The Meaning of Quiet, and the Value of Limits

I thought about responding to Ian's post in the comment field, but, let's be frank, those comments always get short shrift, and I want my thoughts to be front and center. That being said, let me step aside for a moment and laud Ian's post: what a great, thougthful, and nuanced discussion. I could see Ian's anxiety about seeming convoluted, and I think that's the danger of any true thought about today's socio-technical predicament (or opportunity). One can't talk about quiet in today's world without also talking about noise. One can't talk about noise, without talking about who is intruding upon our contemplation, and that means taking on capitalism. It may not seem like a clear, logical argument, but it is.

My work at Seattle Central Community College has really impressed upon me why quiet--and noise--matter in a library environment. Having come from a household where it was never difficult to find a totally silent room to read, write, or think, I always thought that the librarian's insistence on hushed voices was either a character flaw or a mad grasp at power. One can be quiet anywhere, I thought, but it's not everywhere that you can find like-minded thinkers in the same place, so why not let the people chat?

The first time a student came to the desk to beg me to supervise the silent zone, my thinking began to change. The library, for many of the students at SCCC is the only place where there's not a TV on, or a baby crying, or a hundred obligations jockeying for attention.

To be in a place where no one is intruding on your thoughts, what a relief in a world of talking billboards, pop-up advertisements, and ubiquitous product placements. How is a book like a library? We can choose (more easily) to give it limits that are difficult to maintain in many other areas of our lives. While a physical book may have references, allusions, and all sort of connections to other texts, peoples and histories, it is not hyperlinked. I cannot check my email on my paper copy of Jane Eyre (which of course I could if I were reading it on a Kindle). Likewise, a physical library has physical walls, within which certain standards are upheld: resepect for thought, freedom from coercion, help that is offered free of charge. We all need help setting limits for ourselves in a time when most of us complain of information overload and a lack of concentration.

Of course, I am already thinking of a number of counter arguments to my own points: hyperlinking is amazing, and has its roots in the paper book; communications is just as important as quiet contemplation, etc., etc. I still think it's important, though, to respect the impulse to set limits, to sometimes sequester ourselves from a world that constantly drives a hard bargain right in our faces, and, as Ian beautifully put it, to sometimes idle with our thoughts.