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 die tyd, ten minste in the ontwilkelde wêreld, is dat mense smag na stilte, maar kan niks vind nie. Die geraas van die verkeer, die onophoudelike pieptoon van telefone, digitale aankondiginge op busse en treine, TV stelle wat selfs in verlate kantore blêr, dit alles vorm ´n ewigdurende stroom en bron van verwarring. Die menslike geslag put homself uit met geraas en smag na presies die teenoorgestelde daarvan—hetsy in die wildernis, op die wye oseaan of in een of ander verafgeleë oord waar toewyding aan stilte en konsentrasie moontlik is. Alain Corbin, ´n Geskiedenis Professor, skryf vanuit sy toevlug in die Sorbonne, en Erling Kagge, ´n Norweegse ontdekker, oor sy herinneringe van die verlatenheid van die Suidpoolgebiede, waarheen beide probeer ontsnap het. En tog, soos Mnr Corbin dit uitdruk in "A History of Silence", tans heers waarskynlik nie meer geraas as wat die geval voorheen was nie. Voor lugdrukwiele, was die strate van die stede vol van die oorverdowende geklink op klip van perde en hul waens se hoewe en wiele wat met yster beslaan was. Voor die vrywillige isolasie op mobiele fone, het dit meedoënloos gedruis van gesprekke op busse en treine. Koerantverkopers het nie hulle ware op geruislose stapels gelos nie, maar het dit luidkeels adverteer, net soos die verkopers van kersies, viooltjies en vars makriel. Teaters en die opera was ´n luide konkoksie van geboe en gejou. Selfs op land het fisante gesing in hul oorlewingsstryd. Nou swyg hulle gesang. Wat eintlik verander het, is nie die intensiteit van lawaai waaroor vorige geslagte ook gekla het nie, maar eerder die konsentrasie van aandag-afleiding wat die plek ingeneem het - hierdie plek sou stilte kon beset het. Bowendien dreig daar nog ´n paradoks, want indien die stilte-besetting sou slaag — hetsy in die diepte van ´n dennewoud, in die barre woestyn of in ´n plotseling ontruimde kamer — dit is eerder steurend as ´n welkome verligting. Vrees kom ingekruip; die gehoor spits die ore onwerktuiglik op enigiets, ongeag of dit die gesis van vlamme, die roep van ´n voël of die geritsel van blare sou wees wat hom kan red van hierdie onbekende steurende leegheid. Mense smag na stilte, dog slegs na maat. |