The real harm of term extension comes not from these famous

Host: The library stood in silence — a cathedral of forgotten words. Moonlight streamed through the high windows, washing over rows of bookshelves like pale rivers running through time. Dust floated in the air, shimmering softly, as though each particle remembered the weight of a page never turned.

Jack stood by a locked glass cabinet, staring at a collection of old manuscripts — titles out of print, authors out of reach. Jeeny was seated on the floor, surrounded by stacks of yellowed books, her fingers tracing the spines like one touches gravestones. Between them lay an open laptop, its screen glowing faintly, displaying a quote in clean black text:

“The real harm of term extension comes not from these famous works. The real harm is to the works that are not famous, not commercially exploited, and no longer available as a result.” — Lawrence Lessig

The hum of the old fluorescent light above them seemed to echo the words — quiet, steady, and almost mournful.

Jack: “So that’s what Lessig believes — that the crime of our culture isn’t forgetting, but locking memory behind a paywall.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The tragedy isn’t that Shakespeare lives forever, it’s that a thousand voices like him don’t. Lost not because they failed — but because we decided their silence was profitable.”

Host: The clock ticked faintly somewhere in the stacks, each beat of time a quiet reminder of how long the world had been losing what it once loved.

Jack: “But who cares, Jeeny? Be honest. No one misses a book they’ve never read. The market’s just reflecting interest. Why preserve what no one remembers?”

Jeeny: “Because the measure of value isn’t popularity, Jack — it’s potential. We preserve seeds, not because we know what they’ll grow into, but because extinction is irreversible.”

Jack: “You’re comparing out-of-print novels to endangered species now?”

Jeeny: “Aren’t they both born of creation? Both vanish without care? We protect tigers and forests out of moral duty. Why not ideas?”

Host: The lamplight flickered as if in agreement. Dust motes danced in the glow, slow and deliberate — like thoughts trying to stay alive in still air.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, but law isn’t poetry. right keeps creators fed. You shorten it, and you starve the next artist.”

Jeeny: “And you extend it, and you starve the future. That’s the paradox. Protect too long, and culture ossifies — it stops breathing.”

Jack: “You think ideas need to be free.”

Jeeny: “No. I think they need to move. An idea locked away is a ghost — visible, but untouchable.”

Host: Jeeny rose from the floor, brushing the dust from her jeans, her eyes catching the glow from the screen. She looked at Jack with the calm conviction of someone who’d lived long enough to understand loss — not just of people, but of stories.

Jeeny: “Do you know what happens to art when it’s trapped behind copyright that outlives its creator? It dies in silence. Libraries can’t share it. Students can’t study it. Artists can’t reimagine it. It’s not protected — it’s buried.”

Jack: “Buried? Or preserved?”

Jeeny: “What’s the difference between preservation and imprisonment, Jack? Time turns one into the other.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft but sharp. Jack turned away, his reflection caught in the glass cabinet — two Jacks, one real, one imprisoned by the transparency of his own logic.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right in theory. But how do you draw the line? Twenty years? Fifty? You give an artist too little protection, and you turn passion into poverty.”

Jeeny: “And when you give them too much, you turn culture into currency. We’ve built a museum of silence, Jack — a place where everything is owned but nothing is heard.”

Jack: “You sound like you want to dismantle the whole system.”

Jeeny: “No. I just want it to remember its purpose — to serve creation, not corporations.”

Host: A faint rumble of thunder rolled in the distance. Outside, rain began to patter softly against the windows, the sound gentle, rhythmic, cleansing.

Jack: “You talk about culture like it’s sacred.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Every song, every story, every painting — they’re the memory of our species. To trap them behind profit is to forget who we are.”

Jack: “You think humanity owes itself infinite access?”

Jeeny: “I think humanity owes itself infinite connection. Access isn’t greed; it’s gratitude.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, its sound filling the vast quiet of the library. Jeeny walked toward the window, her silhouette outlined by the silver light beyond the glass.

Jeeny: “Imagine a world where half of history’s music couldn’t be played. Where half of literature couldn’t be read. That’s what we’ve built — a locked attic filled with ghosts of genius.”

Jack: “But fame ensures preservation. The famous works survive.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Lessig meant — the harm isn’t to fame. It’s to the forgotten. To the small songs, the local stories, the quiet painters who never sold enough to matter. The famous are immortal; it’s the unknown who need saving.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the rows of shelves — endless, patient, fading. Jack watched her for a long moment, then stepped closer, his voice quieter now, stripped of argument.

Jack: “You know, my mother wrote a book once. Self-published. Never sold a copy. After she died, I found the draft — I can’t even share it. Her name, her words — locked by rules she never knew existed.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s it, Jack. That’s the harm. Not to the successful — to the silenced.”

Host: She turned, her eyes glistening in the half-light. The rain softened again, falling in slow, steady rhythm, like memory returning to its source.

Jeeny: “When we trap knowledge, we lose the whisper between generations. Every law meant to protect expression ends up strangling it a little more.”

Jack: “You really think letting go of control brings meaning back?”

Jeeny: “I think letting go is how meaning breathes.”

Host: The thunder faded, replaced by the hush of steady rain. The library seemed to exhale — ancient wood settling, pages rustling faintly, as if remembering what it meant to be alive.

Jack: “So what do we do? Just open everything? Let the world have what it wants?”

Jeeny: “No. Let the world share what it needs. Freedom doesn’t mean theft — it means trust.”

Jack: “And what if the world betrays that trust?”

Jeeny: “Then we begin again. We can survive theft, Jack. But we can’t survive forgetting.”

Host: She knelt again, picking up a book whose spine had cracked, its title barely legible. She opened it gently, her fingers trembling over the words — words that hadn’t been read in decades.

Jeeny: “This… this is what dies when we confuse ownership with legacy.”

Jack: “And what lives?”

Jeeny: “What we give back.”

Host: The lights flickered one last time before the power went out, plunging the library into darkness — except for the glow of the laptop screen. On it, Lessig’s quote glowed like a lone candle in the void.

Jack and Jeeny stood together before it, silent.

Jack: “You know… maybe culture doesn’t die in fire or flood. Maybe it dies in silence.”

Jeeny: “And silence is the only thing we’ve learned to copyright perfectly.”

Host: The rain slowed to a whisper. The last candle guttered out.

In the dark, the books — thousands of them — seemed to breathe. Their pages rustled faintly, as though sighing in agreement.

And in that still, fragile moment, the truth of Lessig’s warning became clear:
that the greatest danger to creation
isn’t destruction —
but inaccessibility.

That what we hoard,
we lose.

And what we share,
we save.