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. | Dandanes je predmet razprav, vsaj v razvitem svetu, da ljudje hrepenijo po tišini, ki je ne morejo najti. Hrumenje prometa, nenehno piskanje telefonov, digitalna obvestila na avtobusih in vlakih, hreščanje televizorjev, pa četudi v praznih pisarnah, nam neprenehoma škodujejo in preusmerjajo našo pozornost. Ves ta hrup človeški rod izčrpava, ko le-ta hrepeni po nasprotnem - bodisi po divjini, širnem oceanu ali po duhovnih centrih, namenjenih spokojnosti in zbranosti. Tudi profesor zgodovine Alain Corbin in norveški raziskovalec Erling Kagge poskušata temu ubežati; prvi piše iz svojega zatočišča na Univerzi Sorbonne, drugi pa se vrača v svoje spomine o pustinjah Antarktike. Pa vendar, kot Corbin izpostavi v „Zgodovini Tišine“, danes verjetno ni nič bolj hrupno kot je bilo nekoč. Še pred pojavom pnevmatičnih gum, so bile ulice nekoč polne oglušojočega žvenketa okovanih koles in zvenenja podkev po kamnitih tleh. Preden smo se prostovljno osamili z mobilnimi telefoni, je po avtobusih in vlakih odmevalo govorjenje. Prodajalci časopisov niso potihoma prodajali svojega časopisa, temveč so ga oglaševali na ves glas; prav tako tudi prodajalci češenj, vijolic in svežih skuš. Gledališče in opera sta bila zmešnjava vzklikov navdušenja in izžvižgavanja. Še celo na podeželju so kmetje ob garanju prepevali. Danes ne pojejo več. Kar se je spremenilo ni toliko stopnja hrupa, zaradi katerega so se pritoževali že stoletja pred nami, temveč stopnja motenj, ki zdaj zapolnjujejo prostor, ki bi bil lahko napolnjen s tišino. Pojavi se še en paradoks, namreč ko tišina naposled le nastopi - v globini borovcev, v goloti puščave ali nenadoma izpraznjeni sobi - je pogostokrat zoprna in ni dobrodošla. V nas se prikrade strah; uho nagonsko išče zvoke, pa naj si bo to cvrčanje ognja, oglašanje ptičev ali šelestenje listov, ki bi nas rešili te nepoznane praznine. Ljudje si želijo tišine, pa vendar ne tako zelo močno. |