This above all makes history useful and desirable; it unfolds

Host: The library was vast and silent, a cathedral of memory and dust. The late afternoon light streamed through stained windows, spilling gold and amber across rows of ancient books. Each volume, bound in cracked leather, seemed to breathe with the faint echo of centuries.

Jack sat at a long oak table, his fingers tracing the spine of a worn book, its title faded almost to ghostliness. Jeeny stood nearby, holding a fragile scroll, her eyes moving carefully across the text, her face aglow with a reverent calm.

Between them, written on a torn page from some forgotten notebook, lay the quote:
“This above all makes history useful and desirable; it unfolds before our eyes a glorious record of exemplary actions.” — Livy.

Jeeny: “Isn’t it beautiful, Jack? Livy believed history wasn’t just memory — it was a mirror. A record of our greatest selves. Every generation can look back and see what’s possible, what we can become.”

Jack: “A mirror? More like a mask. History doesn’t unfold as glorious — it’s written that way. And whoever holds the pen decides what’s exemplary and what’s erased.”

Host: The dust hung in the air, swirling in the shafts of light like drifting time. Jack’s voice was low, but sharp — a knife slicing through idealism. Jeeny closed the scroll softly, her fingers trembling slightly, as if afraid of damaging the past itself.

Jeeny: “You’re too cynical. Every story has bias, yes — but does that make the deed less real? The courage of those who stood for something greater than themselves — that’s the heartbeat of history. Without it, all that’s left are dates and deaths.”

Jack: “Courage, or vanity? Every so-called hero is convinced of their own virtue. The Roman general, the revolutionary, the king — they all called their wars righteous. Livy wrote for an empire, Jeeny. His ‘glorious record’ was propaganda wrapped in poetry.”

Host: The room seemed to tighten around them, the light dimming as the sun slipped lower. The faint sound of rain began to patter against the windows, a slow rhythm like the turning of forgotten pages.

Jeeny: “But even propaganda reveals truth, Jack — the truth of human longing. The desire to leave a mark, to be remembered as good. Even flawed records remind us that we are capable of greatness.”

Jack: “You call it greatness. I call it illusion. History is the art of editing — of trimming the blood and keeping the banners. We romanticize the past so we can forgive it.”

Host: A faint gust from an open vent stirred the pages of an atlas beside them. Maps rustled like dry leaves, continents shifting under invisible hands.

Jeeny: “Then what do you believe, Jack? That history is useless?”

Jack: “Not useless. Just dishonest. It teaches us less about what people did, and more about what they wanted to be seen doing.”

Jeeny: “But that’s precisely what makes it beautiful! The aspiration — the reach beyond ourselves. Even if we fail, those stories give us something to hold on to. They remind us that the human spirit isn’t just to survive, but to mean something.”

Jack: “Meaning is dangerous. Empires have risen on that word. People kill for meaning. And history, Jeeny — it’s their justification.”

Host: Her eyes met his, and for a long moment, neither spoke. The rain outside had become heavier now, blurring the stained glass into flowing colors. The library felt suspended — timeless, like a place outside of consequence.

Jeeny: “You always talk as if faith in anything is a crime. You forget that even the worst pages of history contain glimmers of the best in us — mercy, loyalty, love. You can’t strip that away.”

Jack: “And you forget that the best pages are built on graves. The glory Livy wrote of — it came from conquest. From blood soaked into sand and marble. Do you still call that exemplary?”

Host: The fireplace crackled faintly, a low murmur in the background. Jeeny turned toward it, her face caught in the amber glow.

Jeeny: “Maybe glory and blood always come together. But I’d rather read of the ones who dared than the ones who watched. History isn’t about innocence, Jack — it’s about courage.”

Jack: “Courage without wisdom is just noise. Look at our own time — everyone wants to be written about, no one wants to be right. It’s not Livy’s Rome anymore; it’s a theatre of memory where truth takes second place to spectacle.”

Host: He leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes catching the fading light, his expression unreadable. Jeeny approached, standing beside him now, her shadow falling across his book.

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s up to us to write better stories.”

Jack: “And who decides what better means?”

Jeeny: “Not those who win — those who learn. History doesn’t belong to power, Jack. It belongs to memory. And memory belongs to those who care enough to keep it alive.”

Host: A distant clock chimed — a soft, melancholic tone that echoed through the library, mingling with the rain. Jack turned the page of his book, the sound crisp, deliberate, like a heartbeat in the silence.

Jack: “You sound like Livy himself. But tell me — what if all our exemplary actions are just accidents? What if we worship the wrong things because they’re the only ones that survived?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe survival itself is exemplary. To live long enough to be remembered — isn’t that the ultimate act of defiance?”

Jack: “Or vanity.”

Jeeny: “Or faith.”

Host: The flames in the hearth flared briefly, throwing wild shadows across the walls lined with portraits of scholars and soldiers — faces long gone, still watching.

Jeeny: “You say history lies. I say it hopes. Every retelling is a prayer that we’ll do better next time.”

Jack: “Hope is just memory’s disguise. A way to forget how much we’ve failed.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe failure is the lesson. Maybe Livy wasn’t writing for emperors or warriors, but for us — for those who’d someday look back and ask why.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft but steady, like the toll of a bell. Jack looked up, studying her — the conviction in her eyes, the quiet fire of someone who still believed that stories could heal the wounds they described.

Jack: “You really think people change by reading what’s already done?”

Jeeny: “Not by reading — by remembering. The moment we stop looking back, we start repeating.”

Host: Outside, a flash of lightning illuminated the windows, followed by the low rumble of thunder. The library shuddered, its shelves trembling like bones remembering movement.

Jack: “So that’s what makes history desirable — not the truth, but the reflection we choose to see in it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because even reflections guide light.”

Host: He smiled faintly — not in mockery, but in surrender. The book in his hands closed with a soft thud, the dust rising in a brief golden cloud before settling back into stillness.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the point isn’t whether the record is true — it’s that someone cared enough to write it.”

Jeeny: “And someone brave enough to read it.”

Host: The rain eased, thinning to a gentle mist. The sun broke through the clouds, sending one last ribbon of light across the table, touching both of their faces.

Jack looked at Jeeny — and for a fleeting instant, they both seemed to understand something wordless and vast: that history, for all its lies and legends, was the only proof humanity had ever tried to be more than itself.

As the light faded, the last echo of Livy’s words lingered between them — a quiet truth wrapped in time:

History does not simply record what was.
It reminds us of what still could be.