Spoken Word and Music
The Rise of Sonic Knowing in a Post-Literate World
By “post-literate,” I do not mean a disappearance of literacy, but a cultural shift in which long-form reading is no longer the dominant mode of knowing and books are no longer the primary medium for the acquisition of wisdom. Long-form, immersive reading is increasingly complemented—and in some contexts replaced—by shorter, more fragmented forms of engagement, as well as by auditory and visual media such as podcasts, videos, and conversational exchange. Much but not all of this is the result of digital technologies, including the rise of screen cultures and scroll cultures.
By “sonic knowing,” I mean ways of knowing that emerge through the spoken word: storytelling, dialogue, shared conversation in which people listen to and learn from one another, and music. These are forms of knowing that unfold in time, are carried by voice and sound, and are often relational, embodied, and participatory. These have been the dominant forms of knowing in human history, with long-form reading the privilege of an small but powerful elite. Most people did not have the time or capacity to engage in the practice, even if desired. Now these forms are returning in new forms, both live and digitalized.
In noting this shift to a post-literate world, I intend to be descriptive rather than prescriptive. There is something lost and something gained in the emerging sonic environment.
By “sonic knowing,” I mean ways of knowing that emerge through the spoken word: storytelling, dialogue, shared conversation in which people listen to and learn from one another, and music. These are forms of knowing that unfold in time, are carried by voice and sound, and are often relational, embodied, and participatory. These have been the dominant forms of knowing in human history, with long-form reading the privilege of an small but powerful elite. Most people did not have the time or capacity to engage in the practice, even if desired. Now these forms are returning in new forms, both live and digitalized.
In noting this shift to a post-literate world, I intend to be descriptive rather than prescriptive. There is something lost and something gained in the emerging sonic environment.
Ten Proposals
- We’re shifting from a text-centered culture to a more sonic and visual one.
- We need not privilege text over conversation—learning happens in dialogue, where ideas are felt as well as understood.
- Listening is as important as speaking—deep listening makes real understanding possible.
- Long-form reading still matters, but it’s becoming a minority, even countercultural practice, like contemplative prayer: a protest against hurriedness.
- The spoken word, like music, can be used to evoke violence and hatred, as well as love and virtue.
- We need to recover non-violent rhetoric as the art of speaking and listening well—integrating trust, feeling, and meaning.
- Truth can unfold in the spoken word—carried in voice, story, and shared experience.
- Truth can be heard in music, too, and for some there is more truth in music than in the written word.
- Logos has not disappeared—it has become audible: a pattern felt in time, carried in sound and completed in the act of listening.
- People can hear God even if they do not believe in God.
A Personal Discovery
I have always been a sonic learner. I have learned through spoken conversations, through music, and through listening to the sounds of nature. I have learned in other ways, too—through movement, visual displays, silent prayer, and books. But sonic learning has a special place in my life. It is a unique form of learning in its own right, and one very much on the rise.
I began to sense the uniqueness of such learning many years ago when I realized that most of my students did not read books, including those I assigned, and that it worked best to read short excerpts in class and then discuss them. The excerpts became prompts for conversation, and the knowing that emerged—individually and collectively—was carried in the spoken word and in the listening, not in the text itself. The knowing was, as it were, sonic knowing.
I realized this as well when I attended academic conferences and noticed the powerful difference between speakers who read from texts, looking down at the printed page, and those who spoke from notes in a conversational way, making contact with the audience. There was something living in their speaking—something immediate, relational, and responsive.
I saw it, too, in everyday life: on buses and trains, fewer and fewer people under thirty reading long-form books, and more and more listening to podcasts or music. In saying this, I do not want to demean the value of reading and printed words. There is something deeply relational in reading long-form books, whether fiction or non-fiction. We encounter other minds in the printed word, and there is something beautiful about that encounter.
The Power and Appeal of Voice
But I do want to suggest that, for good or ill—or both—sonic learning is on the rise in our culture, while long-form, immersive reading is gradually losing its central place. One reason for this is the rise of digital technologies, especially the smartphone, which gives rise to scroll culture; another is the rapid pace of so much modern life, where people have neither the time nor the habit of reading uninterruptedly for, say, an hour at a stretch; and still another is the gradual reshaping of attention itself, as habits formed by digital media favor shorter bursts of engagement over prolonged immersion.
A further factor is the growing appeal of voice itself—its immediacy, its warmth, its capacity to convey tone, mood, and personality in ways that written words often cannot. This appeal is especially important in an age in which loneliness has become widespread. There is a deep human need for warmth, presence, and connection.
It should also be remembered that reading itself is, in the long arc of human history, a relatively recent phenomenon, and that silent reading for pleasure is more recent still, historically available primarily to social elites. For most of human history, knowledge and wisdom have been carried in oral traditions.
