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[literaturessound]

In the Hills of Vermont - Lilia Tse

The soundscape which I observed and recorded is set in the hills of Vermont, next to a large and sparsely populated lake. Vacationers who flee the winter cold have returned to their summer homes, filling the lake with movement: paddle boards, fishing boats, and kayaks weave through the water most afternoons.

It is the perfect place for a morning swim. In the winter, when it is frozen, the sound is that of wind and the deep creak of the ice. Fishermen erect their huts on the lake, boring deep holes in the ice, to pull the fish up out of. It freezes so thickly that trucks can drive over it, leaving tire tracks in the snow. Winters have been getting warmer since my parents moved here twenty three years ago. Even then, the old men reminisced about winters where their spit froze before it hit the ground. Times when the snowfall was so high that it reached the roof, and leaving the house was a matter of excavation. The number of years in which the lake freezes deep enough to drive over are dwindling. Last February a truck fell through.

But winter is months away, and the warm sun is slanting through the pines. Now I am visiting my mother, who is renting a small apartment by the lakeshore from the grandmother of my childhood friend. It is a lake and a house which I visited often as a child. My friend and I would pull the long seaweed out of the lake and twist it around our bodies, adorning ourselves and pretending to be mermaids or lake nymphs. This summer is the first time I have been here in over ten years. At the time of recording I am laying in a hammock, in the late afternoon, at the end of summer. The eve of my 24th birthday.

The slender white pines bend and sway in the breeze, their needles rubbing together to create a gentle whispering sound. White pines are the first trees to move into cleared spaces. In fields which have gone to seed they pioneer the horizon, coming in after the wildflowers and tall grass to stand guard. Since they require lots of space and sunlight, they are eventually crowded out by trees with a higher shade tolerance. Along the shores of lakes, where high winds lead to trees falling and leaving space, white pines line up to soak in the sun. Further up the bank the woods are thicker and darker. Pineless. The forest floor is thick with underbrush. In the cool, damp darkness tiny frogs find their home. Their croaks mingle with the sound of crickets, contributing to the soft animal choir found in the recording. It is a sound that has accompanied all of my late afternoons around these woods.

A wind blows through, and the recording picks up a pressing sound, like that of shifting one’s head against a pillow. The sound is more pronounced than those which underlie it, brushing over the soundscape in broad, unpredictable strokes. The soundscape is punctuated by the rhythmic creak of the hammock, a soporific sound, like a cradle’s rocking. I am lulled into a floating state, made physical by the hammock and mental by the sounds which are so familiar to me. Sounds which indicate the steady presence of the woods which I miss so when I feel compressed by the city’s constant noise. In class we discussed our frequent need to block out sound, to control it so as to protect our mental wellbeing. Here I have no need for headphones, no desire to shut the world out. Rather, the sounds act as a balm, soothing me. My muscles relax.

I am reminded of the seaside soundscape which we listened to together in class. The way the creator wove images of long-ago family suppers by the seashore into her soundscape struck me, and I try to imagine life here before the lake was populated. Before trees were cut down for the dirt roads, which thread their way around the lake, there would have been no soft hum of cars in the wooded hills behind me. Nor would there have been the lapping of waves at the shore from the bulky boats, pulling waterskiers swiftly across the water. Sounds would have been made differently, by mouths singing and speaking, feet stomping or stepping. There would have been the daily crackle of a fire, as people prepared food and warmed themselves beside its glow. The dull thud of metal axes hitting wood arrived with the French, who colonized Canada and Vermont. Then the blast of gunpowder. I remember the shooting range down the road from my house and how the shots produced that sharp, booming sound. Similar to that of fireworks. Or thunder.

Wilson Harris’ text, The Music of Living Landscapes, explores what Harris calls the ‘resonance’ which landscapes hold. To Harris, a landscape is not a passive backdrop for conscious life, but rather a living space, in possession of their own language. I am reminded of this language in my hammock, and I am reminded of Joan Didion’s book of essays South and West, in which she states of her sense of place in the West that “part of it is simply what looks right to the eye, sounds right to the ear. I am at home in the West. The hills of the coastal ranges look “right” to me, the particular flat expanse of the Central Valley comforts my eye. The place names have the ring of real places to me. I can pronounce the name of the rivers, and recognize the common trees and snakes. I am easy here in a way that I am not easy in other places.” The name Vermont comes from French for green mountains. The name reflects the endless and astounding greenery. Encyclopedia Brittanica says ‘Connecticut’ is the Algonquian word for ‘land on the long tidal river’. As a child, I liked to pronounce every letter: connect-ee-cut. The Connecticut river is the dividing line between Vermont and New Hampshire in our area. The connecting cut. As Harris wrote, the landscape holds a silent language of its own, which we attempt to understand and translate. Hearing the whip of the wind, the creak of the hammock, the toss of the pines and the croak of the frogs, I feel, as Didion felt, that the place names reflect something true.

[literaturessound]

The Soundscape of Kreuzberg: A Night at Yorkschlösschen – Annika Kohl

On a balmy summer evening, I found myself in my favorite Jazz Bar, Yorkschlösschen, nestled in the heart of Kreuzberg. This part of Berlin is known for its vibrant nightlife and eclectic atmosphere, and tonight was no exception. The air was thick with the warmth of the day, lingering even as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving a golden glow that reflected off the cobblestone streets.

Beside me was my dear friend Celine, someone who shares my love for music, deep conversations, and the simple pleasures that make life beautiful—savoring a drink, enjoying a cigarette, and engaging in discussions that wander through a variety of topics.

As we settled into our seats, the feeling of contentment wrapped around me like a soft blanket. We chose a table outside, under the soft, warm glow of the bar’s vintage lamps. The mellow darkness of the evening enveloped us, punctuated only by the occasional flicker of light from passing cars or the distant hum of conversations that surrounded us. The atmosphere was alive with the sounds of Berlin’s nightlife—the clinking of glasses, the murmur of voices, and the occasional burst of laughter that floated through the air like music notes.

As we sat there, the evening unfolded around us in a symphony of sensations. The table beneath us was slightly uneven, and every time one of us shifted, it emitted a satisfying, rough wooden creak—a reminder of the bar’s long history and the countless stories it had witnessed. The surface was worn smooth in some places, yet rough in others, telling tales of the many patrons who had sat there before us, sharing their own moments of joy, sorrow, and everything in between. By the window, we could see the silhouettes of insects, caught in a dance between life and death, ensnared in spider webs that had formed over time. The occasional buzz of a wasp would bring us back to the present, reminding us that we were not alone in our enjoyment of the evening. These little intrusions were part of the charm, part of what made the experience so uniquely Kreuzberg.

