If a person can be said to have the wrong attitude, there is no

Host: The debate hall had emptied, but the air was still heavy with the residue of argument — the smell of coffee, tension, and ego.
Rows of folding chairs sat askew under the fluorescent lights, each one a silent witness to the small war of words that had ended only minutes ago.
Onstage, a whiteboard was half-erased, streaks of red and blue marker bleeding together — logic and emotion, unfinished business.

Jack was still there, pacing before the lectern, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight.
Jeeny sat cross-legged on the edge of the stage, notebook open, her expression soft but sharp, like a lens that saw more than she said.

Jeeny: reading aloud, her tone both amused and probing “John McCarthy once said, ‘If a person can be said to have the wrong attitude, there is no need to pay attention to his arguments.’” She looked up, eyebrow arched. “Dangerous words, don’t you think?”

Jack: stopping mid-pace, his voice edged with fatigue “Depends. Some attitudes make dialogue impossible. You can’t reason with someone who’s already decided you’re the enemy.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the trap, isn’t it? Once you decide their attitude’s wrong, you stop listening — and the war begins.”

Host: The buzz of a broken light flickered above them, its rhythm uneven, mirroring the unfinished argument between them. Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly, as though the air itself was too full of opinions.

Jack: gruffly “I’m not talking about disagreement, Jeeny. I’m talking about contempt. You ever try arguing with someone who doesn’t want to understand? That’s not dialogue — it’s theater.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And yet, sometimes the audience changes more than the actors.”

Jack: snapping lightly “You sound like a moralist.”

Jeeny: calmly “No, just someone who’s been ignored for having the wrong tone.”

Host: The words landed like quiet stones. Jack paused, guilt flashing across his face. The echo of their voices filled the hall, soft but resonant — like an argument that wasn’t about facts, but about humanity.

Jack: lowering his voice “You think McCarthy was wrong, then?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he was warning us about ourselves. The moment we stop listening, we become the kind of people we argue against.”

Jack: “So even bad faith deserves a hearing?”

Jeeny: thoughtful “Not bad faith — but broken faith. Sometimes, what we call a ‘wrong attitude’ is just pain that’s learned to speak too loudly.”

Host: The rain began to tap against the tall windows — a rhythmic, forgiving sound. Jack walked toward the edge of the stage, sitting down beside her. The two of them stared out across the empty chairs like philosophers addressing an invisible audience.

Jack: quietly “You really think there’s hope in dialogue?”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Only if we’re humble enough to realize that understanding isn’t the same as agreement.”

Jack: grinning faintly “That’s idealistic.”

Jeeny: “So is democracy.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable — it was contemplative, the sound of minds settling into the complexity of truth.
The hum of the lights softened, and in it, there was something tender — the residue of reason after battle.

Jack: “You know, McCarthy invented artificial intelligence.”

Jeeny: “I know. And even he couldn’t write an algorithm for empathy.”

Jack: smiling softly “Maybe that’s why he said it — to remind us that even logic has limits.”

Jeeny: gently “And maybe we’ve confused intelligence with understanding.”

Host: Jack leaned back, looking at the ceiling, his expression somewhere between exhaustion and epiphany.

Jack: “I used to think arguments were about winning. But now I think they’re just about not losing our humanity while we disagree.”

Jeeny: “That’s the right attitude.”

Jack: smirking “So now you’ll pay attention to my arguments?”

Jeeny: laughing “Only if they come with humility.”

Host: The camera panned slowly outward — the two of them sitting on the stage, surrounded by the quiet debris of discourse: half-drunk coffee cups, scattered notes, scribbles of conviction fading on the board. The rain outside blurred the city lights into smears of color, turning the world into abstraction.

And as their laughter softened into silence, John McCarthy’s paradox hung in the air — part warning, part prayer:

The moment we decide another’s attitude disqualifies their voice,
we mistake certainty for wisdom and silence for victory.
Reason without humility is tyranny in disguise.
And listening — even to the wrong tone — remains the hardest, truest act of intelligence.