Men use thought only as authority for their injustice, and employ

Host: The candlelight trembled in the old library, its flame bending under the weight of a faint draft that slipped between the cracked windowpanes. Dust floated through the air like the ghosts of forgotten arguments, and from the street below, the sound of a carriage faded into the fog.

At the long mahogany table, surrounded by books that had outlived their authors, Jack sat with his elbows on the wood, a glass of brandy before him. His grey eyes reflected the flame, unblinking, sharp, and restless.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her chair, the light kissing the edges of her black hair, her expression unreadable but alive — the calm before an inevitable storm. Between them lay a single sheet of paper, on which the words of Voltaire had been written in delicate ink:

“Men use thought only as authority for their injustice, and employ speech only to conceal their thoughts.” — Voltaire

Jack: (lifting the glass) “Leave it to Voltaire to turn thinking into a crime. ‘Men use thought as authority for their injustice,’ he says. It’s clever, sure, but too cynical. If thought breeds injustice, then what’s left to trust—instinct?”

Jeeny: (softly) “He didn’t say thought breeds injustice. He said men use it that way. The weapon isn’t the thought—it’s the hand that wields it.”

Jack: “So we blame the man, not the mind? That’s convenient. Everyone gets to sin, and thought stays holy. I don’t buy it. Thought is the first excuse, Jeeny. It’s the mask of reason worn by desire.”

Host: The fireplace crackled, sending sparks upward like scattered arguments. Outside, the wind pressed against the glass, whispering its own kind of truth. Jeeny’s eyes glimmered with that particular light—not anger, but conviction wrapped in grace.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s not the mask—it’s the mirror. Thought shows us what we are. It’s speech that hides it. That’s what Voltaire meant. Language is where we lie to ourselves.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You really think people talk to deceive?”

Jeeny: “All the time. We choose words not to reveal, but to protect. Every polite sentence, every careful pause, is a shield. Even now—you’re speaking like a philosopher, but you’re really just angry.”

Host: A small, electric silence. The candle flickered again, and Jack’s eyes darkened, though his voice remained even.

Jack: “Maybe. But isn’t speech what keeps us civilized? If we all said what we really thought, the world would burn in an hour. We’d have nothing left but truth, and truth is cruel.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Truth is clean. It’s speech that makes it cruel—when we twist it to sound noble. Men use words the way kings use crowns—to make power look like grace.”

Host: The library clock struck midnight. The sound echoed through the room like a sentence being passed. The air seemed to tighten around them—two souls, both armed, both bleeding from invisible wounds.

Jack: “You make it sound like every word is a lie.”

Jeeny: “Not every word. Just every word that’s afraid.”

Jack: “And what about thought? You said it’s a mirror, but mirrors only reflect what’s already there. What if what’s inside is already corrupted?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s still better to see the corruption than to hide it behind clever speech. Men don’t decay because they think—they decay because they refuse to listen to what they think.”

Host: Jack turned the glass slowly in his hands, the liquid swirling like amber smoke. He was silent now, but the silence wasn’t peaceful—it was charged, like the air before a storm.

Jack: “So thought is innocent, speech is guilty, and man is just... the messenger?”

Jeeny: “Man is the translation, Jack. We were given the gift of thought to understand, and the curse of speech to negotiate. Somewhere between the two, we lose meaning. We stop being truthful, and start being eloquent.”

Jack: (laughing dryly) “You’d make a terrible politician.”

Jeeny: “That’s why I still have a soul.”

Host: The fire roared louder, casting gold light across the spines of old books. Their titles, faded but proud, seemed to watch the debate—ancient witnesses to a struggle as old as reason itself.

Jack: “But don’t you see, Jeeny? Speech isn’t just concealment. It’s art. Language is the only way we touch each other without violence. Even our lies—they’re just attempts to protect what’s too fragile to say.”

Jeeny: “You call that protection, I call it cowardice. You think speech saves us from violence, but I think it only delays it. Every war, every betrayal, begins as a sentence someone didn’t mean.”

Jack: “So we stop speaking altogether? Return to instinct, to grunts and silence?”

Jeeny: “No. We speak—but we must earn our words. Use them like surgery, not decoration.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened; his eyes glimmered, half with admiration, half with defiance. The storm outside had grown—wind howling through the chimney, a low moan that sounded almost human.

Jack: “You think that’s possible? To speak without deceit? Even now—you and I—we’re performing. Your voice is a script, your passion a pose.”

Jeeny: (with quiet fire) “And yours is a defense. You hide behind irony, Jack, because sincerity scares you.”

Jack: “Sincerity gets you hurt.”

Jeeny: “So does hiding. But only one of them heals.”

Host: The candle burned lower, the wax spilling like slow tears. The room was thick with the weight of unspoken things—the kind of truths that tremble on the edge of being confessed.

Jack finally stood, pacing toward the window, where rain streaked down the glass like the world’s own syntax dissolving.

Jack: “Maybe Voltaire was right. Maybe we use thought to justify, and speech to hide. But maybe we have to. If we exposed every ugly impulse, every selfish reason, society would collapse.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Society already has. We just hide the rubble under rhetoric. We don’t build truth anymore—we just decorate the ruins.”

Host: He turned, his face pale, but his eyes alive—two grey storms struggling to contain the lightning inside.

Jack: (quietly) “And yet, you still talk to me.”

Jeeny: (meeting his gaze) “Because despite everything, I still believe words can heal if they’re honest. But honesty is the rarest language of all.”

Host: The wind subsided. The flame steadied. The library seemed to exhale, as though the old books themselves had been holding their breath.

Jack returned to the table, his hands trembling slightly as he poured another drink. Jeeny watched him, her eyes soft now, the edge of her conviction melting into something like sadness.

Jack: (slowly) “Maybe that’s the tragedy of it all. We were given the gift of language, and all we’ve ever done is use it to hide the truth it was meant to carry.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that’s the hope. Because as long as we’re still arguing about it, we haven’t completely forgotten how to seek it.”

Host: The fire burned low, casting long shadows across their faces. They sat in silence, not out of defeat, but out of a shared understanding—that thought and speech, like light and shadow, could never truly be separated.

Host: Outside, the storm finally broke, the rain easing into a drizzle, the night softening into quiet. The candle flickered one last time before dying, leaving behind a faint trail of smoke—like a final sentence unfinished.

And in that darkness, something pure remained between them—
Not speech, not silence, but the fragile truth that had survived both.