Humor is a serious thing. I like to think of it as one of our

Host:
The library was dim and sacred — one of those places where the air hums with thought, where the dust on old pages feels like the residue of memory itself. Tall shelves stretched upward, lined with leather-bound books, their spines cracked by years of laughter and grief.

Outside, snow fell silently, soft flakes settling on the window ledge like punctuation in a long, unwritten sentence. Inside, the fireplace glowed, reflecting off the brass plaque above it: "Silence is golden — except when shared."

At a heavy oak table, Jack sat hunched over a worn copy of The New Yorker Anthology, 1940, his brow furrowed, his fingers tracing the margins. Across from him, Jeeny reclined comfortably, wrapped in a shawl, her eyes bright beneath the amber light.

Jeeny:
(reading aloud from a yellowed page, her voice gentle and knowing)
“James Thurber once said, ‘Humor is a serious thing. I like to think of it as one of our greatest earliest natural resources, which must be preserved at all cost.’”
(She looks up, smiling softly.)
“Isn’t that perfect, Jack? Humor — not gold, not oil — as a natural resource.”

Jack:
(smirking, closing the book) “A renewable one, I hope. Otherwise we’re already in a shortage.”

Jeeny:
(laughing) “You joke, but think about it. Humor is renewable, but only if we protect it — nurture it. Thurber knew that when people lose their sense of humor, they lose their sense of proportion.”

Jack:
(leaning back, amused) “And proportion’s the first casualty in every age of outrage. These days, we burn humor for heat — and then wonder why it disappears.”

Jeeny:
(quietly) “Because it takes humility to laugh. And we’re running out of that faster than oil.”

Host:
The fire snapped, a small flame dancing like punctuation at the end of her sentence. Outside, the snow thickened, softening the sharpness of the world, while inside, the light deepened, turning the room into a refuge from irony itself.

Jack’s voice broke the silence again, lower now, thoughtful.

Jack:
“You know what’s funny? We treat humor like entertainment, but Thurber was right — it’s survival. Laughter keeps the species sane. Without it, we’re just mammals with deadlines.”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly) “Exactly. Humor doesn’t just make us happy — it keeps us human. It’s how we metabolize chaos.”

Jack:
(nodding slowly) “So when Thurber said it’s a resource, he meant it literally — like oxygen. You can’t see it, but you die without it.”

Jeeny:
(leaning forward) “And like oxygen, we pollute it — with cruelty, cynicism, irony that wounds instead of heals. We’re consuming the good kind of laughter and mass-producing the hollow kind.”

Host:
Her words settled between them, quiet but sharp, like a small truth finding its place. Jack stared into the fire — its orange glow reflecting in his eyes, his face softening with something close to sorrow.

Jack:
(softly) “Do you ever feel like we’ve forgotten how to laugh with people instead of at them?”

Jeeny:
(nodding slowly) “All the time. But that’s why humor matters — the real kind. It’s not mockery. It’s mercy.”

Jack:
(looking up, curious) “Mercy?”

Jeeny:
(smiling gently) “Yes. When you make someone laugh, you give them permission to exhale. To stop fighting, even for a second. Humor is empathy wearing a grin.”

Jack:
(smiling faintly) “So it’s compassion disguised as chaos.”

Jeeny:
(grinning) “Exactly. And it’s the only chaos that heals.”

Host:
A log shifted in the fire, scattering sparks like startled stars. The room filled with the faint crackle of burning wood — an ancient, familiar rhythm. Jeeny’s laughter drifted through it, low and melodic, and for a moment, it felt like the room itself exhaled.

Jack watched her, the way she laughed without hesitation — not loudly, but with a kind of truth that made him ache a little.

Jack:
(half-smiling) “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “It is. Humor’s the last holy thing we all still share. Think about it — laughter happens before language, before logic. Even babies laugh. It’s primal. It’s pure.”

Jack:
(quietly) “And it’s proof.”

Jeeny:
(curious) “Of what?”

Jack:
(smiling slightly) “That the world hasn’t won yet.”

Host:
The firelight wavered, the room pulsing between shadow and warmth. For a moment, they were both silent — listening not to each other, but to the sound of something enduring.

Jeeny:
(finally speaking, her voice soft as snowfall) “Thurber wanted us to preserve humor, but I think he meant more than laughter. He meant perspective — the ability to laugh without losing compassion. To find light in the absurd, not cruelty in the weak.”

Jack:
(quietly, with a faint nod) “So humor’s not an escape. It’s endurance.”

Jeeny:
(smiling) “Exactly. Laughter isn’t running away from reality — it’s facing it without armor.”

Jack:
(pausing) “And that’s why it’s dangerous. People fear humor because it disarms them. It’s truth told kindly — the hardest kind to refuse.”

Host:
Outside, the snow stopped. The sky cleared, revealing a faint glimmer of stars above the city’s quiet sprawl. Inside, the fire burned low, the room still warm, their words lingering in the air like smoke refusing to leave.

Jack stood, stretching slightly, his expression softer than it had been in days.

Jack:
(gently) “You know, Jeeny, maybe humor really is a natural resource — not something we mine, but something we cultivate.”

Jeeny:
(looking up at him, smiling) “Yes. Because laughter isn’t extracted — it’s shared.”

Jack:
(quietly) “And shared things are fragile.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “That’s why we preserve them. Not because they last forever — but because they remind us to try.”

Host:
The camera slowly pulls back — the two of them seated by the dwindling fire, the shelves behind them filled with books whose authors all once tried to bottle laughter in ink.
The final shot lingers on the open page where Thurber’s words are written, the candlelight trembling over the line about preservation.

And as the scene fades into darkness, his truth hums through the silence like a heartbeat beneath history —

that humor is not a luxury,
but a living inheritance;

a force older than pain,
stronger than despair,
and sacred enough to save us from forgetting
what it means to be human.