People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition

Host: The library was ancient — its walls lined with books that breathed dust and time. Candlelight trembled across the spines of philosophy and reason, the scent of old paper hanging like incense in the quiet. Outside, rain pressed against stained-glass windows, tapping softly, like thought itself asking to come in.

At a long oak table sat Jack, hunched over a stack of papers — notes, theories, arguments written in the sharp angles of his handwriting. His grey eyes glinted beneath the flicker of candlelight, stern, exacting, the gaze of a man building order out of mystery.

Across from him, Jeeny sat in the half-dark, barefoot, one knee drawn to her chest, her long black hair loose and wild. A small cup of tea cooled beside her untouched, the steam curling like the ghost of emotion itself. She held a book of Yeats’ poetry, open not for study, but for solace.

Between them lay a single quote, written in careful ink on a torn parchment:

“People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.” — William Butler Yeats

Jeeny: (looking up) “You know, I love how he says starving — not silencing. It’s not that logic kills the imagination. It just forgets to feed it.”

Host: Her voice was soft, lyrical — the kind that bends words until they mean something deeper.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “That’s poetic. But dangerous. You can’t live on imagination alone.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But you can’t live without it either.”

Jack: “Tell that to the engineers who built the bridges you walk across.”

Jeeny: “They built them because someone once imagined they could.”

Host: The candlelight flickered, casting long, trembling shadows between them — the visual rhythm of their disagreement, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Jack: “I’m not against dreams, Jeeny. But Yeats romanticizes chaos. The mind needs discipline — logic is the scaffolding that keeps the madness from swallowing us.”

Jeeny: “And yet, too much scaffolding means the sky never gets in.”

Jack: (pausing) “You sound like him.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because he understood what you fear — that reason can’t explain everything that matters.”

Jack: “Reason doesn’t have to explain everything. It just needs to keep us from drowning in illusion.”

Jeeny: “But illusion is where truth hides sometimes. You can’t dissect love with a scalpel. You can’t measure faith with a ruler. You can’t prove beauty — and yet, you know it when it’s there.”

Jack: “And when it’s not?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s where mystery begins.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, its rhythm falling like punctuation between their thoughts.

Jack: “Mystery is fine in poetry, but useless in practice. I’d rather understand than wonder.”

Jeeny: “That’s why you’ll always have facts — but never awe.”

Jack: “Awe doesn’t solve problems.”

Jeeny: “No, it just reminds you you’re alive.”

Host: Her eyes caught the candlelight — brown, bright, filled with something Jack recognized but rarely let himself feel: wonder unashamed of itself.

Jeeny: “Yeats wasn’t condemning logic. He was warning us about imbalance. When we starve the poetic part of the mind, we forget how to feel the world.”

Jack: “Feelings are volatile.”

Jeeny: “So is genius.”

Jack: (leaning back) “You think the world needs more dreamers?”

Jeeny: “No. It needs more whole people — minds where reason and imagination sit at the same table.”

Host: A book slipped from the shelf behind them, falling open on the floor — pages fluttering like startled wings. Neither of them moved to pick it up.

Jeeny: “You know what logic does best? It defines. And what art does best? It defies.”

Jack: (chuckling) “That’s clever.”

Jeeny: “It’s true. You can explain a clock, but not time. You can define light, but not beauty. You can prove existence, but not purpose.”

Jack: “So what, then? We abandon the intellect?”

Jeeny: “No. We feed the soul too.”

Host: The thunder rolled, low and distant — a soft applause from the heavens for her defiance.

Jack: (quietly) “When I was a kid, I used to stare at the stars and feel something — awe, fear, maybe. But when I grew up, I learned the science. I understood how they burned, how they died. It made the wonder smaller.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It made it different. The science tells you how they shine. The soul tells you why it matters.”

Jack: (looking at her) “And you think Yeats would say the soul matters more?”

Jeeny: “No. He’d say the soul dies without mystery. That’s what he means by starving the mind — feeding the intellect and forgetting to nourish wonder.”

Host: The candle’s flame dipped low, trembling as if caught between both their breaths.

Jack: “You think we can ever balance both?”

Jeeny: “Not perfectly. But balance isn’t the goal. Harmony is — when logic doesn’t silence wonder, and wonder doesn’t mock reason.”

Jack: “Harmony requires humility.”

Jeeny: “And humility requires hunger — for things we can’t explain.”

Host: The air thickened with silence — the good kind, the living kind, where thought ripens slowly before it speaks.

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe that’s what Yeats feared — that we’d get so good at explaining life, we’d forget how to live it.”

Jack: “That’s already happening.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we need poetry more than ever.”

Jack: “And mystery.”

Jeeny: “And madness — the beautiful kind that reminds us there’s more to truth than logic can hold.”

Host: Outside, the rain softened, turning to mist. The window glowed faintly with streetlight — the world returning, fragile and alive.

Jack: “You know, I envy you sometimes.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “You still believe in what can’t be measured.”

Jeeny: “You still measure what can’t be believed.”

Jack: (smiling) “So we’re both guilty.”

Jeeny: “And both starving different parts of the same mind.”

Host: She reached across the table, her hand brushing the edge of his notebook. The candlelight flickered once, twice — then steadied, as if the argument had finally reached its quiet peace.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. Not to choose between logic and wonder — but to let them dance. To let reason build the frame, and imagination fill it with light.”

Jack: “A marriage of order and awe.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: He closed his notebook then, and she closed her book of poems. For a moment, neither spoke. The rain had stopped completely, and through the window, the first faint streak of dawn glowed like a question answered in silence.

And in that calm, Yeats’ words shimmered in their truth — not as warning, but as invitation:

that logic is the skeleton,
but wonder is the breath;
that the mind, starved of mystery,
forgets how to dream;
and that wisdom, at its purest,
is not knowing everything —
but remembering
that some things must remain beautifully unexplained.

The candle burned low.
The rain began again, softly.
And in the golden hush of the library,
two souls sat between reason and reverence —
fed, at last,
by both.