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. | Kókó kan fún àkókò yìí, pàápàá ní àwọn orílẹ̀ èdè onímọ̀ ẹ̀rọ, ni pé àwọn ènìyàn ń fẹ́ ìdákẹ́jẹ́ sùgbọ́n wọn kòlerí. Ariwo ìgbòkègbodò ọkọ̀, dídún fóònù, àwọn ìkéde dígítà nínu àwọn ọkọ̀ akérò bọ́ọ̀sì àti ti ojú irin, àpotí amóhùnmáwòrán tí o ń pariwo nínu ile-isẹ́ òfìfo, àwọn wọ̀nyìí jẹ́ ìníra àti ìfọ̀kàn-kúrò. Ọmọ ènìyàn ti fi ariwo dá ara rẹ̀ lágara, èyí tí o ń mu wá ohun míìràn—bóyá nínu afẹ́fẹ́, lóri ijì òkun tàbí ní àwọn ìdákẹ́rọ́rọ́ àti ìfọ̀kànsí. Alain Corbin, onímọ̀ ìjìnlẹ̀ nípa ìtàn, kọ̀wé láti ibi ààbò rẹ̀ ní Sorbonne, àti Erling Kagge, asàwakíri ará Norwe, ní ìrantí rẹ̀ nípa ìjàm̀bá ti Antarctica, níbi tí àwọn méjèèjì ti gbìyànjú láti sá àsálà. Síbẹ̀si, bíì Arákùnrin Corbin ti sọ nínu "Ìtàn Ìpalọ́lọ́", pé bóyá kò tìlẹ sí aríwo bi t’àtẹ̀hìnwá. Níwájú àwọn táyà alátẹ́gùn, gbogbo òpópónà ni o kún fún ariwo gèè láti ìlurapọ̀ àwọn ríìmù ẹsẹ̀ ọkọ̀ àti bátágun ẹsẹ̀ ẹsin lóri òkúta. Sáájú ìyara sọ́tọ̀ àtinúwá lóri fóònù alágbeká, àwọn bọ́ọ̀sì àti ọkọ̀ ojú irin fún ìbára-ẹni-sọrọ̀. Àwọn olùta ìwé ìròhìn kò fi ọjà wọn sílẹ̀ nínu ọ̀gbun àìsisẹ́, sùgbọ́n wọ́n polówó wọn ní ohùn gooro, bí àwọn olùta sẹ́rì, fáólẹ́tì àti ẹja mákẹ́rẹ̀ tútù tise. Ilé ìworan àti ti ijó jẹ́ ibi ìdárúdápọ̀ ìkọlálá àti àríyànjiyàn. Pàápàá ni àwọn ìgbériko, àwọn oní kátàkárà kọrin bí wọ́n ti ń jiyàn. Wọ́n kò kọrin báyìí. Kìíse ìpele ariwo ni o ti yípadà tó bẹ̀ẹ́, èyí tí àwọn ìran ìsaajú ti sàwawí nípa rẹ̀, sùgbọ́n ìpele ìmúnilọ́kàn kúrò, èyí tí o gba ààyè tí ariwo lè wọnú rẹ̀. Ìyàlẹ́nu kan tún wà, nítorí bí o bá wà—ní àarín aginjù, ní asálẹ̀, ní ìyàrá tí a kúrò lọ́gán an—o ń bani lẹ́rù dípò gbígbà mọ́ra. Ẹ̀rù a wọlé wá; etí a là sí ohunkóhun, bóyá iná là tàbí ẹyẹ́ fọhùn tàbí rírún àwọn ewé, tí yóò gba nínu òfifo àìmọ̀ yíì. Àwọn ènìyàn ń fẹ́ ìdakẹ́, sùgbọ́n kò wọ́ pọ̀. |