A fool's brain digests philosophy into folly, science into

Host: The wind rattled the tall windows of the old university lecture hall, whispering through the cracks of time and irony. Rows of empty seats stretched into shadow, still echoing faintly with the ghosts of arguments past. Chalk dust hung in the air — that ancient perfume of intellect and ego.

At the front of the room, Jack stood by a blackboard, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, lines of half-erased equations and quotes scrawled behind him like the debris of unfinished thought.

Across from him, Jeeny sat on a desk, legs crossed, notebook closed, her eyes bright, her smile sharp with mischief. The clock above them ticked with the bored patience of academia.

Jeeny: “George Bernard Shaw once said, ‘A fool’s brain digests philosophy into folly, science into superstition, and art into pedantry. Hence University education.’”

Jack: (laughing softly) “He really didn’t leave anyone uninsulted, did he?”

Jeeny: “Shaw rarely did. But the sting is in the truth — that knowledge, in the wrong hands, becomes arrogance wearing a diploma.”

Host: The light filtering through the stained glass caught dust motes in slow suspension, like thoughts too heavy to fall.

Jack: “You think education breeds fools?”

Jeeny: “Not education — imitation. Universities were meant to be cathedrals of inquiry, not factories of conformity. But Shaw was right — when learning becomes status instead of curiosity, philosophy turns into pretension, science into ritual, and art into jargon.”

Jack: “So the fool isn’t the uneducated. It’s the educated without imagination.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A mind full of books but empty of wonder.”

Host: Jack turned toward the blackboard, uncapped a piece of chalk, and wrote three words in large, uneven letters: PHILOSOPHY. SCIENCE. ART. Beneath each, he drew an arrow pointing to their supposed distortions: FOLLY. SUPERSTITION. PEDANTRY.

Jack: “He was mocking us, then. The entire academic temple. All these degrees, all this analysis — we take what’s divine in thought and dissect it until it’s lifeless.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t mocking thought. He was mocking the vanity of thought — the illusion that intellect alone makes one wise.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the problem isn’t knowing — it’s believing you know enough.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The tragedy of intellect is that the more we label, the less we see. The fool with knowledge builds walls instead of windows.”

Host: A distant thunderclap rolled through the sky, echoing in the old rafters. The sound was deep, like the Earth clearing its throat. Jack glanced toward the window, the reflection of lightning flickering across his face.

Jack: “You know, I used to think universities were sacred places — that truth lived here, between the lectures and the late nights. But Shaw’s right. Half of what’s taught is just recycled thought. The other half is ego trying to look profound.”

Jeeny: “Because education stopped being about wisdom. It became about certainty — the illusion that knowledge is ownership. You get a degree, you frame it, and you think that means you understand the world.”

Jack: “When in reality, the world keeps rewriting itself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Shaw saw it long before we did — the danger of intellect divorced from humility. The fool with credentials is more dangerous than the fool without them.”

Host: The rain began, tapping rhythmically against the windows, a percussive counterpoint to their conversation. Jack put down the chalk and turned, his tone shifting from sarcasm to sincerity.

Jack: “You ever feel like we’re all just performing intelligence? Dressing thought in language so formal it forgets to feel?”

Jeeny: “All the time. We quote philosophers like priests reciting scripture, but forget that every great thinker began with confusion — with awe. We’ve sterilized uncertainty.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real superstition Shaw was talking about — believing that education can protect us from ignorance.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Education should reveal how much we don’t know, not convince us that we’ve mastered what we do.”

Host: The light flickered again — an old bulb buzzing overhead. The smell of rain seeped into the room, fresh and grounding.

Jack walked to the window, watching the campus below — students hurrying through the rain, clutching laptops and dreams.

Jack: “Look at them. Running from class to class. They think they’re chasing knowledge, but they’re just chasing validation.”

Jeeny: “We all are. The first test of learning should be humility. Instead, we hand out applause.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You really think Shaw would survive in this century? He’d be canceled by lunch.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Oh, absolutely. But that’s why we need him. His words still sting because they’re still true. The modern fool doesn’t wear a jester’s hat — they wear a graduation cap.”

Host: Jack chuckled — a short, weary sound that felt older than him. He turned from the window, his reflection merging with hers in the glass, two silhouettes shaped by doubt and light.

Jack: “You think Shaw believed education was hopeless?”

Jeeny: “No. He believed in its potential — but only when it humbled the mind instead of feeding the ego. His warning wasn’t cynicism; it was a call to consciousness.”

Jack: “So, true education isn’t about collecting answers, but cultivating questions.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The fool memorizes philosophy to sound wise. The wise person forgets the words, but remembers the wonder that birthed them.”

Host: The rain turned heavier now, drumming a steady rhythm on the roof. Jack moved back toward the chalkboard and added one final word beneath Shaw’s triad — HUMILITY — connecting it with arrows back to PHILOSOPHY, SCIENCE, ART.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the antidote to folly, superstition, and pedantry.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Humility — the quiet art of not pretending to know.”

Host: A silence settled — not empty, but thoughtful. The sound of rain became their punctuation.

Jeeny: “You know what’s ironic?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Shaw never went to university. He educated himself. He saw clearer without the fog of prestige.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why he could laugh at the rest of us.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t laughing at us, Jack. He was warning us. Because when the brain digests truth into vanity, even wisdom becomes poison.”

Host: The clock struck the hour — a deep, echoing note that filled the hall. Jack and Jeeny stood in the golden silence that followed, their reflections caught between the old chalkboard and the wet windowpane.

Host: “And in that empty classroom,” the world whispered, “they understood Shaw’s genius — that intellect without humility is theater, and universities, without wonder, become cemeteries of thought. That every fool can quote wisdom, but only the wise can live it.”

The light dimmed. The rain softened. Outside, the students still hurried beneath umbrellas, unaware that in one forgotten hall, philosophy had briefly reclaimed its pulse — not in a lecture, but in a conversation between two souls learning, at last, how to think without pretending to know.