Be obscure clearly.

Host: The fog rolled in from the harbor, soft and deliberate, turning the world into a watercolor painting that refused to dry. The streetlamps stood like solemn sentinels, their light bending through the mist in quiet halos. Somewhere in the distance, a foghorn moaned — long, low, and existential.

Host: Inside the bookshop café, everything felt half-remembered: the smell of old pages, the click of cups against saucers, the murmur of words that had forgotten whether they were meant to comfort or challenge. The shelves leaned inward like listeners.

Host: Jack sat by the window, his notebook open, pages filled with sentences that looked like battles. Jeeny sat opposite, her hair still damp from the fog, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea gone cold. Between them, on the table, lay a scrap of paper with five simple words written in black ink:

“Be obscure clearly.” — E. B. White.

Jack: “You ever think E. B. White said that just to mess with writers? ‘Be obscure clearly’ — it’s like telling someone to whisper loudly or to walk quietly with thunder.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s a riddle with manners. He didn’t mean to confuse — he meant to liberate. Clarity doesn’t mean explaining everything. It means making the mystery beautiful.”

Jack: “So, confusion is the new clarity?”

Jeeny: “Not confusion. Ambiguity with purpose. Like fog that reveals the shape of things by hiding their edges.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet trying to justify bad directions.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a man terrified of anything he can’t diagram.”

Host: The light flickered as the wind pressed against the windows. A few pages fluttered open from a stack of used novels, their sentences escaping into the air like startled birds.

Jack: “No, but think about it. People already misunderstand everything. Why make yourself harder to read? Writers who hide behind clever words are cowards.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they’re realists. Maybe they know truth can’t survive the spotlight — it only lives in the half-light.”

Jack: “That’s romantic nonsense.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s restraint. The greatest truths are like bruises — they don’t need to be poked to prove they exist.”

Jack: “So you’d rather imply than confess?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather invite than invade.”

Host: The rain began — soft first, then urgent — drumming against the glass like a poet tapping a pen, searching for rhythm. The café grew quieter, the outside world dissolving into sound.

Jack: “You know what I think White was really saying? Don’t fake being profound. Be honest about your limits. Admit when you don’t know, but do it with precision.”

Jeeny: “Ah. The scientist’s version of poetry.”

Jack: “Exactly. I don’t trust vagueness. It’s lazy. Words should mean something.”

Jeeny: “They always mean something, Jack — you just have to be patient enough to listen.”

Jack: “So you think obscurity is an act of patience?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because understanding doesn’t come from being told. It comes from wanting to know.”

Jack: “So clarity is a door, and obscurity’s the keyhole?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Now you’re catching on.”

Host: The fog outside thickened, and for a moment, even the lamps seemed unsure of their own light. Jeeny leaned closer, her voice soft, like a page turning itself.

Jeeny: “White was a realist with a romantic heart. He knew people crave meaning — but he also knew too much explanation kills wonder. Being obscure clearly is like painting shadows with intention.”

Jack: “You’re saying the audience should work for it.”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every reader deserves the dignity of discovery.”

Jack: “And if they don’t get it?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it wasn’t their night to understand.”

Jack: “You’d make a terrible teacher.”

Jeeny: “No, I’d make an honest one.”

Host: A waiter walked by, humming an old jazz tune, the kind that made melancholy sound almost optimistic. The air smelled of espresso and ink, like creativity had a pulse.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about being cryptic — maybe it’s about letting people meet you halfway. White wasn’t telling writers to hide. He was telling them to trust the reader.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Clarity isn’t spoon-feeding. It’s lighting the path just enough so someone else can finish the walk.”

Jack: “So obscurity is the art of invitation.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like flirting with meaning.”

Jack: (smirking) “You’re dangerously good at that.”

Jeeny: “At meaning or flirting?”

Jack: “Both.”

Jeeny: “Then I’m being obscure clearly.”

Host: They laughed softly, the sound mingling with the rain, like warmth finally remembering its job.

Jack: “You know what gets me about White? He wrote Charlotte’s Web — a book about death, love, and friendship — and made it sound simple enough for a child. That’s not clarity; that’s magic.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s clarity born from compassion. When you love something deeply enough, you learn how to speak softly to it — even if the truth breaks your own heart.”

Jack: “So, being obscure clearly is just love wearing restraint.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s knowing when to whisper the truth so it can echo longer.”

Jack: “That’s the most beautiful contradiction I’ve ever heard.”

Jeeny: “Then White did his job.”

Host: The fog outside began to thin, revealing faint outlines of the city — bridges, lights, reflections rippling on wet stone. The moment felt suspended, like a breath deciding whether to exhale or stay.

Jack closed his notebook and leaned back, his eyes tracing the candle’s flame.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe obscurity is what saves clarity from arrogance. When you explain everything, you kill the mystery. When you explain nothing, you kill the reader. But when you balance both…”

Jeeny: “You make art.”

Jack: “You make life.”

Jeeny: “Same thing.”

Host: The rain stopped. The streetlamps gleamed against clean pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a ship horn sighed — a sound both ancient and forgiving.

Host: Jack and Jeeny sat in the hush that follows revelation, where words have done their job and silence takes over like a kind editor.

Host: Through the window, the fog drifted away — revealing, not replacing, what had always been there.

Host: And perhaps that was the truest meaning of E. B. White’s paradox — not to hide behind obscurity, but to use it as a veil that makes truth lean forward, curious, alive.

Host: Because the world doesn’t need to be explained to be understood. It only needs to be seen clearly — even through the fog.