• the storytelling of Jesus
• the dialogical investigations of Socrates
• the spoken teachings of Gautama Buddha
• the oral transmission of the Vedas
• the sorrow songs of enslaved African Americans
• Indigenous storytelling traditions preserving knowledge of land and ancestry
• the recitation of epic poetry such as the Iliad
—all of which sustain memory, identity, and wisdom through sound and performance rather than text. Seen in this light, the current turn toward voice is not simply a loss, but in some ways a return—albeit in new technological form—to older patterns of learning and communication.
What written texts on scrolls and parchment added was the storage of oral traditions so that they did not have to be remembered and performed and so that future generations could receive them. And what printed texts then added was the replication of such stored texts in scales available to masses of people. This was, in some ways, an evolutionary advance and in others a decline. We are living through a subtle but far-reaching shift in how knowledge is carried and shared. The shift is from a text-centered culture to an increasingly oral and visual one, itself a resurgence—now technologically mediated—of the ways knowledge was transmitted in times past, before print culture.
Increasingly, people turn not to books but to voices: to podcasts during morning walks, to audiobooks on long drives, to digital assistants that speak rather than display. At the same time, images, videos, and visual streams accompany and amplify this turn, creating a hybrid environment in which seeing and hearing intertwine. Alongside these changes is a growing yearning—not just for information, but for conversation: for spaces in which people can speak, listen, and be heard, where understanding emerges in the exchange itself.
I have always been a sonic learner. I have learned through spoken conversations, through music, and through listening to the sounds of nature. I have learned in other ways, too—through movement, visual displays, silent prayer, and books. But sonic learning has a special place in my life. It is a unique form of learning in its own right, and one very much on the rise.
I began to sense the uniqueness of such learning many years ago when I realized that most of my students did not read books, including those I assigned, and that it worked best to read short excerpts in class and then discuss them. The excerpts became prompts for conversation, and the knowing that emerged—individually and collectively—was carried in the spoken word and in the listening, not in the text itself. The knowing was, as it were, sonic knowing.
I realized this as well when I attended academic conferences and noticed the powerful difference between speakers who read from texts, looking down at the printed page, and those who spoke from notes in a conversational way, making contact with the audience. There was something living in their speaking—something immediate, relational, and responsive.
I saw it, too, in everyday life: on buses and trains, fewer and fewer people under thirty reading long-form books, and more and more listening to podcasts or music. In saying this, I do not want to demean the value of reading and printed words. There is something deeply relational in reading long-form books, whether fiction or non-fiction. We encounter other minds in the printed word, and there is something beautiful about that encounter.
The Power and Appeal of Voice
But I do want to suggest that, for good or ill—or both—sonic learning is on the rise in our culture, while long-form, immersive reading is gradually losing its central place. One reason for this is the rise of digital technologies, especially the smartphone, which gives rise to scroll culture; another is the rapid pace of so much modern life, where people have neither the time nor the habit of reading uninterruptedly for, say, an hour at a stretch; and still another is the gradual reshaping of attention itself, as habits formed by digital media favor shorter bursts of engagement over prolonged immersion.
A further factor is the growing appeal of voice itself—its immediacy, its warmth, its capacity to convey tone, mood, and personality in ways that written words often cannot. This appeal is especially important in an age in which loneliness has become widespread. There is a deep human need for warmth, presence, and connection.
It should also be remembered that reading itself is, in the long arc of human history, a relatively recent phenomenon, and that silent reading for pleasure is more recent still, historically available primarily to social elites. For most of human history, knowledge and wisdom have been carried in oral traditions.
• the storytelling of Jesus
• the dialogical investigations of Socrates
• the spoken teachings of Gautama Buddha
• the oral transmission of the Vedas
• the sorrow songs of enslaved African Americans
• Indigenous storytelling traditions preserving knowledge of land and ancestry
• the recitation of epic poetry such as the Iliad
—all of which sustain memory, identity, and wisdom through sound and performance rather than text. Seen in this light, the current turn toward voice is not simply a loss, but in some ways a return—albeit in new technological form—to older patterns of learning and communication.
What written texts on scrolls and parchment added was the storage of oral traditions so that they did not have to be remembered and performed and so that future generations could receive them. And what printed texts then added was the replication of such stored texts in scales available to masses of people. This was, in some ways, an evolutionary advance and in others a decline. We are living through a subtle but far-reaching shift in how knowledge is carried and shared. The shift is from a text-centered culture to an increasingly oral and visual one, itself a resurgence—now technologically mediated—of the ways knowledge was transmitted in times past, before print culture.
Increasingly, people turn not to books but to voices: to podcasts during morning walks, to audiobooks on long drives, to digital assistants that speak rather than display. At the same time, images, videos, and visual streams accompany and amplify this turn, creating a hybrid environment in which seeing and hearing intertwine. Alongside these changes is a growing yearning—not just for information, but for conversation: for spaces in which people can speak, listen, and be heard, where understanding emerges in the exchange itself.
