Semiotics is a general theory of all existing languages... all

Host: The night settled over the city like a silk curtain, heavy and glimmering with the neon hum of distant signs. A café at the corner of a narrow street flickered with warm light, its windows fogged by the cold drizzle outside. Inside, Jack sat by the window, his fingers tapping against a coffee cup, eyes fixed on the reflections of people passing. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her hair falling like ink over porcelain, her gaze alive with quiet wonder. The air between them carried the weight of thought — as if words, not rain, were about to fall.

Jeeny: “Umberto Eco once said, ‘Semiotics is a general theory of all existing languages… all forms of communication — visual, tactile, and so on.’ It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The idea that everything we do — a gesture, a color, a silence — is a kind of language.”

Jack: “Beautiful, maybe. But also delusional. If everything’s a language, then nothing really means anything. You can’t have infinite signs and still expect clarity.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t life itself made of signs, Jack? The way you hold your cup, the tone of your voice — they all speak something beyond words. Semiotics isn’t about confusing meaning; it’s about revealing the hidden threads that tie our world together.”

Jack: “Or it’s a way to make the simple unnecessarily complicated. A shrug means you don’t know — why twist it into philosophy? We risk over-reading everything until nothing’s left but our own projections.”

Host: A bus passed, its lights washing across their faces, dividing them into shadows and gold. The café’s jazz music drifted like smoke, slow and wistful. Outside, the rain thickened, tapping an uneven rhythm on the glass — as if echoing their unspoken tension.

Jeeny: “You’re afraid of the mess, aren’t you? Of ambiguity. But that’s what makes communication human. Think of art, for instance. A painting doesn’t need to say a single word, yet it moves us. Isn’t that semiotics too — the visual language of the soul?”

Jack: “Art is interpretation, not language. The artist paints, the viewer reacts. The meaning isn’t shared — it’s invented. You call it a language, I call it a mirror that shows whatever you already believe.”

Jeeny: “But even a mirror distorts depending on where you stand. Isn’t that the point? Semiotics isn’t just about meaning; it’s about how we construct meaning, how we read the world through the filters of our own history.”

Jack: “And what happens when those filters blind us? When symbols replace truth? History’s full of that — flags, emblems, religious icons — all used to manipulate people. Semiotics may start as philosophy, but it ends as propaganda.”

Host: Jack’s voice grew rough, and his hand tightened on the cup. A drop of coffee trembled, then fell, dark against the table’s pale surface. Jeeny’s eyes glistened, not with tears, but with the fire of someone who refused to yield. The rain outside intensified, drumming like a heartbeat on the roof.

Jeeny: “You talk about symbols as if they’re weapons. But they’re also bridges, Jack. The cross doesn’t just control — it connects. It comforts. When people in Warsaw painted the anchor symbol on walls during the occupation, it wasn’t propaganda — it was hope. A language of defiance when speech was forbidden.”

Jack: “Hope’s a dangerous drug, Jeeny. That same symbolism was used by others to justify killing. The swastika, for example — once a sign of spiritual harmony, turned into the mark of terror. The problem with signs is that they don’t belong to anyone. They get hijacked.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what Eco meant by ‘many specific semiotics’? There’s no universal code, only contexts. Meanings shift, like tides. What matters isn’t to own the sign, but to understand its movement — to see what it reveals about us.”

Jack: “Or to realize that meaning’s just a construct — fragile, mutable, and often false. Semiotics might explain how we communicate, but not why we believe the illusion in the first place.”

Host: A waiter placed a fresh candle on their table, its flame flickering in the draft. The smell of wax mingled with the scent of coffee and wet pavement. Jeeny watched the light dance in the air, her voice softening like the end of a storm.

Jeeny: “Maybe the illusion is the only way we can survive. We live through signs — through the stories, the touches, the looks that translate our loneliness. When a mother hums to her child, she’s not speaking a language, yet the child understands. Isn’t that semiotics — the communication of the heart, beyond words?”

Jack: “You’re turning it into poetry, not theory.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the difference isn’t that clear. Eco himself was both a philosopher and a storyteller. He knew that meaning is born not in definitions, but in the space between — between the word and the listener, the gesture and the response.”

Jack: “So you’re saying we’re all trapped in this network of signs, forever decoding each other?”

Jeeny: “Not trapped — connected. Like neurons firing across the cosmos. Every symbol, every look, every silence is a kind of conversation — even with those who are gone.”

Host: The rain eased, and the city lights softened into halos on the wet asphalt. Jack’s expression changed — the hardness fading, replaced by a thoughtful calm. He leaned back, exhaling, his eyes drifting toward the window, where reflections merged with streetlight shadows.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, my father used to fix radios. He said every crackle, every static noise was a kind of message, waiting for the right frequency. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’re all just trying to tune in.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s all semiotics really is — finding the frequency of understanding.”

Jack: “But then, how do you know when you’ve found the right one?”

Jeeny: “You don’t. You just listen. Again and again. Until something resonates.”

Host: A silence bloomed, rich and golden, like the moment before dawn. The rain stopped. From the corner, a street musician began to play — a soft guitar, each note trembling with fragile warmth. Jeeny smiled, her eyes reflecting the flame’s small light. Jack nodded, a rare softness in his voice.

Jack: “Maybe meaning isn’t something we create or discover. Maybe it’s something we recognize, like a face in a crowd.”

Jeeny: “Or like a sign that was always there — we just needed to learn how to see it.”

Host: The café door opened, letting in a rush of cold air and the smell of rain. Beyond the window, the city glowed, its lights flickering like a thousand signals, each one whispering, in its own language, the same eternal message — that we are all trying to be understood.