All those who offer an opinion on any doubtful point should first

Host: The wind howled through the stone corridor of an old library, its arches reaching like the bones of forgotten cathedrals. The lamplight flickered, casting long shadows that stretched across dusty volumes. The smell of aged paper hung heavy, mixed with the faint scent of ink and rain seeping through the cracked windowpanes.

It was long past midnight.

Jack sat at a table, fingers tapping the spine of a book titled “The Histories of Sallust.” His eyes, grey and sharp as steel, glinted beneath the amber glow of a single lamp. Jeeny stood by the window, her silhouette outlined by the lightning that flashed behind her — a delicate figure in black, her expression both tired and earnest.

The room felt alive with tension—the kind that grows not from anger, but from truth being weighed, measured, and feared.

Jeeny: “Sallust said, ‘All those who offer an opinion on any doubtful point should first clear their minds of every sentiment of dislike, friendship, anger or pity.’”
She turned, her voice quiet yet resonant, the stormlight reflecting in her eyes. “Do you think that’s possible, Jack? To think without feeling?”

Jack: “Possible? It’s necessary.”
He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. “That’s the problem with the world, Jeeny. Everyone’s too busy feeling to see clearly. You can’t judge truth with a heart full of sympathy or hatred. You end up defending what you want to be true, not what is.”

Host: The lamp flickered, the light bending across Jack’s face like a split between light and shadow.

Jeeny: “And yet, every judgment you make comes from a soul, doesn’t it? You can’t just cut out the heart like a tumor and call it clarity.”

Jack: “That’s exactly what I’m saying you must do. When a doctor operates, he can’t afford pity. When a judge decides, he can’t afford friendship. Emotion corrupts reason, and reason is the only thing that keeps justice standing.”

Jeeny: “But justice without emotion becomes cold, Jack. It becomes a machine. What about mercy? What about understanding?”

Jack: “Mercy is just bias wearing virtue’s mask. You can’t see the truth if you’re trying to comfort it.”

Host: The storm crashed, thunder rolling like drums of ancient warfare. Raindrops drummed against the window, and the flame in the lamp shivered.

Jeeny walked closer, her voice rising with the storm.
Jeeny: “Tell me, then—if a judge has never felt compassion, how can he understand the weight of another’s pain? To truly judge, you have to feel, even if it hurts.”

Jack: “No, to truly judge, you have to rise above the hurt. Empathy is a poison to truth, Jeeny. Once you start feeling, you start forgiving, and once you start forgiving, you start lying.”

Jeeny: “That’s not truth, Jack. That’s fear. Fear of being human. The mind alone can’t see clearly—it needs the heart to give it meaning.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his grey eyes like storm clouds. His fingers drummed harder on the table, the sound like a metronome marking the seconds between faith and reason.

Jack: “Do you think Socrates used his heart when he drank the hemlock? Or that Spock, in Star Trek, would have made a better leader if he’d cried more? The world advances because of those who think, not those who weep.”

Jeeny: “And yet it’s those who weep, Jack, who make the world worth advancing. Reason built the atomic bomb; compassion rebuilt Hiroshima.”

Host: The room filled with silence, thick as fog. The lamp’s light trembled, as if the argument itself had shaken its flame.

Jack stood, his voice dropping to a low, steady rumble.
Jack: “You want to mix emotion into truth like wine into water, but all it does is cloud the reflection. If a man lets his pity guide him, he’ll call a thief a victim, and a liar a sufferer. That’s not justice, Jeeny. That’s weakness.”

Jeeny: “And if a man never lets his heart speak, he’ll call a child’s cry a distraction, and a mother’s grief an irrelevance. That’s not truth, Jack. That’s cruelty.”

Host: The rain hammered, harder now. The window rattled, and a book fell from the shelf, its pages fluttering like wings.

Jeeny: “You know what Sallust really meant, Jack? He didn’t say to kill emotion—he said to clear it. To let the mind and heart be still, so neither blinds the other. To think without hate, to feel without favor. That’s balance.”

Jack: “Balance is a myth. People pretend they can separate feeling from thought, but when the moment comes—when your friend stands accused, or your enemy asks for mercy—you’ll find your reason trembling under the weight of your heart.”

Jeeny: “And isn’t that what makes justice human? That it trembles?”

Host: The lightning flared, casting their faces into opposites—one cold, one luminous, like truth arguing with its own shadow.

Jack walked toward the window, his reflection merging with Jeeny’s.
Jack: “You think empathy saves us, but it’s the very thing that’s dividing the world. Everyone’s feeling, no one’s thinking. People don’t seek truth anymore; they seek validation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because they’ve been hurt too long, Jack. You can’t tell the broken to stop feeling. You can only teach them how to feel wisely.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated their faces—hers soft, yet unyielding; his hard, yet fractured. The storm seemed to pause, as if the sky itself was listening.

Jack: “So, what then? We should all be philosophers and poets, walking around trying to find truth through tears?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe we should remember that even philosophers once loved, and even poets once bled. The mind without the heart becomes tyranny. The heart without the mind becomes madness. We need both to be whole.”

Host: The rain began to ease, the storm slowly exhaling. The library was quiet again, except for the soft drip of water down the windowpane.

Jack sat down, his shoulders heavy, his eyes distant.
Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the truth needs both—like a sword that cuts, but also heals. Still, it’s hard, Jeeny. To think without anger, to speak without sympathy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about erasing emotion, Jack. It’s about seeing through it. Like clearing smoke before a battle—you can still feel, but you don’t let it blind you.”

Host: A final rumble of thunder rolled away, leaving the air clean, cold, and still. The lamp’s flame steadied, no longer flickering.

Jeeny: “That’s what Sallust meant. Clear your mind—not of feeling, but of attachment. Then your judgment becomes not a weapon, but a mirror.”

Jack: “And in that mirror… you see both the mind and the heart, standing side by side.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera would pull back, the library shrinking into a pool of lamplight surrounded by darkness. The storm had passed, but the echo of their words lingered, like a truth too heavy to vanish.

Outside, the world was wet, silent, reborn—and in that silence, a faint light began to glow, as if reason and emotion, for one fragile moment, had finally agreed to share the same sky.