My attitudes have changed, but somebody would have to read all my

Host: The library was nearly empty — the kind of quiet that only old buildings know, filled with the soft crackle of time and the faint scent of yellowing paper. The lamplight spilled in pools across rows of dusty shelves, catching on the edges of titles long forgotten. Outside, rain tapped against the tall windows, rhythmic and unhurried, as if the world itself had settled into listening.

At the far end of the room, Jack sat with his sleeves rolled up, a half-drained cup of coffee beside him, his hands resting on an open book. His gray eyes scanned the pages not with curiosity, but with something heavier — the look of a man reading his own reflection in someone else’s words.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in a leather chair, a novel balanced on her knees, her fingers tracing the spine absentmindedly. A faint smile curved her lips as she read the quote aloud, her voice soft but clear enough to break the spell of silence.

“My attitudes have changed, but somebody would have to read all my books to find out how they have.” — Irwin Shaw.

Jeeny: “Isn’t that fascinating? That a person could leave their entire evolution between pages. Every sentence, every story — like footprints in time.”

Jack: “Or like camouflage. You could write a thousand pages and still never tell the truth. Words don’t always reveal us, Jeeny. Sometimes they protect us.”

Jeeny: “But why hide in your own creation? Isn’t the point of writing — of art — to be seen?”

Jack: “No. The point is to understand. Being seen is just a side effect.”

Host: A low rumble of thunder rolled through the distance. The lights flickered once, dimming the room into a softer gold. For a moment, it felt less like a library and more like a confessional.

Jeeny: “You sound like Shaw himself. Always elusive, always skeptical. He wrote about love and loss and war — but underneath, there was always this ache, like he didn’t trust his own emotions enough to claim them.”

Jack: “That’s the mark of honesty. Anyone who claims to know exactly what they believe hasn’t lived long enough to doubt it.”

Jeeny: “Or hasn’t dared to feel enough to change.”

Jack: “Change isn’t romantic, Jeeny. It’s erosion. Every year you lose a piece of who you were.”

Jeeny: “But that’s growth — the necessary kind. Erosion shapes cliffs, not ruins them. Maybe Shaw meant that — that change isn’t something we announce, it’s something that accumulates quietly, in the background of what we create.”

Host: The clock ticked on the far wall, steady and solemn. The rain grew louder, blurring the world beyond the windows. Jack leaned back, exhaling smoke from a cigarette he wasn’t supposed to light indoors, watching the thin trail curl toward the ceiling like a vanishing thought.

Jack: “You really think people change that much? I think we just rephrase our excuses.”

Jeeny: “You’re too cynical.”

Jack: “No — I’m realistic. We don’t transform; we adapt. You can read every book someone ever wrote and still not know their heart. They change their tone, not their truth.”

Jeeny: “But tone is truth. It’s the rhythm of a soul in motion. Look at Shaw’s early work — sharp, bitter, almost cruel — and his later writing, softer, wiser, tinged with regret. That’s change, Jack. Maybe he didn’t say what changed, but you can feel it.”

Jack: “Feeling isn’t proof. You can project anything you want onto a writer. Readers make their own ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the point. The dialogue between writer and reader is the evolution. He changes by being read.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the room, momentarily throwing their faces into relief — Jack’s angular, lined with skepticism, Jeeny’s soft, alive with conviction. The rain drummed harder, like applause for their argument.

Jack: “So you think we’re supposed to publish our transformation? Make our private evolution public property?”

Jeeny: “Not for the world’s sake — for our own. Writing isn’t confession, it’s reflection. It’s how we map the shifting terrain inside us.”

Jack: “Then you think the map ever ends?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s rewritten every day. That’s why life — and art — never really resolve. They just deepen.”

Host: The library seemed to hold its breath. The rows of books — those silent witnesses — surrounded them like a cathedral of unspoken memory.

Jack: “You know what scares me? The idea that you could write your whole life, every change, every heartbreak, every epiphany — and no one would ever notice. That the evolution could happen and still go unseen.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not a tragedy. Maybe it’s the most honest thing of all. You don’t write to be understood. You write to understand yourself. If someone happens to see you through it — that’s grace, not purpose.”

Jack: “Grace. That’s a word I don’t use.”

Jeeny: “That’s why I do.”

Host: The thunder softened, fading into a low murmur. Jeeny closed her book and looked toward the window, where the rain’s rhythm had slowed into a drizzle, leaving streaks like ink on glass.

Jack: “So you think Shaw was telling us to read his soul between the lines?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he was telling us that he never stopped learning who he was. That the only way to trace that journey was through the work itself — the evolution embedded in every paragraph.”

Jack: “And if someone read all his books and still couldn’t find the change?”

Jeeny: “Then they weren’t really reading. They were just looking for themselves.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, painting the table in a soft, trembling glow. Jack’s eyes lowered to the page before him. The book lay open on a passage underlined in fading ink — a story about soldiers returning home, about the weight of memory. He touched the words gently, as if recognizing an old scar.

Jack: “You know… maybe that’s why I write at all. Not to tell the world what I think, but to find out if I still believe it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the truest kind of writing there is. Not a statement — a question.”

Jack: “Then maybe change isn’t erosion after all. Maybe it’s just rewriting the same truth in a different tense.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The clock struck ten. The lights dimmed once more, and somewhere a janitor began locking the far doors. The world outside was black and shining, the air heavy with rain and reflection.

Jeeny rose, tucking her book under her arm, her face lit by the fading lamplight. Jack followed, sliding the cigarette into an empty cup.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? Every time I think I’ve changed, it’s not because I decided to. It’s because something — or someone — forced me to.”

Jeeny: “That’s still you changing, Jack. The world just gave you the mirror.”

Host: They walked toward the exit together, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble, their reflections drifting in the glass as the library lights went out behind them.

And as they stepped into the wet night, the quote remained behind — hovering like a whisper in the dark hall of books:

“My attitudes have changed, but somebody would have to read all my books to find out how they have.”

Host: Perhaps that was Irwin Shaw’s confession — and all writers’, and all humans’. That who we are cannot be captured in a moment, but only in the slow accumulation of years, of words, of mistakes rewritten.

To live is to edit yourself — endlessly, imperfectly, beautifully.