.

Religion.

Politics.

Fiction.

Fact.

Somewhere among them, an alarming quantity of material that could comfortably be described as fiction masquerading as fact.

Outside, Washington continued its restless existence.

The machinery of government turned.

Televisions flickered.

Telephones rang.

Messages travelled through invisible networks.

Somewhere, a politician was making a promise.

Somewhere else, another was explaining why the previous promise had been misunderstood.

Throughout the world, billions of human beings were communicating.

Or at least making noises.

There is, as we shall discover, a considerable difference.

At one of the great reading tables sat a rather pale gentleman.

He was dressed entirely in black.

His hair was neatly arranged, his expression thoughtful, his eyes dark and penetrating.

Before him lay a small rectangular object.

It glowed.

The gentleman regarded it with profound suspicion.

His name was

Edgar Allan Poe.

He was having a thoroughly unpleasant encounter with the twenty-first century.

"Extraordinary,"

he murmured.

He touched the glass.

The object responded.

He touched it again.

More words appeared.

He frowned.

"An illuminated slate without chalk. A book without paper. A messenger without legs."

He paused.

"Apparently without manners."

The object had just informed him that his password was incorrect.

"Sir," Poe whispered to the machine, "I have been dead for nearly two centuries. Surely some allowance might be made."

The machine remained unmoved.

A familiar experience for anyone who has ever attempted to communicate with modern technology.

Eventually, through a combination of accident, persistence and a rather undignified amount of poking, Poe succeeded in opening a webpage.

His own name appeared.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

Below it were thousands of references.

Articles.

Portraits.

Biographies.

Interpretations.

Adaptations.

Videos.

Merchandise.

A mug bearing his face.

Poe stared.

"A mug?"

He examined the image.

"My literary immortality has apparently resulted in a drinking vessel."

He scrolled further.

There were T-shirts.

Posters.

Novelty socks.

A candle advertised as smelling like a haunted library.

Poe closed his eyes.

"I devoted my existence to exploring the darkest chambers of the human soul, and mankind has rewarded me with scented wax."

From the darkness behind him came a voice.

"At least they remember you."

Poe turned.

Standing beside the table was an elderly gentleman wearing a long Greek robe.

His beard was white.

His face was weathered.

His expression suggested that he had witnessed a great deal of human foolishness and had long since stopped being surprised.

He carried a wooden staff.

Poe rose.

"Sir, you startled me."

"My apologies."

"May I enquire who

you are?"

"Homer."

Poe hesitated.

"The Homer?"

"I am unaware of another."

Poe glanced at the glowing telephone.

"I regret to inform you that there is another.

A yellow gentleman of considerable girth who apparently works in a nuclear power station."

Homer considered this.

"Is he a philosopher?"

"Not intentionally."

"A warrior?"

"Only when deprived

of beer."

"Then I shall not consider him a rival."

Poe smiled.

"Please, sit."

Homer lowered himself into the chair opposite.

He examined the telephone.

"What manner of object is that?"

"A device through which mankind may communicate with anyone, anywhere, almost instantly."

Homer leaned forward.

"Anyone?"

"Apparently."

"Across oceans?"

"Yes."

"Across kingdoms?"

"Yes."

"Across the entire Earth?"

"Yes."

Homer sat back.

For several moments he said nothing.

Then, softly:

"By the gods."

Poe nodded.

"Quite."

Homer looked towards the bookshelves.

"Then mankind has finally accomplished what every storyteller has dreamed of."

"What is that?"

"To have the whole world gathered around one fire."

Poe looked at the telephone.

"Indeed."

He paused.

"Unfortunately, they appear to be spending much of their time throwing stones at one another."

Chapter Two: When Words Had to Walk

Homer rose and began walking slowly around the table.

"Tell me, Edgar.

How long does it take for a story to travel from this city to Athens?"

"Less than a second."

Homer stopped.

"A second?"

"Yes."

"Even if the story is long?"

"Even if it is very long."

Homer looked offended.

"My Iliad is very long."

"I am aware."

"My Odyssey."

"Also rather substantial."

"Yet you tell me both may travel across the world in a moment?"

"Indeed."

Homer lowered himself into his chair.

"Then your age has defeated distance."

"It has."

"Remarkable."

"Quite."

"How much does it cost?"

"Sometimes nothing."

Homer stared.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

The old poet shook his head.

"In my time, a story travelled upon the breath of a man. It crossed mountains in his memory. It sailed oceans in his imagination.

It survived because someone loved it enough to remember."

Poe listened.

"A storyteller might spend years carrying a poem from city to city," Homer continued. "Each telling was an event. People gathered. Children listened.

Elders corrected. Warriors boasted.

Lovers wept."

"Now?"

"Now," Poe replied, "A person may publish a poem while sitting upon a lavatory."

Homer blinked.

"A what?"

"A private chamber devoted to certain necessary bodily functions."

Homer stared at him.

"You are telling me that the words of poets may now be sent around the world while their authors are relieving themselves?"

"Frequently."

Homer contemplated this revelation.

Then he burst into laughter.

It was a magnificent laugh.

Deep.

Warm.

Entirely unrestrained.

Poe watched him with amusement.

"Does this not offend you?"

"Offend me?

My dear Edgar, the gods themselves would have appreciated such convenience!"

He wiped his eyes.

"Imagine Zeus sending thunderbolts while seated upon his throne."

"That, I fear, is precisely what certain modern politicians imagine themselves doing."

Homer laughed again.

But then his expression became thoughtful.

"In my day, words were precious because they were difficult to preserve."

"Indeed."

"One remembered what mattered."

"Or what one believed mattered."

"Quite so. Memory is not always honest."

Poe nodded.

"Nor is the printed page."

Homer regarded the surrounding shelves.

"Yet look at this place. Millions of words, perhaps billions, gathered together.

The thoughts of the dead.

The dreams of the living. The arguments of civilizations."

"An extraordinary achievement."

“ Now you tell me that all of this may be carried in a man's pocket?"

"Much of it."

Homer looked again at the telephone.

"Then every man may become a scholar."

Poe's expression darkened slightly.

"Every man may gain access to scholarship."

"Is there a difference?"

"A considerable one."

"Explain."

"Possessing a library does not make a man wise, Homer. Any more than possessing a sword makes him courageous."

Homer smiled.

"That is well said."

"Thank you."

"But surely the opportunity is magnificent?"

"Without question."

"Then why do you look so troubled?"

Poe picked up the telephone.

"Because mankind has been given access to almost everything it has ever learned."

"And?"

"It has also been given the means to spread almost everything it has ever misunderstood."

Homer considered this.

"Then the problem is not the machine."

"No."

"It is the man holding it."

