I seldom read anything that is not of a factual nature because I

Host: The library was nearly empty — a cathedral of quiet thought, its tall windows gathering the last threads of sunlight as dusk bled into the streets outside. Dust floated in the amber air, catching the glow like suspended stars. Somewhere, a clock ticked softly, each second measured and meaningful.

Jack sat at one of the long oak tables, surrounded by open books — their spines cracked, their margins annotated in his neat, sharp handwriting. His coat hung on the back of his chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up, the faint shadow of fatigue beneath his eyes.

Jeeny entered, her footsteps soft on the carpet. She carried two paper cups of coffee and a half-smile that looked almost reverent — the kind you wear in holy places.

She set one cup beside him and leaned against the table.

Jeeny: quietly “Zig Ziglar once said — ‘I seldom read anything that is not of a factual nature because I want to invest my time wisely in the things that will improve my life. Don't misunderstand; there is nothing wrong with reading purely for the joy of it. Novels have their place, but biographies of famous men and women contain information that can change lives.’”

Jack: looks up, smiles faintly “Ah, Ziglar. The patron saint of self-improvement.”

Jeeny: grinning “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jack: “No, it’s admirable. But part of me wonders — do we always have to read to improve? Can’t we just read to feel?”

Jeeny: “He didn’t say there’s no place for fiction. He just said life’s too short not to feed your mind with something that builds you.”

Host: The lamplight above them flickered, illuminating rows of books stretching into the quiet — history, philosophy, economics, lives lived in ink and legacy. The faint scent of paper filled the room, aged and patient.

Jack leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

Jack: thoughtfully “You know, I’ve read hundreds of biographies. Leaders, artists, scientists, saints. And every one of them talks about struggle — the kind that reshapes a person. It’s humbling, sure, but sometimes… exhausting. You end up feeling like you’re behind on being extraordinary.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe that’s because you treat them like competition instead of conversation.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “Meaning?”

Jeeny: “Meaning you’re not supposed to imitate them. You’re supposed to learn how they failed — and how they kept walking anyway.”

Host: The clock chimed softly. Outside, the light dimmed further, the sky deepening into indigo. The glow from their table became an island in the sea of quiet.

Jack picked up a book from his pile — a thick, weathered biography of Winston Churchill. He thumbed through its pages absently.

Jack: smirking “This one says he failed five times before anyone took him seriously. Lost elections, ruined speeches, bad calls. But somehow, we only remember him for winning a war.”

Jeeny: nodding “Because that’s the nature of legacy. History edits the failures out of its highlight reel. Biographies remind you that every victory has a thousand invisible bruises.”

Jack: softly “I like that. Invisible bruises.”

Jeeny: “That’s why Ziglar read them — to see the bruises behind the brilliance. Fiction can make you dream, but biographies make you do.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You’re starting to sound like him.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”

Host: A faint breeze crept through the open window, rustling the pages on the table. The scent of rain drifted in from outside. Jeeny wrapped her hands around the coffee cup for warmth.

Jack: after a pause “You ever think fiction can teach the same lessons, just in disguise? The best novels aren’t escapes — they’re mirrors.”

Jeeny: “Of course. But mirrors only show you what’s already there. Biographies show you what’s possible.”

Jack: nodding slowly “And what’s painful.”

Jeeny: “Both. Growth always has a little pain.”

Host: The lights dimmed further as the librarian began turning off lamps one by one down the aisle, the glow retreating toward them. The room began to feel smaller, more intimate.

Jack closed the Churchill book and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

Jack: “You know what I envy about people like Ziglar? They don’t waste time. Every word, every action, every choice — deliberate. Focused. I live too much in the in-between.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s because you’re an artist. You wander so the rest of us can find our way.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You make wandering sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It is — as long as you come back with something worth sharing.”

Host: She glanced at his notes scattered across the table — lines from Da Vinci’s journals, letters from Eleanor Roosevelt, fragments of Lincoln’s speeches — lives that had already carved their stories into the world.

Jeeny: quietly “Look at this. You’re chasing wisdom across centuries. Isn’t that what Ziglar meant by investing your time wisely?”

Jack: tilting his head “Maybe. But sometimes I miss the chaos of stories that don’t try to teach you anything — the kind that just let you feel alive.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “You can have both, you know. Knowledge for the mind, fiction for the soul.”

Jack: after a pause “Balance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t have to choose between meaning and magic. Wisdom without wonder turns cold.”

Host: The last light above them flickered once, warning them of closing time. Jeeny gathered her bag, but Jack stayed a moment longer, staring at the open books.

Jack: softly “You think people like Ziglar ever got tired of trying to improve?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think what kept him going was gratitude — the belief that time was sacred. He didn’t chase perfection; he honored the process.”

Jack: quietly “And he read to stay awake to life.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. Awareness is the best kind of education.”

Host: The librarian called out a gentle reminder: “Five minutes till close.”

They stood, the sound of closing books echoing softly like applause for the past.

Jeeny pulled on her coat. Jack tucked his notes into the Churchill biography, a placeholder for the thought he hadn’t finished.

At the door, he turned back one last time, looking over the rows of books — millions of voices frozen in time, each one waiting to be rediscovered.

Jack: softly, almost to himself “Maybe wisdom isn’t about what you read. Maybe it’s about how much of it you live.”

Jeeny: smiling, opening the door “And how much of it you share.”

Host: The night air met them — cool, still damp with the scent of rain. The streetlights stretched long shadows across the pavement.

They walked slowly down the street, their steps matching pace. The world outside was noisier now — cars, distant laughter, life in motion — but their silence was content.

And as they disappeared into the glow of the city, Zig Ziglar’s words echoed softly, like a benediction for the thinking soul:

“I want to invest my time wisely in the things that will improve my life.”

Because time is the only currency we never earn back —
and wisdom, the only wealth worth saving.

So read —
to learn,
to grow,
to remember that others have walked the same road,
and to know that knowledge,
when lived with humility,
is not a ladder —
but a light.