Knowledge, may it be said, is higher than magic and is more to be

Host: The night had a stillness too heavy to be peace. The moonlight fell coldly across an abandoned observatory, where machines of glass and brass stood like forgotten instruments of wonder. Dust glimmered faintly in the silver beams, each mote a ghost of thought still wandering among the relics of curiosity long extinguished.

At the center, Jack stood by a telescope, his hands resting on the brass railing, his eyes distant — fixed not on the stars, but on the dark between them. His face carried that look of someone who had once believed in something absolute — and had watched it crumble under understanding.

Jeeny entered, her steps soft, her silhouette haloed by the moonlight spilling through the cracked dome above. She paused, watching him with quiet sorrow, her eyes filled with that strange mixture of awe and ache reserved for people who have seen too much truth to sleep easily.

Jeeny: softly “James Stephens once said, ‘Knowledge, may it be said, is higher than magic and is more to be sought. It is quite possible to see what is happening and yet not know what is forward, for while seeing is believing, it does not follow that either seeing or believing is knowing.’”

Her voice was gentle, but the words fell like stones into water, rippling through the quiet. “Do you believe that, Jack? That knowing is higher than believing?”

Jack: without turning “I believe that belief is the crutch of the blind. Seeing is a privilege, Jeeny — but knowing... knowing is a curse.”

Jeeny: frowns softly “A curse? Then why spend your life chasing it?”

Jack: turns to face her, voice low, eyes burning “Because once you’ve tasted truth, even illusion becomes unbearable. Magic comforts. Belief consoles. But knowledge — it demands you stand alone in what is real.”

Host: The wind moaned softly through a crack in the dome, stirring a few papers across the floor — notes, formulas, fragments of thought written in Jack’s restless hand. They fluttered like failed wings, each one a reminder of how much a man can see and still not understand.

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe that’s the problem. We treat knowledge like a destination, but it’s really just another kind of blindness. You say knowledge is higher than magic, but magic at least lets people hope. Knowledge only tells them how small they are.”

Jack: steps closer, his voice sharp “That’s why I value it. Hope is the drug of the fearful. Magic makes slaves of dreamers. But knowledge — it strips the world bare. It shows you the machinery beneath the miracle. It may not make you happy, but it makes you awake.”

Jeeny: with quiet defiance “Awake, yes — but to what? To the cold mechanics of the universe? To the emptiness behind beauty? What’s the point of knowing if it takes the wonder out of living?”

Jack: pauses, his voice softening “Maybe wonder isn’t lost. Maybe it’s just… transformed. When a child sees lightning, it’s magic. When a scientist sees it, it’s electricity. But for the wise — it’s both. They understand it and still stand in awe.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Then perhaps the true curse isn’t knowledge… it’s partial knowledge — seeing the parts and forgetting the whole.”

Host: A silence followed, deep and delicate. The stars glowed faintly through the glass dome, like truths peering in from a distance, waiting to be named. The telescope, long unused, pointed toward the heavens as though aching for another seeker.

Jeeny: walking slowly toward the telescope “Stephens said that seeing and believing aren’t the same as knowing. But maybe that’s because knowing requires something more — not just sight, but synthesis. To see, to believe, and then to understand why it matters.”

Jack: sits on the edge of the desk, rubbing his temple “Or maybe knowledge is just a delusion with footnotes. Every time we think we know, the world shifts again. Maybe there’s no such thing as knowing — just guessing more beautifully.”

Jeeny: turns toward him, softly but firmly “No, Jack. That’s not beautiful — that’s despair in disguise. Knowledge isn’t about control. It’s about reverence — for the mystery that remains even after you’ve explained everything.”

Jack: looks up, curious “Reverence? You mean faith by another name.”

Jeeny: shakes her head slowly “No. Faith is believing without knowing. Reverence is knowing — and still feeling small before it.”

Host: The moonlight shifted, spilling silver across their faces, outlining the distance between them — reason and grace, mind and heart, both trying to hold the same truth in different hands.

Jack: after a pause, voice quieter now “You know, when I was younger, I thought knowledge would make me free. But all it’s done is make me restless. The more I learn, the more I see how much I don’t know.”

Jeeny: softly, almost tenderly “Then that’s the beginning of wisdom, isn’t it? To know that you can never own knowledge, only borrow it for a while.”

Jack: smiles faintly “Borrow it from who?”

Jeeny: smiles back “From the universe. From time. From all the minds that came before and all that will come after. The wise don’t claim knowledge — they join it.”

Jack: sighs, looking up at the stars “So knowledge isn’t a possession… it’s a pilgrimage.”

Jeeny: nods slowly “Exactly. And every true seeker walks it with both eyes open and heart humbled.”

Host: The silence deepened, but it was no longer heavy. The wind eased, the night softening into that rare kind of quiet that comes after understanding — not loud or triumphant, but calm, like the sea after lightning.

Jack stood, his hand brushing the telescope, its metal cold and patient beneath his touch. He looked up once more, his eyes softer now, less searching, more accepting.

Jack: quietly “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe magic isn’t something we outgrow — it’s something we come back to once we’ve finally learned enough to appreciate it.”

Jeeny: smiling warmly “Then maybe knowledge isn’t higher than magic after all — maybe it’s what brings us back to it, with clearer eyes.”

Jack: nods slowly, voice almost a whisper “Seeing isn’t believing… and believing isn’t knowing. But knowing, perhaps, is remembering that the world was always both.”

Host: The stars outside shimmered, reflected in the cracked glass dome, a constellation of understanding broken and beautiful.

The observatory, long forgotten, now seemed alive again, its silence full instead of empty — as if the universe itself were listening.

And in that quiet communion, James Stephens’ words rang softly through the night —

that knowledge, higher than magic,
is not the end of wonder,
but its maturity;

that to see is only to touch the surface,
to believe is to lean toward it,
but to know —
to truly know —
is to stand before the mystery
and bow,
not in defeat,
but in reverence.