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 die ontwikkelde wêreld, is dat mense na stilte smag, maar niks vind nie. Die gebrul van verkeer, die eindelose biep van fone, digitale aankondigings in busse en treine, TV-stelle wat selfs in leë kantore blêr is 'n eindelose gekletter en verwarring. Die menslike ras put homself uit met geraas en verlang na die teenoorgestelde staat – of dit nou in die wildernis, op die wye oseaan of in een of ander toevlugsoord is wat aan stilte en konsentrasie toegewy is. Alain Corbin, 'n Professor in Geskiedenis, skryf vanuit sy toevlug in die Sorbonne asook Erling Kagge, 'n Noorweegse uitvinder van die braaklande in Antartika, waar albei heen probeer ontvlug het. Nogtans, soos mnr. Corbin tereg op wys in "A History of Silence", daar is waarskynlik nie méér geraas as wat daar voorheen was nie. Voor die koms van luggevulde bande was stadstrate vol van die oorverdowende geklingel van metaalvellingwiele en perdehoewe op klip. Voor vrywillige afsondering met selfone, het busse en treine gegons van gesprekke. Koerantverkopers het nie hulle ware stom in hopies gelaat nie, maar dit met groot fanfare adverteer, so ook die kersie-, viooltjie-, en varsmakrielverkopers. Die teater en opera was 'n chaos van hoera's en uitjouery. Selfs in die platteland het kleinboere gesing terwyl hulle swoeg. Hulle sing nie nou meer nie. Wat verander het, is nie eintlik die geraasvlak nie, waaroor daar ook in vorige eeue gekla is, maar die vlak van verwarring wat die spasie betrek wat stilte kon binnedring. Daarin lê nog 'n paradoks, want as dit wél binnedring–in die diepte van 'n dennewoud, in die naaktheid van die woestyn, in 'n skielike leë kamer–is dit dikwels senutergend in plaas van verwelkomend. Angs kruip in; die oor klem instinktief aan iets vas, of dit die gekletter van vuur, of voëlgeroep of geritsel van blare is, enigiets wat dit van hierdie onbekende leegheid sal red. Mense wil graag stilte hê, maar darem nie soveel daarvan nie. |