Be calm in arguing; for fierceness makes error a fault, and truth

Host: The afternoon light spilled through the tall windows of an old courthouse café, turning the dust in the air into drifting gold. Outside, the square was filled with muted voices, footsteps, and the distant ringing of a street performer’s guitar. Inside, silence sat between two people at a corner table — a silence so still it seemed to hum.

Jack leaned forward, his grey eyes sharp under the shadow of his brow. His coffee had gone cold, untouched, the faint trace of steam long gone. Jeeny, across from him, rested her chin on her hand, her brown eyes warm but wary, watching him the way someone watches a flame too close to paper.

Host: The air was heavy — not with anger yet, but with the weight of things waiting to be said.

Jeeny: “George Herbert once wrote, ‘Be calm in arguing; for fierceness makes error a fault, and truth discourtesy.’”
She smiled faintly. “I wish people remembered that when they talk — especially these days.”

Jack: “Calm?” He let out a low laugh, dry as dust. “Try being calm when someone’s wrong and knows it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. Truth doesn’t need a sword, Jack.”

Jack: “Sometimes it does. Truth without fire is just noise. People don’t listen unless you strike hard.”

Host: A faint clatter came from behind the counter — the barista dropping a spoon — but even that seemed to echo their rising tension.

Jeeny: “And striking hard always costs you something. You can win the argument and lose the person.”

Jack: “Maybe some people aren’t worth keeping.”

Jeeny: “You don’t mean that.”

Jack: “Don’t I?” he said, his voice low. “I’ve been in rooms where people lie straight to your face — boardrooms, negotiations, even family dinners — and if you don’t fight, they bury you in their version of the truth. Calmness isn’t virtue there; it’s surrender.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s strength.”

Host: Her words were soft but steady, like water smoothing stone. The sunlight shifted, cutting through the room at an angle, painting her face in pale gold and his in shadow.

Jeeny: “Anyone can shout. It takes discipline to speak truth gently.”

Jack: “Gently doesn’t change the world. Passion does.”

Jeeny: “Passion isn’t the same as fierceness. One creates; the other destroys.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re quoting poetry again.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because poetry remembers what people forget — that tone is part of truth. Say something cruel while you’re right, and your truth turns to violence.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling, his jaw clenched, his fingers drumming the table.

Jack: “You talk like I’ve never been calm.”

Jeeny: “You’ve been calm plenty of times. But not when it mattered most.”

Host: A pause hung, heavy and electric. The buzz of conversation from the other tables faded, or maybe they’d simply stopped hearing it.

Jack: “You’re thinking of that meeting, aren’t you? The one with Langford.”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “He lied to the entire room, Jeeny. Lied about our work, about our results, about me. What did you expect me to do — smile politely while he gutted the truth?”

Jeeny: “No. I expected you to defend yourself with dignity.”

Jack: “And I did.”

Jeeny: “You yelled.”

Jack: “Because he deserved it.”

Jeeny: “And afterward, no one remembered his lie. They only remembered your anger.”

Host: The words struck like a slow bell. Jack’s hands stilled. For a moment, his face softened — not with guilt, but with something quieter.

Jack: “So I should’ve let him smear me?”

Jeeny: “You should’ve let your truth stand taller than your fury.”

Jack: “Easy to say when it’s not your name on the line.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s not easy. But truth that shouts too loud turns into noise. That’s what Herbert meant. When you argue in fierceness, your rightness feels like wrongness.”

Host: A breeze slipped in through the open window, stirring the napkins, carrying with it the scent of rain about to fall.

Jack: “You always think calmness wins. But calmness gets mistaken for weakness.”

Jeeny: “Only by the weak.”

Jack: “That’s idealism, Jeeny. Real life doesn’t work like your sermons.”

Jeeny: “Then explain to me why Martin Luther King chose nonviolence. He faced men who beat him, spat at him, jailed him. He could’ve screamed his truth in anger, but he didn’t — because he knew rage corrupts righteousness.”

Jack: “And what did it cost him?”

Jeeny: “His life. But his truth lived on. Because it wasn’t drowned in hatred.”

Host: The light dimmed as clouds gathered, and the first drop of rain tapped against the glass. Jack looked at her, his expression hard but flickering.

Jack: “You think I don’t respect that? I do. But the world’s changed. Calm voices get drowned out by the loudest liars. We live in a time where being fierce is the only way to be heard.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We live in a time that needs calm more than ever. Everyone’s shouting. Nobody’s listening. We mistake volume for conviction.”

Jack: “Maybe you’re just afraid of conflict.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, her voice tightening. “I’ve seen what anger does. It turns truth into shrapnel. My father and mother argued every night. Both of them were right — and both of them left bleeding.”

Host: Jack said nothing. His eyes drifted to the window, where the raindrops were gathering into small rivers, streaking down the glass.

Jeeny: “You know what I learned from them?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That truth is delicate. It doesn’t survive violence — even verbal violence. You have to hold it carefully, or it becomes cruelty dressed as honesty.”

Jack: “So what, you want me to whisper my truths now?”

Jeeny: “No. Just speak them like you remember they’re sacred.”

Host: A long silence settled between them. The rain fell harder now, a rhythm against the window like the beating of a tired heart.

Jack: “You’re right about one thing. When I get fierce, I stop listening. I start aiming.”

Jeeny: “And when you aim, you stop connecting.”

Jack: “I guess truth shouldn’t have a trigger.”

Jeeny: “No, it should have a pulse.”

Host: The barista switched on the lamps, their yellow glow softening the shadows. Jack leaned back, running a hand through his hair, the fight in him fading into thought.

Jack: “So fierceness turns error into fault, truth into discourtesy…” He sighed. “Damn, Herbert knew people better than most politicians ever did.”

Jeeny: “He was a priest, Jack. He understood that the heart speaks clearer than the mouth when it’s quiet.”

Jack: “And you — you really believe calmness is stronger than fury?”

Jeeny: “I don’t believe it. I’ve seen it. The calmest voices carry the longest. Anger burns fast — but peace echoes.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, the tension in his shoulders easing. He gave a faint, tired smile — the kind that looked like surrender disguised as respect.

Jack: “You always have to win, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Not win. Just remind you that truth isn’t a weapon.”

Host: They both laughed, quietly, the sound mingling with the rain’s soft percussion. Outside, the storm began to clear, and a sliver of light broke through the clouds, gilding the wet streets in fleeting gold.

Host: Jack raised his cup finally, drinking what was left of the cold coffee. “Maybe next time, I’ll try calm,” he said.

Jeeny: “You won’t.”

Jack: “No,” he admitted. “But I’ll remember why I should.”

Host: The camera would linger there — two figures framed in the dim light, rain melting into sunlight outside. Their faces, softened now, reflected something fragile and human: the peace that comes not from winning, but from understanding.

Host: And as the last drops fell, the truth between them sat quiet — not fierce, not proud, just still enough to be heard.