"Precisely."

Homer leaned back.

"Some things, Edgar, never change."

Chapter Three: The Raven Becomes a Chicken

Poe had recovered sufficiently from his technological ordeal to demonstrate another extraordinary invention.

Instant translation.

"Observe," he said.

He opened a translation application.

He typed a few lines from The Raven.

He selected Greek.

The words changed immediately.

Homer leaned forward.

His eyes widened.

"Remarkable."

Poe selected French.

Then Arabic.

Then Japanese.

Then Spanish.

The words transformed before them.

Homer was astonished.

"You mean a man who has never learned your language may now read your poetry?"

"That is the intention."

"And my work?"

"The same."

"Everywhere?"

"In many languages,yes."

Homer sat silently.

For once, the old storyteller appeared almost overcome.

"Then the walls between peoples have grown thinner."

"Indeed."

"A shepherd in one country may hear the songs of another."

"Yes."

"A child may discover heroes whose names were once unknown beyond their own shores."

"Yes."

"A lonely man may find comfort in the words of someone who lived thousands of years before him."

Poe nodded.

"That is perhaps the greatest gift."

Homer smiled.

"Then I approve."

Poe raised a finger.

"Not so quickly."

He pressed another button.

The telephone began reading a translated passage aloud.

The result was technically understandable.

It was also, to Poe's ears, an act of literary vandalism.

He winced.

Homer listened politely.

Then frowned.

"Why does your raven sound like a tax collector?"

Poe sighed.

"Because the machine has preserved the meaning of certain words while losing their music."

"Ah."

"Poetry is not merely information."

"Indeed."

"It is rhythm. Breath. Silence. Suggestion.

The space between words."

Homer nodded enthusiastically.

"A story has a heartbeat."

"Precisely."

"Without the heartbeat,

it is merely a corpse dressed in language."

Poe looked delighted.

"That is an excellent description."

Homer leaned closer.

"Tell me, Edgar, does your raven still say 'Nevermore'?"

"Naturally."

"What does the machine make of it?"

Poe examined the screen.

"It depends upon the language."

"Does it retain the sorrow?"

"Not always."

"The finality?"

"Not entirely."

"The dreadful sense that something loved has gone beyond recall?"

Poe lowered the telephone.

"No machine can guarantee that."

Homer nodded.

"Then translation is rather like transporting wine from one vessel to another."

"How so?"

"Some of the wine survives. Some is spilled, occasionally someone adds water."

Poe laughed.

"Or vinegar."

"Indeed."

For several moments they considered the problem.

Then Homer spoke.

"Yet surely an imperfect translation is better than no translation at all?"

Poe hesitated.

"Often, yes."

"Then perhaps we should not complain too loudly."

"Why?"

"Because a child who first encounters a story through an imperfect translation may one day learn the language in which it was written."

Poe smiled.

"An excellent point."

"Even if he does not, he may still find something beautiful."

"Yes."

"Then the machine has opened a door."

"Even if it occasionally damages the furniture."

"Precisely."

Poe looked at the telephone.

"Still, I would prefer my raven not to resemble a disgruntled chicken."

Homer stroked his beard.

"Perhaps the chicken has suffered a tragedy of its own."

Poe laughed.

"Then let it write its own poem."

Chapter Four: The Death of the Love Letter

A few minutes later,

Poe discovered text messaging.

This proved unfortunate.

He read the screen.

Then read it again.

His expression became one of profound despair.

"Homer."

"Yes?"

"What does 'LOL' mean?"

Homer considered.

"Lord of Lightning?"

"No."

"Legions of Laconia?"

"No."

"Love of Life?"

Poe sighed.

"Apparently, 'laughing out loud.'"

Homer smiled.

"A cheerful sentiment."

"Perhaps. But observe the sentence."

He showed Homer the message.

OMG LOL U R SO FUNNY.

Homer studied it.

"Is this a military code?"

"No."

"A merchant's shorthand?"

"No."

"A message written by someone suffering a serious injury to the hand?"

"Apparently not."

"Then why are half the letters missing?"

"Convenience."

Homer frowned.

"Convenience?"

"Yes."

"Have they become so busy that they cannot afford vowels?"

Poe nodded solemnly.

"It would appear so."

Homer shook his head.

"In my day, men spent years learning to recite verses."

"In mine, men spent hours composing letters."

"Now?"

"Now a declaration of affection may consist of a small red heart."

Homer looked interested.

"A painted heart?"

"An electronic symbol."

"How curious."

Poe opened another message.

A tiny yellow face appeared.

It was crying with laughter.

Homer examined it.

"Is the little fellow in distress?"

"Apparently he is amused."

"Then why is he weeping?"

"Because he is very amused."

"How does one distinguish him from someone experiencing genuine sorrow?"

"Context."

Homer nodded.

"Ah. So mankind has invented a new form of writing which requires interpretation."

"Yes."

"Then we have returned to the beginning."

Poe laughed despite himself.

But the conversation soon turned towards romance.

"Tell me," Homer asked, "how does a man court a woman in this age?"

Poe examined the telephone.

"Apparently, he may send her a message."

"Naturally."

"Or an image."

"Of what?"

"Sometimes himself."

"An honourable portrait?"

"Not invariably."

Homer raised an eyebrow.

"Ah."

Poe continued scrolling.

"Here is an example of a romantic introduction."

He read aloud.

"'Hey. U up?'"

Silence.

Homer stared.

"That is all?"

"Yes."

"Where is the praise of her beauty?"

"Absent."

"The declaration of longing?"

"Missing."

"The promise of devotion?"

"Nowhere to be found."

"The appeal to Aphrodite?"

"Not mentioned."

Homer shook his head.

"Then what is the gentleman offering?"

Poe looked at the screen.

"Very little, it would seem, beyond evidence that he is awake."

Homer sighed.

"Poor Aphrodite. She must be unemployed."

Poe smiled sadly.

"In my day, a letter might be written, rewritten, sealed, carried and awaited. The anticipation itself became part of the affection."

"Indeed."

"A woman might keep a letter for decades."

"Yes."

"Read it again when she was lonely."

"Yes."

"Hold the paper because the hand of the beloved had once touched it."

Homer's expression softened.

"That is beautiful."

Poe nodded.

"Now the message may disappear in seconds."

Homer looked thoughtful.

"But is the affection necessarily less sincere?"

Poe hesitated.

"No."

"Could a small heart upon a screen comfort a lonely person?"

"Certainly."

"Could a message sent across an ocean prevent despair?"

"Yes."

"Could two lovers separated by war speak to one another instantly?"

Poe's expression changed.

"Yes."

Homer smiled.

"Then perhaps we should not mourn the death of the love letter quite yet."

