The art and science of asking questions is the source of all

Host: The library was silent but alive — the kind of quiet that breathes. Rows of old books stretched upward into shadow, their spines glowing faintly under warm, amber light. Dust motes hung like slow-falling stars, and the scent of paper, ink, and time filled the room.

The clock ticked softly. Rain tapped the windows. A single lamp illuminated a wooden table in the center, where Jack sat, flipping through an old philosophy volume, his eyes sharp and restless. Jeeny leaned back in her chair across from him, her pen tapping the edge of a notebook that was already full of scribbled questions.

Between them sat silence — not emptiness, but thought forming its shape.

Jeeny: “Thomas Berger once said, ‘The art and science of asking questions is the source of all knowledge.’”
She closed her notebook, her voice low but certain. “I think he was right. The world doesn’t move because of answers — it moves because of curiosity.”

Jack: without looking up “Curiosity’s dangerous, though. It’s what got us kicked out of Eden.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s where knowledge begins — when we stop being afraid to eat the fruit.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft and steady. The rain outside deepened, a rhythm like a heartbeat against the glass.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. Most people ask questions just to prove a point, not to find truth.”

Jeeny: “That’s because asking sincerely takes humility. It’s easier to defend what we know than to risk what we don’t.”

Jack: “And risk is uncomfortable.”

Jeeny: “So is ignorance — we just get better at disguising it.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling slowly. His gray eyes flickered with that familiar mix of skepticism and intrigue.

Jack: “So what, you think asking questions is a kind of rebellion?”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. Every question challenges a boundary. Every ‘why’ is a refusal to settle.”

Jack: “Then the most dangerous people in history weren’t soldiers — they were thinkers.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Socrates asked so many questions they killed him for it.”

Jack: “And we still quote him like he was a saint.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “He was. The kind that makes you uncomfortable.”

Host: The lamp flickered slightly, casting their shadows across the table — two figures caught between thought and revelation.

Jack: “You think there’s such a thing as a bad question?”

Jeeny: “No. Only lazy ones. The kind that aren’t really questions — they’re excuses.”

Jack: “So knowledge depends on courage, then.”

Jeeny: “Always. Curiosity is just courage in softer clothes.”

Host: Jack closed the book in front of him, the sound echoing through the quiet room like punctuation.

Jack: “You know what I hate about questions?”

Jeeny: “That they never end?”

Jack: “That they never satisfy. Every answer just opens another door.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. Knowledge isn’t a destination, Jack. It’s a hallway.”

Jack: smirking “You sound like a teacher.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a student who’s pretending not to learn.”

Host: A flicker of humor softened the tension, but only briefly — because beneath the exchange was something more profound. The shared understanding that truth isn’t given — it’s pursued, endlessly.

Jeeny: “You know, children understand this better than adults. They never stop asking why. They don’t care if they sound foolish. Somewhere along the way, we trade curiosity for caution.”

Jack: “Because answers feel safer than wonder.”

Jeeny: “And control feels safer than awe.”

Host: The rain eased now, replaced by the soft creak of the old building settling into its bones. The air felt heavier, like thought itself had weight.

Jack: “You ever think there’s a limit to knowledge? A point where questions stop working?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even then, the asking is the point. Questions are what keep us alive — they remind us there’s more than what we know.”

Jack: “So knowledge isn’t possession — it’s pursuit.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t own truth. You can only dance with it.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The lamplight caught the side of his face — intense, focused, but softened by something new: wonder.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think answers are overrated. They kill the conversation.”

Jeeny: “And yet everyone’s desperate for them.”

Jack: “Because they sound like closure.”

Jeeny: “But closure is a kind of death, isn’t it?”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why the wise never stop asking.”

Jeeny: smiling “Or why children never grow old — at least the curious ones.”

Host: The clock ticked again, marking the rhythm of thought, of rain, of human persistence.

Jeeny picked up her pen again, scribbling something new into the notebook.

Jack: “What are you writing?”

Jeeny: “Another question.”

Jack: “About what?”

Jeeny: “About why we ever thought we had to know everything in the first place.”

Jack: laughing softly “Now that’s a dangerous question.”

Jeeny: “The best ones always are.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped completely. The sky beyond the windows had cleared, and faint moonlight now mingled with the lamplight, blurring the boundaries between shadow and illumination — just like knowledge and mystery.

They sat in silence, both smiling, both lost in thought — two minds caught in the infinite loop of curiosity, content in not knowing, but in seeking.

And as the scene slowly faded, Thomas Berger’s words would linger like a gentle echo, a whisper that carried both wisdom and invitation:

“The art and science of asking questions is the source of all knowledge.”

Because answers are the walls,
but questions are the doorways.

Knowledge begins not with certainty,
but with wonder.

To ask sincerely is to admit humility —
to say, I don’t know, but I want to.

And in that sacred not-knowing,
the soul awakens,
and the universe — patient, amused —
leans in and whispers back:
Ask again.