In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite.

Clarity isn't always the point

There's something freeing in recognizing that not everything worth saying needs to be crystal clear to everyone right away. Dirac's observation flips our usual hierarchy—we often treat clarity as the ultimate virtue, the thing that separates serious thinking from pretentious mumbling. But poetry operates on a different contract with its reader. It banks on ambiguity, on private meanings that shift depending on who you are and what you've lived through. A line that lands differently in you than it does in someone sitting next to you isn't a failure; it's almost the point.

What makes this distinction stick is that we live in a world increasingly impatient with anything that doesn't immediately translate. We want explainers, summaries, the elevator pitch. Yet the moments that change us often arrive sideways, through a song lyric or a stray observation that means something slightly different to each person who hears it. That's not less valuable than scientific clarity—it's a different kind of usefulness. Poetry doesn't need to be understood the same way by everyone. It needs to be felt, questioned, lived with. Sometimes the most important truths resist being said plainly, and that's not a flaw in language. It's how we actually grow.