Books are in no hurry. An act of creation is in no hurry; it

Host: The library lay half-submerged in shadow, its dusty light slanting through high, narrow windows like the ribs of a sleeping cathedral. Rows upon rows of books stretched into a soft, endless twilight, their spines glowing faintly under the amber lamps. Outside, the rain fell slow and steady — the kind that blurred time itself.

At a long wooden table, Jack sat hunched, his hands folded, eyes fixed on the pages of an open book. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair slightly damp from the weather, her expression calm yet burning with quiet conviction.

The quote lay between them, scribbled on a small scrap of paper, the ink still wet:
"Books are in no hurry. An act of creation is in no hurry; it reads us, it privileges us infinitely. The notion that it is the occasion for our cleverness fills me with baffled bitterness and anger." — George Steiner.

Jack: (leaning back, voice low and edged) “You know, this kind of thing always irritates me. Books don’t read us. They’re objects. Ink and paper. It’s people who read. All this talk about creation having feelings — it’s poetic nonsense.”

Jeeny: (quietly, tracing the rim of her teacup) “You’re wrong, Jack. Steiner wasn’t talking about paper. He meant that true creation — a book, a painting, a symphony — it exists beyond us. It isn’t waiting for our cleverness to dissect it. It humbles us. It reminds us we’re the ones being read.”

Host: The clock ticked softly on the far wall, its sound stretching through the still air. The rain pressed against the windows, whispering like pages being turned.

Jack: “So you think books are sacred now? That they understand us? Come on. That’s romanticizing ink stains. Books are tools — ways for one mind to transmit ideas to another. Nothing more.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. They’re not tools — they’re mirrors. They show us what we can’t see in ourselves until the words make it real. You think you’re the one analyzing, but half the time, the story is analyzing you.”

Jack: (chuckling, shaking his head) “You sound like one of those literature professors who think every comma is divine revelation. We make meaning — not the other way around.”

Jeeny: “Do we? Tell me, Jack — why do you think people weep over a story written centuries ago? Why does Anna Karenina still break hearts? Because Tolstoy didn’t just describe life — he captured something eternal. That’s not cleverness. That’s creation reading us back.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed on the table, slow, rhythmic. His eyes flickered toward the window, where the rain had thickened into silver veins. His voice, when it came again, was quieter — but sharper.

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? You’re saying human intellect doesn’t matter? That the effort — the interpretation, the analysis — is meaningless?”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “No. I’m saying it’s secondary. The act of reading isn’t about conquest — it’s about surrender. We don’t dissect great works to prove our cleverness; we open ourselves to them because they hold more than we can ever explain.”

Jack: (with an ironic half-smile) “That’s a convenient way of saying ‘don’t question art.’ But analysis is how we understand meaning. It’s how civilizations evolve — through dissection, interpretation, argument.”

Jeeny: “But when interpretation becomes arrogance, we lose reverence. Look at how academia treats literature now — essays, theories, frameworks. Everything turned into an exercise of ego. Steiner was right — we’ve made creation a platform for showing off.”

Host: The light flickered slightly, as if in agreement. A draft rustled through the old bookshelves, stirring the faint smell of paper and time. Somewhere, a page turned by itself, like a whisper from the unseen.

Jack: “You make it sound like knowledge is sin. People study books to understand them — to preserve them. You think all critics are egotists?”

Jeeny: “No. I think the best ones approach art with humility. Like standing before something ancient and alive. Look at how cathedrals were built — stone by stone, not in a hurry. Creation has its own rhythm. We forget that.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny, but the world doesn’t have the luxury of waiting. Deadlines, markets, demand — creation today is in a hurry. It has to be. You think someone like Kafka would survive in our world? He’d be told to optimize his brand.”

Jeeny: (her eyes darkening) “And that’s exactly the tragedy Steiner was angry about. We’ve turned creation into production. Even thought is timed now — fast art, fast media, fast opinions. But the real act of creation — it waits. It demands time. It transforms in silence.”

Host: The air grew heavier. The sound of the rain deepened into a steady thrum, blending with the heartbeat of the room itself. Jack’s face softened slightly, his usual edge tempered by something like fatigue — or remembrance.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to read slowly. My father used to laugh — said I’d never get through life that way. He taught me to skim, to pull out what’s useful. Maybe that’s all books are — tools for efficiency.”

Jeeny: “That’s not reading, Jack. That’s consumption. Books aren’t meant to be conquered; they’re meant to be lived with. Sometimes, you have to sit with a sentence for an hour — not because you don’t understand it, but because it understands you too well.”

Jack: (his tone softening) “You think words can do that? Understand you?”

Jeeny: “Yes. When they’re written from truth. When they’re born from silence. That’s what Steiner meant — creation reads us because it was made in communion with the same mystery we live in.”

Host: A soft thunder rolled in the distance, echoing faintly through the old walls. The light caught Jeeny’s face, her eyes shimmering with something between sorrow and wonder. Jack looked at her as if seeing her — and the world — through a new lens.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I can’t remember the last time I read something without thinking about how to summarize it. Maybe I stopped letting books breathe.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you stopped letting yourself breathe with them.”

Jack: (half-smiling, half-defeated) “And you think if I slow down — if I read differently — the book will ‘read me,’ huh?”

Jeeny: “Not just the book. The silence around it. The spaces between words — that’s where we meet what’s infinite.”

Host: A moment passed — long, tender, full of unspoken reverence. The rain began to ease. The library seemed to expand around them, the air vibrating faintly with something alive. It wasn’t just a room full of books anymore — it was a temple of memory, of thought, of patience.

Jack: (quietly) “So creation’s not an achievement… it’s a conversation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Between what we make — and what made us.”

Host: Outside, the clouds began to part, letting a faint silver light spill through the window, touching the open pages on the table. The ink seemed to shimmer faintly, as if the words themselves were breathing.

Jack closed the book, his fingers lingering on its cover, as if in apology — or gratitude.

Jack: “Maybe Steiner was right. Maybe the book wasn’t waiting for me to understand it. Maybe it was waiting for me to slow down enough to be understood.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Books are patient, Jack. They don’t chase us. They wait until we return — not as readers, but as people ready to listen.”

Host: The rain stopped. The world outside gleamed, washed clean. Inside, the last trace of candlelight flickered on the table, illuminating two souls who, for the first time in a long while, understood that true creation — like true love — never hurries.

It simply waits.