Spindly limbs and a dream

Chancellor: You have no function, Mr. Wordsworth. You're an anachronism, like a ghost from another time.
Wordsworth: I am nothing more than a reminder to you that you cannot destroy truth by burning pages.
Chancellor: You're a bug, Mr. Wordsworth! A crawling insect. An ugly, misinformed little creature who has no purpose here, no meaning.
Wordsworth: I am a human being!
Chancellor: You're a librarian, Mr. Wordsworth! You're a dealer in books and two cent fines and pamphlets and closed stacks and the musty insides of a language factory that spews out meaningless words on an assembly line. Words, Mr. Wordsworth, that have no substance and no dimension, like air, like the wind, like a vacuum that you make-believe has an existence by scribbling index numbers on little cards.
Wordsworth: I don't care. I tell you I don't care. I'm a human being. I exist! And if I speak one thought aloud, that thought lives! Even after I'm shoveled into my grave.