The conversations around us were a mosaic of languages, dialects, and emotions, each voice contributing to the rich tapestry of sound that filled the night air. It reminded me of the text we had read in class by Mary Oliver, called “Sound,” where she delves into the intricate relationship between language and the auditory world. Her opening questions echoed in my mind: “How much does it matter what kinds of sounds we make? How do we choose what sounds to make?” (Oliver 19). These questions seemed particularly relevant in this setting, where the very essence of communication was as diverse and layered as the city itself.

In the midst of this slightly drunken crowd, you could discern the sharp, percussive bursts of random plosives—those sudden, forceful sounds like ‘p’ and ‘t’—being tossed into the air withcasual abandon. The combination of alcohol and excitement gave these plosives an exaggerated presence, making them more noticeable, as if they were the exclamation points of an otherwise fluid and continuous stream of speech. The cacophony was overwhelming, drowning out softer consonants and vowels that might have carried more nuanced meanings. The ambient noise was so loud that any attempt at subtlety was lost; the delicate ‘mutes,’ those quiet, voiceless sounds like ‘s’ or ‘f,’ (Oliver 21-22) didn’t stand a chance of surviving the night and making their way to our table. In a way, the absence of these softer sounds was a blessing. Without the quiet undercurrent of mutes, there was no “sense of disturbance or anger” (Oliver 23) that often comes with more intimate, perhaps contentious conversations. Instead, the night was filled with slurred syllables of revelry—a sonic landscape where volume often took precedence over meaning, where the rhythm of speech was more important than the words themselves.

At any given moment, you could hear snippets of German, English, French, and languages I couldn’t even identify, blending together into a harmonious noise that was uniquely Berlin. Some voices were loud and boisterous, fueled by the buzz of alcohol and the thrill of the night, while others were soft and intimate, as if the speakers were sharing secrets meant only for each other.

Despite sitting right alongside the main street, the usual sounds of the city—cars honking, bikes clattering, and the general hustle and bustle—seemed to fade into the background. It was as if the bar itself had a soundproof aura, insulating us from the chaos outside and allowing the music and the conversations to take center stage. Inside, the band played on, each note of the saxophone, each beat of the drum, weaving through the night air like a thread, connecting everyone in the bar with an invisible bond of shared experience.

Celine and I talked about everything and nothing, our conversation flowing as freely as the jazz melodies that surrounded us. We reminisced about old memories, made plans for the future, and sometimes just sat in comfortable silence, letting the music fill the spaces between our words. Occasionally, the only sound was the soft rustle of my cigarettes—the rolling of the paper, the delicate ritual of packing the tobacco, the flick of the lighter. As the evening wore on, the applause for the artists grew louder, the laughter more frequent, and the sense of camaraderie among the patrons more palpable. It was as if we were all part of some grand, unspoken celebration—a celebration of life, of music, of the simple joy of being together.

The night at Yorkschlösschen was more than just an evening out; it was an auditory journey that reminded me of the profound beauty in every sound that filled the air. From the soft murmur of voices blending like the layers of a jazz composition to the distinct clink of glasses that punctuated the rhythm of the night, every sound told a story. The music intertwined with the hum of the city, creating a symphony that resonated deep within. It was a night that exemplified the power of sound to connect us—to a place, to music, and to each other. As Mary Oliver wisely said, “Sounds differ. Sounds matter” (19). These words echo in my mind, a reminder that the world is alive with sounds that enrich our experiences, turning moments like this into lasting memories.

Citation

Oliver, Mary. "Sound." A Poetry Handbook, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1994, pp. 19-29.

[literaturessound]

A Summer Where My Memories Were Awakened Through Sounds - Waves of Nostalgia Under a Thunderous Sky by Melisa Basheva

As I set foot on the beach, I was instantly enveloped by a familiar sound, one that echoed from the depths of my memory. It was a sound that had once been distant, yet now seemed so vivid that I could recall every detail with striking clarity.

The gentle roar of the waves carried me back to a summer in 2005, where as a young girl, I rested in the sun’s warmth on this very shore. The sand, golden and warm, slipped through my fingers as I attempted to build a sandcastle—a grand structure that crumbled under my hands when it failed to match the image I had conjured in my mind.

The dunes, filled with life, seemed to cry out, their whispers carried on the wind as if they too were pleading for relief from the sun’s relentless heat. Yet, the waves, ever-present and soothing, beckoned me to the water, offering a cool refuge from the sun’s blazing rays. Nearby, a group of children splashed playfully, their joyous laughter blending with the rhythmic sound of the sea. Despite their high-pitched shrieks piercing the air, I did not perceive this as noise. On the contrary, it was a melody—one that has lingered in my mind, a cherished memory that I can revisit even after all these years.

It is night. We are on the highway—or the autobahn, as the Germans call it—though how was I to know that within five years, this word would become familiar to me? My father, seated in front of me, turns on the engine of our bluish car, his determination palpable as he races against time to bring us home. The engine roars to life, and as we merge onto the road, the radio crackles, struggling to find a signal. The noises of the radio—Ssssss—fills the car, a sound of pointless searching. But it doesn’t bother me. I rest my head against the cool glass of the window, watching the streetlights blur into streaks of light as we speed past. I find comfort in the sound of other cars driving by, their haste a reminder of the pulse of life that surrounds us. Though loud, this noise doesn’t disturb me—it invigorates me, making me feel alive and connected to the world rushing by.

It is August 2024, and the sky finally opens up, releasing the rain we have all been longing for. It arrives like a hero, a savior descending from the heavens, and I am determined to savor every sound, scent, and taste of this long-awaited rain. As I push open the window that faces the front of the house, the first thing that catches my eye is the array of vibrant roses my grandmother had lovingly planted. Their petals, now kissed by the rain, glisten in the soft light. Suddenly, I hear my grandfather’s voice, screaming yet mixed with laughter, cautioning me not to run too fast, in case I trip and fall. His voice, though a memory, feels so real, intertwining with the present. A loud bang of thunder jolts me from my daydream. These abrupt, thunderous sounds always seem to intrude upon my thoughts, commanding attention. But as I ponder, I realize it’s not the volume that unsettles me, but rather the raw, spontaneous nature of the thunder. While I’ve never been fond of thunderstorms, I have always loved the rain—whether it arrives in a gentle drizzle or a torrential downpour. Moments later, I decide to venture outside and sit on the front steps, sheltered from the rain by the balcony above. The air is cool and refreshing, the scent of rain mingling with the earthy fragrance of the garden.

