From the Publisher
"George Foy has written the perfect antidote for our increasingly noisy age. Zero Decibels is meditative, witty, lyrical, and fascinating. Every page is a revelation."
—Alan Burdick, author of Out of Eden: An Odyssey of Ecological Invasion
“As questing beasts go, silence proves to be as elusive as an aural unicorn in a dense thorny forest of attention-shredding noise. That a writer such as George Michelson Foy should apply his immense brain power and obsessive investigative skills to stalking this intriguing prey is a surprise and a pure delight. The result is a lively, elegantly written examination of nothing no less than our existence, as it pours into, and out of, our humble ears. The art and science of hearing has found its poet laureate.”—Bob Shacochis, author of Easy in the Islands and The Immaculate Invasion
“Zero Decibels is the result of George Foy's year-long and personal quest for silence. A passionate and provocative study, it should be on everyone's must-read list.”—Anne D. LeClaire, author of Listening Below the Noise: The Transformative Power of Silence
"A compelling, lyrical exploration of an increasingly rare and elusive place: silence. Foy employs every means that modernity offers both to measure the pervasiveness and power of noise in modern life and to escape it. The results of his journey offer us not just a deeper appreciation of silence but, more surprisingly, of sound."—Charles Siebert, author of The Wauchula Woods Accord
Overwhelmed by the savage but routine overdose of noise in New York City, NYU creative writing instructor Foy zealously sought out silence in its various incarnations. But absolute silence eluded him: underwater in his bathtub the roaring metropolis was amplified by the denser medium of water; in Paris's catacombs a distant hum persisted among the stacked skulls and bones; and in his family home on Cape Cod the absence of excessive sound, rather than soothing him, made him conscious of the absence of his recently deceased mother. Yet in a Minneapolis anechoic chamber, he felt rested, relaxed, and triumphant, becoming the first person to stay in the dark and silent chamber alone for 45 minutes. Along the way, Foy met a man with cochlear implants who actually hears something when the implants are disabled even though his cochlea were destroyed by meningitis; and Foy recounts how in 1996 a Greek islander shot to death a neighbor who blasted music on her radio every evening. The author's quixotic quest is quirky, inventive, and alluring, and readers everywhere whose auditory nerves are rattled by the shriek of car horns or babies will readily identify. (May)
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Zero Decibels The Quest for Absolute Silence
By George M Foy
Scribner Copyright © 2010 George M Foy
All right reserved.
the Broadway train
I don?t know at what point noise became intolerable for me. I do know when I decided that, having lived for a long time?weeks, months even?in a state marked by my increasing inability to tolerate high volumes of sound, I decided, with a sudden certainty more characteristic of schizophrenics, or teenage lovers, to seek out the opposite, and track down silence wherever it might live.
I was standing on the uptown platform of the Broadway local at 79th Street, in Manhattan, waiting for the train to ferry me and my children to the 116th Street stop. The Broadway local was taking its time about showing up, and I suppose the charge of frustration stemming from delay was a contributing factor. New York, in a non-Newtonian way, seems to boost the quantum of energy one brings to any event or problem with each additional unit of time spent in the city. Through vents leading to the street above, I heard traffic rush and honk. And the kids were squabbling. . . .
None of these factors would have made me particularly content with where I was or what I was listening to that day, although none of them should have bothered me inordinately either. After all, having lived in the city that never sleeps for ten years, I had, like most residents, evolved a higher threshold of tolerance toward over-the-top input of any kind. At some brute level, higher volumes of input are one reason we choose to live in New York.
I take this ride several times a week. You might think I?d be inured to what was about to happen.
The Broadway line south of Ninety-sixth Street consists of two local tracks, one uptown, one down, with two express lines in the middle. Similar equipment runs on each track but the local trains, which stop at every station and don?t enjoy the long stretches of acceleration available to the express, travel slower. On the afternoon in question, at approximately 4:17, the downtown local screeched into the station, across the tracks from us. Even one train?with its steel wheels mashing steel rail, brakes woefully lacking in grease, ventilators roaring as they struggle to keep the temperature of both motors and passengers in check?hits the ears like an extrusion of New York, in all the city?s unapologetic whaddya, its in-your-face aggression. The level of sound it generates will set babies crying.
That day, however, just as the downtown local was coming to a halt, the uptown local came in; and at the same instant the downtown express entered the station, its seven burgundy-colored cars thundering shrieking roaring at 40 mph between the slowing locals. Immediately thereafter the uptown express, as if anxious not to miss the party, showed up around the curve from Seventy-second Street and blasted into a station already occupied by three other trains, two moving, one now stopped.
The noise was immense. It was gut-pounding. It smacked the cosmos. Without thinking I clamped the flat of my palms to both ears and screwed my face into the scrunched expression of a root-canal patient. I usually despise people who do that on subway platforms. Wimps, I think; milquetoast souls who cough if someone is smoking across the street, who wear cardigans and bicycle clips; for God?s sake, if you?re so delicate, move to an ashram! But here I was doing the same thing. And still the noise grew, as the express trains slammed past each other in the stone tunnel, and the flanges of their wheels rocked forty-five tons of weight against the edge of rail; the whine of motors; the warning ?dings? as the doors of the downtown local closed and ours opened; the grunts and plaints of sardined passengers; and the overamped voice of the conductor yelling, ?Seventy-ninth, let the passengers off?stand clear of the closing doors.?
I remember keeping my hands power-glued to my ears, even as we boarded and sat down. My daughter Emilie, who as a teenager is always alert to signs of egregious weirdness on the part of her progenitors, glanced at me nervously. But for once something had cracked the enamel coating New Yorkers must accrete to live in this town, and I kept my ears covered, cringing at the rumble that filtered through my palms; thinking, I can?t put up with this kind of noise, day in, day out, any longer. I mused, This has to damage me in some way, reflected also?because that was the other wheel of this scooter of thought?I need to find somewhere quiet. And the train rumbled slower, and stopped, and the loudspeaker blatted, ?Eighty-sixth, let ?em off!? and I thought no, not just quiet; what I want now is silence.
No noise. No sound. Nothing.
That was when I thought of the farmhouse.
It?s an old, dark house, smelling of dry rot and smoke, with a fieldstone hearth and thick walls. The farm lies deep in the hills of the Berkshires, far from any roads. It?s the dead of night, at midwinter. The air is frozen and void of wind. Farmhouse, meadows, and woods surrounding are buried in a quilt of snow so deep that everything alive has chosen not to fight, but burrow instead below the white insulation and go to sleep. All is so cold and silent, on that farm in my mind, that the stars, shining against a sky the color of tarnished lapis, seem to give off a vibration that is not sound and not light but something in between?something that is perhaps the essence of silence itself.
? 2010 George Michelsen Foy
Excerpted from Zero Decibels by George M Foy Copyright © 2010 by George M Foy. Excerpted by permission.
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