It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the

Host: The library at midnight was a world suspended between breath and silence. The air was thick with the scent of paper and dust, a perfume made of centuries. The moonlight slipped through tall stained-glass windows, painting soft, fractured patterns across rows of ancient shelves. The ticking of an old clock marked time — slow, reverent, like the heartbeat of knowledge itself.

Host: In one of the far alcoves, under a green-shaded lamp, Jack sat surrounded by open books, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his grey eyes tracing words like a hunter stalking meaning. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the wooden table, chin resting on her hand, watching him with a half-smile — the kind that carries both admiration and amusement.

Jeeny: (softly) “Wallace Stevens once said, ‘It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.’”
(She tilts her head, studying him.) “You look exactly like what he was talking about — someone chasing ghosts through footnotes.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Ghosts are more interesting than people. At least they don’t lie to themselves.”

Jeeny: “You mean they don’t stop asking questions.”

Jack: (closing a book with a quiet thud) “Exactly. Curiosity’s the only real pulse of intellect. Once you think you know enough, you start dying — not physically, but mentally. The brain’s like fire: feed it mystery or watch it go out.”

Host: The lamp’s glow shimmered across the brass plaque on the table — “Quiet, Please.” The irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

Jeeny: (smiling) “You make it sound so romantic — the unknown, the pursuit of it. But most people find it terrifying. They want certainty. Ground to stand on.”

Jack: “Certainty’s a coffin, Jeeny. The moment you’re sure, you stop growing. Scholars, artists, dreamers — we all live for the unknown. It’s not comfort we’re after, it’s discovery.”

Jeeny: “That’s easy to say until the unknown stares back.”

Jack: (meeting her eyes) “And then?”

Jeeny: “Then you realize how fragile you are. Curiosity sounds noble until it costs you peace.”

Host: A draft moved through the aisle, stirring the edges of old pages. Somewhere in the dark, a book fell from its shelf with a soft thump — a whisper of accident or invitation.

Jack: “Peace is overrated. It’s the anesthetic of the uncurious. The scholars Stevens was talking about — they live on the edge of awe. That’s what keeps them alive.”

Jeeny: “Alive, yes. But not always happy.”

Jack: “Happiness isn’t the goal. Fulfillment is. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather burn out chasing questions than rest in an answer?”

Jack: “Every time.”

Host: The moonlight shifted, glancing off Jeeny’s dark hair, turning it to a streak of silver. She leaned back, eyes reflecting the faint light from the lamp.

Jeeny: “You sound like Galileo, defying comfort for curiosity. But even he suffered for his questions — confined, silenced, humiliated. The pursuit of the unknown often ends in exile.”

Jack: “And yet, centuries later, his name burns brighter than those who condemned him. Exile’s temporary. Ignorance is eternal.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “But what about love? Family? The quiet life? Isn’t there value in the known — in what anchors you?”

Jack: “Sure. But only as rest stops, not destinations. If you build a house in certainty, you’re already buried in it.”

Host: The clock struck twelve, the sound resonating through the vast space — low, patient, inevitable. Each echo felt like a reminder: time itself was the greatest unknown.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why most people prefer the known. It’s survival. The unknown asks too much — courage, surrender, vulnerability. Scholars might thrive on it, but the rest of us? We just want to feel safe.”

Jack: “Safety’s a polite word for stagnation.”

Jeeny: “And danger’s a polite word for obsession.”

Host: Their voices, though quiet, seemed to fill the library’s hollow space — two philosophies colliding softly like the turning of pages.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Stevens was talking about more than scholars. He was talking about all of us — anyone who chooses curiosity over comfort. It’s not just academics who shrivel without mystery. It’s lovers, too. It’s dreamers. It’s everyone who’s ever wanted more than the obvious.”

Jack: (grinning) “Finally, you’re agreeing with me.”

Jeeny: “Not entirely. Curiosity without humility is just vanity in disguise. Some scholars chase the unknown just to prove they can conquer it — not to understand it.”

Jack: “True. The ego disguises itself as discovery all the time.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Real wonder doesn’t demand answers. It delights in questions.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “So curiosity as reverence, not conquest.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Curiosity with awe.”

Host: The rain began outside, soft at first, then gathering rhythm, the sound echoing faintly through the tall windows. The air inside turned cool, and the shadows deepened around them.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about the unknown? It reminds us of our smallness. There’s humility in mystery.”

Jack: “And glory. Because if you’re small, the universe gets larger — and that’s beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Beautiful, yes. But terrifying, too.”

Jack: “All beautiful things are.”

Host: Jeeny rose and walked to the window. Her reflection merged with the rain-streaked glass — her face haloed in moonlight and storm.

Jeeny: “Maybe we’re not meant to know everything, Jack. Maybe some mysteries are meant to remain — to preserve wonder.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the point. The unknown isn’t a void to fill — it’s a force that keeps us alive. Without it, even the mind would decay from predictability.”

Jeeny: “Then perhaps the greatest tragedy isn’t ignorance — it’s boredom.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Exactly. That’s Stevens’ warning: the known alone is a slow death. Curiosity’s what makes the soul breathe.”

Host: The clock ticked on, each second a small echo of their words. The library seemed to exhale with them — its shelves full of questions disguised as books.

Jeeny: “Do you think we’ll ever reach a point where everything is known?”

Jack: “God, I hope not.”

Jeeny: (turning to him) “Why?”

Jack: “Because the day we stop wondering is the day we stop being human.”

Host: She smiled then — not a happy smile, but a knowing one. The rain began to slow, turning to mist. The moon cut through the thinning clouds, flooding the library in a pale, serene light.

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe the unknown is mercy. It keeps us searching, learning, loving — never finished.”

Jack: “And that’s what keeps life worth living — the eternal maybe.”

Host: The lamp flickered, its glow dimming, then returning — a heartbeat of light in a cathedral of silence. The world outside was vast, unsolved, magnificent.

And in that sacred stillness,
Wallace Stevens’ words seemed to hum beneath the breath of the rain:

that curiosity is the lifeblood of being,
that the known is comfort, but the unknown is creation,
and that to seek without end
is to remain forever alive.

Host: Jeeny returned to the table, picking up one of the open books. She closed it gently, her fingers brushing the cover as if sealing a spell.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack — maybe scholars aren’t chasing answers at all. Maybe they’re chasing wonder.”

Jack: (smiling) “And maybe that’s the purest kind of faith.”

Host: The clock ticked once more. The rain stopped. The moonlight rested gently on the closed book — the last page waiting, like the unknown itself, patient and infinite.