He who knows best knows how little he knows.

Host: The library was closing. The old clock above the doorway ticked softly in the quiet, its hands trembling toward midnight. Dust motes floated in the shafts of amber light, each one suspended like a thought that refused to land. Books lined the walls like sleeping witnesses — heavy with wisdom, but silent in their weight.

Jack sat at a wooden table in the center of the room, surrounded by open books, their spines bent from long arguments. He looked tired, but his eyes burned with the stubborn curiosity of someone who couldn’t stop asking why.

Jeeny entered, her footsteps soft, her coat draped over one arm. She carried a single worn volume — The Writings of Thomas Jefferson — and laid it gently on the table.

Jeeny: “Thomas Jefferson once said, ‘He who knows best knows how little he knows.’”

Jack: half-smiling “A man who built a nation admitting he was ignorant. That’s either humility or irony.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. But that’s what makes it true.”

Jack: “You think that’s wisdom? Knowing less?”

Jeeny: “No. Knowing the limits of knowing.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, stretching their shadows across the table — two seekers caught between centuries, between what humanity has learned and what it keeps pretending to understand.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought intelligence was about answers. About certainty. The more you knew, the more you controlled. But lately…” he closed one of the books slowly “…it feels like every answer just opens a deeper question.”

Jeeny: “That’s because real knowledge humbles you. Every truth is a doorway, not a wall.”

Jack: leaning back “Jefferson knew a lot about doorways. Built them, walked through them, locked a few behind him too.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And yet he still admitted he didn’t know enough. That’s the paradox of the wise — the more they learn, the more they see the edges of their ignorance.”

Jack: “You make ignorance sound like enlightenment.”

Jeeny: “It can be. The darkness around truth gives it shape.”

Host: The wind rattled the old windows, a gentle reminder of the world outside — a world loud with opinions, drowning in information. Inside, the silence was sacred. The kind of silence that teaches.

Jack: “You think Jefferson would’ve survived in our time? A world of experts who think Google makes them gods?”

Jeeny: “He might’ve laughed. Or wept. We’ve mistaken access for understanding.”

Jack: “And confidence for wisdom.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. People think loudness means knowing. But the loudest voices usually echo the emptiest rooms.”

Host: The clock ticked louder, marking the slow passage of unseen thought. Jeeny walked to the window, pulling aside the curtain, staring out at the dark city beyond — towers lit like neurons in a restless mind.

Jeeny: “You ever notice, Jack, how arrogance and ignorance always travel together? Like twin shadows?”

Jack: “Of course. The less someone knows, the more they insist they’re right.”

Jeeny: softly “And the more someone learns, the more they whisper.”

Jack: “That’s because knowledge humbles you. It doesn’t shout; it listens.”

Host: A gust of wind blew the pages of an open book, turning them gently, as if some unseen teacher were guiding the lesson forward.

Jack: “You know, Jefferson wrote those words during an age of discovery — when the world was still half-map and half-mystery. He knew science was just beginning to light its torch.”

Jeeny: “And he still recognized how dim that torch really was against the darkness.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what we’ve lost. We think we’ve mapped everything. We’ve got satellites, algorithms, models — but our arrogance blinds us to how much we don’t even know we don’t know.”

Jeeny: “The illusion of mastery. Humanity’s favorite delusion.”

Jack: “You think humility’s the cure?”

Jeeny: “No. Curiosity is. Humility without curiosity becomes fear. But curiosity — that’s the courage to keep learning even when it proves you wrong.”

Host: The lamplight trembled, casting gold halos around their faces. Jeeny’s voice softened, her tone turning almost reverent.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder what kind of world we’d have if more leaders thought like that? If they admitted not knowing — and still listened, learned, asked?”

Jack: “We’d call them weak.”

Jeeny: “No. We’d call them human.”

Host: Jack rose, pacing slowly, his hand trailing along the spines of old books — philosophers, scientists, poets, dreamers. Each title like a heartbeat of someone who once thought they had an answer, only to die still asking the question.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I used to envy certainty. The kind preachers and politicians wear like armor. But now I think certainty’s just cowardice in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Because it closes the door before the truth can enter.”

Jack: pausing, turning to her “You ever feel small, Jeeny? Standing in a world this vast, knowing how little any of us truly understand?”

Jeeny: smiling “Every day. But it’s the most beautiful kind of smallness. The kind that makes you look up.”

Host: The clock struck midnight, the sound deep and solemn, echoing through the empty library. Neither of them moved for a moment. Then Jeeny closed Jefferson’s book, her fingers resting on the cover like a benediction.

Jeeny: “He who knows best knows how little he knows. Maybe that’s not a confession — maybe it’s a freedom.”

Jack: “Freedom from what?”

Jeeny: “From pretending. From the arrogance of finality. From thinking we’ve already arrived.”

Jack: “So wisdom isn’t a summit. It’s a horizon.”

Jeeny: “Yes. One that keeps moving the closer we get.”

Host: The lights dimmed as the librarian turned off the final switch. The room sank into shadow, leaving only the soft glow of the lamp on their table — a small flame in the sea of unknowing.

Jack looked at Jeeny, his expression softened, transformed.

Jack: “Maybe Jefferson wasn’t trying to teach us how to think. Maybe he was teaching us how to wonder.”

Jeeny: “And how to stay humble in the face of what we’ll never fully grasp.”

Host: Outside, the night deepened, the stars sharp against the sky — millions of distant questions burning quietly in the dark.

The two of them stood, gathered their books, and walked out into the night, the door closing softly behind them.

And as the echo faded, the library returned to silence — not the silence of emptiness, but of awe.

Because Jefferson was right:
The wisest among us are not the ones who know everything,
but the ones who stand before the infinite and whisper,
“I still have so much left to learn.”