Liberalism is an attitude rather than a set of dogmas - an

Host: The city had fallen quiet beneath the thick veil of late-night fog. From the wide windows of a small rooftop bar, the lights below looked like embers, fading and flickering, scattered across the concrete dark. A slow jazz tune played from an old record player, its melody moving through the room like tired smoke.

Jack sat at the counter, his sleeves rolled up, a glass of whiskey turning slowly between his fingers. His eyes, pale and sharp, reflected both the city’s glow and its weariness. Jeeny sat beside him, her long hair falling over one shoulder, a book open before her, the page half-lit by the warm lamp.

Between them, written on a napkin in Jeeny’s looping script, was a quote from Morris Raphael Cohen:
“Liberalism is an attitude rather than a set of dogmas — an attitude that insists upon questioning all plausible and self-evident propositions, seeking not to reject them but to find out what evidence there is to support them rather than their possible alternatives.”

Host: Outside, the wind pressed softly against the windows, as if the night itself leaned in to listen.

Jeeny: “What do you think he meant, Jack? That liberalism isn’t about what you believe, but how you believe it?”

Jack: (sipping his drink) “No, Jeeny. He’s saying that liberalism is a kind of discipline, not a faith. You question everything — even what feels obvious. But people today don’t want that. They want certainty, slogans, tribes. They don’t want to think; they want to belong.”

Jeeny: (tilts her head) “But isn’t belonging also human? We can’t live in constant doubt. At some point, we have to trust something — or someone — or we fall into nothingness. You can’t build a world on questions alone.”

Jack: “And yet, every world built on blind belief ends up in ruins. Look at history — at any empire, any church, any ideology that thought it had all the answers. They start out righteous, and end in ashes.”

Host: The bartender wiped down the counter slowly, pretending not to listen. The smell of old wood and faint citrus from squeezed lemons lingered in the air. Outside, the sound of a distant siren cut through the fog, like the thin edge of truth in a thick web of confusion.

Jeeny: “Maybe, but constant questioning can be just as destructive. Look at what it’s done to us now. Nobody trusts anything — not the news, not the government, not even science. People drown in doubt until they cling to the first illusion that feels solid. Cohen might’ve believed in questioning, but he lived in an age when truth still meant something.”

Jack: (leans forward) “Truth always means something — it’s just harder to find when everyone thinks they already have it. That’s what liberalism should protect — the space for questions, not the comfort of answers. Once you stop questioning, you’re not thinking — you’re worshipping.”

Jeeny: (softly) “But questioning can become its own kind of worship too, can’t it? Some people question everything just to feel superior — not to seek truth, but to destroy it. They confuse skepticism with wisdom.”

Host: Her voice carried a quiet ache, and for a moment, the jazz faded beneath the weight of her words. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for an instant his expression softened, the usual sharp edges dulled by something like recognition.

Jack: “You think I’m one of them, don’t you? That I question for the sake of tearing down.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. You take things apart, Jack, but you never put them back together. You call it logic, but it’s just loneliness in disguise.”

Host: The light shifted on his face, tracing the tired shadows beneath his eyes. He looked down, fingers tracing the rim of his glass, the ice clinking softly.

Jack: “You mistake loneliness for honesty. It’s not easy to be honest in a world that runs on pretense. Everyone’s terrified of being wrong, so they hide behind conviction. But Cohen — he wasn’t afraid of being uncertain. That’s what makes him radical.”

Jeeny: “Radical? You call patience and questioning radical?”

Jack: “In times like ours, yes. It’s easier to scream than to think. To pick a side than to stay curious. Liberalism — real liberalism — is courage dressed as doubt.”

Host: A pause stretched between them, filled with the low murmur of the bar and the quiet heartbeat of the city below. Jeeny closed her book, the soft snap of the cover sounding almost final.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man defending a religion you claim doesn’t exist. Maybe liberalism is a kind of faith — just one that hides behind questions instead of answers.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “Maybe. But at least it admits it could be wrong.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t everything beautiful in the world begin with certainty? The artist certain he can capture light, the lover certain she can be loved, the believer certain there’s something beyond this?”

Jack: “And every tragedy begins there too. The same certainty that builds beauty also burns it. Every revolution, every crusade, every censorship starts with someone saying, ‘I’m right.’”

Host: The record clicked softly as the jazz track ended, replaced by silence that felt thicker than smoke. Jeeny stared at the empty space in front of her, as if seeing the idea itself suspended there — fragile, luminous, and untouchable.

Jeeny: “So what then, Jack? We question everything forever? We live without faith, without roots?”

Jack: “Not without roots. Just roots that grow toward light, not into concrete. We question so that belief stays alive — flexible, humane. Cohen wasn’t talking about politics; he was talking about the human spirit.”

Jeeny: “But most people don’t want flexibility, Jack. They want ground beneath their feet. They want home.”

Jack: “And home, if it can’t be questioned, becomes a prison.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened faintly, though she smiled — that soft, melancholy smile that always seemed to meet his cynicism with grace.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. But I still think there’s something sacred in faith — even if it’s foolish. Questioning may keep us free, but believing keeps us warm.”

Jack: “And warmth without truth is just anesthesia.”

Host: Her hand twitched slightly, as though she wanted to reach for him but wasn’t sure if she should. The rain outside began — light, hesitant, like fingers drumming on the windowpane. The city shimmered through the glass, its lights breaking into thousands of small reflections.

Jeeny: (after a long silence) “Do you ever stop questioning, Jack? Even yourself?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Sometimes. When I listen to you.”

Host: The moment broke softly, like the end of a sigh. Jeeny’s laughter — quiet, almost inaudible — filled the small space between them.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the answer. We question to stay awake, but we need someone to remind us why we stay awake at all.”

Jack: (nodding) “Maybe that’s liberalism too — not a theory, but a conversation that never ends.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, tapping the windows like a typewriter writing their unfinished thoughts. The bartender turned down the lights, leaving only the faint glow of the lamp between them.

Outside, the fog thickened, but inside, something had cleared — not certainty, but clarity: a fragile, shared understanding that truth lives not in answers, but in the courage to keep asking.

Jack lifted his glass. Jeeny mirrored him, their eyes meeting across the amber light.

Jack: “To questions.”

Jeeny: “And to those brave enough to keep asking them.”

Host: Their glasses touched with a soft chime, the sound dissolving into the hum of the rain. And somewhere in the distance — beyond the fog, beyond the noise — the city exhaled, as if the world itself approved of their quiet defiance.