In the country

I was listening to a great deal of music back in the city. From this I derived a great benefit: I now know a lot more: Sweelinck, for instance (both Leonhardt and Suzuki recordings). But now, in the country, I turned it all off. The silence is so precious; it is a source of an intense pleasure; it is punctuated only by birds, roosters, and cow bells which do not disturb it, but heighten it. In the city, Sweelinck and Couperin drown out the traffic; and the neighbors walking and flushing their tubs; there, they help turn our attention elsewhere, they mask the hostile environment; here, these composers seem merely a disturbance: they – irritate; here there is nothing to mask.

Recently, a book about silence has been receiving good reviews. All emphasize its new age aspect. But there is nothing new age about silence. Silence is an old age good: the new age has destroyed it.

The first several hours after arriving at the farm I feel shaky: it is the noise of the city slowly radiating out of me.

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Thus the silence of the countryside dumbs down: while here, I fall behind in my cultural pursuits. My project of hearing the entire western opus falls into abeyance; I do not follow cultural news; or book reviews; or the auctions. Yet, I am calmer and happier.

I do read more books, but is that really better? So few books are really worth reading.