Poe looked at him.

"You are rather more charitable towards modern humanity than I expected."

Homer shrugged.

"I have written of men who crossed oceans, fought monsters, angered gods and endured twenty years of hardship to return to the people they loved."

"And?"

"If Odysseus had possessed that little machine, Penelope might have enjoyed a considerably less stressful marriage."

Poe burst into laughter.

"Although," Homer added, "I suspect she would have demanded to know precisely where he had been."

Chapter Five: Everybody Is a Poet

By one o'clock, the two gentlemen had discovered social media.

Homer was fascinated.

Poe was appalled.

They sat before the telephone as thousands of messages appeared.

Opinions.

Photographs.

Poems.

Arguments.

Advertisements.

Confessions.

Complaints.

Declarations.

Astonishing acts of kindness.

Spectacular displays of foolishness.

An almost inexhaustible supply of people offering advice upon subjects about which they knew remarkably little.

Homer stared.

"Who are all these people?"

"Everyone, apparently."

"They may all publish their thoughts?"

"Yes."

"Without permission?"

"Generally."

"Without the approval of a king?"

"Yes."

"Without the consent of a priest?"

"Yes."

"Without paying a printer?"

"Often."

Homer's eyes shone.

"Then this is magnificent!"

Poe looked unconvinced.

"Is it?"

"Of course! Every shepherd may sing. Every servant may speak. Every woman whose voice was once dismissed may now tell her story."

Poe considered this.

"That is true."

"Every child may share a poem."

"Yes."

"Every forgotten village may tell the world what has happened there."

"Yes."

"Then the powerful no longer possess exclusive control of the public voice."

"Not exclusive control."

Homer smiled.

"A remarkable achievement."

Poe scrolled further.

"Unfortunately, freedom to speak has not automatically produced wisdom in what is spoken."

Homer leaned closer.

A gentleman was arguing furiously about the correct way to prepare tea.

Another was declaring that an ancient civilization had been constructed by visitors from another planet.

A third insisted that the Earth was flat.

Homer stared.

"Flat?"

"Apparently."

"But surely they have travelled around it?"

"Many have."

"Observed it from above?"

"Indeed."

"Possess instruments capable of examining the heavens?"

"Yes."

Homer shook his head.

"Then why does the gentleman believe it flat?"

Poe sighed.

"Because he has discovered a group of people who agree with him."

Homer considered this.

"Ah."

He leaned back.

"That is an old problem."

"Very old."

"In my day, a man could persuade himself of almost anything if enough companions praised his wisdom."

"And in mine."

"And now?"

"Now he can find thousands of companions without leaving his chair."

Homer looked impressed.

"Then foolishness has become remarkably efficient."

Poe smiled.

"Precisely."

They continued reading.

A young woman had published a poem about the death of her mother.

It was simple.

Unpolished.

Painfully sincere.

Thousands of strangers had responded with kindness.

Poe read it silently.

Then again.

His expression softened.

"That," he said, "is beautiful."

Homer nodded.

"It is."

"Not technically perfect."

"No."

"Not particularly sophisticated."

"No."

"But honest."

"Yes."

Poe looked towards the shelves.

"Perhaps I have been too severe."

Homer smiled.

"Poetry was never intended to belong only to poets."

"Explain."

"Before there were books, there were songs. Before there were scholars, there were mothers singing to children. Before there were monuments, there were people telling stories beside fires."

Poe nodded.

"The art belongs to humanity."

"Precisely."

Homer pointed towards the telephone.

"Perhaps this strange invention has returned storytelling to the people."

Poe considered the thought.

"That would be a splendid achievement."

"Then why do you look troubled?"

"Because the same invention that allows a grieving daughter to share her sorrow also allows a cruel stranger to mock it."

Homer's smile faded.

"Ah."

"The stranger may do so without revealing his name."

Homer stared.

"Without showing his face?"

"Yes."

"Without standing before the person he wounds?"

"Yes."

"Without witnessing the tears he causes?"

"Yes."

Homer sat silently.

Then he spoke with unexpected severity.

"In my world, men often committed terrible deeds. But at least many had to look upon the consequences."

Poe nodded.

"Distance has made cruelty convenient."

Homer looked at the glowing screen.

"Then your age has given every man a voice."

"Yes."

"But it has not necessarily given him a conscience."

"No."

The old poet sighed.

"That, Edgar, may be the greater invention still awaiting mankind."

Chapter Six: The Machine That Writes Poetry

At half past one, the poets encountered artificial intelligence.

This produced the evening's most extraordinary argument.

Poe examined the explanation upon the screen.

"A machine that can compose poetry?"

"Apparently,"

Homer replied.

"Stories?"

"Yes."

"Essays?"

"Yes."

"Letters?"

"Yes."

"Even speeches?"

"Apparently."

Homer looked delighted.

"Then perhaps mankind has finally invented a servant capable of composing the speeches of kings."

Poe raised an eyebrow.

"One might argue that mankind has employed such servants for centuries."

Homer laughed.

"But this one requires no salary?"

"Not exactly."

"Does it eat?"

"No."

"Sleep?"

"No."

"Grow tired?"

"No."

"Demand wine?"

"Not yet."

Homer shook his head.

"An extraordinary creature."

"Not necessarily a creature."

"Then what is it?"

"A system trained upon enormous quantities of information, capable of producing language in response to instructions."

Homer considered this.

"Like a student who has read every book in the library?"

"An imperfect comparison, but useful."

"Can it think?"

Poe hesitated.

"That depends upon what one means by thinking."

"Can it feel?"

"We cannot simply assume that it experiences feelings as humans do."

"Can it love?"

"That is a more difficult question than its advertisements might suggest."

Homer smiled.

"Then let us test it."

Poe opened a conversation.

He typed:

Write a poem about grief.

Words appeared.

Quickly.

Very quickly.

The result was elegant.

Rhythmic.

Full of sorrowful imagery.

Homer read it.

Poe read it.

Neither spoke for several moments.

Then Homer said:

"It is not without beauty."

"No."

"Nor without skill."

"No."

"Yet something troubles you."

Poe folded his hands.

"When I wrote of grief, Homer, I wrote from the landscape of a life marked by loss."

"Yes."

"The machine can arrange words describing sorrow."

"Yes."

"But does it know what it is to stand beside an empty bed?"

Homer looked thoughtful.

"Perhaps not."

"To hear a familiar footstep that will never return?"

"No."

"To reach instinctively for a hand that is no longer there?"

Homer lowered his eyes.

"Those are human experiences."

"Precisely."

Homer considered this.

"But must the maker of a beautiful thing experience everything that the beautiful thing describes?"

