The printed word is no longer as in demand as when I was of the

Host: The library was almost silent now — the kind of silence that hums softly, like the ghost of thought itself. Dust hung in the air, visible in the golden light that filtered through the tall arched windows. Rows of bookshelves stood like ancient sentinels, their spines a mosaic of fading ambition and wisdom. Somewhere in the corner, a clock ticked — slow, deliberate, unbothered by relevance.

Host: Jack sat at one of the long oak tables, his coat draped over the back of a chair. His hands rested on a hardbound book, unopened, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to disturb its quiet dignity. Across from him, Jeeny sat surrounded by papers and her laptop, typing in rhythmic bursts, the glow of the screen cutting sharp against the soft amber light.

Jeeny: (without looking up) “Tom Stoppard once said, ‘The printed word is no longer as in demand as when I was of the age of pupils or even at the age of the teachers teaching them.’”
(She stops typing, glances up.) “You think he was mourning something? Or just observing?”

Jack: (half-smiling) “When Stoppard mourns, he hides it behind irony. That’s how thinkers grieve — with wit instead of tears.”

Jeeny: “So you think he was grieving? The loss of print?”

Jack: “Not just print. The loss of stillness.”

Host: The lamp above flickered faintly. The world outside — distant, digital, impatient — seemed to press at the windows like static. Inside, the smell of paper lingered, that faint perfume of ink and history.

Jeeny: “You know, I teach students who’ve never read a book that didn’t light up. The idea of paper to them is almost romantic — like vinyl records or handwritten letters.”

Jack: “Yeah. Reading used to be intimacy — a private affair between one mind and another. Now it’s consumption. Skimming instead of sinking.”

Jeeny: “You sound like an old man.”

Jack: “No, just someone who remembers slowness.”

Host: She laughed softly, the sound breaking gently against the walls of silence.

Jeeny: “I get it though. There was something sacred about holding a book. The weight of it. The scent. The sense that you were joining a conversation older than yourself.”

Jack: “Exactly. Every page turned felt like a heartbeat. You could feel the effort that went into every word — ink pressed onto paper, permanence earned.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now words feel disposable. Like tweets with better grammar.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “But isn’t that just evolution? The medium changes, not the message.”

Jack: “Sure. But when you trade permanence for convenience, something gets lost in translation.”

Jeeny: “What — reverence?”

Jack: “Yes. Reverence. And patience. Reading used to require both.”

Host: The clock ticked louder, as if reminding them that time was also turning its pages — relentless, unflinching.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Stoppard was mourning — not the printed word, but the discipline it demanded.”

Jack: “And the reflection it inspired. You can’t scroll through meaning. You have to dwell in it.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man writing a eulogy for libraries.”

Jack: “Aren’t we all?”

Host: The words lingered, soft but piercing. Around them, the shelves seemed to breathe — thousands of spines whispering in languages the modern world was beginning to forget.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How humans always invent faster ways to connect — and end up more disconnected than before.”

Jack: “We mistake information for understanding. It’s like eating without tasting.”

Jeeny: “So what do we do? Go back?”

Jack: “No. But we can remember. Memory’s the only rebellion left.”

Host: A faint thunder rolled outside, distant and thoughtful. The rain followed soon after, tapping against the glass like fingertips seeking entry.

Jeeny: (closing her laptop) “You ever notice how screens make the light feel harsher? But a book — a book glows from within. It’s not light you see with your eyes, it’s the light your mind creates.”

Jack: (nodding) “That’s the difference between distraction and dialogue.”

Jeeny: “Maybe books don’t die — they just go underground. Waiting for people who still know how to listen.”

Jack: “Yeah. Like old prophets hiding in plain sight.”

Host: She smiled, pulling one of the books closer — Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. The irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

Jeeny: “You think Stoppard would have predicted this age? All noise, no echo?”

Jack: “I think he saw it coming and wrote faster, trying to trap meaning before it slipped away.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we owe it to people like him to keep reading — slowly, deliberately. To let words matter again.”

Jack: (quietly) “To let silence be part of the conversation again.”

Host: The rain grew louder, the sound wrapping around the library like applause for something half-forgotten but deeply missed.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was little, my mother used to read to me every night. Not just the stories — the cadence of her voice. That was my first rhythm. I think that’s what books gave us: a heartbeat outside ourselves.”

Jack: “And what do we have now?”

Jeeny: “Notifications.”

Jack: “And headlines. And the illusion of knowing.”

Jeeny: “And yet… we still crave the old ways. Every time someone picks up a book, lights a candle, or sends a handwritten letter — it’s proof that the human soul still prefers weight to glow.”

Jack: “That’s the paradox of progress. We keep inventing shortcuts to meaning and end up further from it.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The sound was rich, resonant — a punctuation mark on their quiet rebellion.

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe the printed word isn’t dying. Maybe it’s just resting — waiting for us to be ready again.”

Jack: “Waiting for the noise to tire itself out.”

Jeeny: “And it will.”

Jack: “It always does.”

Host: The rain slowed to a whisper. The lamps flickered once, then steadied. Jeeny reached across the table, placed her hand gently on the book before him, and opened it. The pages breathed open with a soft rustle — like something exhaling after years of holding its breath.

Host: And in that fragile moment — between thunder and thought, between technology and tenderness — Tom Stoppard’s words seemed to live again, not as lament but as prophecy:

that the printed word is not dead,
only resting in the margins;
that true literacy
is not reading with the eyes,
but with reverence;
and that meaning,
like ink,
only endures
when someone cares enough
to turn the page.

Host: The clock’s ticking softened. The books watched silently.

And as the rain fell one last time against the window,
Jack and Jeeny sat together,
two quiet readers
keeping vigil
for the light that glows
only from within the page.