Volume CXXXII, Number 6 October 25, 2002 f

Sometimes we require silence
GENEVIEVE CREEDON
COLUMNIST

I received an e-mail the night I left for break from a friend, wishing me a good extended weekend. He also kindly told me, "For God's sake, please put down the books; think outside the box." And I laughed, not only because I had so much reading to do-there was no way I could have put down the books-but because people are always telling me that I should not be so diligent.

When I was driving back to campus on the Monday night of break, I realized why I have come to value "the books" so much. They require silence.

I was stuck in traffic for three hours, driving back here, and the whole time I sat in the car, I watched the people on all sides of me get frustrated and angry at the lines and miles of unmoving cars. But I enjoyed sitting there, because it was quiet and still-uncomplicated.

In fact, I enjoyed the seven-plus hour drive back here more than anything I did during the weekend. I had to read. My parents had guests. I had to leave to find a quiet place. I went to my sister's house. She had guests. I finally read in my niece's room, behind a closed door, but I could still hear the voices.

And I couldn't wait to return to campus, because every time I am back with my family, it's noisy and hectic and complicated. Especially when I'm only with them for a few days; the only quiet time happens when everyone is sleeping. The same is often true on campus, though. It seems as if the quietest times are somewhere between two and seven in the morning

My father used to say that I was anti-social. Now, my roommate makes the claim, and we laugh about it, because it's not entirely true, but it's also not entirely untrue. I need significant amounts of time that are anti-social, not because I dislike people, but because I need silence.

It is difficult to explain, but I enjoy reading and studying because they are "acceptable" quiet times, and they create a relationship with texts, concepts and ideas through silence. And that relationship, that silence, nurtures. It comforts. It sustains.

But we forget the value of silence because we are perpetually breaking it. When we drive, we turn on the radio. When we return to our rooms at night, we turn on the TV. When we don't have anything specific to do, we pick up the phone. We actively break silence, because we're afraid of it-afraid that it might question the value of all the noise with which we surround ourselves, afraid that it might teach us that we are not satisfied with that noise.

Often, I find myself trying to justify the need for silence when it needs no justification at all. This week alone, a notoriously hellish, busy, sleepless and often sick week at mid term reminds me that maybe instead of working so hard to be social beings, which we are, we should give a shot at leaving some room for anti-social time, for silence, because silence is golden.

Silence is universal, and it embodies the essence of what it means for us to be alive.