Poe looked up.

"An interesting question."

"A sculptor may carve a lion without ever having been a lion."

"Indeed."

"A painter may depict the sea without ever having drowned."

"True."

"A storyteller may describe a battle he never witnessed."

Poe smiled.

"You have rather neatly described much of my profession."

"And mine."

They laughed.

Homer continued.

"Perhaps the question is not whether the machine has suffered."

"Then what is it?"

"Whether its words can help someone who has."

Poe was silent.

Homer pointed towards the screen.

"If a lonely woman reads those lines and finds comfort, is the comfort false?"

"No."

"If a grieving father finds words he could not find for himself, are those words worthless?"

"Certainly not."

"Then the machine may have a place."

Poe nodded slowly.

"Yes. But there is another danger."

"What?"

"That mankind may become so accustomed to having machines produce its words that it forgets how to discover its own."

Homer frowned.

"Explain."

"Writing is not merely the act of placing words upon a page."

"No."

"It is often the process through which we discover what we believe."

"Yes."

"Sometimes we begin a sentence without knowing how it will end."

"Indeed."

"In struggling to finish it, we discover something about ourselves."

Homer smiled.

"Like a traveller who finds a country he did not know existed."

"Exactly."

Poe looked at the machine.

"If every difficulty is removed, every awkward sentence corrected, every uncertainty resolved before it has been explored, what happens to the human mind?"

Homer sat back.

"Perhaps it grows lazy."

"Perhaps."

"Or perhaps it gains time for greater thoughts."

"Also possible."

"Then the machine is neither salvation nor damnation."

"No."

"It is a tool."

"Yes."

"Like a sword."

"Or a pen."

Homer nodded.

"A sword may defend a child or murder one."

"And a pen may expose injustice or manufacture lies."

"Then what matters is the hand."

"And the intention behind it."

The two poets regarded the telephone.

Finally, Homer smiled.

"Ask it something else."

"What?"

"Ask it whether it believes itself a poet."

Poe typed the question.

The response explained that it could generate poetry but did not possess a human life or personal experiences.

Homer laughed.

"At least it is modest."

Poe smiled.

"A quality not universally shared by human poets."

"Nor by human beings generally."

They sat quietly.

Then Homer spoke again.

"Edgar?"

"Yes?"

"If mankind can now command machines to write poetry, perhaps it should spend more time learning why poetry matters."

Poe looked towards the dome.

"That, my friend, would be a worthy ambition."

Chapter Seven: The Marketplace of Attention

By two o'clock, Homer had discovered that modern communication was not simply about sharing information.

It was also about attracting attention.

This fascinated him.

"Explain this word," he said.

"Which word?"

"'Viral.'"

Poe examined the screen.

"It means that something spreads rapidly among large numbers of people."

"Like a plague?"

"An unfortunate but appropriate comparison."

Homer nodded.

"So what must a person do to become viral?"

"Almost anything, apparently."

"Write a magnificent poem?"

"Possibly."

"Discover a cure for disease?"

"Perhaps."

"Perform an act of extraordinary courage?"

"Certainly."

"Fall into a fountain while attempting to photograph himself?"

"Very possibly."

Homer stared.

"Then the fountain may prove more successful than the poem?"

"Considerably."

Homer looked offended.

"By Apollo!"

Poe smiled.

"The modern world has developed elaborate systems for measuring attention."

"How?"

"By counting how many people view, approve of, share or respond to something."

Homer considered this.

"Then popularity is measured numerically."

"Yes."

"Wisdom?"

"Not so easily."

"Beauty?"

"Also difficult."

"Truth?"

"Sometimes rather poorly."

Homer stroked his beard.

"Then a lie repeated by a million people may appear more important than a truth spoken by one."

Poe nodded.

"That is one of the dangers."

Homer looked towards the bookshelves.

"In my day, a storyteller could hold an audience for hours."

"Indeed."

"The listeners had to remain."

"Yes."

"They had to imagine."

"Yes."

"They had to remember."

"Yes."

"Now?"

"Now a person may abandon a story after three seconds."

Homer looked genuinely astonished.

"Three seconds?"

"Sometimes less."

"Before the hero has even left home?"

"Before he has put on his sandals."

Homer shook his head.

"Then Odysseus would never reach Troy."

Poe laughed.

"Nor return from it."

"Achilles?"

"Would be interrupted by an advertisement."

Homer sighed.

"Poor Achilles. His temper was already troublesome."

Poe continued.

"Modern technology competes relentlessly for human attention. Images, sounds, messages, notifications, advertisements, entertainment. All arriving continuously."

"Why?"

"Because attention has commercial value."

Homer frowned.

"Human attention is sold?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"To whom?"

"Advertisers, businesses and others seeking influence."

Homer sat very still.

"Then the marketplace no longer sells merely goods."

"No."

"It sells the moments of a man's life."

Poe looked at him.

"An unsettling way to describe it."

"Is it inaccurate?"

"Not entirely."

Homer gazed around the room.

"How many years does a man possess, Edgar?"

"No one knows."

"How many mornings?"

"An uncertain number."

"How many conversations with his children?"

"Far fewer than he imagines."

"How many sunsets?"

"Again, uncertain."

Homer pointed towards the telephone.

"Yet he gives away hours of those precious moments staring at this little object?"

"Frequently."

"Why?"

"Sometimes for knowledge. Sometimes companionship. Sometimes pleasure. Sometimes habit."

"And sometimes?"

"Because the systems are designed to encourage him to remain."

Homer sighed.

"Then the Sirens have learned a new song."

Poe smiled.

"A splendid comparison."

"In my Odyssey, Odysseus had himself bound to the mast so that he might hear the Sirens without surrendering to them."

"Yes."

"Perhaps modern mankind should occasionally bind its telephone to the mast instead."

Poe laughed.

"Preferably a mast some distance from the bedroom."

Homer nodded.

"Especially at night."

They fell silent.

Then Poe said:

"Yet we must be careful not to condemn all new forms of entertainment."

"Naturally."

"People have always enjoyed diversion."

"Of course."

"Even in your day."

Homer grinned.

"My dear Edgar, I made a considerable portion of my reputation entertaining people."

“I wrote tales intended to disturb them."

"Then perhaps our complaint is not that humanity seeks entertainment."

"No."

"It is that entertainment may consume the time once reserved for contemplation."

Poe nodded.

"Contemplation is where understanding begins."

Chapter Eight: The Words That Start Wars

At twenty minutes past two, the conversation grew darker.

It began with a newspaper headline.

Then another.

And another.

Conflicts.

Threats.

Accusations.

Disinformation.

Hatred.

Fear.

Homer read quietly.

Poe watched him.

