Genuine good taste consists in saying much in few words, in

Host: The evening had settled over the city like a soft silk curtain, blue and trembling with the reflections of a thousand lights. Inside a small, dimly lit jazz bar, the air was thick with smoke and saxophone, with the quiet hum of human restlessness wrapped in velvet tones.

At a corner table near the stage, Jack sat, a half-empty glass of whiskey in hand, watching the condensation trail down the glass like time itself. Jeeny sat opposite him, posture poised yet relaxed, her expression sharp but kind — a woman who could read a room as easily as a poem.

A live musician began a slow number — each note deliberate, elegant, restrained. Between them, the silence became its own kind of music.

Jeeny: (softly) “François Fénelon once said, ‘Genuine good taste consists in saying much in few words, in choosing among our thoughts, in having order and arrangement in what we say, and in speaking with composure.’”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Ah. So, the Frenchman’s telling us not to ramble. A lost art these days.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than brevity, Jack. It’s elegance — the discipline of restraint.”

Jack: (grinning wryly) “Restraint’s overrated. The world belongs to the loud now. You stay quiet, you disappear.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You last.”

Host: The bartender polished a glass, the clink of ice echoing faintly through the haze. Somewhere behind them, laughter rose and fell like a careless wave.

Jack: “You’re talking about taste as if it’s moral.”

Jeeny: “In a way, it is. To have good taste is to honor the balance between thought and silence — to know when a word builds and when it breaks.”

Jack: “So, what, people should talk like poets and move like monks?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Not quite. But maybe the world would be kinder if people learned to pause before they spoke.”

Jack: “The world doesn’t reward pauses, Jeeny. It rewards performance.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why noise has replaced meaning.”

Host: The saxophonist on stage bent into a long note — a slow, soulful wail that hung in the air like truth refusing to rush. Jack took a sip from his glass, his eyes narrowing as he considered her words.

Jack: “You think words can have taste?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. The same way a dish can. Too much salt and you lose the flavor beneath it. Too many words, and the truth gets drowned.”

Jack: (chuckling) “Tell that to politicians.”

Jeeny: “They have the worst palate of all. They gorge on rhetoric and starve on sincerity.”

Host: The crowd at the bar murmured, glasses clinking softly. The room pulsed with the rhythm of the music — the kind that asks you to listen, not move.

Jack: “You know, I envy people like you. You can make silence feel like a statement. Me? I talk until I find meaning, and by then, I’ve already ruined it.”

Jeeny: “That’s not ruin, Jack. That’s searching. The danger isn’t in speaking — it’s in speaking without intention.”

Jack: “So you’re saying every word should have a reason?”

Jeeny: “No — every word should have a weight. Taste isn’t about how much you say. It’s about how honestly you mean it.”

Host: The musician’s shadow danced along the wall, his movement slow, like the heartbeat of the night itself.

Jack: “You ever notice how the wisest people barely talk?”

Jeeny: “Because wisdom whispers where ignorance shouts.”

Jack: “And yet the shouters are always heard first.”

Jeeny: “Not by the ones who matter.”

Host: The light from the stage caught Jeeny’s face — soft amber on sharp truth, her eyes glimmering like twin reflections of composure itself.

Jack: “You know what Fénelon’s quote reminds me of? The art of jazz.”

Jeeny: “How so?”

Jack: “It’s not about the notes you play — it’s about the ones you don’t. The silence between them. The control. The risk of saying less and trusting it’ll still land.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s taste. The courage to edit yourself.”

Jack: “But isn’t editing just fear in disguise? The fear of saying something foolish?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the opposite. ing is confidence — the belief that your silence already says enough.”

Host: The saxophonist paused, the music trailing into a moment of stillness so profound it made the bar itself seem to inhale. And then, softly, he began again — fewer notes this time, but each one truer, deeper.

Jeeny: “You hear that?”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. He’s saying more with less.”

Jeeny: “That’s composure — not absence of emotion, but mastery of it.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve lived your life like that.”

Jeeny: “No. I’ve learned to listen to what silence teaches. It has better taste than I do.”

Host: Jack leaned back, a small smile tugging at his lips, but his eyes carried that restless glint — the look of a man who has said too much too often and suddenly realizes the cost of noise.

Jack: “You know, I used to think power was in persuasion — in being the loudest voice in the room. But now…”

Jeeny: “Now you see it’s in grace.”

Jack: “In timing. In leaving space for someone else to speak.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Fénelon meant by ‘good taste.’ It’s not just aesthetic — it’s moral restraint. To speak with order, to think before you wound, to let your words serve truth, not ego.”

Jack: “You make silence sound like a revolution.”

Jeeny: “It is. Especially now, when everyone’s performing instead of conversing.”

Host: The lights dimmed, the music softened, and the bartender lowered his voice as if the night itself demanded reverence.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know what I love about Fénelon’s thought? He reminds us that elegance isn’t born of wealth or education — it’s born of care. Every well-chosen word is an act of respect.”

Jack: “For others?”

Jeeny: “For language. For the space between us.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to fall, fine and rhythmic — as if applauding the music, the words, the restraint.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the problem with our world, Jeeny. We’ve lost our ear for subtlety. We confuse volume for conviction.”

Jeeny: “And still wonder why no one listens.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe I’ve been talking too much my whole life.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then let this be your first taste of silence.”

Host: They sat there — two silhouettes framed by smoke and saxophone — letting the moment speak for them, letting the truth hang unforced, unadorned.

And as the last note faded into quiet, François Fénelon’s words seemed to breathe through the air —

That grace is born not from abundance, but from restraint,
that to speak well is to respect silence,
and that true elegance lies not in saying more,
but in saying what matters — and nothing beyond it.

Host: The rain outside whispered against the glass.
The world dimmed into composure.
And for once, both of them — talker and listener — sat in perfect, eloquent quiet.