THE composer John Cage once claimed there was "no such thing as silence". This despite the fact that his most famous composition, 4'33", is devoid of notes or anything else that, to the untrained ear, would constitute sound.
Although it was written (in three movements) for any instrument, or combination of instruments, the musicians are instructed to refrain from playing them for its four-and-a-half minute duration.
And yet, when performed live, the piece does support Cage’s argument about silence being impossible. Not to the extent that radio stations are ever comfortable playing it. But I heard a short excerpt on BBC Radio 4 recently and it was full of incidental noise: musicians shifting in their seats; breathing; accidentally tapping bows on violins; etc. During a full performance, apparently, they can also be heard turning the pages of the “score”.
Cage died in 1992, thereby just missing the start of an era that in some ways seems to clinch his case. The old background noises are still with us: we seem, for example, to be as far away as ever from a cure for the chronic coughing that afflicts concert goers, especially at classical music events. But a live recording of 4'33"now would also, on the law of averages, include the sound of at least one mobile phone or other personal device going off somewhere in the auditorium.
Speaking of which, Cage’s theory was further illustrated for me the other night by – of all people – my five-year-old son. We were at a music concert involving his older siblings, and there was no choice but to bring him too. But I knew the evening would tax his attention span. So to ensure his silence – at least in the limited sense Cage recognised – I let him bring one of those hand-held computer-game things that can hypnotise children for hours on end.
It was of course switched to “mute” throughout the performance; and so was he. Despite which, I paid a price for keeping him thus occupied. It didn’t matter that the Nintendo was on mute. Whenever the music on stage quietened down, or stopped altogether, I couldn’t help hearing the sound of two little thumbs beside me furiously manipulating the buttons.
Thankfully, no one around us noticed. Or if they did, they weren’t letting on during those moments when I furtively checked. But it reached the point where the quieter parts of the concert were completely lost on me. All I could hear were these little clicking sounds in the seat adjacent. It was as if there was a mouse under the floorboards.
THE PARADOXof all the bleeping and beeping of the post-Cage era, however, is that it may have inadvertently created a new form of silence. I mean the silence of your mobile phone when you expect it to ring and it doesn't. Or the silence of your e-mail inbox when you're waiting for something important. Or worst of all – because you know it only takes a moment – the silence of a friend failing to reply to a text you just sent.
For the first few minutes, you can make excuses. Maybe your friend is in the shower, or at a meeting. But after that, the silence deepens – in Philip Larkin’s phrase – like a coastal shelf. If it stretches into days, it becomes deafening.
And even though there there can be a million innocent explanations, it’s always tempting to assume the worst when a response fails to come. I made this point to a reader from abroad recently who berated me for not replying to an earlier e-mail she had sent about a column. I didn’t need reminding, as it happened. Her original e-mail had struck me as very thoughtful and interesting. And I had fully intended to write back.
But I was very busy at the time, and I wanted to invest a bit of thought into it, rather than just trot out something formulaic. So I put if off for a few days. And in the meantime, her follow-up e-mail arrived, accusing me of rudeness.
Well, “high” does not describe the dudgeon that the second e-mail left me in. In fact, I dropped whatever it was I was doing there and then and, with the energy of indignation, composed a lengthy – and slightly snippy – defence to my accuser, listing the many things that had prevented me replying earlier.
By way of closing argument, I suggested that the very ease with which people can get in touch these days had made us (by which I meant her) intolerant of even short silences in return. And, getting a bit preachy, I added that, however tempting it was to think badly of others, it was always better to assume there were charitable reasons behind a failure to respond immediately, as there had been in this case.
But the truth is that, used as we now are to instantaneous communication, we can't helped being slightly unnerved when it doesn't happen. Gradually, the quietude becomes more profound than anything John Cage could ever achieve. After that, it turns ominous, a bit like that moment at the end of another artistic reflection on noise abatement – The Silence of the Lambs– when Hannibal Lecter mentions that he's "having an old friend for dinner" and then hangs up the phone.