Eventually, the old poet placed the telephone upon the table.

"Three thousand years," he said.

"Approximately."

"Mankind is still doing this?"

"Yes."

"Fighting?"

"Yes."

"Killing?"

"Yes."

"Destroying cities?"

"Yes."

"Driving families from their homes?"

"Yes."

Homer lowered his head.

"I had hoped we might have learned something."

Poe spoke gently.

"We have learned many things."

"Then why do we repeat so many mistakes?"

"Because knowledge and wisdom are not the same."

Homer looked up.

"In my poems, men fought for honour, pride, vengeance, loyalty, survival and power."

"They still do."

"Gods interfered."

"Now the explanations are somewhat different."

"But the suffering remains."

"Yes."

Homer was silent.

Then he spoke.

"I wonder whether people remember what the Iliad truly contains."

"Battles."

"Yes."

"Heroes."

"Yes."

"Death."

"Much of it."

"But also grief."

Homer nodded.

"Above all, grief."

He looked towards the distant shelves.

"People remember Achilles as a warrior. They remember his anger. His strength. His victories."

"Indeed."

"But the poem also brings us to a father begging for the body of his son."

Poe nodded.

"Priam and Achilles."

"Two enemies. Two men who have suffered. And for a moment, grief becomes stronger than hatred."

Homer's voice softened.

"That is the moment I would wish mankind to remember."

Poe looked thoughtful.

"Because it reveals that an enemy is still human."

"Precisely."

Homer leaned forward.

"Tell me, Edgar.

Do modern leaders read poetry?"

"Some do."

"Do they understand it?"

"That is harder to establish."

"Do they read history?"

"Many claim to."

"Do they learn from it?"

"Not consistently."

Homer sighed.

"Then perhaps we should send them all back to school."

Poe smiled.

"An interesting proposal."

"And make them read the accounts of those who suffered in wars."

"Yes."

"Not merely the generals."

"No."

"Not merely the kings."

"No."

"But the mothers.

The children.

The widows.

The wounded."

Poe nodded.

"Those voices matter."

Homer looked at him.

"Words can prepare men for war long before swords are drawn."

"Indeed."

"A people may be taught to fear another people."

"Yes."

"To despise them."

"Yes."

"To imagine them less human."

"Yes."

"Once that has happened, cruelty becomes easier."

Poe lowered his eyes.

"History provides abundant evidence."

Homer considered the glowing telephone.

"Then this machine can spread hatred across the world in seconds."

"It can."

"But also compassion."

"Yes."

"It can carry lies."

"Yes."

"But also expose them."

"Yes."

"It can encourage violence."

"Yes."

"But also allow witnesses to document suffering."

Poe nodded.

"The same technology can serve very different purposes."

Homer leaned back.

"Then words remain what they have always been."

"What?"

"Seeds."

Poe looked intrigued.

"Seeds?"

"Plant hatred, and hatred may grow. Plant courage, and courage may grow. Plant understanding, and perhaps understanding will grow."

Poe smiled.

"A fine metaphor."

Homer looked towards the shelves.

"But mankind must learn to examine what it plants."

Outside, a distant siren sounded.

Neither poet spoke.

For once, the silence seemed more eloquent than words.

Chapter Nine: The Strange Business of Truth

The silence was broken by Poe.

"Tell me, Homer, how much of your work is true?"

Homer looked amused.

"An impertinent question."

"Nevertheless."

"How much of yours?"

Poe smiled.

"Touché."

Homer leaned back.

"My stories contain gods, monsters, heroes, voyages, battles, longing, courage and folly."

"Yes."

"Some may preserve memories of ancient events. Others belong to imagination, tradition and myth."

"Does that trouble you?"

"Not particularly."

"Why?"

"Because a story may contain truth without being a record of literal events."

Poe nodded.

"An important distinction."

"A monster may represent fear. A voyage may represent the human journey. A god may embody forces that people struggle to understand."

"Indeed."

Homer continued.

"But there is a difference between telling a story and pretending that invention is established fact."

Poe raised his glass of water.

"To that distinction."

Homer smiled.

They drank.

Poe returned to the telephone.

"Modern humanity has created extraordinary methods of recording and examining reality."

"Photographs?"

"Yes."

"Moving pictures?"

"Yes."

"Scientific instruments?"

"Yes."

"And yet?"

"Yet falsehoods can still travel widely."

Homer frowned.

"Why?"

"Because people do not always believe something because it is true."

"Then why?"

"Sometimes because it is comforting."

"Ah."

"Sometimes because it confirms what they already suspect."

"Yes."

"Sometimes because it flatters them."

"Naturally."

"Sometimes because it makes them feel part of a group."

Homer nodded.

"That is very old indeed."

Poe continued.

"Now images and voices can be convincingly fabricated."

Homer looked alarmed.

"A man may appear to say words he never spoke?"

"Yes."

"His face may be shown performing actions he never performed?"

"Yes."

"Then how does one know what to believe?"

Poe paused.

"By examining evidence. Comparing sources. Asking questions. Remaining willing to change one's mind."

Homer laughed.

"Good heavens, Edgar. You are asking mankind to think."

"A rather ambitious proposal."

"Indeed."

Homer considered the matter.

"In my day, a storyteller might exaggerate."

"Certainly."

"A king might commission flattering accounts of his victories."

"Naturally."

"A priest might claim divine authority."

"Yes."

"A merchant might describe a very ordinary horse as the finest animal ever born."

Poe smiled.

"Advertising has changed less than one might hope."

Homer nodded.

"But modern technology has increased the speed and scale of deception."

"Exactly."

"Then perhaps the ancient virtues are more important than ever."

"Which virtues?"

"Patience. Humility. Curiosity. The courage to admit ignorance."

Poe looked delighted.

"Especially the last."

Homer smiled.

"Why?"

"Because modern humanity seems remarkably reluctant to say three simple words."

"Which words?"

"'I don't know.'"

Homer laughed.

"Yet those words are the beginning of wisdom!"

"Precisely."

"What does mankind say instead?"

Poe glanced at the telephone.

"Usually something much longer."

Chapter Ten: The Poetry of Ordinary People

At three o'clock, the two poets began exploring an extraordinary collection of personal writing.

Letters from soldiers.

Diaries.

Family histories.

Accounts of migration.

Poems written in prisons.

Songs remembered by communities.

Stories recorded by people whose names would never appear in grand histories.

Homer was deeply moved.

"Who wrote these?"

"Ordinary people."

"Ordinary?"

"People without fame or great power."

Homer shook his head.

"There is nothing ordinary about a life."

Poe looked at him.

"Explain."

"Every person carries a world."

"Yes."