As I sit there, I am reminded of a quote I encountered in one of my seminars:

“It seems to me that, for a long time, landscapes and riverscapes have been perceived as passive, as furniture, as areas to be manipulated; whereas, I sensed, over the years, as a surveyor, that the landscape possessed resonance. The landscape possessed a life, because, the landscape, for me, is like an open book, and the alphabet with which one worked was all around me. But it takes some time to really grasp what this alphabet is, and what the book of the living landscape is.” (Harris, 1996)

This quote resonates deeply within me as I gaze at the flowers, their colors vivid against the backdrop of the gray sky. In the delicate curves of the rose petals and the robust stems that hold them up, I see a reflection of my grandfather’s enduring spirit. The landscape around me is indeed alive, infused with the memories and voices of those who have walked before me. The garden, once a simple collection of plants, now feels like a living testament to my grandfather’s care and my grandmother’s devotion. It is a place where time seems to stand still, where the past and present converge in a symphony of sounds, colors, and scents.

What a poignant realization it is that my grandfather is no longer here to tend to these roses, to share in the simple joys of life that once seemed so ordinary. Yet, in his absence, the garden continues to thrive, a living embodiment of his legacy. The rain, once again, begins to fall more heavily, each drop a gentle reminder of the passage of time. But within this rain, there is also a promise—a renewal, a continuation of life even after loss.

As I sit there, listening to the symphony of rain and thunder, I feel a sense of peace wash over me. The sounds that have accompanied me throughout my life—the waves, the static of the radio, the laughter of children, the roar of thunder—each one has woven itself into the fabric of my memories, creating a rich tapestry of experiences that define who I am. These sounds, far from being mere noise, are the echoes of a life well-lived, reminders of moments both fleeting and eternal.

And so, I remain there on the steps, watching the rain dance upon the petals, feeling the cool breeze on my skin, and listening to the world around me. The landscape, alive with the resonance of past and present, speaks to me in a language that I am only just beginning to understand—a language of memories, of love, of loss, and of the enduring beauty that lies within the ever-changing world around us.

[literaturessound]

The Spree - Music of the Living Landscape of Berlin by Georgios Dalakouras

The Spree River, flowing through Berlin, is a living landscape shaped by the city's history and culture. This essay, inspired by Wilson Harris's 'The Music of Living Landscapes,' explores the social and cultural significance of the Spree, particularly at Maybachufer, viewing it as a landscape filled with life, history, and the silent music that Harris describes.

Going to the Landwehrkanal, how the sector of the Spree is called to which I live closest by, I listened to my surroundings, which were a mixture of natural and human sounds, ranging from kids laughter at the playground, the church bells but also the rivers flow and the trees moving because of the rather strong winds. What can be heard is how the sounds of nature are not a mere backdrop to the human noises but more so an equal part of living sounds, with the sounds of wind on the trees and the water being at the forefront.

This wind, these sounds are not passive elements of the environment but living and breathing entities with their own life, breathing air into nature but also us as humans. This natural landscape which is also being heavily disrupted in its living peace by humans who go to playgrounds, drink beers and talk or listen to music, are now heavily intertwined within the overall cosmos, blending into the overall living landscape encapsulating all forms of life.

The Spree: A River of Life

Rivers have always been central to human civilization, acting as lifelines for cities and communities, and the Spree is a prime example of this. Flowing through the heart of Berlin, the Spree has witnessed the city’s evolution from a small medieval town to the vibrant metropolis it is today. Much like the rivers in Guyana that Harris describes, the Spree can be seen as a "living landscape," a force that has shaped Berlin's physical and cultural identity over centuries.

Harris’s concept of landscapes as living entities resonates deeply with the Spree, which is more than just a body of water. It is a dynamic presence that interacts with the city and its inhabitants, carrying the memories of Berlin’s past into today as a multicultural, thriving city. The Spree is breathing life into the city and its people, while also being shaped by its urban surroundings.

Maybachufer: A Microcosm of Berlin’s Diversity

The Maybachufer, a vibrant stretch along the Spree, exemplifies Berlin's diversity and dynamic identity. Known for its multicultural market, often called the Turkish Market, this area has long been a melting pot, especially for Balkan, Turkish, and Middle Eastern communities in Kreuzberg. The market is more than a place of commerce, it is a lively social space where a multitude of languages intermingle, reflecting the global connections of its people. The Maybachufer is a living landscape, where local and global cultures blend, and where history and human interaction continually reshape the environment.

The Silent Music of the Maybachufer

Harris's concept of "silent music" within nature deeply resonates with the atmosphere of the Maybachufer. In between the market's hustle and bustle, there's a deeper rhythm that reflects the connection between people and the landscape. This silent music isn't just in the physical sounds like the vendors' voices, rustling leaves, and the river's flow, but also in the connections that bind people to the place and to each other, seen in gatherings both outside and inside the shops.

Like the landscapes of Guyana Harris describes, the Maybachufer has its own voice and story. It’s a place where Berlin’s history is woven into the environment, marked by memories of migration, displacement, and resilience. The silent music of the Maybachufer reflects a landscape that has seen diverse cultures and continues to resonate with the stories of those who have and will call it home.

The Maybachufer and the Global Landscape

The Maybachufer is a vibrant intersection of local and global cultures, reflecting Berlin's diverse identity. This area, where goods, people, and ideas converge, mirrors the interconnectedness of the modern world. The Spree River, like the rainforests of Guyana described by Harris, is vital to Berlin's ecosystem, providing life and refuge. The Maybachufer exemplifies how the health of one part of the world impacts the whole. Amidst environmental challenges like pollution and gentrification, the Maybachufer stands as a reminder of the need to protect not just physical landscapes but the living, breathing entities that shape a city's identity.

The Maybachufer as a Site of Memory and Resistance

The Maybachufer is a significant site of memory and resistance, reflecting Berlin’s workingclass and immigrant history. For decades, it has been a hub for alternative cultures and countercultural movements, with the market embodying the ongoing effort to uphold the neighborhood’s social and political spirit amid gentrification. As a living archive, the Maybachufer preserves the history of labor, migration, and social justice in Berlin. This aligns with Harris’s view that memory plays a crucial role in understanding and preserving landscapes, emphasizing the need to honor their vibrancy through art and imagination.

