Literature can allow us to experience the best side of humankind

Host: The library café smelled of espresso and paper, that soft blend of intellect and warmth that only exists where books and people breathe together. The evening light slanted through tall glass windows, amber and forgiving, dust motes drifting like forgotten dreams caught midair.

Outside, rain began to fall, tapping softly against the glass — a rhythm of melancholy and renewal. Inside, the world slowed down, softened.

At a corner table, surrounded by open novels and empty cups, Jack sat with his sleeves rolled, fingers stained faintly with ink. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on the table, her chin resting on one hand — her eyes alive, full of the gentle fire that always preceded their deepest debates.

Jeeny: reading aloud from a folded page, her voice reverent but steady
“Caroline Leavitt said, ‘Literature can allow us to experience the best side of humankind, where instead of giving up, we struggle desperately in the ruins for love, connection and hope.’”

Jack: smiling faintly, his voice low and thoughtful
“She makes it sound like survival itself is an art form.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly, tracing the rim of her cup with a fingertip
“Maybe it is. Literature doesn’t show us perfect people. It shows us people who bleed beautifully. Who keep reaching for warmth in a cold world.”

Host: The rain thickened outside, the sound like applause for honesty. The café lights reflected in the glass, turning the world beyond into a mirror of quiet introspection.

Jack: leaning back, eyes distant
“It’s strange, isn’t it? How words written by someone long dead can keep another person alive. It’s like literature is the last true form of time travel — the place where empathy doesn’t expire.”

Jeeny: softly, smiling
“Yes. When I read, I don’t escape the world. I remember it. I remember how fragile and strong we are — at the same time.”

Jack: nodding slowly, his tone deepening with warmth
“Leavitt’s right. The best side of humankind isn’t found in victories, but in persistence. The way we claw through ruins and still somehow find enough tenderness left to write a poem.”

Jeeny: looking up from her cup, eyes glinting in the dim light
“Or to fall in love again. Or forgive. Or start over. That’s the miracle — not that we survive, but that we do it with our hearts still open.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, the rain momentarily fierce before softening again. The noise of the world outside — car tires on wet pavement, distant footsteps — seemed to underline every word they spoke.

Jack: after a pause, his voice hushed but sure
“Sometimes I think literature is the only place where we’re truly honest about what it means to be human. Out there—” he nods toward the window “—we pretend. But on the page, we confess.”

Jeeny: smiling gently, her voice steady and certain
“Yes. And we confess together. That’s the connection. You read a line from Dostoevsky or Toni Morrison, and you realize — you’re not the first to feel broken, or hopeful, or desperate for beauty.”

Jack: leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table
“Exactly. The ruins Leavitt talks about — they’re universal. We’re all born into them in some way. Literature just hands us the candle.”

Host: The candlelight on their table flickered, throwing soft shadows across their faces — faces worn not by age but by awareness.

Jeeny: after a long silence
“I remember when I first read ‘The Book Thief.’ There’s a line where Death says he’s haunted by humans. That line broke me — not because it’s sad, but because it’s true. Even destruction can’t erase our capacity for love.”

Jack: smiling faintly, eyes soft
“Yeah. We keep showing up to our own endings and still asking for more chapters.”

Jeeny: quietly
“That’s why stories matter. They’re proof that we don’t give up. Even when everything’s falling apart, we still write — as if words could hold the walls up.”

Jack: nodding slowly, his voice heavy with admiration
“Leavitt saw that clearly. That literature doesn’t just mirror life — it redeems it. It gives pain a narrative, which is the first step toward meaning.”

Host: The barista turned down the lights, leaving the café awash in soft gold. Outside, the streetlamps flickered on, their reflections stretching like tired memories across the wet pavement.

Jeeny: softly, more to herself than to him
“I think that’s why I read — to find the best side of us. Not the part that wins, but the part that refuses to surrender.”

Jack: smiling faintly, eyes thoughtful
“The part that writes love letters in the rubble.”

Jeeny: smiling back, eyes wet with quiet emotion
“Yes. Exactly that.”

Host: The rain slowed to a whisper, the sky dimming into that deep, endless blue that belongs only to late evening. The café, half-empty now, felt like a sanctuary for the ones still searching.

Jack: after a pause, voice low and sincere
“You know, literature might be the only place where we’re allowed to hope without proof. You can write about despair, and somehow it turns into connection.”

Jeeny: nodding softly
“Because someone, somewhere, will read it — and whisper, me too.”

Jack: smiling gently
“And in that moment, we stop being alone.”

Host: The camera lingered on their table — two cups half-drunk, pages open, ink stains like constellations scattered across the wood. Beyond the glass, the world shimmered under the rain — tired but alive, ruined but radiant.

And in that still, quiet space between solitude and solace, Caroline Leavitt’s words took root — not as theory, but as heartbeat:

That literature is not an escape from life, but an embrace of it.
That the ruins are not where humanity ends, but where its courage begins.
And that the written word is proof that even when we fall apart, we still reach out — desperate, defiant, and beautiful — toward love.

Jeeny: softly, closing her book
“In the end, maybe that’s what we all are — stories, still being written in the ruins.”

Jack: smiling, voice like a quiet promise
“And maybe that’s enough.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving behind silence and reflection. Outside, a single streetlight flickered, its glow steady and human against the vast dark.

And as they sat there — two readers, two survivors of their own unwritten chapters —
the world seemed to whisper its oldest truth through the sound of their breathing and the turn of a page:

We endure not because we must,
but because we still believe —
even in ruins —
that love deserves to be written.