In , when another inventor, Lee de Forest, broadcast from the Metropolitan Opera House, hundreds of New Yorkers gathered at listening centers to put on earphones and hear the crackling, distorted voice of Enrico Caruso. Everyone else waited to read the results in the morning papers. In , when a New York City station played the first known radio advertisement, extolling the virtues of the Hawthorne Court Apartments, in Jackson Heights, Queens, there were some thirty radio stations in the whole country.
But radio technology was improving, in part because of innovations during the First World War, and after the war, listeners and broadcasters multiplied. By , there were more than five hundred radio stations; by , forty per cent of American households were tuning in to follow important events in real time, or listening to radio dramas, news, music, weather, and advertising.
A decade later, the figure was over eighty per cent. As it gained in popularity, the radio had its critics, perhaps none more resounding than the Swiss philosopher Max Picard, who was born in the late nineteenth century. For Picard, silence possessed its own reality. It is not the mere absence of speech. It is a positive, a complete world in itself. Silence was there first, before things. It is as though the forest grew up slowly after it.
A bird sings in the forest. That is not a sound directed against the silence; it is the bright glance falling from the eye of silence itself on to the forest. Picard reserved special scorn for the radio. The content hardly matters any longer; the production of noise is the main concern. Even when the radio is turned off the radio-noise seems to go on inaudibly. And as man is always frightened by remains, so he is frightened by the remains of silence.
One of the greatest and most powerful documentaries ever made.
When I was a child, growing up on a farm in Massachusetts, the radio marked regularities in my life. The day and week and weekend were divided into unwavering programming schedules. Late-night listening was distinct from that of the morning. I watched television in the living room, usually with my parents and brothers and sister, but the radio was mine, perched next to my ear as I lay in bed at night, the antenna canted toward the window to pick up the Boston stations.
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When the civil-rights activist and congressman John Lewis was young, the radio pointed him toward his future. He really could make his words sing. But even more than his voice, it was his message that sat me bolt upright with amazement. And yet the radio narrowed as effectively as it broadened. Female voices were uncommon in its early years, especially among announcers. But this meant that the absence of voices was also amplified, and that the underrepresented risked losing power all the more—another kind of silence.go here
Bolton says Iran silence on US talks offer 'deafening'
In the nineteen-thirties, Bertolt Brecht had a dream. So here is a positive suggestion: change this apparatus over from distribution to communication. Based on historical facts, "Silence" show the powerful Shogunate defending their religion and culture against the European Catholicism that promises easy paradise to the suffered Japanese workers that has to work lot to pay the taxes and survive.
The result is a good, but too long and tiresome film. My vote is seven. Visit Prime Video to explore more titles. Find showtimes, watch trailers, browse photos, track your Watchlist and rate your favorite movies and TV shows on your phone or tablet! IMDb More. Keep track of everything you watch; tell your friends.
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Silence (Marshmello song)
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In the 17th century, two Portuguese Jesuit priests travel to Japan in an attempt to locate their mentor, who is rumored to have committed apostasy, and to propagate Catholicism. Director: Martin Scorsese. From metacritic.
Yes, this is he whose plume was anciently the plume of justice; he whose comic duckling head on its great neck revolves with compass-needle nervousness when he stands guard, in S-like foragings as he is preening the down on his leaden-skinned back. The egg piously shown as Leda's very own from which Castor and Pollux hatched, was an ostrich-egg.
And what could have been more fit for the Chinese lawn it grazed on as a gift to an emperor who admired strange birds, than this one, who builds his mud-made nest in dust yet will wade in lake or sea till only the head shows. Six hundred ostrich-brains served at one banquet, the ostrich-plume-tipped tent and desert spear, jewel- gorgeous ugly egg-shell goblets, eight pairs of ostriches in harness, dramatize a meaning always missed by the externalist. The power of the visible is the invisible; as even where no tree of freedom grows, so-called brute courage knows.
Heroism is exhausting, yet it contradicts a greed that did not wisely spare the harmless solitaire or great auk in its grandeur; unsolicitude having swallowed up all giant birds but an alert gargantuan little-winged, magnificently speedy running-bird. This one remaining rebel is the sparrow-camel. Spenser's Ireland has not altered;-- a place as kind as it is green, the greenest place I've never seen. Every name is a tune.
Denunciations do not affect the culprit; nor blows, but it is torture to him to not be spoken to. They're natural,-- the coat, like Venus' mantle lined with stars, buttoned close at the neck,-the sleeves new from disuse. If in Ireland they play the harp backward at need, and gather at midday the seed of the fern, eluding their "giants all covered with iron," might there be fern seed for unlearn- ing obduracy and for reinstating the enchantment?
Hindered characters seldom have mothers in Irish stories, but they all have grandmothers. It was Irish; a match not a marriage was made when my great great grandmother'd said with native genius for disunion, "Although your suitor be perfection, one objection is enough; he is not Irish. When large dainty fingers tremblingly divide the wings of the fly for mid-July with a needle and wrap it with peacock-tail, or tie wool and buzzard's wing, their pride, like the enchanter's is in care, not madness. Concurring hands divide flax for damask that when bleached by Irish weather has the silvered chamois-leather water-tightness of a skin.
Silence by Marshmello on Spotify
Twisted torcs and gold new-moon-shaped lunulae aren't jewelry like the purple-coral fuchsia-tree's. Eire-- the guillemot so neat and the hen of the heath and the linnet spinet-sweet-bespeak relentlessness? Then they are to me like enchanted Earl Gerald who changed himself into a stag, to a great green-eyed cat of the mountain.