The Future of the Maybachufer and the Spree

Looking ahead, the Maybachufer and the Spree face significant challenges as Berlin continues to grow and develop. The pressures of gentrification, environmental degradation, and social inequality threaten to erode the cultural and social fabric of this area. However, the Maybachufer also holds the potential for renewal if the community can find ways to balance development with the need to preserve its unique character and significance.

Harris’s reflections on the need for renewed sensitivity to the life of the planet are particularly relevant here. The Maybachufer, like the landscapes of Guyana, represents a place where the relationship between humans and the environment is most immediate and visible. The future of the Maybachufer hinges on the community’s ability to recognize and nurture this relationship, fostering a way of life that harmonizes with the landscape rather than exploiting or destroying it.

Conclusion

In conclusion, the Spree and Maybachufer are more than just geographical features, they are living landscapes rich in social and cultural significance. Reflecting Wilson Harris’s idea of landscapes as living entities, the Maybachufer embodies the intersection of history, culture, and human interaction. It represents Berlin's multicultural identity and the city’s resilience, blending global and local elements. The future of both the Spree and Maybachufer depends on our ability to maintain these connections and preserve these landscapes amidst challenges like climate change, gentrification, and capitalist pressures.

Personally, the Maybachufer is a refuge, a reminder of my Greek heritage which I strongly connect to nature and water, and a symbol of the harmonious life I seek in Berlin. It is crucial that we nurture and protect this landscape, ensuring it remains a living testament to our collective identity.

Sources

Harris, Wilson. The Music of Living Landscapes. pp. 39-45

[literaturessound]

People in Nature - Celine Karg

As I was reading my book on a bench by the water, I started noticing different sounds merging together - the rapid feet of runners, revolving bicycle tyres, a mother pushing a pram, the familiar sounds amplified and changed by the gravelly path, growing in loudness the closer they got and dampened by distance.

Slightly further away but still audible  enough to catch my attention a ferry passes, the paddle of a kayak repeatedly and rhythmically hits the water and waves ricochet long after the initial movement has ceased.

​​This is a place very familiar to me, and so are the sounds. Yet listening intently, they reach a different quality. They begin to sound like they are being made just for me, just for the purpose of being heard and noticed and recorded by me. They must always be there, and yet you stop noticing them after a while. The sounds are hardly novel, but I found myself drawn in by how they changed in quality on the sandy path, little pebbles being catapulted into the bike spokes and pinging off with a metallic clang or being crunched by the soles of the runners and walkers alike. The sounds are human in their nature, irregular and rhythmic all at once. You couldn’t stop them from happening even if you tried. They were as certain as the laboured, quick breaths of the runners and the happy chatting of the baby in the pram.

In the span of 5 minutes, I counted 17 people going past - walking and dragging their feet across the rough terrain. Cycling, either alone or with others, talking or silent. But while they all differed in their modes of transport, there were some noisy constants: the breathing, heavy or easy, but all about as natural as it gets. It felt like the world was waking up after a day filled with rain, taking deep breaths to absorb the entirety of their and my surroundings. They must’ve had the same idea as me - enjoying the day outside - and I can’t help but wonder if they notice the same things as me. Did they also try to locate the sound of the paddles in the water and the flapping birds in the  sky? Did they notice me noticing them?

It feels like I can hear the rays of light coming through the treetops (one of those things that surprisingly doesn’t make a noise, at least one that mere humans can’t understand), a sound that should be as audible as the whistling of the wind. I store the question of what sound the sun would suit away, to occupy me for another day. The world felt too noisy to commit to serious thinking. Even though the sun wasn’t very loud, today it was accompanied by strong gusts of wind, making the usually silent river into a lively vehicle of constant sound. But still, this part of the city wouldn’t be half as noisy if it weren’t for the people occupying it. 

Humans add noise to everything. Nothing we do is ever silent. I imagine the tiny insects, from their perspectives, aren’t quiet in their movements either but their physical impact on the earth is so miniscule that we can rarely hear anything apart from maybe the vibrating wings of the flying varieties. How odd, then, that animals as imperative to the environment as insects leave so much less of a physical trace of their existence compared to us unimportant humans (in the grand scheme of things), their bodies so light we don’t even notice them crawling on us. I hope they don’t get too annoyed at our constant array of noises.

Behind me the more soothing and calm sounds of rustling grass and chirping birds. I wish my knowledge of birds was better to properly identify them, but I find joy in listening to their familiar songs anyway. When they communicate with each other they provide a kind of noise that I expect to hear everywhere I go and one I would find myself missing dearly if it suddenly disappeared from the world.

Oddly, this reminds me of bell hooks’ idea of discovering your own voice as an act of rebellion in order to convey personal beliefs and to bring about societal change, which she mentions in the chapter “When I was A Young Soldier for the Revolution”: Coming to Voice in her book Talking Back: Thinking Feminist, Thinking Black. I begin to imagine the passers-by's lived experiences and I’m certain they, but especially the mother pushing her child have faced struggles they were or weren’t able to vocalise, and if they will use their voices to impact others. Like hooks, I often find myself turning towards poetry, not because I write it myself, but because it seems like an honest expression of life in a way that doesn’t hide from itself. In its concision it conveys sureness and encourages to look inwards and express like-minded thoughts. But I reckon nature doesn’t particularly care about how scared we are of speaking our minds. And yet that fear is persistent, even in this tranquil space, where insects are scuttling by oddly noisily (or maybe I’m just beginning to imagine things) and little woodland animals are rustling behind me amongst the bushes. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, all feels like the sort of experience Mary Oliver would write a poem about.

Just as I could feel my mind spiralling, my attention was grabbed by a bumblebee buzzing almost mechanically next to me. They are fascinating creatures and my brain can’t help but be drawn to the fitting name of the bumbling bee - like a tuba is providing its very own soundtrack every time they clumsily fly past you. 

My listening was rudely concluded by a man emerging from the park, accompanied by roaring music. I noticed that the bumblebee hardly seemed bothered by all the noise. I didn’t quite relate to that sentiment, so I decided to put on my own music, albeit through my headphones, and started walking.

[literaturessound]

A walk through Berlin by Tina Marisa Veit

As I walk through the chaotic streets of Berlin, the city comes to life around me with a variety of sounds. With each step I take, I hear the distinct jingle of my keys, fastened to my belt loop with a carabiner. They clink together, producing a rhythmic metallic chime that echoes faintly in the air.

