When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy

Host: The night had settled over the city like a worn velvet curtain, heavy with rain and the whisper of distant sirens. Inside a small, dimly lit café, the air was dense with the smell of coffee and wet asphalt. Candles flickered on every table, their light trembling like the breath of a memory.
Jack sat near the window, his coat damp, collar raised, eyes following the trickle of raindrops down the glass. Jeeny was across from him, her hands clasped, her notebook open, a pen resting beside a half-drunk cup of tea. Between them lay a silence that hummed with thought — the kind that comes before words turn into truths.

Jeeny: “Erasmus once said, ‘When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes.’ I read it again today… and it made me think, Jack. About how we feed our minds even before our bodies.”

Jack: (a faint smirk) “That’s because Erasmus never had to choose between hunger and rent, Jeeny. It’s easy to romanticize knowledge when your stomach isn’t empty.”

Host: A gust of wind pressed against the window, making the flames quiver. Jack’s voice carried the grit of streets and sleepless nights; Jeeny’s eyes were soft, but her words carried steel.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But you’re missing the point. He wasn’t talking about comfort, he was talking about value. He believed that ideas — not things — keep us alive. Look at history — when people were starving in the Warsaw Ghetto, they still shared poems, wrote diaries, sang songs. Isn’t that proof that the soul hungers just as much as the body?”

Jack: “Poems didn’t feed them, Jeeny. They died all the same. The soul can’t survive without bread. You can’t read your way out of starvation.”

Jeeny: “And yet, they did. Not out of flesh, but out of dignity. The human spirit — it’s not logical, Jack. It’s not measured in calories.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, not from fear, but from memory. Outside, a bus passed, splashing water over the sidewalk, and the reflection of streetlights rippled across the window, like ghosts dancing on the rain.

Jack: “You talk as if starving artists and philosophers are heroes. Most of them died poor, Jeeny. Erasmus himself had patrons; he lived off their charity. Let’s not pretend he survived on wisdom alone.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “But it’s not about survival, Jack — it’s about meaning. He wasn’t saying books are more useful than food; he was saying they’re more essential to being human. Without learning, curiosity, beauty — what are we? Just machines that consume and decay.”

Jack: (quietly) “Machines that survive, at least.”

Host: The steam from Jeeny’s tea rose between them, curling like a fragile bridge. Their voices began to clash, one measured, the other aching with faith.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather live as a machine, safe but empty?”

Jack: “I’d rather live, period. You can’t read a book when you’re dead.”

Jeeny: “But you can’t live truly if you’ve never read.”

Host: The air thickened, the rain hammering harder now, as if to drown their words. Jack leaned back, his grey eyes glinting under the flickering light.

Jack: “Do you really think a book can save anyone? Tell that to a child in a slum. Tell her that Shakespeare will fill her stomach.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it won’t fill it — but it might fill her with hope, and hope can move her feet. That’s how revolutions start, Jack — with ideas, not rations. The French Revolution, the civil rights movements, even the Arab Spring — they began with words, with education, with voices that read, that understood.”

Jack: “And look how many died for those ideas. Hope is a beautiful poison, Jeeny. It feeds the mind, sure — but it also kills the body that believes too much.”

Host: Jack’s tone darkened, but his eyes flickered with something else — not anger, but a longing he wouldn’t admit. The silence that followed was heavy, like fog settling after gunfire.

Jeeny: (softly) “You sound like someone who’s been hungry before.”

Jack: (after a pause) “I have. I’ve known what it’s like to choose between books and bread. And I chose bread. Because hunger doesn’t wait for enlightenment.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand moved, as if to reach across the table, but she stopped, her fingers trembling just above the surface. The candlelight caught the edge of her eyes, making them shine like wet amber.

Jeeny: “But didn’t it still hurt, Jack? Not just your stomach, but your heart? When you turned away from what you loved?”

Jack: (looking away) “Yeah. It did.”

Host: For a moment, the rain softened, and the sounds of the city drifted in — the echo of footsteps, the whine of a taxi, the hum of neon lights. The world outside was alive, yet inside, the two souls were trapped in a small war of belief.

Jeeny: “That’s what Erasmus meant, Jack. He was starving, too — for truth, for understanding, for something higher than existence. He wasn’t denying hunger; he was defying it. Like saying, ‘I will not let my body define the limits of my soul.’”

Jack: “Or maybe he was just a fool with bad priorities.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But if being a fool means believing in something beyond the next meal, then I’d rather be a fool than a survivor.”

Host: The light flickered, and for an instant, their faces looked like two halves of the same coin — reason and faith, hunger and hope. The room seemed to shrink, every sound falling away until only their breathing remained.

Jack: (after a long silence) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I just… forgot what it feels like to be hungry for more than food.”

Jeeny: “That’s what books do, Jack. They remind us.”

Host: A smile touched Jack’s mouth, faint and tired, like the first warmth after a storm. The rain began to ease, the candlelight steadying once more.

Jack: “So, Erasmus was saying — buy the book, even if it means starving a little.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because sometimes the hunger that teaches is worth more than the meal that ends it.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, its sound like a heartbeat returning after a pause. Jack picked up his cup, took a sip, and nodded, his eyes distant, thoughtful.

Jack: “You know… I still have that old copy of ‘The Republic’ you gave me. I never finished it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s where you should start again.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped, leaving behind a city washed clean, its lights glimmering on the wet streets. Inside, two souls, once divided, now shared a quiet understanding. In the flicker of candlelight, their shadows merged on the wall, and the world, for a moment, felt fed — both in body and in mind.