I have the handicap of being born with a special language to

Host: The night hung heavy over the harbor, the air thick with salt and the murmur of distant waves. A dim lantern flickered beside a wooden pier, its light spilling across wet planks that glistened like memory itself. The sky was a bruise, smeared with the faint glow of the city far away. Jack stood at the edge, his hands buried deep in his coat, his breath visible in the cold. Jeeny sat nearby on an old crate, her hair tossed by the wind, her eyes fixed on the dark water that moved like a restless thought.

They had come here after a long silence, the kind that feels like memory refusing to fade.

Jeeny: “You’ve been so quiet tonight. Even more than usual. What are you thinking about?”

Jack: “About Flaubert. About his curse, maybe. ‘I have the handicap of being born with a special language to which I alone have the key.’ It’s a kind of loneliness I understand.”

Host: His voice was low, almost swallowed by the wind. He looked out at the sea, where the reflection of a lighthouse blinked in and out like a dying thought.

Jeeny: “You think being different is a handicap?”

Jack: “Not just different—incomprehensible. You can’t translate your soul into words that others will ever truly grasp. Flaubert had his ‘special language’; I think we all do. But most people don’t even try to speak it—they just imitate what’s already been understood.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about being understood. Maybe it’s about creating something that can still touch others, even if they can’t decode it. Like music—you don’t need to understand the notes to feel the melody.”

Jack: “That’s the romantic answer, Jeeny. But Flaubert wasn’t talking about beauty; he was talking about isolation. Imagine having a language that no one can hear, a world only you can walk through. Every time you speak, you’re translating, and every translation is a kind of betrayal.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s a gift, not a curse. The key might be yours alone, but it opens the door to something others can still glimpse through your words. Isn’t that what art is?”

Host: A seagull cried in the distance, its voice thin and lonely, echoing across the water. Jack smiled, but it wasn’t joy—it was resignation, a man who had learned to live with his own echoes.

Jack: “You always want to find hope in pain. Maybe that’s your special language. But Flaubert’s words—those aren’t hopeful. He’s confessing a defect. A kind of genius that isolates him from the world he tries to describe. It’s like being fluent in a tongue no one else was ever born to hear.”

Jeeny: “And yet, he wrote Madame Bovary. He broke through that wall, Jack. The world didn’t know his language, but it felt it. That’s the miracle of expression—you don’t have to translate your soul perfectly; you just have to bleed in the right direction.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the scent of seaweed and diesel, the sound of a boat engine rumbling somewhere beyond the fog. The silence that followed was not peaceful—it was thick, almost sacred, as though the air itself were listening.

Jack: “You make it sound easy. But what if no one feels it? What if you speak, and the world just shrugs? That’s the worst kind of loneliness—to pour yourself out and have the echo return empty.”

Jeeny: “That’s not loneliness; that’s bravery. The lonely artist isn’t the one who can’t be understood, Jack—it’s the one who stops trying to reach. Flaubert didn’t stop. He labored, he rewrote, he burned for precision. His handicap became his method.”

Jack: “Precision is another kind of prison. You keep chiseling the same stone, but no one ever sees the statue as you imagined it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because the statue isn’t meant to be seen exactly as you do. Every eye brings a new truth. You can’t own meaning, Jack—you can only offer it.”

Host: The moonlight broke through the clouds, painting Jeeny’s face in a soft silver glow. Jack’s eyes caught it, and for the first time, something cracked in his expression—a quiet pain, an unspoken recognition.

Jack: “You make it sound so selfless. But isn’t there a part of every artist that just wants to be understood? To have someone finally say, ‘I see it too’? Isn’t that what we all crave?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But that’s the trap, Jack. The moment you write for understanding, you stop writing from the truth. The key Flaubert spoke of—it wasn’t to lock others out, it was to guard what couldn’t be corrupted by their opinions.”

Jack: “You think he was protecting himself?”

Jeeny: “I think he was protecting the integrity of his language, the soul of it. There are things you can’t share without breaking them.”

Host: A pause. The waves slapped gently against the wood, and the lantern’s flame flickered, casting shadows that danced across their faces like thoughts passing through the mind.

Jack: “You know, when I write, I always feel like I’m building a bridge that no one will ever cross. The words are there, the structure is there, but no one ever walks across to meet me.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the bridge isn’t meant for crossing. Maybe it’s meant for looking—to let others see that there’s something beyond their shore. Even if they never arrive.”

Jack: “That’s… poetic, but it doesn’t ease the loneliness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not meant to. Maybe loneliness is the price of vision. Every inventor, every writer, every thinker who ever changed the world—they were all misunderstood first. Van Gogh, Tesla, even Kafka. Their languages were private, but the world learned to listen, eventually.”

Host: The sea roared, as if to punctuate her words, a sudden gust of wind lifting Jack’s collar, ruffling his hair. He laughed softly—an exhale of surrender, not mockery.

Jack: “So you’re saying the loneliness is the seed, not the scar.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t have to be understood to matter. You just have to speak your truth, even if only the universe is listening.”

Jack: “You make it sound almost… holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe creation is our way of talking to God, even when we don’t believe He’s there.”

Host: The words hung in the air, fragile as glass, before falling into the rhythm of the sea. Jack looked at her then, really looked, as if for the first time he could see the meaning behind her silence.

Jack: “Then maybe we all have our own divine language, Jeeny. And maybe Flaubert was just one of the few who realized he’d been born speaking it.”

Jeeny: “And you, Jack—you still have the key, even if you don’t know how to turn it yet.”

Host: The lantern burned lower, its flame shrinking to a trembling ember. The waves whispered, the wind softened, and the fog began to lift, revealing the first hints of dawn.

Jeeny stood, her coat fluttering in the cold breeze, and smiled faintly.

Jack: “Where are you going?”

Jeeny: “To listen. Maybe if I listen long enough, I’ll learn a few words of your language.”

Host: She walked away slowly, her footsteps fading against the pier. Jack watched her disappear into the morning mist, then turned back to the sea, his eyes bright with something that wasn’t sorrow, but recognition.

The sunlight broke the horizon, spilling its first gold threads across the water, and for the briefest moment, it was as if the world itself had spoken in that special language—and he finally understood.