This sound is familiar, almost comforting, like a personal soundtrack that accompanies me wherever I go. They make rather small sounds compared to the tumult of the city, barely noticeable unless paid attention to by others. However, they are the only constant component of my walk, aside from my footsteps. They seem to be the element I focus on the most. Whenever I notice my mind beginning to wander it comes back to my keys as they sway against my body with each step I take. They give me a sense of comfort; they are a visual and auditive reminder of home and security. I wonder what thoughts they elicit from people struggling to find a flat or without a home.

My footsteps form a steady cadence against the concrete sidewalk, the soles of my shoes making a muted, consistent thud. I notice how the sound changes slightly with the texture of the ground beneath me. Occasionally, my heel scuffs against the sidewalk, creating a brief rasping noise that disrupts the rhythm before falling back into place. I notice that I enjoy the sounds of my footsteps. I am wearing boots, they pronounce the sounds of my steps, making them sound sturdy. My boots give me a certain kind of confidence, they make me feel as though I belong in the city. Their heavy thuds make me feel strong, empowered even.

The city hums with life around me. Cars zoom past on the streets, their engines purring, tires spinning over the asphalt, producing a low, rushing sound like a breeze sweeping through a narrow alley. The whir of bicycle wheels adds to the mix as cyclists weave in and out of traffic. I feel as though the sound of cars never really changes, no matter the environment. Their sounds are not influenced by their surroundings, instead speed is driving force. They sound the same in Berlin as they do in my hometown, the only difference is the number of them. While my hometown is dominated by bicycles, Berlin is dominated by cars, buses, trams, and trains. My hometown was made for bicycles, the city is meant to be explored through cycling. It is quieter than Berlin and the ring of bicycle bells more threating as they stand out against the somber ambiance of the city. The cyclists there are known to be ruthless. They have no regard for people walking, sometimes even cars and buses. I notice that it is harder to make out the bells of the cyclists on the busy streets of Berlin.

As I walk, snippets of conversation float to my ears from groups of people passing by. The words are mostly a blur, merging into a tapestry of human voices. I catch fragments of different languages - each adding its own texture to the city's sound. I don’t focus on the conversations too much. Their hum is merely a backing track to my walk. I think about how versatile and universal language is. I don’t need to pay attention to know if people are agitated, happy or sad. The tone of their voices carries so much meaning already. Yet I don’t know what they are saying, and some of the words spoken I cannot comprehend because the languages I speak do not entail translations within their vocabulary.

A light breeze rustles the leaves of nearby trees, adding a natural, soothing layer to the urban soundscape. Above, I catch the faint hum of an airplane, its sound barely noticeable amidst the city’s cacophony. Occasionally, the low rumble of a tram vibrates through the ground beneath my feet, its approach announced by the soft clicking and clacking of its wheels on metal tracks.

Everywhere I go, the soundscape of the city is alive and dynamic. It’s a blend of the mundane and the extraordinary, the expected and the surprising. As I walk, I feel like both an audience member and a performer, my footsteps and the jingle of my keys contributing to the living, breathing entity that is Berlin. Each sound is a thread in the fabric of the city, weaving together to create a rich tapestry that is as much a part of Berlin as its history, its architecture, and its people.

I do not mind the chaos of Berlin and neither do I mind the sounds which come with it. They remind me that I live in a big city which is what I always wanted. As Kate Flint quotes in Sounds of the City: Virginia Woolf and Modern Noise I see them more as a “natural human attribute” (181), a reminder that I am surrounded by people which grants me anonymity. I can talk as loudly as I like, people will not hear me nor will they listen, as I do not listen to their conversations. I do not see the “noise as nuisance” (181) as they did in the nineteenth century but as a companion in the city. And while it does sometimes act as a distraction to my own thoughts, as Flint (181) points out, it can also stimulate them. I would argue that this text is the best example for that. While mechanical sounds are often used to symbolize antipathy of modernity (182), they only reflect modernity in my eyes and I would argue that this might soon be outdated as technology is evolving to become as quiet as possible. The advancement of electrical cars makes wonder what the city of the future will sound like. Will the sound of my footsteps be more pronounced? Will the sound of my keys be more jarring to others? Will bicycle bells cut through silence like sirens do? Though the wind created by speeding cars and trains caught between apartment buildings will undoubtedly stay, as will the noise accompanying it.

Citation

Flint, Kate. “Sounds of the City: Virginia Woolf and Modern Noise.” Oxford University Press eBooks, 2003, pp. 181–94. https://doi.org/10.1093/oso/9780199266678.003.0012.

[literaturessound]

Living Landscapes by Emelie Kempf

Harris talks about living landscapes and the music they create. About landscapes that are not passive, not instruments to mold to our liking, but living, breathing things that “possessed a life”, where every little sound works together to create a symphony (Harris, 39).

I have often felt this aliveness of nature, in the forest listening to the creaking trees, or in the mountains when I was sure I could almost hear their breathing. In my childhood home, on the outskirts of Berlin, I think I feel it every day. The time the landscape feels most alive is in the early mornings, before the midday heat forces the animals back into their hiding places, seeking shelter from the scorching sun; before the air feels thick and stagnant with humidity, so that not even a breeze lifts the leaves on the trees.

I sit in my parents’ garden, chilly for the first time in weeks, and listen to the sounds around me, try to feel the life in them. Birds are singing all around; I don’t recognize them all, but I think there must be at least ten different voices, answering each other in a constant sing-song of chirps, calls, trills, coos. I feel like there are several conversations happening around me—here the robins cuck to another, there the jackdaws chitter amongst themselves, and always the pigeons’ incessant coos accompany them all. I wonder what they are talking about, and if they are only talking to each other, to fellows of their own breed, or if they are all part of the same large conversation.

In the distance, so far away I shouldn’t be able to hear it at all, the highway roars on and on, competing with the song of the birds. I wonder why it is so much louder in the morning, and why, during the day, I never seem to hear it. Maybe it’s because I’m listening for it this time. The noise of the city seems to disappear the longer I spend out here.

I try to focus on the birds again. The leaves rustle gently somewhere in front of me, and then a snap startles me as a branch breaks off the old oak in the neighbors’ garden. A few weeks ago, lightning struck the tree, and since then, as the wetness of summer rains creeps beneath the bark and deep into the wood, it has started breaking. I wonder how old this tree is—older than me, at least. A hundred? Two? Now it stands dying, shedding its branches and bark day by day.  

