The Quiet

John Garner reflects on the loss of silence.

Whatever happened to the quiet?

It’s summer, 26º outside. Although the lengthy dry stretches and consistently high temperatures are somewhat concerning, there’s still a wonderful ease in the air, one that we Brits are not particularly used to.

I struggle with these moments. Not because of the heat, not because I’m acutely aware of the existential threat of the changing climate, not because I prefer the cooler seasons (which I do). I struggle because of the noise.

In theory, in the warmer periods of the year, our worlds grow. We are no longer confined to indoor spaces, no longer eager to rush from door to door, hurriedly barricading ourselves against the cold. The universe seems suddenly open and welcoming to us. Nature calls. Everything glows with a divine beauty many people experience viscerally. We are drawn to forests, rivers, lakes, beaches, mountains. People take to their tents and campers and descend on national parks and beauty spots.

But the summer brings with it a plague of phones and bluetooth speakers, a plague that has insidiously crept over us and normalised an arguably pathological relationship with noise in public spaces, filling every peaceful corner, every tranquil meadow, every oasis, with digital sound. Faced with this onslaught of noise, I find my world not expanding but shrinking.

I open my bedroom window—trying not to suffocate in the heavy heat of this loft room—to be greeted not just by birdsong and the wind in the trees, but a stream of endless hard house blaring from a neighbour’s garden. A friend tells me that, as they lay down to sleep in their tent, they are kept awake by a tiny Bryan Adams squeezing himself through another camper’s phone. Beer garden beats waft across nearby residential areas.

Why are we so averse to quiet? Why do we feel the need to flood every space, every moment, with inorganic sound? Why are we so willing to disregard others? Is it a legacy of colonialism, an epigenetically-inherited need to dominate? Are we afraid of hearing our inner monologue? Or have we simply learnt that socialising means Spotify, socialising is loud, socialising is a justification for (or even requires) various forms of bad behaviour? Have we forgotten the value of quiet and vulnerable reflection?

In an age before portable speakers and digital devices, if you wanted music at a gathering, you created it yourself, in the moment. Someone with a guitar sharing a song they’ve just learnt or perhaps a favourite hit that all could join in with. In other times and places, a tin whistle (admittedly one of the loudest instruments in the world, but there is a qualitative difference between acoustically- and electronically-created music) and a fiddle, an acapella vocalist, a natural musical leader within the group to lead the fray. Part and parcel of the social fabric, and acoustic to boot.

This might all just be me shouting at the clouds. I’ve no doubt that there are plenty of people who revel in the unapologetic cacophony of the summer. John Cage would probably have scoffed at my intolerance, but he lived in a very different time (and certain of his ideas warrant more serious scrutiny than they often receive). I recognise that some of my frustration is rooted more in a privileged preciousness and personal preference for quiet than any legitimate social or cultural criticism. On the other hand, I can’t help but feel that something has been lost, that our chaotic aural tapestries reflect an ongoing disintegration at the heart of our society, that our ability to actively listen has been almost entirely eroded by capitalism’s fetishisation of the visual spectacle, and that this is commonly exploited to serve less than altruistic ends.

Quietude isn’t a negation*, but rather an assertion of our commitment to each other and to our shared world, our willingness to listen, and an intention to develop our awareness of ourself and others. It is a state rich with possibility, nurturing, patient, womb-like. If we work towards reclaiming the quiet, we may encounter all sorts of surprises along the way.

‘Life floats like a raft on this great volume of silence…’ (Jankélévitch, p. 132)

*At multiple points in his seminal work ‘Essays in Zen Buddhism’, D.T. Suzuki makes a similar argument about enlightenment.

John Garner

References

Jankélévitch, V. (2003). music and the ineffable (C, Abbate, trans). Woodstock, Oxfordshire: Princeton University Press