The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the

Host: The afternoon sun filtered through the wide windows of a small, nearly forgotten bookstore on the corner of 5th and Holloway. Dust motes drifted like tiny galaxies in the golden light, settling on rows of worn books whose spines whispered the ghosts of centuries. The air was thick with the scent of paper, ink, and the faint memory of coffee left to cool.

In the back corner, Jack leaned against a wooden shelf, a half-open book in his hands, his eyes scanning the page with quiet intensity. Jeeny sat across from him at a small table, tracing circles on a paper napkin with her finger, her hair catching the afternoon light like strands of dark silk.

Host: The silence between them wasn’t empty — it was alive, humming softly with the weight of thoughts unspoken.

Jeeny: “You know what Whitman said?” — her voice was soft, but it carried — “‘The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity.’”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Ah. The poet of the ordinary. The man who found infinity in a blade of grass.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He saw the universe in what everyone else stepped over.”

Host: A faint smile played on her lips, one that came from somewhere deeper than her words. Jack closed the book, the sound of the pages snapping shut echoing faintly like a quiet argument.

Jack: “I’ve never trusted simplicity. The world’s too complicated for that. Art, expression, even truth — they’re all layered, messy, contradictory. Nothing that matters is ever simple.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing simple with shallow. Whitman didn’t mean we should strip away depth — he meant we should strip away pretension. Simplicity isn’t the absence of meaning, Jack. It’s the presence of clarity.”

Host: The light shifted, landing squarely on Jeeny’s face, turning her eyes into pools of glowing amber. Jack watched her for a long moment, the corner of his mouth tightening into that familiar half-skeptical smile.

Jack: “Clarity, huh? You think the world would still call Picasso a genius if he painted apples instead of fractured faces?”

Jeeny: “Yes. If those apples were honest.”

Jack: (chuckling) “Honest apples. You always find a way to make the impossible sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s not impossible. It’s just rare. Think about it — when you hear a child laugh, or watch the sunrise, or read a line that cuts straight through the noise — that’s simplicity. That’s truth without decoration. That’s art.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like faint music, the kind that lingers long after it’s gone. Jack rubbed his temple, thoughtful, his voice dropping lower.

Jack: “You know what I think? Simplicity is a privilege. It’s what people talk about when they’ve already mastered the complex. Whitman could say that because he’d already conquered language. The rest of us — we’re still building scaffolding around our thoughts just to keep them from collapsing.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the whole point, Jack. The scaffolding should eventually come down. You can’t live inside construction forever. Simplicity isn’t what you start with — it’s what you reach after understanding everything else. It’s not easy. It’s the end of the road, not the beginning.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, a reminder that even time moved in simple, predictable beats. The city outside hummed faintly, its noise kept at bay by the thick, forgiving walls of the old store.

Jack: “So you’re saying simplicity is… enlightenment?”

Jeeny: “In a way, yes. It’s when you no longer need to prove anything. It’s when you can finally say it plain — and still mean everything.”

Host: Jack turned his head toward the window, where a single ray of sunlight caught the letters painted on the glass: ‘USED BOOKS — $2 EACH’. He stared for a long moment, as if reading them for the first time.

Jack: “You know, there’s something about old bookstores that feels… honest. No frills, no marketing. Just words waiting to be found.”

Jeeny: “See? You feel it too. That’s the sunshine Whitman was talking about — the light that comes from truth, not decoration.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened — a rare, unguarded moment. The sunlight hit the cover of the book he held, illuminating a title in faded gold: Leaves of Grass.

Jack: “He’d laugh at us, you know. Sitting here, dissecting his idea of simplicity.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe he’d smile. Simplicity isn’t about saying less — it’s about meaning more with what you say.”

Host: Her voice broke the quiet like a gentle wave, its rhythm calm but certain. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, his hands clasped.

Jack: “But isn’t there a danger in that? The world thrives on complexity. If you strip it all down, don’t you risk losing the texture, the mystery?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You risk finding yourself. And most people are terrified of that.”

Host: The words landed hard. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, his thoughts flickering like the light through the windowpane. The moment stretched — and in it, a quiet vulnerability surfaced, raw and human.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why we hide behind words. Behind art. Behind cleverness. Because simple is… exposing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Simplicity isn’t soft — it’s brutal. It leaves you with nothing to hide behind. When you strip everything away — the theory, the ornament, the performance — what’s left is just truth. And that’s terrifying.”

Host: A long pause. The sun moved lower, and the light turned amber, drenching the room in a warm, forgiving glow.

Jack: (quietly) “You make it sound like simplicity is an act of courage.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s standing in front of the world, saying — ‘This is what I mean. This is who I am.’ No metaphors, no masks. Just light.”

Host: Outside, a passing car splashed through a shallow puddle, the sound briefly cutting through their silence before fading again. The bookstore returned to its tranquil rhythm — the slow tick of the clock, the quiet rustle of a page turning somewhere unseen.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I’ve spent my life chasing perfection. Maybe what I should’ve been chasing was simplicity.”

Jeeny: “Perfection is a mirror. You can get lost staring at it. Simplicity is a window — it lets the light in.”

Host: The words seemed to linger in the sunlight, floating between them like the last embers of a fire that refuses to die.

Jack: “So, what’s the lesson, then? That art should be humble?”

Jeeny: “No. That art should be true. That’s what Whitman meant — the glory of expression isn’t in how loud you can shout, but in how honest you can whisper.”

Host: Jack smiled — a real one this time. He picked up Leaves of Grass, opened to a random page, and began to read softly, his voice steady, low, and reverent.

Jack: “I am large, I contain multitudes.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “See? Even in his multitudes, he found simplicity.”

Host: The light reached its last, golden stretch before evening, spilling across the floor like melted honey. Dust danced in it, small and unassuming — infinite, yet simple.

And in that moment, two souls sat in the quiet, surrounded by books, words, and the hum of fading light, finally understanding what Whitman had always known — that the purest kind of art, the most luminous form of expression, and the brightest sunshine of all — is simplicity itself.