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. | A heendendaagse tema, ten minste in the ontwikkelde wêrled, is dat mense na stilte smag, maar dit nie kan vind nie. The druis van verkeer, die aanhoudende gebiep van telefone, digitale aankondiginge in busse en treine, of televisiestelle wat selfs in leë kamers uitblêr, veroorsaak 'n eindelose bombardering en afleiding. Mensdom put hulself uit met geraas maar hulle verlang na die teenoorstelde - hetsy in die wildernis, op die breë oseaan of in een-of-ander toevlugsoord toegewyd aan stilte and konsentrasie. Alain Corbin, 'n geskiedenisprofessor, skryf vanuit sy toevlugsoord in die Sorbonne en Erling Kagge, a Noorse ontedekkingsreisiger, van sy herinneringe van die Antarktikase woestyn, waar beide heen probeer het om te vlug. En tog, soos Mnr Corbin in "A History of Silence" (" 'n Geskiedenis van Stilte), uitwys, is daar waarskynlik nie meer lawaai as in die verlede nie. Voor daar lugdrukbande was, was die strate in die stede vol van die oorverdowende knal van wiele met metaalrande en perdeskoene op die stene. Voor ons vrywillige isolasie op ons selfone, was treine en busse vol van die geluid van gesprekke. Koerantverkopers het nie hulle ware op 'n stom hoop gelaat nie. Hulle het dit uit volle bors geadverteer. Net soos die kersie-, blomme- en vars visverkopers. Teaters en die opera was 'n roesmoes van hoeras en uitjouery. Selfs in die platteland het die kleinboere gesing terwyl hulle afsloof. Hulle sing nie meer nie. Wat verander het, is nie noodwendig die geraasvlak nie, waaroor daar in die verbygaande eeue ook gekla is, maar die vlak van afleiding wat die ruimte wat stilte dalk kan beset, in beslag neem. Hier vind mens 'n ander skynbare teenstrydigheid want wanneer stilte die ruimte wel indring - in die dieptes van 'n dennebos, in die naakte woestyn, in 'n skielike leë kamer - blyk dit dikwels onaangenaam erder as welkom. Vrees kruip in; mens se ore klou instinktief aan enige geluid vas, of dit nou die gesis van die vuur is, die sang van 'n voël of die geruis van blare, wat dit van die onbekende leegheid kan red. Mense wil stilte hê, maar nie soveel nie. |