No doubt one can, in light of further study and life experience

Host: The library was quiet, except for the soft hum of an old ceiling fan and the occasional flutter of a page being turned. Outside, the evening light was falling, filtering through the dusty windows like faded amber silk.
Two figures sat at opposite ends of a wooden table, surrounded by books and notes, the smell of paper and ink heavy in the air.

Jack — in his usual black jacket, collar open, hair tousled — was leaning back, reading an old philosophy text.
Jeeny, her dark hair falling over her shoulder, scribbled something in her notebook, her brows furrowed in that mix of curiosity and unease that always came before she spoke.

Host: The clock ticked in slow, deliberate beats — like the heartbeat of time itself, reminding them that truth, too, changes.

Jeeny: “Norman Finkelstein once said — ‘No doubt one can, in light of further study and life experience, come to repudiate past convictions.’”

Jack: “Hmm.” He didn’t look up immediately. “So basically, he’s saying people can change their minds. Profound.”

Jeeny: “Not just change, Jack — repudiate. That’s different. It’s about rejecting what you once believed in with conviction. That takes more than time; it takes humility — and pain.”

Jack: “Or weakness.”

Jeeny: “Weakness?”

Host: The air between them shifted, the kind of pause that crackles with the static of opposing truths.

Jack: “Yeah. You spend years building your beliefs, fighting for them, defining yourself by them. Then one day you wake up and say, ‘Never mind, I was wrong’? That’s not noble — that’s instability dressed up as growth.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the only honest thing left. We like to think conviction means strength, but what if it just means stubbornness? What if holding on to an old idea — even when it’s wrong — is what’s weak?”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing doubt. If people repudiated their convictions every time life got hard or new data showed up, there’d be no foundation. No principle. Just chaos.”

Jeeny: “But Jack, isn’t truth itself a moving target? Think about it — science, politics, even love. What we thought was true ten years ago can look absurd now. We evolve. Why shouldn’t our convictions evolve too?”

Host: Jack closed the book with a soft but deliberate thud. The sound was sharp, like a gavel closing a trial.

Jack: “You know, that sounds beautiful when you say it. But in practice? People use that kind of reasoning to escape accountability. They say, ‘Oh, I’ve grown,’ as if that erases the damage they did believing the wrong thing in the first place.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t refusing to change just another kind of harm? Think of history — of people who once defended slavery, or opposed women’s rights, or denied science. Should they have stayed ‘convicted’ in their ignorance just to look strong?”

Jack: “That’s not what I’m saying. Of course, we learn. But there’s a difference between learning and disowning your past. When you repudiate your old self completely, it’s like saying you never existed. It’s a betrayal of who you were.”

Host: A ray of orange light fell across Jeeny’s face, catching the moisture in her eyes. She looked at him — not in defiance, but in that quiet way of someone who understands the cost of what she’s saying.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it real. Maybe you have to betray your old self to become your new one. Isn’t that what life is — a series of small deaths and rebirths?”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but dangerous. You can’t keep killing your past and calling it wisdom. There has to be a core, Jeeny — something that doesn’t shift every time the world does.”

Jeeny: “And what if that ‘core’ is the ability to change? What if that’s the only constant that matters — the courage to let go of what no longer fits?”

Host: The lights flickered overhead. Outside, the street lamps were glowing, the first drops of rain beginning to tap against the windowpane.

Jack: “You ever notice how people only talk about growth when it’s convenient? When their beliefs start costing them something — that’s when they suddenly ‘evolve.’ It’s not enlightenment; it’s self-preservation.”

Jeeny: “And yet, isn’t self-preservation a form of wisdom too? Knowing when to shed your armor before it suffocates you?”

Jack: “Wisdom or cowardice — hard to tell the difference sometimes.”

Jeeny: “No. The difference is intent. Repudiation isn’t just about escaping. It’s about owning the fact that you were wrong. Finkelstein knew that better than anyone — he spent years defending ideas, only to face the pain of realizing they were flawed. It’s not cowardice to change after understanding. It’s cowardice to refuse to.”

Host: The rain began to fall harder, a steady rhythm on the roof. The library seemed to tighten around them — the walls, the books, the air itself heavy with the tension of two minds trying to grasp truth by the throat.

Jack: “You talk about truth like it’s flexible — like it bends to emotion. But the world doesn’t care how you feel about your convictions. The truth is still the truth, even when it hurts.”

Jeeny: “And yet it’s always people, not facts, who decide what truth means. A hundred years ago, truth was that the sun revolved around the earth. A thousand years ago, it was that disease came from demons. The truth keeps changing, Jack — because we do.”

Jack: “So what then? Nothing is sacred?”

Jeeny: “Only the search for truth. That’s what’s sacred.”

Host: A long silence. Only the clock ticking. Jack’s hand rested on the table, fingers tapping lightly — a subtle rhythm of resistance and thought.

Jack: “You know… I used to believe in something too. Unshakably. Then I saw what it did — how it hurt people, how it isolated me. And for years I told myself I’d never believe in anything that deeply again. Maybe… maybe that’s my own kind of repudiation.”

Jeeny: “Then you understand him more than you think. Repudiation isn’t just about beliefs. It’s about becoming. It’s about forgiving yourself for who you once were.”

Host: The rain softened to a gentle drizzle, the light in the room now a muted gold. Jack looked down, his reflection faint in the table’s polish — a man half in shadow, half in light.

Jack: “Funny. You make it sound like redemption.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe every time we repudiate a past conviction, it’s just our way of saying, ‘I’m still learning.’”

Host: The clock struck nine. The fan turned slower. The books, silent witnesses to centuries of contradictions, seemed to listen.

Jack: “You ever think maybe that’s what eternity is? Not some endless time, but the endless act of becoming — of letting go and trying again?”

Jeeny: “Yes, Jack. That’s exactly it. Eternity isn’t what lasts forever — it’s what keeps changing.”

Host: They both smiled — not in agreement, but in understanding. The kind of understanding that doesn’t end an argument, but deepens it.
Outside, the rain stopped, and the city lights flickered on the wet pavement, like truths reflected — never still, never complete.

Host: And as they stood to leave, the camera lingered on the books, the clock, the half-empty cups of tea — small symbols of minds that had dared to question themselves.
In the end, the library was quiet again, but not the same.
Because two souls had just proven that to repudiate one’s past is not to betray it —
but to honor the journey that made it possible to change.