A train rushes by, and I feel myself pulled away from the oak and the birds and the rustling leaves once more. Out here, two worlds collide—the tranquility of the natural environment, in the little oasis my mother has built; and the roar of the city beyond, far enough away that I cannot see it, but close enough that it is never truly silent.

Water drips behind me, gathered on the wine leaves from the night before. A single breeze whispers through the air and makes a windchime sing.

All my life, the sound of nature and the noise of humans have felt irreconcilable to me, like the slightest hum of a car’s engine was enough to break the peace of a natural environment. And in the beginning, when I sat down to listen to my surroundings and write, the roar of the highway and the train rushing over the tracks irritated me, made me feel like somehow, they ruined the experience for me. I didn’t want to listen to trains and cars, I thought; I wanted to hear the birds and the wind and the whispering leaves. But the longer I stay out here and listen, the more these two worlds, natural and unnatural, blend together to create one big orchestra. Harris talks about a language that the environment speaks, an alphabet that we, with enough time and practice, might be able to decipher (39). When I first sat down to listen, I heard two different languages trying to talk over one another, neither able to fully focus on one or the other. Every time I thought I was close to understanding one language, the other rose up to drown out any words I might have made out.

I try to remember the last time I heard the sound of nature without any human influence, and realize that I can’t. Whether on distant islands or deep in the Swiss Alps, there has always been unnatural noise mixed with natural sound. If I was far enough away to escape the highways and trains, I was not far enough to escape airplanes flying overhead, or the thrum of someone’s drone. And if I was far enough to escape even that, I was never far enough to escape the noise of other humans, their distant conversations or footsteps crunching on the path, or even my own breathing.

There is no separating the natural from the human world. I realize this as I sit in the garden I grew up in, which I had always thought was a safe haven from the roar of the city, where no traffic noise was audible, but which I now realize was never separate. It was never the absolute absence of human noise that made this place a refuge, but the symphony of both worlds coming together, a meeting point in which they could coexist. And suddenly the noise of the highway doesn’t bother me anymore; if I listen for long enough, it almost sounds like the rush of the wind, or even, almost, the distant sound of waves. It doesn’t feel so unnatural here, so far away from the source that it becomes almost indecipherable. Instead, it underlines the song of the birds, coming together with the gentle rustling of the wind to create a musical backdrop. When the next train rushes by, I welcome it. The sound is a reminder that even though I’m isolated here, encapsulated in dense forest, I’m still connected to the city, and to my surprise, I find the thought comforting.

Reference:

Harris, Wilson. “The Music of Living Landscapes”.

[literaturessound]

Soundscape by Lenneke Wolf 

I remove my headphones for this exercise, ready to observe. I have written a short list of thoughts on texts I have read for this course in the last few months. I am waiting for the bus, on the route I travel almost daily, and have decided to listen intentionally to the sounds of my commute.

As I take them off, my ears transition suddenly from the artificial silence of polyester foam to a bombardment of sounds. The street is busy, filled with the overlapping roar of passing cars, the periodic screech of the train on the tracks across from me, and the low hum of the city. The impression is overwhelming; I feel disoriented by all the layered sounds as I attempt to parse them. My headphones suddenly seem protective, a barrier between my thoughts and the deluge of noise. I wonder whether this has been the purpose they have been serving when I wear them in the city, subconsciously protecting myself from the commotion. 

I pause, refocus. It is then that individual sounds creep out from beneath the cacophony. The whistle of air through the roof of the bus stop, the clatter of a single bicycle as it passes. A stranger laughing behind me, on the left. A woman takes a seat beside me with a quiet sigh, and rustles in her bag. She unwraps plastic wrapping of some kind, maybe a bag of snacks. The sound is distinct. Schafer states: “Increase in the intensity of sound output is the most striking characteristic of the industrialized soundscape” (Schafer, 77). I certainly feel overwhelmed by the intensity of the soundscape I occupy in this moment. In the context of the sounds I hear, another of Shafer’s theories springs to mind – he argues that the “flat continuous line in sound” (Schafer, 78) is not a natural occurrence, but an artificial byproduct of industry. I consider that most predominantly, it is the sounds of industry I am surrounded by – overwhelming, continuous sounds that swallow the nuance of other noises. The steady roar of engines driving by in constant flux, an ever-present hum of machinery that I cannot locate precisely. I wonder distantly if there is air-conditioning running somewhere, which would explain the hum. Sitting there, I try to imagine what sounds hide beneath the growl of the cars and the thunder of the train… If the street were empty of traffic, would I be able to hear the trees rustle? The melodies of wind and leaves, the breath of the person beside me on the bench? These natural sounds have been overpowered by the continuous din of cars. I close my eyes, and try to find new sounds in the noise. Harris describes the “the implicit orchestra […] of living landscapes” (Harris, 43). He describes finding wild and natural sounds in any place, and how “[t]he wind changes over Tumatumari as it changes over Bayswater Road and in the orchestra of memory and place” (Harris, 44). Thus, I try to tune my ear to the melody of life that hides beneath the engines. The roar of the city becomes the roar of an ocean. The car horn is some kind of bird, screeching. Yet beyond these tenuous connections I cannot find nature in this cacophony. 

As I am wondering how to make a story of the barrage of noise, a man turns to me. He remarks in Berlin dialect that the bus is delayed, the second one in a row. Same as yesterday. I have not interacted with him before and am surprised at his comment. I smile, shrug a little, and watch him turn away again. I am supposed to be observing, but if I had been wearing headphones, this exchange would not have happened. Thus, I am now a participant in my soundscape, addressed directly. I wonder about objectivity, about whether this recording is ruined now. I keep recording and will later decide to use it anyway. There is something poetic in the tapestry of mechanical city noises coinciding with a single moment of connection, a stranger turning to commiserate about the state of public transport. 

I turn back to the noise of the street. It encases me, and as I concentrate on it, it leaves little room in my head for thoughts beyond observation. A car roars by like an angry animal: it will appear later as a sudden red spike on my recording, a single sound wave towering above the rest. I am jolted out of my passive state by it. I am reminded of Harris’ description of 1960s London: “Layer upon layer of noise drowning noise” (Harris, 41). Some things, it seems, have not changed in sixty years. City life remains deafening. Nonetheless, I am determined to observe something new, some small sound that is not easily recognized. But my bus comes before inspiration strikes, and I step inside. 

