The calling of the humanities is to make us truly human in the

Host: The library was nearly empty, its vast hall echoing with the whisper of turning pages and the distant hum of an ancient heating system. The late afternoon sun slanted through tall stained-glass windows, painting the dust in colors once meant for cathedrals. Between the aisles of worn books and forgotten wisdom sat Jack, his posture straight but his eyes weary, as though he had been searching not for knowledge but for proof that it still mattered.

Across from him, Jeeny was seated cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a small fortress of books — Plato, Baldwin, Morrison, Arendt — her pen moving slowly over a page of notes. Her voice, when she spoke, carried the softness of reflection and the certainty of someone who believed in the quiet power of ideas.

Host: Outside, the city buzzed with digital urgency, but in here, time seemed to bow its head — a sanctuary for the ancient conversation called humanity.

Jeeny: [without looking up] “You look like a man trying to solve an equation with feelings instead of numbers.”

Jack: [smirking faintly] “Maybe I am. The problem is, the numbers used to make more sense.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: [leans back, exhaling] “Now it feels like no one cares about meaning anymore. Just metrics. Everything has to justify itself — even the soul.”

Jeeny: [closing her notebook] “You’re talking about the humanities again.”

Jack: “I’m talking about extinction. Philosophy, literature, art, history — the things that taught us how to be before we learned how to build. They’re treated like decorations now.”

Jeeny: [quietly] “J. Irwin Miller once said, ‘The calling of the humanities is to make us truly human in the best sense of the word.’ Maybe that’s exactly why they’re ignored. People fear being reminded of what they’ve forgotten.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, gliding across Jeeny’s face, turning her expression into a portrait of conviction and melancholy.

Jack: “Truly human. That phrase sounds so… nostalgic.”

Jeeny: “Only because the world’s replaced depth with speed. We scroll instead of think, consume instead of contemplate.”

Jack: [sighs] “You sound like a manifesto.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s given up trying to defend one.”

Jack: [pauses] “Maybe because I’ve been shouting into the void too long. People want algorithms, not Aristotle.”

Jeeny: [smiles softly] “Then stop shouting. Start whispering again. The humanities were never about volume — they were about resonance.”

Jack: “And what’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Volume demands attention. Resonance earns it.”

Host: The clock above them ticked, slow and deliberate, as if counting not seconds, but generations of thought — the rhythm of civilization’s heartbeat.

Jack: [leans forward] “Do you really think books can save us?”

Jeeny: “No. People can. But books remind them how.”

Jack: “Remind them of what?”

Jeeny: “Empathy. Reflection. The audacity to imagine another life. The humanities are the blueprint for compassion.”

Jack: [quietly] “And yet compassion doesn’t trend.”

Jeeny: “Because compassion doesn’t sell. But that’s never been the point. The humanities aren’t a business model — they’re a moral inheritance.”

Jack: [half-smiles] “A dying one.”

Jeeny: “Only if we stop practicing it.”

Host: The sound of wind pressed gently against the tall windows, as though the world outside was listening — restless, curious, waiting to be understood.

Jack: “You know what I miss? The arrogance of curiosity. When people studied not to profit, but to wonder.”

Jeeny: “That’s not arrogance. That’s courage. Wonder is dangerous — it makes you question power.”

Jack: “Power’s allergic to philosophy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why the humanities matter — they teach people to see beyond propaganda, beyond programming.”

Jack: [smirking] “So you’re saying literature is rebellion?”

Jeeny: [grinning] “Always has been. Every poem is a protest. Every act of imagination resists the world’s demand for obedience.”

Jack: “And yet, people say art doesn’t change anything.”

Jeeny: [softly] “It changes someone. And that’s how everything begins.”

Host: The lamplight warmed the table, casting golden halos on the covers of open books — as if the ideas themselves were glowing, alive.

Jack: “You know, I used to teach ethics. Then one day a student asked, ‘What’s the point if the world’s run by people who don’t have any?’ I didn’t have an answer.”

Jeeny: [gently] “Maybe that was the answer. The moment you question, you’re already keeping the flame alive.”

Jack: [after a pause] “I just wonder if the flame still matters when the room keeps getting louder.”

Jeeny: “It matters because of the noise. The humanities remind us that silence isn’t emptiness — it’s space for thought. Without them, all we do is react.”

Jack: [sighing] “We used to debate ideas like they were sacred.”

Jeeny: “They still are. But now we trade them for validation.”

Jack: “So how do we bring them back?”

Jeeny: “Not by defending them. By living them.”

Host: The dust in the sunlight turned golden, a constellation of forgotten beauty suspended midair.

Jack: “You know what that sounds like?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Faith.”

Jeeny: “It is faith. Not in religion — in relevance. In the belief that humanity’s story still has chapters worth reading.”

Jack: “That’s the saddest part, though. We have infinite access to wisdom, and yet no appetite for it.”

Jeeny: “That’s because wisdom doesn’t reward you immediately. The humanities are slow medicine — they heal the parts of us that technology forgets exist.”

Jack: [nodding slowly] “The parts that feel, reflect, forgive.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “And remember.”

Host: The library lights flickered on, their warm glow falling over the spines of old books — Plato beside Baldwin, Austen beside Achebe — silent companions in humanity’s unending conversation.

Jack: “You ever think the humanities are doomed to become nostalgia?”

Jeeny: “No. I think they’re our compass. Even if we ignore them, they’re always there — waiting for us to stop running in circles.”

Jack: [quietly] “And if we don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then we forget what it means to be human — and machines won’t have to replace us. We’ll have done it ourselves.”

Jack: [sighs] “You’re not wrong.”

Jeeny: “I’m just hopeful. Because the fact that we’re having this conversation means the calling’s still alive.”

Jack: [smiling faintly] “The calling of the humanities.”

Jeeny: [nodding] “To make us truly human — in the best sense of the word.”

Host: The clock chimed softly, and for a moment, the sound felt eternal — like the heartbeat of civilization itself, still steady, still alive.

Because as J. Irwin Miller said,
“The calling of the humanities is to make us truly human in the best sense of the word.”

And as Jack and Jeeny sat among the quiet shelves,
they understood that humanity’s greatest technology has always been empathy,
and its oldest art has always been understanding.

Host: The library grew dim again,
but on the table between them, a single lamp burned steady —
its light a reminder that even in the age of machines,
the human heart still writes the final draft.