It may, however, be said that the level of experience to which

Host: The library was ancient, its air thick with dust and memory. Outside, the university courtyard slept under a pale moon, the branches of old oaks swaying in rhythm with the slow whisper of the wind. Inside, a single lamp burned — a trembling light struggling against the weight of the surrounding darkness.

Jack sat at a heavy oak table, surrounded by open books, loose papers, and a cooling cup of coffee that smelled faintly of bitterness and thought. Jeeny entered quietly, her steps muffled by the dusty carpet, a small stack of journals in her arms.

Jeeny: gently placing the books down “Still awake? It’s almost three.”

Jack: without looking up “Knowledge doesn’t sleep, Jeeny. Not when you’re trying to wrestle it into meaning.”

Host: The light flickered, throwing their shadows onto the walls, tall and shifting — like two ghosts locked in an argument that had started long before either of them existed.

Jeeny: “You’re quoting Iqbal again, aren’t you?”

Jack: nodding faintly “He said something that won’t leave me. ‘The level of experience to which concepts are inapplicable cannot yield any knowledge of a universal character, for concepts alone are capable of being socialized.’”

Jeeny: “Ah,” smiling softly “the old question — can pure experience ever be shared?”

Jack: “It can’t. That’s the tragedy of it. Every emotion, every vision, every spark of intuition — it dies in the person who felt it. Until you wrap it in a concept, it can’t travel. It can’t live in another mind.”

Host: A silence hung, deep and alive, filled with the soft ticking of the clock and the distant sound of a train passing through the sleeping city. Jeeny sat, her hands folded around a small notebook, her eyes bright with thought.

Jeeny: “But that’s precisely why Iqbal’s words are so haunting, Jack. He’s right — knowledge must be shared to exist. But he also hints at something tragic. That the most profound experiences — the spiritual ones, the emotional ones — live beyond the reach of concepts. They can’t be ‘socialized.’ They’re too vast for language.”

Jack: leaning back, rubbing his temples “Then what’s the point of them? What good is an experience if it can’t be translated into thought — if it dies inside you?”

Jeeny: “Not everything needs to be translated. Some truths are meant to be lived, not explained.”

Jack: sharply “That’s sentiment, not philosophy. You can’t build a civilization on private feelings. Knowledge is the architecture of communication — it’s the bridge between minds. The moment something can’t be shared, it stops being knowledge. It’s just noise.”

Host: The lamp hissed, a faint buzz filling the room as the flame struggled against the creeping dark. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice calm but filled with the quiet fervor of conviction.

Jeeny: “Then what about love, Jack? Or awe? Or grief? Entire universes unfold within those experiences, yet no concept can hold them fully. Does that mean they’re meaningless?”

Jack: pausing “Not meaningless. Just… private. They belong to you, not to the world.”

Jeeny: “But the world changes because of them! Wars have been fought, art has been born, entire cultures shaped by what you call ‘private’ feelings. You think those aren’t universal just because they resist tidy definitions?”

Jack: “Emotions are universal in type, not in content. Everyone feels pain, but not everyone feels your pain. Concepts — justice, freedom, beauty — that’s how we make the personal public. Without them, we’d be locked in individual prisons of experience.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes darkened, her fingers tightening around the edge of her notebook. The air in the library grew denser, like the moment before thunder.

Jeeny: “Maybe prisons aren’t always walls, Jack. Maybe they’re languages. Maybe concepts are the cages — beautiful, intricate cages — that trap the living pulse of what we feel.”

Jack: “And without them, we’d have chaos. You think poetry exists without structure? Mathematics without logic? Civilization is just a collection of agreed-upon symbols. Strip that away, and you get madness.”

Jeeny: “Madness, or freedom. Who’s to say which is closer to truth?”

Host: The clock ticked louder now, its hands slicing through the thick silence like a surgeon’s knife. Jack stood, pacing, his voice rising, echoing through the old room.

Jack: “Freedom without understanding is nothing! The mystic who feels something but can’t express it — what has he contributed? His ecstasy dies with him. But the thinker — the one who puts that ecstasy into form — he leaves a legacy. He gives it language, so others can climb toward it.”

Jeeny: “But what if language diminishes it? What if the very act of defining turns infinity into a cage of syllables? You can’t translate the ocean into words without losing the depth.”

Jack: “Then we keep trying. Even if words fail, the attempt is what makes us human. That’s the essence of knowledge — not perfection, but pursuit.”

Host: His voice broke slightly on the last word, and Jeeny saw it — the exhaustion behind his logic, the loneliness of someone who had spent too long fighting for clarity in a world made of fog. She stood, walked to him, and placed a hand gently on his arm.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Iqbal meant, Jack. Not that private experience is worthless — but that it can’t become universal until it finds its symbol. The mystic and the thinker — they need each other. One dives into the ocean, the other brings back the pearls.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders softened, the rigidity in his posture slowly melting. He looked down at her hand — small, steady, luminous against the shadows — and exhaled, a sound that felt like surrender.

Jack: “So you’re saying knowledge is a duet — not a monologue.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly. Experience gives birth to the song; concept gives it a voice.”

Host: The lamp finally steadied, the flame glowing with new strength. The library seemed to breathe again — its walls alive with quiet understanding. Jack sat back down, his eyes gentler now, his voice lower, warmer.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been afraid of what can’t be expressed because I can’t control it. But maybe that’s the point — knowledge isn’t ownership. It’s participation.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To know something is to live in it — not to label it. Even science, in the end, begins with wonder.”

Host: The rain outside had stopped, leaving the world washed and still. Moonlight spilled through the window, silvering the pages of their open books, as though the universe itself was listening.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… I think I finally understand why Iqbal’s mysticism still feels modern. He wasn’t rejecting reason — he was completing it. He wanted us to see that thought and experience are two sides of the same coin.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The coin we spend to buy meaning.”

Host: They both laughed, softly — not out of humor, but recognition. The lamp glowed brighter, and the library seemed to stretch into eternity — an island of thought, floating between silence and understanding.

Jeeny: “So maybe the inexpressible isn’t the enemy of knowledge. Maybe it’s the well it springs from.”

Jack: nodding slowly “And maybe… what can’t be socialized can still be shared — not through words, but through presence. Through being.”

Host: The clock struck four, its sound deep and solemn. Outside, the first light of dawn began to bleed through the windows, touching the edges of their faces.

The two of them sat quietly, surrounded by the ghosts of thinkers and poets, their shadows long and still — like symbols waiting to be named.

And in that fragile moment between night and morning, between feeling and thought, the world seemed to whisper Iqbal’s truth — that knowledge is not merely what can be spoken, but what can be understood together.

And for the first time, Jack and Jeeny were not just two minds in debate — they were a shared concept, a single experience becoming universal.