No murder or sin or act of barbarism or cruelty has ever been

Host: The library was nearly empty — a forgotten cathedral of dust, paper, and soft light. The rain outside brushed against the tall windows like the faint turning of a page. Rows of old books stretched endlessly into the shadows, each spine worn smooth by hands that had once reached for truth.

Jack sat at one of the long wooden tables, a single lamp glowing before him. His grey eyes scanned the lines of an open novel, though it wasn’t clear if he was reading or just staring into the memory of reading. Jeeny sat across from him, her chin resting on her palm, her brown eyes watching him — amused, wistful, knowing.

Jeeny: “You look like a man at confession.”

Jack: “Maybe I am.”

Jeeny: “And what’s the sin this time?”

Jack: “Reality.”

Host: The light from the lamp flickered, catching the faint curve of a smile at the corner of Jeeny’s mouth.

Jeeny: “You’ve been here for hours. What are you looking for in those pages?”

Jack: “A reason not to go back out there.”

Host: His finger traced a line of text, slowly, reverently. He didn’t look up when he spoke again.

Jack: “Anthony McCarten once wrote, ‘No murder or sin or act of barbarism or cruelty has ever been committed by a person fully absorbed in the reading of a book. By this fact alone, we can conclude that readers are nicer people, at least until they put the book down. When we are reading, we are better.’”

He closed the book softly. The sound was almost tender.

Jack: “And he’s right. When I read, the world stops bleeding. Even the worst of us — if they could just sit and read — maybe they’d forget to hate for a while.”

Jeeny: “You think books make people better?”

Jack: “They make them quieter. That’s a start.”

Host: A faint rumble of thunder echoed beyond the walls, the kind that sounds less like anger and more like the earth turning in its sleep. Jeeny leaned back, her eyes distant.

Jeeny: “I don’t think books make people better, Jack. They just remind us what better feels like.”

Jack: “That’s the same thing.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s temporary. You finish the chapter, you close the cover, and the spell breaks. You’re back to being you again — flawed, impatient, scared.”

Jack: “So what? That small mercy — those few hours when you’re someone else, somewhere else — isn’t that worth something?”

Jeeny: “It’s worth everything. But it’s still escape.”

Host: Her voice was soft, almost apologetic, but her words carried the sharp edge of truth. Jack shifted in his chair, his hands tightening slightly around the book.

Jack: “Maybe escape is the point. We built a world so cruel that imagination’s the only safe place left.”

Jeeny: “Safe doesn’t always mean good, Jack. People can hide in books just like they hide in lies. They can use words to avoid life instead of understanding it.”

Jack: “And yet, I’d still take that over the alternative — people who never read, never imagine, never feel beyond their own skin. Those are the dangerous ones. The unread ones.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming softly against the tall glass panes. The sound filled the silence that followed, like the turning of unseen pages.

Jeeny: “You sound like you think reading is a kind of moral shield.”

Jack: “It is. Nobody ever committed a crime while lost in a paragraph.”

Jeeny: “But what about after they put the book down?”

Jack: “Then the spell ends.”

Host: He smiled faintly, but it wasn’t joy — it was a sad kind of clarity.

Jack: “That’s what McCarten meant. Books don’t change what we are; they remind us of what we could be. For a moment, we live without envy, without rage, without greed. We listen. We imagine. We care. That’s the closest thing to grace I’ve ever known.”

Jeeny: “But if it ends when the cover closes, what’s the use? Isn’t that like praying only when it rains?”

Jack: “Maybe. But at least you remember where the sky is.”

Host: Jeeny said nothing for a moment. The light caught her eyes, making them shine like reflections from deep water.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? I think books don’t make us better. They make us aware of how much better we aren’t.”

Jack: “That’s bleak, even for you.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s beautiful. Because awareness is the beginning of change. When you read about someone else’s pain, their joy, their longing — even if it’s fiction — you start to see yourself in it. You start to feel less alone. And that’s the root of kindness, isn’t it? To recognize yourself in someone else’s story.”

Jack: “Until you close the book.”

Jeeny: “No. Until you start writing your own.”

Host: The clock above the librarian’s desk ticked, a slow and patient rhythm. The smell of old paper filled the air — that dry, nostalgic scent of time preserved.

Jack: “You ever notice how quiet people become in libraries? It’s not just respect for silence. It’s reverence. Because deep down, they know they’re surrounded by ghosts — every book a heartbeat that hasn’t stopped echoing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why you love it here. You get to listen to ghosts instead of people.”

Jack: “Ghosts make more sense.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But they don’t argue back.”

Host: She smiled again, gently this time, the kind of smile that understands both grief and affection. Jack returned it, his expression softening as he turned the book back over in his hands.

Jack: “You know what scares me most? That one day, we’ll stop reading altogether. And when that happens, cruelty won’t even need to justify itself. It’ll just be… normal.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why stories keep being written. To keep us from forgetting what compassion sounds like.”

Jack: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is.”

Host: The rain had slowed now, the library drenched in that rare, heavy silence that feels alive — the silence of minds at work, of souls temporarily freed.

Jeeny reached across the table, tapping the edge of Jack’s book.

Jeeny: “So, what are you reading?”

Jack: “Does it matter?”

Jeeny: “It does. Because whatever it is — it’s saving you for now.”

Host: He opened the book again, the pages whispering like old friends. His eyes softened, his breath steadied.

Jack: “You ever think that maybe that’s what reading is? Borrowing someone else’s calm for a little while.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And maybe that’s what love is too.”

Host: Her words settled between them, quiet as snow. The lamplight grew warmer, the rain outside fading into mist. The library breathed.

Jack read.

Jeeny watched.

And for a moment — brief, pure, and wordless — the world outside ceased to exist.

Because within those pages, cruelty had no place.

And within that silence, they were both — truly — better.