Herald Of Joy

September 16, 1998

“Silence is the perfectest
herald of joy; I were but little happy,
if I could say how much.”
- Claudio, Much Ado About Nothing, Act II, Sc. 1

There are times when the noises of our living fray the edges of my patience. At the movies, the “coming attractions” have the sound so turned up that the shouts, shots and explosions hurt the ears, as well as solidifying my determination that that movie I will never see. On the TV, the ever-present commercials frequently have the sound so revved up that I immediately push the “mute” button. This year, the news and talk shows have been incessant in speculations and smarmy gossip, dissecting every word and emotion uttered and expressed by President Clinton.

Just now, I started the cassette of the Simon and Garfunkel classic, “The Sound of Silence,” but frustratingly discovered the tape had broken. However, I found a relevant paragraph in a review of MONK, by De Wilde: (The Economist, April 11th):

“According to a jazz joke of the late 50s, two hipsters were at a nightclub absorbed in a quartet session led by the pianist-composer, Thelonious Monk. When When Monk’s turn came for a solo, he sat motionless at the keyboard, staring into space as the rhythm section thundered away. One hipster protested, ‘Hey man, he didn’t play anything,’ to which the other replied in awed tones, ‘Yeah, but just imagine what he was thinking.’”

The review goes on to comment, “Monk was indeed given to prolonged silences on any occasion, social or musical, interspersed with utterances brilliant, gnomic, idiosyncratic.”

By the way, I have found a way to watch baseball on TV. I turn off the TV sound, put a disc on the CD player, and combine the game with Bach or Grieg or whatever music I fancy. After all, when one attends a baseball game, the experience is visual; and the sounds are not the constant chatter of play-by-play and “color,” but rather the sharp crack when ball meets bat, the clump of cleats as the base runner dashes from second to third, the thud of the baseball hitting the left-field wall at Fenway.

Back in the days when there was a jukebox in every saloon, diner and ice cream parlor, it was said that some of these music boxes had a slot, where, for the coin, one could purchase three minutes of silence. I can not recall any personal experience of such a juke-box, but what a wonder-full idea! Have you ever been to a cocktail party and devoutly wished you could purchase three minutes of silence?

Ralph Waldo Emerson, on a tour of the United Kingdom and Europe, met Thomas Carlyle, as well as Wordsworth and Coleridge. According to the story, he made an evening call on Carlyle:

“He called on Carlyle one evening and was given a pipe, while his host took one for himself. They sat together smoking in perfect silence until bedtime, and on parting shook hands most cordially, congratulating each other on the fruitful time they had enjoyed together.”

If you are fortunate, as I am, there is a person, or there are persons, with whom you can be in each other’s presence and be silent, and feel no need for extraneous, nervous chit-chat.

In 1956, the poet John Holmes delivered the Phi Beta Kappa poem at Harvard, “The Eleventh Commandment.” That commandment is LISTEN. The poem is long, but here are a few lines:

“And shining, Moses went down.
He read from the tablet the last word: Listen.
Those who were to be the new world heard the law,
And Moses began again with the first word: Listen ...”

Here in the quiet of my 8th floor apartment I know the balm of silence. The world is not shut out. The street noise from Tamiami Trail is muffled; the refrigerator motor kicks in regularly; occasionally, subdued corridor sounds; the telephone will beep. But the silence is also listening to one’s inner deeps. Silence is a “herald of joy.”