Everything becomes more real when it’s heard as well as seen. It is, in fact, quite hard to really know a person by sight alone, without hearing his voice. And it is not just the sound of the voice that informs. Even the rhythm of footsteps reveals age and variations of mood—elation, depression, anger, joy. The sound-tormented city dweller who habitually turns off his audio loses a dimension of social reality. Some people, for example, possess the ability to enter a crowded room and from the sounds encountered know immediately the mood, pace, and direction of the group assembled.
(Beware of these surprising things could ruin your hearing.)
Everything that moves makes a sound, so all sounds are witnesses to events. If touch is the most personal of senses, then hearing—which is a sort of touching at a distance—is the most social of the senses.
It is also the watchdog sense. Sounds warn us of happenings. Even as we sleep, the brain is alerted by certain key sounds. A mother wakes at the whimper of her baby. The average person is quickly roused by the sound of his own name.
Watchdog, stimulator, arouser—it is not surprising that modern urban man has turned down and even crippled this most stressful of senses. But hearing can also soothe and comfort. The snapping of logs in the fireplace, the gossipy whisper of a broom, the inquisitive wheeze of a drawer opening—all are comforting sounds. In a well-loved home, every chair produces a different, recognizable creak, every window a different click, groan, or squeak. The kitchen by itself is a source of many pleasing sounds—the clop-clop of batter stirred in a crockery bowl, the chortle of simmering soup.
Most people would be surprised to discover how much the sense of hearing can be cultivated. At a friend’s house recently, my wife opened her purse and some coins spilled out, one after another, onto the bare floor. “Three quarters, two dimes, a nickel, and three pennies,” said our host as he came in from the next room. And, as an afterthought: “One of the quarters is silver.” He was right, down to the last penny.
“How did you do it?” we asked.
“Try it yourself,” he said. We did, and with a little practice, we found it easy.
On the way home, my wife and I took turns closing our eyes and listening to the sounds of our taxi on the wet street as they bounced off of cars parked along the curb. From that alone we were able to tell small foreign cars from larger American cars. Games like this are one of the best ways to open up new realms of hearing experience.
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Another benefit of honing your hearing is that extrasensory faculty that blind people call facial vision. More than 200 years ago, Erasmus Darwin, grandfather of Charles Darwin, reported a visit by a blind friend named Justice Fielding. “He walked into my room for the first time and, after speaking a few words, said, ‘This room is about 22 feet long, 18 wide, and 12 high’—all of which he guessed by the ear with great accuracy.”
Sound engineers call it ambience: the impression we all get in some degree from sound waves bouncing off walls, trees, even people. For a blind person to interpret the echoes effectively, he uses a tapping cane, preferably with a tip of metal, nylon, or other substance that produces a distinct, consistent sound. (Wood doesn’t work, because it creates a different sound wet than dry.) The metal noisemaker called a cricket is equally effective. Animals, both terrestrial and nonterrestrial, also use “echolocation.” The bat, for example, emits a very high-pitched sound and picks up echoes from any obstacle, even as thin as a human hair.
(There’s a disorder that makes it unbearable to listen to everyday noises, such as chewing.)
The human ear is an amazing mechanism. Though its inner operating parts occupy less than a cubic inch, it can distinguish from 300,000 to 400,000 variations of tone and intensity. The loudest sound it can tolerate is a trillion times more intense than the faintest sounds it can pick up—the dropping of the proverbial pin (or, if you prefer, the soft thud of falling snowflakes). When the eardrums vibrate in response to sound, the tiny piston-like stirrup bones of the middle ear amplify the vibrations. This motion is passed along to the snail-like chamber of the inner ear, which is filled with liquid and contains some 30,000 tiny hair cells. These fibers are made to bend, depending on the frequency of the vibration—shorter strands respond to higher wavelengths, longer strands to lower—and this movement is translated into nerve impulses and sent to the brain, which then, somehow, “hears.”
While we are still under age 20, most of us can hear tones as high as 20,000 cycles per second (CPS), about five times as high as the highest C on a piano. With age, the inner ear loses its elasticity. It is unusual for a person over 50 to hear well above 12,000 CPS. He can still function, of course, since most conversation is carried on within an octave or two of middle C, or about 260 CPS.
One remarkable quality of the human ear is its ability to pick out a specific sound or voice from a surrounding welter of sound, and to locate its position. The conductor Arturo Toscanini, rehearsing a symphony orchestra of almost 100 musicians, unerringly singled out the oboist who slurred a phrase. “I hear a mute somewhere on one of the second violins,” he said another time in stopping a rehearsal. Sure enough, a second violinist far back on the stage discovered that he had failed to remove his mute.
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We owe our ability to zero in on a particular sound to the fact that we have two ears. A sound to the right of us reaches the right ear perhaps .0001 second before it reaches the left. This tiny time lag is unconsciously perceived and allows us to localize the object in the direction of the ear stimulated first. If you turn your head until the sound strikes both ears at once, the source is directly ahead. Try it sometime when you hear the distant approach of a car.
(Watch out for these silent signs of hearing loss that you might be ignoring.)
The sound you hear most often and with greatest interest is the sound of your own voice. You hear it not only through air vibrations that strike your eardrums but also through bone conduction, vibrations transmitted directly to the inner ear through your skull. When you chew on a stalk of celery, the loud crunching noise comes mainly through bone conduction. Such bone conduction explains why we hardly recognize a recording of our speech. Many of the low-frequency tones that seem to us to give our voices resonance and power are conducted to our ears through the skull; in a recording, they are missing, so our voices often strike us as thin and weak.
Alas, it’s possible that hearing will atrophy even further in the future, as civilization becomes busier. When too much is going on, we learn to ignore most of the sound around us, which means we also miss much that could give us pleasure and information. That’s too bad—because there is a wisdom in hearing.
This article first appeared in the August 1969 issue of Reader’s Digest.