I would like to take you seriously, but to do so would be an

Host:
The night had teeth. It bit the city with cold precision — wind cutting through narrow streets, lamplight trembling, the air thick with arguments that belonged to thinkers and fools alike. The café was nearly empty now, save for the hiss of the espresso machine and the faint jazz humming from an old record player in the corner.

The rain tapped gently on the window, each drop a small punctuation mark on silence. Inside, beneath the dim glow of a hanging lamp, sat Jack and Jeeny — a battlefield of ideas contained in two tired bodies and one small wooden table.

Between them, a crumpled slip of paper bore the words they’d been chewing on for the last hour:

“I would like to take you seriously, but to do so would be an affront to your intelligence.”
— George Bernard Shaw

Jeeny traced the edge of the paper with one finger, her dark eyes glinting with that mix of irritation and amusement only Shaw could provoke. Jack sat opposite her, his grey eyes cool, his half-smile dangerous.

Jeeny: dryly “You love this, don’t you? The cruelty disguised as cleverness.”

Jack: grinning “It’s not cruelty. It’s precision. Shaw didn’t stab people — he just exposed them, with perfect grammar.”

Jeeny: leaning forward “Oh please. That line isn’t precision. It’s arrogance. It’s the intellectual version of an eye-roll.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “No. It’s honesty. You’ve never been in a debate where the only polite thing left to do is stop pretending the other person is thinking?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You mean when you lose?”

Host:
The record crackled, and the rain softened, falling into rhythm with their argument — a sound like measured wit meeting stubborn heart. The steam from their cups curled between them, rising like a third presence: invisible, fleeting, true.

Jack: leaning back, voice low and measured “Shaw understood something most people can’t admit — that intelligence isn’t democratic. You can’t reason someone into thought if they refuse to think.”

Jeeny: firmly “And that’s exactly what makes his kind of intelligence dangerous. Because it becomes contempt. Once you decide who’s worth taking seriously, you’ve already stopped listening.”

Jack: shrugging “Listening doesn’t help if the other side’s shouting nonsense. Sometimes intellect is knowing when to stop engaging.”

Jeeny: shaking her head, softly but intensely “No, Jack. Real intellect is having the patience to try. Even when it’s hopeless. Even when you’re tired. Otherwise, you’re just dressing pride up as logic.”

Host:
The lamp flickered, and for a moment, her face was all shadow and conviction. His was all reflection — cold, but not unfeeling. The world outside blurred behind the window, as if even the rain had paused to listen.

Jack: quietly “You think patience can save ignorance?”

Jeeny: after a pause “I think compassion can. Maybe not save it — but soften it. And that’s something intelligence alone will never do.”

Jack: half-smiling, quietly amused “So we should coddle stupidity?”

Jeeny: sharply “No. We should humanize it. There’s a difference.”

Host:
The sound of a car horn drifted through the wet air, distant and muted. Inside, the conversation deepened — not louder, but denser, like smoke thickening in a closed room.

Jack: softly, almost reflective “You know, Shaw said that line because he believed reason should never stoop to rhetoric. To take someone seriously when they’re clearly being absurd is to insult your own mind.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Yes — but that’s also the easiest way to isolate yourself. To make intellect a tower instead of a bridge. Shaw could afford contempt because he was a genius. But what about the rest of us? Don’t we need connection more than correctness?”

Jack: murmuring “Connection doesn’t survive delusion.”

Jeeny: gently “But neither does arrogance.”

Host:
The rain grew steadier, a curtain between the warmth of the café and the chill of the street. The jazz record ended, leaving a soft static in its place — the kind of sound that feels like the echo of thought itself.

Jeeny: quietly “You know what I think Shaw really meant? Not that people are stupid — but that it’s painful to see intelligence wasted on pride. To take someone seriously when they’ve surrendered their reason is to pretend their dignity hasn’t already been betrayed.”

Jack: looking at her now, his voice softened “That’s not how most people read it.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Most people read to feel superior, not to understand.”

Jack: chuckling “Now who’s being arrogant?”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Maybe Shaw’s contagious.”

Host:
The waiter passed by, refilling their cups without a word. Steam rose again — new warmth, new chance. The smell of coffee filled the air like a reset.

Jack: pensive “You know, the thing about Shaw… he didn’t just mock stupidity. He mocked the comfort of it. The way people cling to their ignorance like it’s identity.”

Jeeny: nodding “And maybe that’s the part we should take seriously. Not the insult — the warning.”

Jack: quietly “That ignorance, when left unchallenged, becomes power.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. And intelligence, when left untempered, becomes cruelty.”

Host:
The clock ticked, marking the close of their duel. The room was still but alive with everything they hadn’t said — the tension between wit and empathy, intellect and heart.

Jack: after a long pause “So, you’re saying I can’t laugh at the absurd?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You can laugh. Just don’t forget that absurdity comes from pain. Mock it too long, and you stop seeing the person inside it.”

Jack: softly, eyes distant “And then intelligence really does become an affront.”

Host:
The lamp dimmed, and the rain slowed, turning into a soft drizzle — the storm exhaling its last. Jeeny folded the piece of paper, tucked it into her notebook, and looked up at Jack.

Jeeny: softly “Maybe the smartest people are the ones who never forget to be kind.”

Jack: quietly, smiling at last “And the kindest ones are the only people worth taking seriously.”

Host:
The café door opened, a gust of wet air slipping in, carrying the sound of a city still arguing with itself. The world outside shimmered — imperfect, insistent, alive.

And as the two of them stepped into it, side by side, the narrator’s voice rose like the afterthought of wisdom, quiet and unhurried:

That intelligence without humility is not brilliance — it’s blindness.
That sarcasm, no matter how sharp, is still a dull blade against ignorance.
And that perhaps George Bernard Shaw’s words
were less an insult and more a mirror —
reflecting our temptation to mock what we should mend,
to laugh at folly instead of healing its roots.

Host:
And so, as the last light flickered across the wet pavement,
Jack and Jeeny disappeared into the night —
their footsteps soft, their minds restless —
each carrying a quiet truth:

That to be truly intelligent
is not to win the argument,
but to remember that reason
means nothing
without respect.