I am greeted by cool air, the atmosphere quiet and calm in comparison to the outside world. The door hisses shut behind me, and as the bus lurches forward, the beams of the central section groan before easing into motion. I ease into a seat with no perceptible sound, and listen to a couple converse quietly in front of me. They are planning their day, it seems. Tourists. As they complain about the traffic, the ten-minute delay, the unreliable public transport, I smile to myself. I feel strangely grateful for their quiet voices, the deferential hushed tones in which they speak. I have to focus to make out their words. They are the only thing I hear beyond the quiet rumble of the bus itself, and the occasional squeak of a shoe, or cough. None of the conversations in this bus are loud enough to understand without sitting right beside the person speaking. It is early, and I choose to imagine that we are all tired, all overwhelmed by the noise and the traffic. We all understand, it seems, the importance of quiet where you can find it. The man who commented on the bus delay has his eyes closed as he leans his head against the glass. Tomorrow, I will wear my headphones again. 

References 

Schafer, R. Murray. “The Industrial Revolution.” 

Harris, Wilson. “The Music of Living Landscapes.” 

[literaturessound]

Listening Walk by Elisabeth Kuhn

Before taking the course, I was not familiar with soundscapes, had not even come across the term in the context of literary studies. Especially the last couple of sessions have not only familiarized me with the soundscape but have also inspired me to write the following essay.

The two soundscapes we listened to during those sessions were both recorded in natural settings which was very pleasant to listen to. However, the reading material for those last couple sessions mostly mentioned sounds of the industrial revolution and of a certain sound pollution that came with it. All of that inspired me to listen more closely to my surroundings. I decided to take a walk through the city and record the sounds. I want to share my impressions, thoughts and feelings that occurred while walking and focusing specifically on listening.

Shafer speaks of an “overpopulation of sounds” that the modern world suffers from (71). Reading that sentence was the first impulse for me to choose the middle of Berlin as the setting for my soundscape. Where else would I be able to capture such an overpopulation of sounds if not in this bustling capital city? I chose a familiar route that I have walked many times before, mostly after my classes when I felt the need to stretch my legs before going home. I felt it would be interesting to listen closely to sounds that I have heard many times before yet never paid too much attention to. The first thing I noticed was the constant sound of cars driving by. The sound of their engines, the squeak of their wheels on the pavement. It never stops, so many cars coming and going, coming and going. I am reminded of Schafer’s description of the flat line in sound which he considers a “result of an increased desire for speed” (78). Interestingly, the steady sound of cars approaching, driving by me and then continuing off into the distance also remind me of waves at the beach, especially while I am listening to the recording afterwards. However, waves would have a calming effect on me, the sound of traffic does quite the opposite. Cars are not the only method of transport people are using. The clicking of bicycle wheels and chains blends into the soundscape every now and then. I am surprised that I find them more disruptive than the sounds of the cars that is easier to blend out even though it is louder, yet constant.

While I was walking, I kept overhearing snippets of conversations of the people passing me. They must have been tourists. They were walking slowly trying to take in the sights of the city. I registered a multitude of different languages; some I understood but most of them I did not. I listened intently to their voices. Some people were talking calmy between themselves. Others were very bold with their strong and loud voices, talking between their group, trying to be louder than the traffic. I began to feel overstimulated. I was taking notes while walking and recording and decided to use the word noise instead of sound at this point. The combination of all the sounds started to feel more like noise to me. I looked at my phone and noticed that the line of the recording was never smooth but instead always spiky and I found myself wishing for silence. Usually, I was thinking at that moment, I would put on my headphones and play music to drown out this noise and suddenly realized that that does not satisfy my desire for quiet. It only drowns out the unwanted and uncontrollable sounds with a different sound that I can control. I wrote down, “Our lives are so loud”.

As I was passing the Spree, I imagined that without the noise of traffic I might be able to hear water sounds which would feel more natural despite the Spree not looking natural at all. The only “natural” sound was the chirping of birds that I could overhear between one car driving off and the next one approaching. In a more natural setting, the chirping of birds might have been soothing. As a part of this soundscape however, they just blend into the accumulation of sounds without having any soothing or calming effect at all. As I was nearing the Alexanderplatz, the noise of traffic became more distant and was instead replaced by trains. The tram outside, the trains overhead and the rumbling of the subway beneath. It did not get quieter. There were the sounds of children playing by the fountains, music faintly drifting out of the shops coupled with the sound of their air conditioners. It was a hot day. The bells of the nearby church rang to indicate the full hour. A reminder of a time long gone. I wondered how this place might have sounded then, before the constant noise of the cars that I could still hear driving by in the distance. I realized that even though I was still aware of them and the Alexanderplatz was very noisy in other ways, it still felt like a relief when their sound was not as present anymore.

On my walk, I was thinking of Ione’s text, especially about the quote, “As you listen, the particles of sound decide to be heard. Listening affects what is sounding” (9). By deciding to listen more closely to my surroundings on a route that I have walked before, I was able to notice different sounds more clearly and at the same time form feelings and thoughts towards and about these sounds. The particles of sound, you could say, decided to be heard because I decided to listen. And much like Shafer at the end of the chapter “The Industrial Revolution”, I am wondering why there is not a bigger outcry against the loudness of our fast, capitalist way of life. Because that is what those sounds that I heard on my walk symbolized for me: the sounds of our developed world. And yet I am sure that I am not the only one who feels overstimulated by them. I am sure I am not the only one that is often trying to drown out the noise of our development with my Bluetooth noise-cancelling headphones which, ironically, resulted from technological development. I was left with these thoughts when I reached the train station and got on the train to go home.

References

Schafer, R. Murray. “The Industrial Revolution.” The Soundscape.

Ione. “As I Write I Listen.”

[literaturessound]

Literatures and Sound: Introduction by Wassan Ali

Literary sound studies engages with the relationship between text and sound. As Anna Snaith describes it, writing and reading literature are generally perceived as “silent, visual processes” (1). Snaith, however, counters the narrative of the silent text by positing literature as a site that functions not only on a semantic level, but also offers a sonic experience, whether the reader is prompted to recite the words aloud or to hear them inwardly, or whether the text conveys an acoustic level that cannot be reduced to meaning alone (2).

This approach to literary sound studies, which emphasises words as endowed with sonic effects, is perhaps especially relevant to poetry and jazz writing. When I started out this research, I had a vague notion that this would be my focus of interest, and theory on poetic and musical writing is featured in my research, but, as I have discovered, literary sound studies encompass much more.