"Memories no one else possesses. Fears no one else entirely understands. Loves that may never be recorded. Sorrows hidden beneath familiar smiles."

Poe nodded.

"A private universe."

"Precisely."

Homer lifted an imaginary book from the table.

"A king may command an army, but a mother may carry a story that matters more to her children than any battle."

"Indeed."

"A fisherman may know the sea more intimately than a scholar who has written ten volumes about it."

"True."

"A child may ask a question that defeats a philosopher."

Poe smiled.

"Children are particularly skilled at that."

Homer continued.

"A person who has never written a poem may nevertheless speak a sentence of astonishing beauty."

Poe looked towards the great shelves.

"Perhaps that is one of the most valuable possibilities offered by modern communication."

"What?"

"The preservation of voices that earlier generations might have lost."

Homer nodded.

"Yes."

Poe continued.

"People can record family stories. Preserve endangered languages. Share experiences across continents. Document lives that might otherwise disappear from history."

Homer smiled.

"Then the library grows."

"Enormously."

"The storytellers multiply."

"Beyond counting."

Homer looked pleased.

"But tell me, Edgar, does mankind value these ordinary voices?"

"Sometimes."

"And sometimes?"

"It becomes distracted by celebrities."

Homer frowned.

"Who are these celebrities?"

"People who attract public attention."

"For their achievements?"

"Sometimes."

"For their wisdom?"

"Occasionally."

"For their beauty?"

"Often."

"For their foolishness?"

"Quite frequently."

Homer sighed.

"Then fame remains a rather unreliable measure of worth."

Poe nodded.

"Indeed."

Homer smiled mischievously.

"Although I suppose I should not complain."

"Why?"

"I have been famous for nearly three thousand years, and scholars still argue over whether I was one man, several poets, or even existed as the person tradition describes."

Poe laughed.

"A remarkable achievement."

"Indeed. Imagine being famous for millennia without anyone being entirely certain who you were."

Poe grinned.

"In the modern world, Homer, you would be called an influencer."

Homer looked horrified.

"I beg your pardon?"

Chapter Eleven: The Loneliness of a Connected World

The hour grew late.

The great reading room seemed to settle more deeply into silence.

Poe had become thoughtful.

"Homer, there is something I find particularly troubling."

"What is that?"

"Humanity has never possessed so many ways to communicate."

"Yes."

"Yet loneliness remains."

Homer nodded.

"A curious contradiction."

"People may speak to hundreds of others without leaving their homes."

"Yes."

"They may see faces across oceans."

"Yes."

"Exchange messages throughout the day."

"Yes."

"Still feel unseen."

Homer considered this.

"Perhaps communication is not the same as companionship."

"Precisely."

"A message may reach the mind without reaching the heart."

Poe smiled sadly.

"Beautifully expressed."

Homer leaned forward.

"In my day, people gathered around fires. They told stories.

They argued.

They sang.

They ate together."

"Were they never lonely?"

Homer laughed.

"Certainly they were! Loneliness is older than civilization."

"Indeed."

"A person may be lonely in a crowded hall."

"Yes."

"Comforted by a letter from someone far away."

"Yes."

"Then perhaps the machine is not responsible for loneliness."

"No."

"But it may sometimes disguise it."

Poe nodded.

"A person may mistake constant activity for genuine connection."

Homer looked towards the telephone.

"Does this object ever become quiet?"

"Only when one allows it."

"Then perhaps that is part of the difficulty."

Poe smiled.

"The difficulty of allowing silence?"

"Yes."

Homer stood and walked towards the centre of the reading room.

"Consider a conversation, Edgar."

"I am listening."

"Two people sit together."

"Yes."

"One speaks."

"Yes."

"The other listens."

"Yes."

"But what if the listener is already preparing his reply?"

Poe considered.

"Then he may hear the words without understanding them."

"Exactly."

"What if he is waiting merely for an opportunity to disagree?"

"Then the conversation becomes a contest."

"What if he listens only for words that confirm his own beliefs?"

"Then he has learned nothing."

Homer smiled.

"Yet he may believe he has won."

Poe laughed softly.

"A very modern phenomenon."

"An ancient one, merely equipped with better machinery."

They returned to the table.

Poe looked towards the shelves.

"Perhaps mankind has confused being heard with being understood."

Homer nodded.

"Being noticed with being loved."

"Yes."

"Being followed with being respected."

"Yes."

"Being popular with being wise."

Poe smiled.

"You have diagnosed much of the modern condition."

Homer shrugged.

"I have had several thousand years to observe the symptoms."

Chapter Twelve: The Words We Have Forgotten

At four o'clock, Homer asked a peculiar question.

"Edgar, have words disappeared?"

Poe frowned.

"Disappeared?"

"From human use."

"Certainly. Languages change. Words fall out of fashion. New words emerge."

"Then language is alive."

"Very much so."

Homer smiled.

"Good."

"Good?"

"Of course. A living thing must change."

Poe looked surprised.

"I expected you to mourn the corruption of language."

Homer laughed.

"My dear Edgar, if language had never changed, neither of us would understand the world around us."

"A fair point."

"Words belong to those who use them."

"Yes."

"Not merely to those who came before."

Poe nodded.

"Although one might hope that change does not always involve removing half the alphabet."

Homer grinned.

"Your objection to abbreviations is becoming rather tiresome."

Poe looked offended.

"I beg your pardon!"

Homer laughed.

"But tell me, are there words your age particularly needs?"

Poe considered.

"Compassion."

"An old word."

"Humility."

"Older still."

"Responsibility."

"Essential."

"Patience."

"Frequently neglected."

"Truth."

"Often contested."

"Mercy."

Homer nodded slowly.

"Yes."

Poe looked towards the ceiling.

"Perhaps forgiveness."

Homer was silent.

Then he spoke.

"In the Iliad, the great warrior Achilles is consumed by anger."

"Yes."

"His rage brings suffering."

"Yes."

"But near the end, he encounters the grief of his enemy."

"Priam."

"Yes."

"For a moment, he recognizes their shared humanity."

Poe nodded.

"A powerful scene."

Homer smiled sadly.

"Perhaps mankind has not forgotten the word compassion."

"Then what has happened?"

"It has forgotten how to practise it when compassion is inconvenient."

Poe considered this.

"That may be true."

Homer continued.

"It is easy to be kind to those who agree with us."

"Yes."

"Easy to defend those who resemble us."

"Yes."

"Easy to mourn those whose stories we already understand."

"Yes."

"But the true test comes when the suffering person is a stranger."

Poe nodded.

"Or an opponent."

"Or someone whose beliefs we dislike."

"Indeed."

Homer sat back.

"Then perhaps language is not dying."

"No."

