Truthful words are not beautiful; beautiful words are not

Host: The tea house sat at the edge of the old quarter — timeless wood and quiet lanterns, walls breathing the scent of jasmine, rain, and old wisdom. Outside, the world hurried through neon and noise, but inside, the air was still. Cups steamed, shadows rippled, and time seemed to lean against the paper walls to listen.

A single candle flickered on the low table where Jack and Jeeny sat opposite one another, the flame trembling between them like an old truth rediscovered.

Jack poured the tea slowly, the liquid gold streaming from the spout with careful precision. His grey eyes were calm but heavy, like someone who’d carried too many arguments and lost count of which mattered.

Jeeny sat quietly, her hands wrapped around her cup, her dark eyes reflecting the candlelight. The silence between them was not discomfort — it was discipline.

On the wall behind them, a line of calligraphy framed in bamboo read:
"Truthful words are not beautiful; beautiful words are not truthful. Good words are not persuasive; persuasive words are not good." — Lao Tzu

Jeeny: (softly) “Every time I read that, I feel both comforted and accused.”

Jack: “Accused?”

Jeeny: “Because I love beautiful words. And beauty often lies.”

Jack: “So does truth, sometimes.”

Jeeny: “No. Truth hides. It doesn’t lie. Beauty performs.”

Host: The candle flickered, briefly catching Jack’s face — its angles sharp but thoughtful. He raised his cup, inhaled the steam as if seeking wisdom in scent alone.

Jack: “I’ve spent my life arguing. Convincing, persuading, defending. And lately, I wonder if any of it mattered — if anything true ever needed to be said so forcefully.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Lao Tzu meant, I think. Truth doesn’t shout. It just stands there, quiet, unmoved.”

Jack: “And gets ignored.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it doesn’t stop being true.”

Host: The rain began, soft against the paper windows, the sound like a thousand tiny hands applauding softly in another room.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s funny — in our world, words win wars, elections, lovers. The most persuasive voice becomes the loudest truth.”

Jack: “And the most beautiful words get mistaken for wisdom.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’ve confused eloquence with honesty.”

Jack: “Because honesty doesn’t sell.”

Jeeny: “Because it hurts.”

Host: She smiled faintly, lifting her cup, watching the ripples inside.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when we first met? You told me that truth was a weapon.”

Jack: “It is.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a mirror. Weapons destroy. Mirrors reveal.”

Jack: “Sometimes revealing destroys.”

Jeeny: “Only if we’ve been living a lie.”

Host: The steam rose between them like a small ghost, swirling in the candlelight. For a moment, neither spoke. The quiet was dense, sacred.

Jack: “So what do you think Lao Tzu was warning us about — the words, or the people who use them?”

Jeeny: “Both. He was saying: beware of those who make truth sound too easy. Truth is simple, not easy. Beauty softens it until it’s safe.”

Jack: “And persuasion dresses it up until it’s profitable.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming on the roof with rhythmic insistence. The sound filled the space, mingling with the deep stillness of the two souls inside.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how the truest sentences sound incomplete?”

Jack: “Because truth doesn’t need decoration.”

Jeeny: “No. Because truth leaves space for silence. Beauty fills it. That’s the difference.”

Jack: “And we prefer beauty.”

Jeeny: “Because silence frightens us.”

Host: Jack set his cup down. The porcelain clicked softly against the table, a small punctuation to the thought.

Jack: “You know, I once gave a speech that everyone said changed their minds. Polished, poetic, persuasive — I was proud of it. Years later, I realized it wasn’t true. It was clever. And cleverness is the most seductive lie of all.”

Jeeny: “And did it hurt to see that?”

Jack: “More than losing the argument would’ve.”

Host: Her eyes softened. The candlelight reflected in them made them seem deep, endless — like they could forgive anything but deceit.

Jeeny: “The hardest thing, Jack, is learning to stop dressing truth in the clothes of beauty. Let it walk barefoot. Let it look plain. It’s stronger that way.”

Jack: “But no one listens to the barefoot.”

Jeeny: “Then the listeners aren’t ready.”

Host: The rain softened again, its tempo slowing as if even the sky had begun to listen.

Jeeny: “You know, good words — the kind Lao Tzu meant — don’t try to win. They just exist. They invite understanding but don’t demand it.”

Jack: “And persuasive words?”

Jeeny: “They seduce. They want applause, not awakening.”

Jack: “So you’re saying beauty’s the bait.”

Jeeny: “And truth is the catch. But only if you don’t let the bait hide the hook.”

Host: The wind brushed the bamboo chimes outside — a low, melancholic tone that carried through the small space.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why truth is so rare. Everyone wants to sound right instead of be right.”

Jeeny: “Because sounding right gets you followers. Being right gets you silence.”

Jack: “And silence doesn’t trend.”

Jeeny: “No. But it transforms.”

Host: Jack reached for the calligraphy on the wall, his fingers brushing the edge of the frame. The ink strokes were deliberate, almost alive — each curve whispering centuries of restraint.

Jack: “Do you think Lao Tzu was warning the poets?”

Jeeny: “No. The poets already knew. He was warning the powerful.”

Jack: “That beauty can corrupt truth.”

Jeeny: “And that persuasion can corrupt goodness.”

Host: The candle flame danced, growing taller for a moment, then smaller — the breath of an invisible truth passing through.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how much of our world is built on the opposite of what he said? Politicians praised for eloquence. Influencers rewarded for charm. Prophets turned into brands.”

Jack: “And we call it progress.”

Jeeny: “No. We call it communication. But it’s really camouflage.”

Jack: “Then what’s left for people like us — who still care about truth, even when it’s ugly?”

Jeeny: “To keep speaking it. Quietly, humbly, and without polish.”

Jack: “And to whom?”

Jeeny: “To whoever can still hear beneath the noise.”

Host: Her words landed gently, like raindrops returning to earth. The tea had gone cold now, but neither seemed to notice.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? The older I get, the more I crave plain words. Ones that don’t sparkle — they just mean.”

Jeeny: “That’s wisdom, Jack. The hunger for what doesn’t need applause.”

Jack: “So truth isn’t beautiful?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the only thing that lets beauty last.”

Host: The candle flickered low, its wax pooling, its flame bowing in grace to the night.

Jack: “You know, Lao Tzu could’ve written speeches that changed empires.”

Jeeny: “He did — by refusing to write them.”

Jack: (smiling) “So silence was his sermon.”

Jeeny: “And simplicity, his revolution.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now. The air shimmered with freshness, the way truth often does once the storm has passed.

They sat in the soft quiet, eyes meeting across the dying flame — no persuasion, no ornament, no pretense. Just presence.

Because Lao Tzu had been right all along:

Truth does not seduce; it simply stands.
Beauty does not endure unless it serves honesty.
Goodness does not argue — it acts.

And in that small tea house,
as the last candle flickered out,
Jack and Jeeny understood that wisdom —
real wisdom —
speaks softly,
walks barefoot,
and leaves no need for applause.