Sound proves to be a useful tool in many of the texts in this tutorial, with which questions of meaning, voice and semiotics are approached. As Jonathan Sterne notes, looking at texts through the lens of sound offers a way to re-approach literature, to think the text anew and deconstruct its visual, sonic and semantic dimensions (6). In the introduction to The Sound Studies Reader, Sterne describes how W.E.B. Du Bois wanted to reshape racial discourse in the United States by turning to sound. Du Bois aimed to re-evaluate African American culture by defining the spiritual songs that had emerged out of enslavement as major and distinctly U.S.-American cultural expressions (2). With the concept of the Black Atlantic, Paul Gilroy too highlights how music and the “phatic and unspeakable” plays a prominent role in black culture on both sides of the Atlantic.

The relationship between race and sound also features in the books by Anthony Reed and Fred Moten, which both can broadly be described as dealing with sonic cultural productions that evade commodification by the white establishment as well as its racist gaze. While Reed focuses on the cultural scene around “phonographic poetry” (2), Moten discusses visual representations of blackness and the notion of subjectivity as historically fraught—whereby sound bears the potential to break with violent visual conventions.

While Du Bois recognised the cultural value of early African American music, Marie Thompson describes how the white establishment in the United States viewed jazz as raucous and unintelligible noise in its early days (28). Thompson’s Beyond Unwanted Sound underlines that the question of whether we label something as sound or as noise is a highly political one, since what can be considered intelligible and meaningful sound is ambiguous—any classification a matter of perspective.

The intelligibility of sound is at the heart of literary sound studies, and Adriana Cavarero formulates the relationship between meaning and non-meaning as a dichotomy between speech and voice, describing poetry as an area in which voice is privileged over speech (10). Mladen Dolar, on the other hand, considers the distinction between semantic meaning and sound to be untenable, since intonation, rhythm, etc., contribute to how we interpret utterances, and since even abstract sounds initiate processes of signification. Dolar argues that non-semantic language units can only be hypothesised about, as in research on phonological patterns, and that abstract sounds always involve a linguistic surplus that in some way entails meaning (544).

From a feminist point of view, Kaja Silverman addresses how the separation between semantic speech on the one hand and sonic inarticulations on the other, is informed by gender norms. Silverman’s The Acoustic Mirror demonstrates how women in Hollywood cinema have been denied representation as participants and creators of discourse by being relegated to the diegetic level of film, where they are portrayed as inarticulate and not in charge of their own speech (31). By dealing with the question of how women’s voices are recorded and whether in the final production the voice is synchronised with a body or superimposed as a voice-over, Silverman, like other theorists in the field of literary sound studies, highlights the significance of technology to our perception of sound. 

Another theorist who draws attention to the technological aspect of sound is Luca Soudant, whose experiments with a speaker system in an enclosed space, which cause objects to  vibrate at different frequencies, show that sound is tangible as well as audible (342-43). Soudant considers the philosophy of sound as an avenue for “trans*formative” thinking, since sound, like gender, is not rigid, but disseminates in a multidirectional and rhizomatic way as opposed to thinking that follows a linear and directional trajectory (344). In Soudant’s text, sound is closely linked to issues of spatial awareness, illustrating how socio-cultural conventions impose stillness on the feminine, while masculinity is granted the loudness and volume with which to take up space (339).

In The Soundscape, R. Murray Schafer also highlights sound as a marker of territory, pointing out that in historically quieter landscapes, in a time before industrialisation, the conspicuously loud sounds of the hunting horn and the church bell were tolerated because they were produced by those in positions of power (47, 67). As one of my early readings, Schafer’s book was of great use for learning the discourse of sound studies, and it is fitting that a book that sets out to raise awareness of the composition of our soundscapes, has sharpened my vocabulary on sound. Our access to sound involves language, as Anthony Reed notes—sound cannot be considered a “pure” presence but is always semantically charged and embedded in discourse (4), a tenet that resonates with literary sound studies generally.

Lastly, the issue of listening is relevant to research on literature and sound because, as Nicole Furlonge emphasises, in order to make oneself heard, one needs a listener (7). Furlonge depicts listening as a civic act that promotes processes of democratisation and sharpens interpretative skills of the “lower frequencies of representation” where, as she describes it, African American Literature is culturally situated (2). On a similar note, Roland Barthes and Roland Havas argue that dialogue, provided it involves speaking and listening, can be seen as transformative because it creates an intersubjective space (246).

Barthes, Roland et. al. “Listening.” Responsibility of Forms: Critical Essays on Music, Art, and Representation, edited by Editions du Seuil, University of California Press, 1991, pp. 245-60.

Cavarero, Adriana. For More Than One Voice: Toward a Philosophy of Vocal Expression, edited by Paul A. Kottman, Stanford University Press, 2005.

Furlonge, Nicole B. Race Sounds: The Art of Listening in African American Literature. University of Iowa Press, 2018.

Gilroy, Paul. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness. Verso, 1999.

Kittler, Friedrich A. Gramophone, Film, Typewriter. Stanford University Press, 1999.

Lowney, John. Jazz Internationalism: Literary Afro-Modernism and the Cultural Politics of Black Music. University of Illinois Press, 2017.

Moten, Fred. In the Break: The Aesthetics of the Black Radical Tradition. Univ. of Minnesota Press, 2003.

Perloff, Marjorie et al. The Sound of Poetry: The Poetry of Sound. The University of Chicago Press, 2009.

Reed, Anthony. Soundworks: Race, Sound, and Poetry in Production. Duke University Press, 2020.

Schafer, R. Murray. The Soundscape: Our Sonic Environment and the Tuning of the World. Destiny Books, 1994.

Silverman, Kaja. The Acoustic Mirror: The Female Voice in Psychoanalysis and Cinema. Indiana Univ. Press, 1988.

Snaith, Anna et al. Sound and Literature Cambridge University Press, 2020.

Soudant, Luca. “Transformative Thinking through Sound: Artistic Research in Gender and Sound Beyond the Human.” Open Philosophy, vol. 4, no. 1, 2021, pp. 335-46, doi:10.1515/opphil-2020-0189.

Sterne, Jonathan. The Sound Studies Reader. Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group, 2012.

Thompson, Marie. Beyond Unwanted Sound: Noise, Affect and Aesthetic Moralism. Bloomsbury Academic, 2017.