"Perhaps some of its finest words are simply waiting to be used properly."

Chapter Thirteen: The Immortality Business

The conversation turned, inevitably, towards death.

An appropriate subject for Edgar Allan Poe.

"Tell me, Homer," he said, "did you ever imagine that your stories would survive for thousands of years?"

Homer smiled.

"I imagined that stories might outlive their tellers."

"But millennia?"

"That would have seemed an extravagant hope."

Poe nodded.

"Yet here you are."

"Here I am."

"Your heroes still live."

"In words."

"Your gods still argue."

"In imagination."

"Your monsters still frighten children."

Homer laughed.

"And occasionally adults."

Poe smiled.

"Your work has crossed languages, civilizations, religions and centuries."

"Yes."

"Mine has crossed oceans and generations."

"Indeed."

Homer looked around the library.

"Then perhaps this is a kind of immortality."

Poe considered.

"An imperfect one."

"Naturally."

"Books may be lost."

"Yes."

"Languages forgotten."

"Yes."

"Meanings misunderstood."

"Yes."

"Authors transformed into caricatures."

Homer smiled.

"Or mugs."

Poe groaned.

"Please do not remind me."

They laughed.

Then Poe became serious.

"Do you suppose that the billions of messages created today will survive?"

"Some."

"Which ones?"

"Who can know?"

Poe looked thoughtful.

"Perhaps the most important words of our age are not those attracting the greatest attention."

Homer nodded.

"Perhaps they are hidden."

"Where?"

"In a message sent from a daughter to her father."

"Yes."

"In the last letter written by a dying woman."

"Yes."

"In the diary of a child."

"Yes."

"In a poem written by someone who has never shown it to another soul."

Poe's expression softened.

"Those words may matter enormously."

"Even if only one person reads them."

"Yes."

Homer looked towards the bookshelves.

"Then immortality is not always measured in centuries."

Poe frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"A sentence may live for only a moment and still change a life."

Poe was silent.

Homer continued.

"A frightened child hears, 'You are safe.'"

"Yes."

"A lonely person hears, 'I am here.'"

"Yes."

"A grieving friend hears, 'I remember.'"

"Yes."

"A person burdened by guilt hears, 'I forgive you.'"

Poe lowered his eyes.

Homer smiled gently.

"Perhaps those words need not survive for three thousand years."

"No."

"Perhaps they need only arrive at the right moment."

Poe nodded.

"To be meant."

"Precisely."

Chapter Fourteen: The Trial of Humanity

At half past four, Homer announced that he wished to conduct an experiment.

Poe looked suspicious.

"What sort of experiment?"

"A trial."

"Of whom?"

"Humanity."

Poe raised an eyebrow.

"An ambitious defendant."

"Indeed."

"The charges?"

Homer began counting upon his fingers.

"Possessing extraordinary intelligence while frequently refusing to employ it."

Poe nodded.

"A familiar offence."

"Developing magnificent methods of communication while failing to understand one another."

"Agreed."

"Preserving ancient wisdom while repeating ancient mistakes."

"Yes."

"Creating technologies capable of uniting the world while using them to deepen divisions."

"Certainly a concern."

"Wasting an alarming quantity of time arguing about trivialities."

Poe smiled.

"That final charge may be the easiest to establish."

Homer leaned forward.

"Then let us hear the defence."

Poe considered.

"Humanity has expanded access to education."

Homer nodded.

"Good."

"It has preserved enormous quantities of knowledge."

"Excellent."

"It has created tools that allow families separated by continents to speak face to face."

"Wonderful."

"It has enabled people to expose injustice, organize assistance and share discoveries."

"Splendid."

"It has made literature accessible to readers who might once have been excluded."

Homer smiled.

"A magnificent achievement."

Poe continued.

"It has allowed people with disabilities to communicate in ways earlier generations could scarcely imagine."

Homer looked deeply impressed.

"Then the defence has much to say."

"Indeed."

Homer considered.

"What of the prosecution?"

Poe sighed.

"Disinformation."

"Yes."

"Harassment."

"Yes."

"Manipulation."

"Yes."

"Distraction."

"Yes."

"Commercial exploitation of attention."

"Yes."

"The temptation to mistake the loudest voice for the wisest."

Homer nodded.

"A formidable case."

They sat silently.

Then Homer spoke.

"What is the verdict?"

Poe considered.

"Not guilty."

Homer looked astonished.

"Not guilty?"

"Of being beyond redemption."

Homer smiled.

"Ah."

Poe continued.

"Humanity is contradictory. Capable of extraordinary generosity and astonishing cruelty. Brilliant invention and spectacular foolishness. Great courage and profound cowardice."

"Yes."

"But it is also capable of learning."

Homer nodded.

"Slowly."

"Painfully."

"Often reluctantly."

"Indeed."

Homer laughed.

"Then perhaps the sentence should be education."

Poe smiled.

"With compulsory lessons in listening."

"And kindness."

"And critical thinking."

"And history."

"And poetry."

Homer raised a finger.

"Especially poetry."

Poe laughed.

"Naturally."

Homer leaned back.

"A little less time staring at dancing cats."

Poe smiled.

"I fear that recommendation may prove unpopular."

Chapter Fifteen: The Library of Tomorrow

The first pale suggestion of dawn appeared beyond the windows.

The great dome seemed to brighten.

The two poets knew their extraordinary meeting was drawing towards its conclusion.

Homer stood.

"Edgar, I have one final question."

"Ask it."

"What will become of books?"

Poe looked around.

"Some believe that physical books will become less central as digital forms expand."

Homer frowned.

"Will they disappear?"

"I doubt they will disappear entirely."

"Good."

"Although the ways people read will continue to change."

Homer considered.

"Perhaps that is not a tragedy."

"No?"

"Stories existed before books."

"Indeed."

"They lived in voices."

"Yes."

"In songs."

"Yes."

"In memory."

"Yes."

"Then books were themselves a new technology."

Poe smiled.

"Precisely."

"Printing was another."

"Yes."

"These glowing machines are another."

"Yes."

Homer looked pleased.

"Then perhaps the story is larger than the vessel that carries it."

Poe nodded.

"A beautiful thought."

Homer continued.

"A story may be spoken beside a fire, written upon a scroll, printed upon paper or displayed upon glass."

"Yes."

"But its true destination remains the same."

"The human mind?"

"Sometimes, the human heart."

Poe smiled.

They stood together beneath the great dome.

Around them lay centuries of human thought.

The arguments of philosophers.

The discoveries of scientists.

The dreams of novelists.

The warnings of historians.

The songs of poets.

The prayers of believers.

The doubts of sceptics.

The records of ordinary lives.

