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. | Tema našeg doba, barem u razvijenom svetu, jeste to da ljudi čeznu za tišinom, a ne mogu da dođu do nje. Buka saobraćaja, neprestano oglašavanje telefona, digitalno objavljivanje u autobusima i vozovima, televizori koji dreče čak i u praznim kancelarijama, predstavljaju beskonačnu agresiju i smetnju. Čovečanstvo se iznuruje larmom i žudi za njenom suprotnošću—bilo u divljini, na širini okeana ili u nekom utočištu posvećenom mirovanju i koncentraciji. Alen Korbin, profesor istorije, iz svog pribežišta u Sorboni i Erling Kage, norveški istraživač, pišu o svojim uspomenama na divljinu Antarktika, gde su obojica pokušala da pobegnu. Pa ipak, kao što g. Korbin ističe u "Istoriji tišine", buke verovatno nema više sada nego ranije. Pre gumenih točkova, gradske ulice su bile pune zaglušujućeg zveketa okovanih točkova i konjskih potkovica po kamenu. Pre namernog izolovanja na mobilnim telefonima, autobusi i vozovi su odzvanjali od razgovora. Prodavci novina nisu ostavljali svoju robu kao nemu gomilu, već su je nudili iz sveg glasa, takođe i prodavci trešanja, ljubičica i sveže ribe. Pozorište i opera bili su haos od uzvika hvale i podrugljivog dobacivanja. Čak i na selu, seljaci su pevali dok su radili. Sada više ne pevaju. To što je sada drugačije nije toliko jačina zvuka, na koju su se u ranijim vekovima takođe žalili, već nivo ometanja, koje zauzima prostor u koji bi mogla da prodre tišina. Tu se pomalja još jedan paradoks, zato što kada prodre—u dubini borove šume, u goloj pustinji, u iznenada napuštenoj sobi—često se pokaže da tišina uznemiruje, da nije dobrodošla. Prikrade se strah; uho se instinktivno usmeri na bilo šta, pucketanje požara, zov ptice ili šuštanje lišća, što bi ga spasilo od te nepoznate praznine. Ljudima treba tišina, ali ne baš toliko. |