The wise are instructed by reason, average minds by experience

Host: The courtyard of the old university glowed with the pale gold of twilight. Columns rose around the stone fountain like silent philosophers, each shadowed by the dim lamplight that trembled as the evening wind passed through the vines. Leaves, crisp and amber, drifted slowly down and gathered around the feet of marble busts — Plato, Aristotle, Cicero. The world here felt still, suspended between centuries.

Jack sat on the edge of the fountain, his coat unbuttoned, his eyes tracing the reflection of the statues in the rippling water. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a pillar, her hands in her pockets, the quiet intelligence in her gaze matching the gravity of the place.

The air carried the faint smell of ink, rain, and thought — as if ideas themselves had a scent.

Jeeny: (softly) “Marcus Tullius Cicero once said, ‘The wise are instructed by reason, average minds by experience, the stupid by necessity and the brute by instinct.’”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Leave it to Cicero to turn wisdom into an anatomy lesson.”

Host: His voice was low and dry, but his eyes glimmered with that restless curiosity that both mocked and admired the ancients.

Jeeny: “He wasn’t wrong, though. He just saw the layers in people — the way learning happens differently depending on how far a soul has traveled.”

Jack: “Yeah, but it sounds cruel, doesn’t it? Like he’s ranking humanity.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he was just diagnosing it. Reason, experience, necessity, instinct — four languages of survival.”

Jack: “And most of us never move past the first translation.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, brushing Jeeny’s face with alternating warmth and shadow. The leaves rustled softly above, whispering like invisible witnesses to their conversation.

Jack: “You ever notice how rare reason actually is? People think it’s common — that logic guides us. But most of the world’s built on reaction.”

Jeeny: “Because reason requires distance. And most people live too close to their pain to think clearly.”

Jack: “So we call it instinct.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The brute’s first teacher. The oldest voice in the blood.”

Jack: “And the stupid by necessity — that one hits harder.”

Jeeny: “It’s not insult, it’s tragedy. It means they only learn when forced. When suffering corners them and choice is stripped away.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Yeah. The lesson becomes survival. Nothing noble about it — just inevitable.”

Host: The wind picked up, swirling the leaves across the stone floor like forgotten words rearranging themselves. The fountain’s soft trickle sounded like a whisper of time — ancient, endless, indifferent.

Jeeny: “Then you have the average minds — taught by experience. They learn, but only from what touches them directly. They need the scar to believe the fire was hot.”

Jack: “That’s most of us, isn’t it? We don’t understand until it hurts. And even then, we only half-remember.”

Jeeny: “And then there are the wise. The ones who don’t need to burn their hands to know the stove is lit.”

Jack: “They use reason — the rarest instinct of all.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. The intellect of empathy — understanding without collision.”

Host: The evening light deepened into bronze, the world now a tapestry of gold and gray. Jack looked around at the statues, each carved in perfect stillness, as if frozen mid-thought.

Jack: “Cicero must’ve been lonely, thinking like that. Imagine seeing the world in categories — reasoned souls walking beside beasts who only understand hunger.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he wasn’t judging. Maybe he was mourning. The distance between what we could be and what we choose to be.”

Jack: “You think we can move between the levels?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. A brute can evolve through necessity. The stupid can wake through pain. The average can grow through reflection. And maybe, just maybe, the wise can remember what it means to feel.”

Jack: “So the hierarchy isn’t fixed — it’s a cycle.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Wisdom isn’t a crown; it’s a current. You rise and fall with it.”

Host: Her words filled the space like incense — soft, fragrant, lingering long after they were spoken.

Jack: “So where do you put yourself?”

Jeeny: (pausing, smiling) “In the middle. Always learning by experience, occasionally by reason, often by heartbreak.”

Jack: “That’s honest.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: “Somewhere between necessity and instinct. Half brute, half philosopher.”

Jeeny: “That’s most of humanity.”

Jack: “Then maybe Cicero wasn’t describing classes — just moments. Because every person carries all four. We think, we feel, we fall, and we survive.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Reason, experience, necessity, instinct — the anatomy of being human.”

Host: The sky had turned the color of parchment, the stars just beginning to surface. The lamps burned warmer now, halos of gold illuminating the marble faces of thinkers who’d been dead for centuries but still spoke in silence.

Jeeny: “You know what’s fascinating? The order of it. He begins with reason — the highest — and ends with instinct — the most primal. But both are ancient. Both pure in their own way.”

Jack: “Yeah. The brute survives. The wise endures. Maybe they’re not opposites at all — just extremes of understanding.”

Jeeny: “So the mind and the body are having the same conversation, just in different dialects.”

Jack: (grinning) “That might be your best line yet.”

Jeeny: “Cicero would’ve approved.”

Host: They both laughed softly — the sound mingling with the murmur of the fountain, the hum of the night. The air seemed alive with echoes — of philosophy, of humility, of the timeless hunger to make sense of ourselves.

Jack: “Funny thing about wisdom — everyone wants to be called wise, but no one wants to pay the price it demands.”

Jeeny: “Because wisdom requires loss. To see clearly, you have to let go of illusions — and we love our illusions more than truth.”

Jack: “Especially the illusion that we’re reasonable creatures.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We mistake logic for wisdom and survival for understanding.”

Jack: “Then what’s true wisdom?”

Jeeny: “Compassion. The ability to reason without forgetting how it feels to be ignorant.”

Host: Her words landed like gentle thunder — quiet, but impossible to ignore. The flames of the lamps flickered, casting a glow that seemed to nod in agreement.

Jack: (after a pause) “So the wise aren’t just thinkers — they’re forgivers.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Reason that remembers mercy.”

Host: The camera began to pull back, revealing the courtyard in its full solemn beauty — two small figures surrounded by centuries of thought, talking softly beneath the watchful eyes of marble philosophers.

The fountain kept whispering. The wind kept turning pages of invisible books.

And through the night, Cicero’s words lingered like an ancient chord of truth:

“The wise are instructed by reason, average minds by experience, the stupid by necessity and the brute by instinct.”

Host: Perhaps that’s the secret —
that wisdom isn’t a rank,
but a rhythm we all move through:
thinking, feeling, falling, and remembering
that even the brute once learned to survive
and the wise still struggle to love.

The flame of the lamps steadied.
The stars blinked awake.
And reason, for a brief moment,
sat quietly beside humanity.

Fade to dusk.
Fade to thought.