All waiting.

All speaking.

All hoping that someone might listen.

Homer looked towards the shelves.

"How extraordinary."

"What?"

"That mankind has created a place where the dead may continue speaking."

Poe nodded.

“Now it has created machines through which the living may speak across the world."

Homer smiled.

"Then perhaps the next great invention should concern listening."

Poe laughed softly.

"An invention long overdue."

Chapter Sixteen: The Last Word

It was almost five o'clock.

The first librarians would soon arrive.

Outside, Washington was awakening.

Coffee machines began their morning duties.

Traffic gathered.

Telephones vibrated.

Messages appeared.

News programmes prepared their headlines.

Somewhere, a child was learning to read.

Somewhere, a mother was writing a letter.

Somewhere, a young poet was struggling to find the right word.

Somewhere, a stranger was offering comfort.

Somewhere else, another was preparing an insult.

Humanity was beginning another day.

Another day of extraordinary possibilities.

Familiar mistakes.

Homer and Poe stood beside the great table.

The telephone lay between them.

Its screen illuminated once more.

A notification appeared.

Then another.

And another.

Homer regarded it with amusement.

"Does that thing ever cease demanding attention?"

"Rarely."

"Then I am pleased I did not possess one."

Poe smiled.

"Why?"

"Because I should never have finished the Odyssey."

They laughed.

Homer turned towards the shelves.

"Tell me, Edgar. How many words do you suppose mankind has written?"

"Trillions, I should imagine."

"How many have been spoken?"

"Beyond counting."

"How many will be spoken today?"

"Billions upon billions."

Homer nodded.

"Extraordinary."

He paused.

"How many will be understood?"

Poe remained silent.

The question hung between them.

Homer looked towards the great dome.

"Perhaps mankind does not need another language."

Poe turned.

"What does it need?"

Homer smiled.

"Another pair of ears."

Poe considered this.

Then quietly replied:

"Perhaps that is why nature gave mankind two ears and only one mouth."

Homer laughed.

"Yet mankind has spent three thousand years attempting to reverse the arrangement."

Poe smiled.

"An unfortunate ambition."

"Indeed."

They began walking towards the shadows.

But before they disappeared, Poe stopped.

"Homer?"

"Yes?"

"Do you suppose mankind will ever learn?"

The old Greek poet considered the question carefully.

"I believe it can."

"But will it?"

"That depends."

"Upon what?"

"Whether it wishes to understand more than it wishes to be right."

Poe nodded.

"A formidable challenge."

"Indeed."

They stood silently for a moment.

Then Homer asked:

"Edgar, what is the greatest tragedy of modern humanity?"

Poe looked towards the telephone.

"That it possesses the means to communicate with almost everyone, yet sometimes neglects the person sitting beside it."

Homer smiled sadly.

"It’s greatest hope?"

Poe considered.

"That the same tools which divide people may also help them discover how much they share."

Homer nodded.

"Then all is not lost."

"No."

"Not yet."

The two poets disappeared into the shadows.

The library returned to silence.

A few minutes later, a librarian entered the great reading room.

Everything appeared normal.

The books were in their places.

The tables were tidy.

The magnificent dome stood above.

But upon one table lay a small piece of paper.

Written in elegant handwriting were seven words:

THE WORLD DOES NOT NEED MORE NOISE.

Beneath them, in a different hand, appeared another seven:

IT NEEDS MORE PEOPLE WILLING TO LISTEN.

The librarian smiled.

She placed the paper carefully inside a book.

Then she opened the library for another day.

Outside , the world continued talking.

And talking.

Epilogue: A Small Matter of Immortality

Somewhere beyond time, in a place where stories never truly end, two gentlemen sat beside a fire.

One wore ancient Greek robes.

The other wore black.

Between them stood a small table.

Upon it rested a bottle of wine.

A telephone.

Homer regarded the device suspiciously.

"Edgar."

"Yes?"

"It has begun glowing again."

Poe sighed.

"Ignore it."

"But it says we have become popular."

"How popular?"

"Apparently several million people have read about our conversation."

Poe raised an eyebrow.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Have they learned anything?"

Homer examined the screen.

"Some have."

"The others?"

"They are arguing."

"About what?"

Homer frowned.

"Whether I actually existed."

Poe laughed.

“What do you intend to do?"

Homer picked up his wine.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"But surely you wish to defend yourself?"

Homer smiled.

"My dear Edgar, I have survived nearly three thousand years without knowing precisely who I am."

He raised his glass.

"I see no reason to spoil the mystery now."

Poe laughed.

"To poetry."

"To storytelling."

"To wisdom."

"To humanity."

They touched glasses.

Then the telephone vibrated again.

Poe glanced at it.

His expression darkened.

"What now?" asked Homer.

"Someone has asked whether I could shorten The Raven to fit into a fifteen-second video."

Homer burst into laughter.

"What did you reply?"

Poe smiled.

"One word."

"Which word?"

Poe raised his glass.

"Nevermore."

A final thought from the author

Perhaps the greatest irony of our age is not that humanity has forgotten how to communicate.

Quite the opposite.

We have become astonishingly good at it.

We can send words across oceans in an instant.

We can translate the thoughts of ancient civilizations.

We can preserve voices, share discoveries, express affection, expose injustice and reach people whom previous generations could never have imagined meeting.

We have created something extraordinary.

But somewhere along the way, we have also developed the peculiar habit of confusing communication with understanding.

We speak to be noticed.

We argue to be victorious.

We publish to be admired.

We respond before we have listened.

Sometimes we are so busy preparing our next sentence that we fail to hear the one being spoken to us.

Perhaps Homer and Poe, separated by centuries yet united by the power of words, would remind us of something beautifully simple.

Words are not merely sounds.

They are bridges.

They are doors.

They are seeds.

They can comfort the grieving, inspire the hopeless, challenge the powerful and remind strangers of their shared humanity.

But they can also wound.

Deceive.

Divide.

Destroy.

The choice has always belonged to us.

Perhaps that is the lesson hidden among the millions of books in that magnificent library.

It is not enough to possess the words.

We must learn to understand them.

It is not enough to possess a voice.

We must learn when to use it.

It is not enough to hear.

We must learn to listen.

For a world in which everyone is shouting is not necessarily a world in which anyone is being heard.

A civilization that can communicate with the stars but cannot speak kindly to its neighbours still has rather a lot to learn.

So perhaps, just occasionally, we should put down the telephone.

Close the laptop.

Turn off the television.

Sit quietly.

Listen.

Remember that somewhere, across three thousand years of human history, two old poets are still waiting for us to understand what they were trying to say.

THE END

Or, as Homer might have observed, merely the beginning of another very long argument.

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