Most executives, many scientists, and almost all business school

Host: The night had the kind of silence that made even the air feel contemplative — the sort of silence that gathers in old libraries, between pages that have absorbed centuries of thought. The lamplight was soft, golden, and unwavering, falling across a long oak table scattered with papers, notebooks, and the faint ghosts of half-finished ideas.

A storm was rolling in — distant thunder like the slow heartbeat of a restless sky. Jack sat at the table, sleeves rolled up, his eyes fixed on a spreadsheet glowing on his laptop. The bluish light carved his face into sharp lines, equal parts exhaustion and precision.

Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, a cup of tea in hand, surrounded by stacks of books — philosophy, psychology, art. Her expression was one of quiet curiosity, the way someone looks at a map they know leads somewhere unexpected.

Jeeny: “Edward de Bono once said, ‘Most executives, many scientists, and almost all business school graduates believe that if you analyze data, this will give you new ideas. Unfortunately, this belief is totally wrong. The mind can only see what it is prepared to see.’”

Jack: (Without looking up) “Sounds like a nice way to excuse bad analytics.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a warning — that logic without imagination is blindness with confidence.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the room for a heartbeat, reflecting off the window like an impatient idea trying to get in.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. Data doesn’t lie.”

Jeeny: “Data doesn’t speak either. It’s the interpreter who makes the truth — or breaks it.”

Jack: “Numbers are neutral. It’s not their fault people read them wrong.”

Jeeny: “Numbers may be neutral, Jack, but the human mind isn’t. We only see what fits our story. De Bono’s right — data doesn’t create ideas. It only confirms the ones we already believe.”

Host: Jack closed the laptop, his hands running through his hair as if to shake off her words. He looked up finally, his gray eyes steady, sharp — the look of a man who measures conviction by evidence, not faith.

Jack: “So you’re saying logic’s the enemy now?”

Jeeny: “No. Logic is the skeleton. But creativity — that’s the flesh. Without it, the body of thought doesn’t move. It just stands there, technically correct and completely lifeless.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those artists who think spreadsheets are the death of the soul.”

Jeeny: “Not death. Just limitation. Analysis gives you what is. Imagination shows you what could be.”

Host: The thunder rumbled again, closer now, as though the storm had grown intrigued by the debate. The lamp on the table flickered, casting their shadows long and animated across the shelves of books.

Jack: “You make it sound like numbers are villains in some existential drama.”

Jeeny: “No — they’re mirrors. But mirrors can’t show you what you haven’t become.”

Jack: “That’s philosophy, not process. In the real world, people make decisions based on facts.”

Jeeny: “And facts are born of interpretation. Even science begins with a question — and the question is always human.”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, smirking, though there was a flicker of discomfort in his eyes — the kind that appears when a wall of certainty starts to tremble.

Jack: “Let me guess. You’re going to tell me that Einstein wasn’t logical either?”

Jeeny: “Einstein said imagination was more important than knowledge. He saw beyond the equation before he ever wrote it down. His mind was prepared to see differently.”

Jack: “And you think most people aren’t?”

Jeeny: “I think most people confuse being informed with being awake.”

Host: The words hung between them like incense, filling the small room with the scent of truth and provocation. Outside, the rain began to fall, gentle at first — then heavier, rhythmic, like fingers on glass.

Jack: “So what do you propose? Stop analyzing? Just dream our way into innovation?”

Jeeny: “No. Analyze, yes — but not as a substitute for vision. Data tells you where you’ve been. Creativity tells you where to go next. The mistake is believing the first can replace the second.”

Jack: “But without data, creativity is just noise.”

Jeeny: “And without creativity, data is just silence.”

Host: The lamp light wavered, the rain drumming louder now. The whole room seemed caught between precision and chaos — exactly like the minds that filled it.

Jack: “You ever notice how people love hindsight? They call someone a genius after they succeed. But before that, the same ideas look reckless, untested, stupid.”

Jeeny: “That’s because people only see through the lens of what they already know. They’re trapped by familiarity — blind to everything that doesn’t fit.”

Jack: “So you’re saying progress requires delusion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or faith. Faith that the unseen is still real.”

Host: The storm flashed again — a burst of light that illuminated Jeeny’s face, her eyes bright, defiant, alive.

Jeeny: “The mind is like a lantern, Jack. It can only show what it’s lit to see. De Bono understood that. Innovation isn’t about collecting more light — it’s about changing where you point it.”

Jack: “And what if you point it at the wrong thing?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you’ve seen something new.”

Host: Jack laughed, low and reluctant — not out of mockery, but out of recognition. He poured more wine into their glasses, the liquid catching the lamplight like molten rubies.

Jack: “You know, you talk like a poet but argue like a scientist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why we’re both still here — because the world needs both.”

Jack: “Logic and wonder?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The twin engines of any mind worth calling alive.”

Host: Outside, the rain had softened to a whisper, the thunder retreating into distance. The air in the room felt clearer now — washed, like a thought that had found its conclusion.

Jack: “You know, I ran an experiment once. Same dataset, given to two groups. The first had analysts. The second had artists. The analysts found patterns. The artists found questions. Guess which ones changed the company.”

Jeeny: “The artists.”

Jack: (smiling) “The artists.”

Host: They both laughed then — softly, not because anything was funny, but because something inside had finally clicked.

Jeeny: “So maybe De Bono wasn’t condemning data after all. Maybe he was just reminding us that the mind’s lens needs cleaning now and then.”

Jack: “Or breaking.”

Jeeny: “Yes — sometimes the only way to see differently is to shatter the glass.”

Host: The lamp finally flickered out, the last bit of its light melting into the storm’s silence. But the room still glowed faintly — from the window, from the rain, from something intangible and alive between them.

And as the world outside whispered with renewal, the two sat in that quiet — one analytical, one intuitive — each finally understanding what De Bono had meant:

That data feeds the mind, but only imagination awakens it.