In Jean Paul Sartre's brilliant play "No Exit," three characters confined in a small, sparsely furnished, brightly lit room without windows and mirrors discover they have died and are now stuck with each other in hell.
They appear normal, but their eyelids have atrophied. They can neither close their eyes nor sleep, forever exposed to each other's gaze.
Now for another version of hell. Our anatomy is less forgiving. Sure, we have eyelids. Yet we lack ear-lids. Unless we are deaf, or resort to headphones or a strong dose of willpower and concentration, we can't close our ears.
The Federal Communications Commission voted in December to consider lifting its ban on in-flight vocal phone use. Apparently the ban's rationale — technical interference with ground and crew networks — is invalid. However, rather than ditch the rule, airlines and especially the Department of Transportation, tasked with safeguarding travelers' rights, must re-examine it from equally compelling angles.
To be blunt, in an airplane's cramped quarters, when we permit cellphone conversation, we each unwillingly become a giant Ear, captive eavesdroppers, a variation of Sartre's hell, albeit short-lived, in the "friendly skies."
The specter of fellow passengers barking into their phones lacerates moral sensitivity. First, etiquette aside and barring loud conversation, this imposes private worlds on others, transforming us into reluctant witnesses.
Next, profit comes from sound, not silence. So when the telecom conglomerates, wireless carriers and companies like Gogo Inc., the leading provider of in-flight Internet service, join hands with airlines, they can reap big profit at passengers' expense and discomfort.
Consider increased stress levels for passengers already under flight anxiety, having endured costs, crowds, lines, security checks and the white noise of gate announcements. This portends a cabin fever morphing into cabin rage.
A deeper stream feeds these issues — our noise hegemony. By noise, I mean sound that is dissonant, disruptive and intrusive, that forms our nearly inescapable background of traffic, machinery, and Incessant Human Chatter. We suffer from an epistemological, communicative prejudice against the "pathology" of silence. Revealing our cultural obsession with self-expression, where everything becomes a memoir, we feel the need to talk nonstop, in love with our own voices. We talk to remind ourselves we are not alone. I talk, therefore I exist. We speak with erasers, deleting any hint of silence. Note the absurd paradox of erasing silence.
Yet this silence offers a temporary retreat away from this scurrying world of noise. Having our quiet space, especially at 30,000 feet, allows us the possibility of reconnecting from within.
In a plane, we tolerate the uneasy collision of tight space and ubiquitous sound, resulting in what R. Murray Schafer, in his "Soundscape," calls a "sound sewer," which occurs "when a society trades it ears for its eyes." In-flight cellphone talk breeds a perverse gestaltian shift: Even with one talker, the typical backdrop of conversation now becomes front and center, shattering the possibility of quietude.
Will airlines turn a deaf ear to this insult on our privacy? Kudos to Southwest Airlines and Delta Air Lines, whose CEOs have so far firmly opposed in-flight mobile phone conversations.
When we are with ourselves, we set the stage for self-discovery. This capacity to be with ourselves, away from the crowd, is the litmus test of stability and maturity. It offers a vital time for reflection, enabling us to be in touch with our interior, with who we are. Are we willing and able? Only then can we reach deeply into ourselves and connect with the rich, inexpressible mystery that thunders in silence around us.
Brannigan is the Pfaff Endowed Chair in Ethics and Moral Values at The College of Saint Rose. His email address is michael.brannigan@strose.edu; his website is >www.michaelcbrannigan.com>.