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 ohun tó gbòde kan, ó kéré tán ni abala ayé tó ti dàgbà, ni wipé àwọn èèyàn fẹ́ púpọ̀ ni ìdákẹ́rọ́rọ́ ti wọn kò si rí nkankan. Ariwo súnkẹrẹ-gbà-kẹ̀rẹ, ẹ̀rọ ìbánisọ̀rọ̀ tí kò yé é dún, ìfilọ̀ ori ẹ̀rọ ninú bọ́sì àti ọkọ̀ ojú-irin, ẹ̀rọ móhùn-máwòrán tó nké tantan ninu ọfísì tó sófo, jẹ àkolùkọgbà àti ìwírèégbè tí kò lópin. Ìran èèyàn npirarẹ̀ lẹ́mi pẹ̀lú ariwo ti ó sì npòùngbẹ fun idàkejì rẹ̀ — yálà ninú igbó, lóri agbami òkun, tàbi ninú irú ipàdé ìjíròrò kan ti a yà sọ́tọ̀ fun ìdákẹ́rọ́rọ́ àti àròjinlẹ̀. Alain Corbin, ọ̀jọ̀gbọ́n ìtàn kan, kọ̀wé látibi tó sàtìpó sí ni Sorbonne, àti Erling Kagge, olùwákiri kan ni Norway látinú àwọn ìránti rẹ̀ niti àwọn ohun ìsòfò ti Antarctica, nibiti àwọn méjèjì ti gbìyànjú láti sá àsálà. Síbẹ̀síbẹ̀, gẹ́gẹ́bí Ọ̀gbẹ́ni Corbin ti tọ́kasí ninu "Ìtàn Ìdákẹ́rọ́rọ́ Kan", ó dàbí pé kò sí ariwo mọ́ ju bó ti má a nwà tẹ́lẹ̀. Ki táyà aláfẹ́fẹ́ tó dé, gbogbo ìgboro ló kún fún àwọn àgbá onírin àti àwọn pátákò ẹsin lóri òkúta ti ariwo ìrìn tó nlu ara wọn ndini léti. Sáájú ìyọ̀ọ̀da didágbé lóri ẹ̀rọ alágbèéká, bọ́sì, àti ọkọ̀ ojú-irin kún fún ọ̀rọ̀ sisọ. Àwọn atàwé-iròhin kò fi ọjà wọn silẹ̀ lójúkan, sùgbọ́n wọ́n polówó wọn lóhùn gooro, gẹ́gẹ́bi àwọn tó nta shẹ́rì, fáólẹ́tì, àti màkẹ̀rẹ́li tuntun. Gbọ̀ngàn ìseré àti òsèré jẹ́ ibi àkọlùkọgbà. Kódà ni ìgbèríko, àwọn àgbẹ̀ nkọrin bi wọn ti nrín lọ. Wọn kò kọrin mọ́ báyìí. Kiló ti yàtọ kìí se pipọ̀ ipele ariwo tó bẹ̀, èyí ti àwọn ará àtijọ́ náà ráhùn nipa rẹ̀, sùgbọ́n ipele ìrégbè, ti ó di àlàfo ti idákẹ́rọ́rọ́ kì bá gbà. Àràmàndà miràn tún fẹ ẹ̀ sún mọ́lé, nitori tó bá dé – ni ìsàlẹ igbó onígi, ninú asálẹ̀ pọ́nbélé, ninu yàrá tó sófo lójijì -— ó sábà má a njási ìfọkànbalẹ̀ dipò káábọ̀. Ẹ̀rù wọlé dé; eti nreti láti gbọ ohunkohun, bóyá dídún-iná tàbi ìpè ẹyẹ tàbi dídún ewé, ti yóò gbàá lọ́wọ́ sísófo àìmọ̀ yìí. Èèyàn nfẹ́ ìdákẹ́rọ́rọ́, sùgbọ́n kìí se pupọ̀ báyẹn. |