There is a misleading, unwritten rule that states if a quote

Host: The rain had just stopped. The city glistened in its aftermath — puddles shimmered under streetlights, and the air smelled faintly of wet stone and coffee. Inside a dim bar tucked beneath a narrow alley, jazz hummed softly through the speakers, lazy and warm, the sound of a saxophone curling like smoke.

Jack sat at the counter, a half-empty glass before him, his grey eyes sharp but tired. Jeeny sat beside him, her hair damp from the rain, her coat still glistening with droplets. They were the only two left besides the bartender polishing a glass with absent rhythm.

Host: The clock struck eleven. The neon sign outside flickered — red, then blue, then dark, then alive again.

Jack: “Bo Bennett said something funny today. ‘There is a misleading, unwritten rule that states if a quote giving advice comes from someone famous, very old, or Greek, then it must be good advice.’”

He smirked, tracing a line on the counter with his finger. “Finally, someone said it.”

Jeeny: “You would like that quote, wouldn’t you?”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her eyes danced with amusement. Jack turned toward her, raising an eyebrow.

Jack: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeeny: “It means you’ve always distrusted wisdom that comes wrapped in marble or myth. If Socrates walked in here, you’d tell him to get a day job.”

Jack: “Damn right I would. Half the time, these ancient philosophers didn’t even live by their own advice. Everyone loves to quote them because it sounds profound. Add a beard and a toga, and people forget to question whether it even makes sense.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they quote them because truth has a long memory. Not everything old is outdated, Jack.”

Host: The bartender set down a new drink for Jeeny — something with a faint glow of amber beneath the dim light. She lifted it, the glass trembling slightly between her fingers.

Jeeny: “Tell me — why do you think people cling to the words of the wise? Why do we carve them into buildings, print them on posters, or whisper them before doing something brave?”

Jack: “Because people are scared to think for themselves. It’s easier to borrow someone else’s certainty than build your own. Plato says something, and suddenly it’s sacred. But if some kid from the street said the same thing, no one would care.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying truth depends on who says it?”

Jack: “In this world? Yeah. It’s all branding now. Ancient Greece was just the world’s first marketing campaign for wisdom.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the window, followed by a distant rumble of thunder. The bar’s glow seemed to pulse with their growing tension.

Jeeny: “You sound cynical, Jack.”

Jack: “I’m realistic. People worship wisdom like it’s a product. You know how many bad decisions were made because someone quoted a dead philosopher out of context?”

Jeeny: “And how many good ones were made because someone heard the right words at the right time? You underestimate the power of a well-timed sentence.”

Host: Jeeny leaned closer, her eyes dark and glinting with firelight. “When Lincoln quoted the Bible in his speeches, when Gandhi quoted Tolstoy, when Martin Luther King quoted both — it wasn’t about names. It was about resonance. Words that have survived centuries survive for a reason.”

Jack: “Or they just got lucky. You can quote Confucius all day and still be an idiot.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But you can also be inspired to become less of one.”

Host: Jack laughed softly — the kind of laugh that hides both agreement and resistance. He took a long sip from his glass, the ice clinking like the ticking of a clock.

Jack: “You know what bothers me? We act like wisdom needs credentials. A quote from Aristotle becomes gospel, but a quote from your neighbor gets ignored — even if it’s the same damn thought.”

Jeeny: “That’s because your neighbor doesn’t carry the weight of time behind his words. Aristotle’s been tested by generations. Your neighbor hasn’t.”

Jack: “So truth needs a fan club?”

Jeeny: “No. It just needs proof. Time is proof, Jack. If an idea survives two thousand years, maybe it deserves a little respect.”

Host: The rain started again, faint but steady, tapping against the window like a distant metronome. The bar seemed to shrink into its own soundscape — glass, music, rain, and the low hum of unspoken thoughts.

Jack: “You really think truth ages like wine?”

Jeeny: “No. Truth is more like fire. It burns differently in every age, but it’s the same flame.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long time, the reflection of the flames dancing in his grey eyes.

Jack: “Then why do we still quote them instead of finding new fires?”

Jeeny: “Because we’re afraid of burning ourselves. It’s easier to hold a torch someone else lit.”

Host: The bartender turned up the music slightly — a slow, aching sax solo that filled the air like regret. Jeeny’s voice softened.

Jeeny: “But you know what’s funny? Bo Bennett’s quote — the one you love — it’s also advice. And you’re only quoting it because you think he’s clever.”

Jack: “Touché.”

Host: Jack chuckled, but there was a flicker of thought in his expression, a shadow of self-recognition.

Jeeny: “See? We all do it. We trust the names we know. Maybe that’s not a flaw — maybe it’s how humans preserve wisdom. We build cathedrals of words to remember what matters.”

Jack: “Or prisons. We stop questioning because we think the ancients already figured it out.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not their fault — it’s ours, for worshipping instead of listening.”

Host: Silence. The saxophone solo stretched into the slow hum of a bassline. The lights flickered once more, softening to a golden haze.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is… it’s not about who said it, but how we hear it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A quote isn’t wisdom until it meets a life that understands it.”

Jack: “And if that life belongs to a fool?”

Jeeny: “Then the fool still needed to hear it.”

Host: Jack smiled — the kind that bends between irony and awe. “You’d make a good philosopher, you know.”

Jeeny: “Without the beard or the toga, I hope.”

Host: They both laughed softly. The tension dissolved, leaving only warmth, and the faint echo of rain. Jack finished his drink, placing the glass gently down, as though setting down an old belief.

Jack: “Maybe Bennett was half right. The rule is misleading — but not because the words are old. It’s because people stop thinking once they’re told who said them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Wisdom isn’t inherited. It’s reinterpreted.”

Host: The camera would pan slowly outward — the rain still falling, neon reflections blurring the window. Inside, two silhouettes remained: one pragmatic, one poetic, both warmed by conversation and whiskey.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe someday someone will quote you.”

Jeeny: “Only if they’re desperate.”

Jack: “No. Only if they’re listening.”

Host: Outside, the rain softened into a quiet drizzle — as if the world itself were nodding in agreement. The neon light flickered once more, spelling the word “Wisdom” on the glass before vanishing into shadow.

And in that dim, smoky bar, among empty glasses and ancient echoes, the truth lingered — that wisdom, like rain, doesn’t care where it falls, only that it’s felt.