A theme of the age, at least in the developed world, is that people crave silence and can find none. The roar of traffic, the ceaseless beep of phones, digital announcements in buses and trains, TV sets blaring even in empty offices, are an endless battery and distraction. The human race is exhausting itself with noise and longs for its opposite—whether in the wilds, on the wide ocean or in some retreat dedicated to stillness and concentration. Alain Corbin, a history professor, writes from his refuge in the Sorbonne, and Erling Kagge, a Norwegian explorer, from his memories of the wastes of Antarctica, where both have tried to escape.
And yet, as Mr Corbin points out in "A History of Silence", there is probably no more noise than there used to be. Before pneumatic tyres, city streets were full of the deafening clang of metal-rimmed wheels and horseshoes on stone. Before voluntary isolation on mobile phones, buses and trains rang with conversation. Newspaper-sellers did not leave their wares in a mute pile, but advertised them at top volume, as did vendors of cherries, violets and fresh mackerel. The theatre and the opera were a chaos of huzzahs and barracking. Even in the countryside, peasants sang as they drudged. They don’t sing now.
What has changed is not so much the level of noise, which previous centuries also complained about, but the level of distraction, which occupies the space that silence might invade. There looms another paradox, because when it does invade—in the depths of a pine forest, in the naked desert, in a suddenly vacated room—it often proves unnerving rather than welcome. Dread creeps in; the ear instinctively fastens on anything, whether fire-hiss or bird call or susurrus of leaves, that will save it from this unknown emptiness. People want silence, but not that much. | 'n Tema van ons tyd, ten minste in die ontwikkelde wêreld, is dat mense smag na stilte en dit nêrens kan vind nie. Die geraas van verkeer, die onophoudelike ge-biep van fone, digitale aankondigings in busse en treine, TV-stelle wat blêr selfs in leë kantore, is 'n nimmereindigende aanslag, asook 'n aandagafleier. Die mensdom is besig om homself uit te put met geraas en verlang na die teenoorgestelde daarvan -of dit nou in die wildernis, op die wye oseaan of in 'n retréte toegewy aan stilte en konsentrasie is. Alain Corbin, professor in geskiedenis, skryf vanuit sy skuilplek in die Sorbonne, en Erling Kagge, 'n Noorweegse verkenner, vanuit sy herinneringe van die verlatenheid van Antarktika, die plekke waarheen beide van hulle probeer het om te ontvlug. En tog, soos Mnr Corbin aantoon in "A History of Silence", is daar waarskynlik nie meer geraas as voorheen nie. Voor pneumatiese bande, was strate in die stede vol van die oordowende gekletter van metaalwiele en hoefysters op klip. Voor die eie-keusige afsondering op selfone, het busse en treine gedruis met gesprek. Koertantverkopers het nie hulle ware in 'n stille hopie laat lê nie, maar het hulle teen top-volume adverteer, net soos die handelaars van kersies, viooltjies en vars makriel. Die teater en opera was chaoties met hoera's en uitjouery. Selfs in die platteland het die werkers gesing terwyl hulle vervelige werk moes doen. Nou sing hulle nie meer nie. Wat verander het, is nie soseer die vlak van die geraas, waaroor daar in vorige eeue ook oor gekla is, nie, maar eerder die vlak van afleiding wat die plek opneem waar stilte sou kon indring. Daardeur dreig nog 'n paradoks, want wanneer dit wel indring - in die diepte van die dennebos, in die naakte woestyn, in 'n skielike leë vertrek - is dit eerder senutergend as welkom. Vrees sluip in; die oor gryp instinktief na enigiets, of dit die gesis van die vuur of die geroep van 'n voël, of die geruis van blare is, na wat ookal dit van hierdie ongekende leegheid sal red. Mense wil stilte hê, maar nie sóveel nie. |