To be censored is one sure way of knowing you have been taken

Host: The print shop was dimly lit, its air heavy with the scent of ink, paper, and a faint trace of time. The rhythmic hum of an old press machine echoed in the background — a mechanical heartbeat that belonged to another century. The walls were lined with shelves of books: banned titles, controversial pamphlets, first editions bearing the fingerprints of rebellion.

Jack stood beside the large iron press, his hands stained with ink, a fresh page still warm between his fingers. Jeeny leaned against the counter nearby, her gaze caught on a poster pinned to the wall — bold letters across yellowing paper: “CENSORSHIP IS FEAR IN UNIFORM.”

Jeeny: “Felice Picano once said, ‘To be censored is one sure way of knowing you have been taken dead seriously. It also speaks to the continuing power of the printed word, almost fifteen hundred years after that amazing invention.’”

Host: Jack smiled — that rare, crooked smile of his that always carried a trace of irony.
Jack: “Fifteen hundred years later, and we’re still terrified of words. You’d think we’d have evolved by now.”

Jeeny: “Maybe fear is evolution’s shadow. The moment we invent something powerful, someone tries to silence it.”

Jack: “And the more they silence, the louder it becomes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Censorship doesn’t kill ideas — it baptizes them.”

Host: The press clicked and hissed, spitting out another page. Jack caught it deftly, holding it up to the light. The black ink shimmered faintly. It was a short essay he’d written — something about freedom, truth, and the quiet arrogance of authority.

Jack: “You know, Picano’s right. You only get censored when you hit a nerve. When the truth stops being comfortable.”

Jeeny: “Or when it starts being contagious.”

Jack: “Words are viruses, then.”

Jeeny: “No. They’re medicine. But like any cure, the wrong people always fear the side effects.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes wandered to a glass cabinet where old banned books rested — The Satanic Verses, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Fahrenheit 451. Each one looked like a survivor of war, edges burnt, spines cracked, pages yellowed by defiance.

Jeeny: “It’s amazing, isn’t it? All these books once threatened empires, religions, governments — and now they’re just assigned in college.”

Jack: “That’s the irony of rebellion. Once the world accepts it, it becomes literature.”

Jeeny: “So maybe censorship isn’t just suppression — it’s a strange kind of flattery.”

Jack: “Exactly. When they burn your words, it means they couldn’t argue with them.”

Host: The lamp on the counter flickered as thunder rumbled outside. The room dimmed, the shadows growing deeper, stretching across the stacks of books like watchful ghosts.

Jeeny: “You think that’s still true? In a world where censorship isn’t just the government — it’s the crowd? Social media. Outrage. Cancel culture. Everyone’s both censor and censored now.”

Jack: “That’s the tragedy of the modern age. We’ve democratized suppression. Everyone has a match and no one has a map.”

Jeeny: “You sound exhausted by it.”

Jack: “Because it’s exhausting. The printed word once meant permanence. It survived fire, exile, erasure. Now, words are vapor. They vanish at the speed of scroll.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why censorship still hurts — because it’s proof that something still matters enough to be silenced.”

Jack: “Yeah. To be censored today is to be one of the few things still considered dangerous.”

Host: The rain outside began to fall harder, pattering against the windows, streaking the glass with trembling lines. Jeeny reached for one of the freshly printed sheets and read aloud softly:

Jeeny: “‘Truth doesn’t burn — it smokes. It lingers in the air until someone breathes it in and remembers.’”

Jack: “That’s mine.”

Jeeny: “I know.”

Jack: “You think it’s too much?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s just enough to scare someone.”

Host: She smiled, the corners of her lips curling with quiet admiration. Jack set down the last sheet, turning off the press, its hum fading into silence.

Jack: “You ever notice how every era has its forbidden language? Once it was politics, then religion, then love. Now it’s truth itself. We’ve reached a point where honesty offends more than blasphemy.”

Jeeny: “Because honesty doesn’t flatter. It exposes.”

Jack: “And people don’t want to be exposed — they want to be right.”

Jeeny: “That’s why censorship will never die. It’s the ego’s survival instinct.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed by thunder that shook the windows. The bookshelves quivered, the paper fluttered — as if all the forbidden words wanted to rise and speak at once.

Jeeny: “You think we’ll ever outgrow it? This need to silence what scares us?”

Jack: “No. But maybe we’ll get better at recognizing it. Every time a voice is cut off, someone else learns to whisper louder.”

Jeeny: “That’s what art does. It finds new languages when old ones are banned.”

Jack: “Like water finding cracks in stone.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The thunder rolled again, but softer now — almost rhythmic. Jack sat on the edge of the counter, lighting a cigarette despite the small “No Smoking” sign beside him. The smoke curled upward, ghostly and deliberate.

Jack: “It’s funny. They can ban books, silence authors, rewrite history — but they never really win. They just delay the inevitable: the truth finding its next disguise.”

Jeeny: “Truth is patient. It waits.”

Jack: “And it always chooses the most unexpected messenger.”

Jeeny: “Like Picano himself — a gay writer in the ‘70s, censored for daring to write love honestly. Now he’s quoted in universities.”

Jack: “So maybe the secret isn’t to fight censorship, but to outlive it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To write in a way that time itself refuses to delete.”

Host: Outside, the rain softened to a mist. The city lights blurred through the window — gold, blue, trembling. The two of them sat in the half-dark, surrounded by ink and silence.

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The printed word — fragile, flammable, but immortal in spirit. Fifteen hundred years later, and it still terrifies power.”

Jack: “Because it doesn’t need permission to exist.”

Jeeny: “And because once a word is printed, it belongs to everyone.”

Host: Jack stubbed out his cigarette, watching the last curl of smoke dissolve into the air.

Jack: “You know, Picano wasn’t just talking about censorship. He was reminding us that being silenced means you’ve made an impact. That ink is still mightier than comfort.”

Jeeny: “And that truth, once written, never dies — it just goes underground, waiting for the next brave hand to bring it back.”

Host: She picked up one of Jack’s printed pages, folded it carefully, and slipped it into her coat pocket — a small rebellion, a seed for tomorrow.

Jeeny: “You should keep writing, Jack.”

Jack: “Even if they try to silence me?”

Jeeny: “Especially if they do.”

Host: The lights flickered once more, then steadied. The press stood still, glistening with the last traces of ink — like a monument to every word that had ever dared to live.

And as they stepped out into the cool, rain-washed night, their footprints faded behind them, but the echo of their defiance lingered.

Because Felice Picano had been right — to be censored was not to be defeated, but to be taken seriously.

And the printed word, even now, remained the quiet, indestructible heartbeat of freedom.