The failure to read good books both enfeebles the vision and

Host: The library was nearly empty, the kind of stillness that felt both sacred and forgotten. The lamplight glowed softly over rows of dust-covered shelves, illuminating titles whose spines carried the weight of entire centuries. Outside, the rain whispered against the windows, a quiet percussion that made the silence inside seem even deeper.

At a long oak table, surrounded by books piled like small monuments, sat Jack, his elbows resting on open pages, the lines unread though his eyes were fixed on them. Across from him, Jeeny was closing a thick volume — her movements gentle, almost reverent.

Between them lay a small notebook, open to a handwritten quote she’d copied earlier. Her voice, calm but edged with thought, broke the quiet:

“The failure to read good books both enfeebles the vision and strengthens our most fatal tendency — the belief that the here and now is all there is.” — Allan Bloom

Jack: (leaning back) “So, ignorance isn’t just blindness — it’s claustrophobia.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When we stop reading, we trap ourselves in the present. No memory, no foresight — just scrolling through the noise of now.”

Jack: “You’re saying books are escape hatches?”

Jeeny: “No. They’re anchors. They remind us we didn’t invent wisdom yesterday.”

Jack: (smirking) “Try telling that to a generation that thinks history’s an app you can delete.”

Host: The rain tapped steadily on the glass, its rhythm like the heartbeat of a forgotten clock. A single lamp flickered, throwing soft halos of light across their faces — Jack’s tired, Jeeny’s illuminated by quiet conviction.

Jack: “You know, Bloom’s right about one thing — the ‘here and now’ has become a religion. Everything’s urgent, trending, immediate. Reflection’s gone out of style.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the past is the only thing that’s ever taught us who we are. Without it, every generation becomes an amnesiac society — repeating mistakes with better marketing.”

Jack: “Maybe people stopped reading because books demand surrender. They ask for time, patience, stillness — all the things the modern world punishes.”

Jeeny: “But they give something back the world never can — perspective.”

Jack: “Perspective’s overrated when survival’s on the line.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s what keeps survival from becoming savagery.”

Host: The wind howled briefly, rattling the old panes. Somewhere in the stacks, a book slid faintly from its shelf — a whisper of motion in the cathedral of thought.

Jack: “You ever notice how reading feels like time travel? You open a book written three hundred years ago, and suddenly you’re sitting across from a ghost who understands you better than your own friends.”

Jeeny: “That’s why I love it. The dead aren’t dead in books — they’re conversation partners. Reading resurrects them.”

Jack: “But not everyone wants ghosts whispering wisdom. Some people just want peace.”

Jeeny: “Peace without depth is just distraction. People mistake comfort for understanding.”

Jack: “Maybe because comfort’s easier. Books don’t coddle — they confront.”

Jeeny: “And confrontation’s the beginning of consciousness.”

Host: The lamplight grew warmer, wrapping the room in gold and shadow. Outside, a distant thunder murmured, the sound low and thoughtful, as if the world itself was agreeing.

Jack: “So what do you think Bloom meant by ‘good books’? Classics? Philosophy? Literature?”

Jeeny: “Anything that lifts your gaze beyond your reflection. Books that force you to wrestle with something bigger than yourself — truth, morality, mortality.”

Jack: “So, Twitter doesn’t count.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Only if it quotes Plato.”

Jack: “The problem is, people read more than ever — it’s just all junk food. Information, not insight.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The more content we consume, the less nourishment we get. We’re starving in abundance.”

Jack: “So ignorance isn’t lack of knowledge — it’s gluttony of triviality.”

Jeeny: “Beautifully said. We’re drowning in the shallow end.”

Host: The rain softened, falling now like the delicate brushstrokes of a watercolor sky. The air inside the library was still, charged with that quiet electricity that comes from being in the company of ideas that refuse to die.

Jack: “You know, when I stopped reading seriously, I thought I was freeing up time. But all I did was shrink my world.”

Jeeny: “That’s the illusion. The smaller your world, the more you mistake immediacy for importance.”

Jack: “You sound like a professor.”

Jeeny: “No, just someone who remembers being rescued by a sentence once.”

Jack: “Rescued?”

Jeeny: “Yes. By a book. When you’re lost, sometimes you don’t need advice — you need recognition. Books do that. They hold up mirrors when life won’t.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, deliberate, steady — a sound that belonged to another era. Jack glanced toward it, then back at her, his voice quieter now, edged with something almost like guilt.

Jack: “You think that’s why people avoid reading? Because good books don’t flatter us. They hold us accountable.”

Jeeny: “Yes. They demand growth. They force you to meet yourself halfway — and most people would rather stay comfortable in the half they already know.”

Jack: “It’s easier to scroll through outrage than to study origins.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Outrage feels like passion, but it’s just noise. Reading teaches you to differentiate depth from volume.”

Host: A soft rumble of thunder rolled again, distant but steady — like applause from the heavens. The light flickered once more, casting the two of them in temporary darkness before returning.

Jack: “You know, Bloom’s warning — that without good books we start believing the ‘here and now is all there is’ — that’s terrifying. Because that’s exactly where we are.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why we feel so hollow. We’ve lost continuity — the sense that we’re part of something older, wiser, ongoing. Without that, the present feels like a prison instead of a passage.”

Jack: “You make it sound almost spiritual.”

Jeeny: “It is. Reading isn’t an intellectual act; it’s a moral one. It says: ‘I’m willing to listen to those who came before me.’”

Jack: “And humility’s gone out of fashion.”

Jeeny: “Which is why enlightenment’s gone missing.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving a soft, reflective silence. Somewhere in the back, the librarian’s shoes clicked across the tile floor, slow, respectful.

Jack reached across the table, closing the book he’d barely touched, his palm resting on its cover like a quiet apology.

Jack: “You ever think books are just time machines for empathy? The only way we can feel what it’s like to live inside someone else’s soul?”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what they are. Reading trains your compassion — it stretches your moral muscles.”

Jack: “And not reading — it atrophies them.”

Jeeny: “That’s Bloom’s warning. We stop imagining beyond ourselves, and suddenly the world’s smaller, crueler, more afraid.”

Host: The light through the window was faint now, almost silver, the final act of a long, introspective evening.

Jeeny stood, tucking the notebook into her bag. Jack followed her to the door, the echoes of their steps the only sound left in the vast room of sleeping ideas.

Jeeny: “You know, I think the world will survive its politics, its crises, its noise. But if we stop reading — really reading — it won’t survive its forgetfulness.”

Jack: “Then maybe every reader’s a quiet revolutionary.”

Jeeny: “The last kind worth being.”

Host: The doors closed softly behind them. Outside, the air smelled of rain and renewal. The streetlamps shimmered in the puddles like stars reflected in memory.

And as they walked into the night, Allan Bloom’s words lingered, timeless and tender — a whisper to every restless mind:

that when we abandon books,
we shrink the soul;
that when we stop reading,
we forget to imagine;

and that only through the quiet courage
of turning a page
do we remember that the present
is never all there is —
that we are always,
if we choose,
more than now.