Observations
Conversation as Primary, Text as Support
It is important not to privilege printed script over oral conversation. Learning occurs in both ways, and each has its own integrity. In many settings—classrooms, communities, and public life—the most vital understanding arises in dialogue, where ideas are tested, clarified, and deepened. But more than this, through voice and tone a certain warmth of connection is established; knowing becomes more embodied, and the significance of ideas is not only understood but felt. In such cases, the script is best understood as serving the conversation: as a prompt, a guide, or a resource that supports the living process of shared inquiry, rather than replacing it.
Voice and Image for Communicating Wisdom
It is important to recognize that some of the most important insights of our time—especially those bearing on the future of humanity—may be communicated most effectively through voice and visual imagery, rather than through text alone. Issues such as ecological crisis, social fragmentation, and spiritual disorientation are not only matters of information but of feeling, perception, and imagination. They often require forms of communication that can carry urgency, nuance, and emotional resonance—forms that engage the whole person and invite participation, not just analysis.
Listening as a Discipline
It is important to recognize that in sonic knowing, listening is as important as speaking. Indeed, the quality of what is spoken depends in part on the quality of listening that surrounds it. Listening is not passive reception but an active, attentive openness to others—a willingness to be affected, to be changed, and to respond. In this sense, listening is a form of participation in the shared creation of meaning. In a culture increasingly shaped by voice, the cultivation of deep listening may be one of the most important disciplines of all, enabling not only understanding but also empathy, connection, and the possibility of genuine dialogue.
Reading as Contemplative Practice
It is important to recognize that long-form, immersive reading, as valuable as it remains, is becoming a minority—and perhaps even countercultural—practice. It offers a distinctive way of communicating across time and space, linking minds in a quiet, sustained encounter, and it embodies something of the spirit of contemplative prayer and meditation: a slowing down, a deep attentiveness, a receptive openness to what is being given. It is one way—but not the only way—of reclaiming our capacities for attention. Sonic knowing, too, can become a path of attentiveness: not through stillness and silence, but through listening, presence, and the shared unfolding of meaning in time.
The Renewal of Rhetoric
It is important to recover the discipline of rhetoric—not as manipulation, but as the art of speaking and listening well. In a culture increasingly shaped by voice, the capacity to communicate with clarity, integrity, and responsiveness becomes ever more important. This includes not only the crafting of words, but the cultivation of presence, tone, timing, and attentiveness to others. At its best, rhetoric integrates what Aristotle called ethos, pathos, and logos: trustworthiness of the speaker, emotional resonance, and intelligible coherence. In an age of sonic knowing, rhetoric is not a lost art but a necessary discipline—one that can help ensure that the growing power of voice serves understanding rather than manipulation, and dialogue rather than division.
Hearing Truth, Hearing Logos
In theology and philosophy, truth has often been associated with texts—scriptures, treatises, arguments carefully laid out on the page. These remain indispensable. And yet, truth has never been confined to writing alone. It has also been carried in stories told aloud, in conversations between teachers and students, in sermons, chants, and shared acts of reflection. In such settings, truth is not simply presented; it is enacted, received, and felt in the living exchange between persons.
This is where the transformation of logos becomes especially important. Logos has traditionally been associated with reasoned discourse, often expressed in written form. But in a culture shaped increasingly by voice, logos is not lost—it is heard. It emerges as a pattern unfolding in time, grasped not only through analysis but through attentive listening. Its coherence is not merely seen on the page but experienced in the movement of speech, in the rhythm of ideas as they develop, and in the relational space between speaker and listener. In this sense, logos becomes something completed in the act of listening—a shared event rather than a fixed structure.
This is where the transformation of logos becomes especially important. Logos has traditionally been associated with reasoned discourse, often expressed in written form. But in a culture shaped increasingly by voice, logos is not lost—it is heard. It emerges as a pattern unfolding in time, grasped not only through analysis but through attentive listening. Its coherence is not merely seen on the page but experienced in the movement of speech, in the rhythm of ideas as they develop, and in the relational space between speaker and listener. In this sense, logos becomes something completed in the act of listening—a shared event rather than a fixed structure.
Hearing Logos in Music
If logos can be heard in speech, it can also be heard in music. Music is not merely an adornment to thought; it is itself a mode of intelligibility. In melody, harmony, rhythm, and form, patterns emerge that can be followed, felt, and understood—without being reduced to propositions. A piece of music unfolds in time, inviting the listener into a coherence that is grasped not by analysis alone but by participation. We recognize tension and release, contrast and integration, anticipation and fulfillment. In this sense, music discloses a kind of logos: an order that is dynamic rather than static, experiential rather than abstract.
This suggests that logos need not be confined to language. It can be embodied in sound itself, in patterns that carry meaning through feeling. When we listen attentively, music becomes a teacher. It trains the ear—and the heart—to perceive relationships, to dwell with complexity, and to sense unity amid diversity. In a culture rediscovering sonic ways of knowing, music offers a powerful reminder that reason can be heard as well as read, and that understanding can arise through resonance as much as through argument.
This suggests that logos need not be confined to language. It can be embodied in sound itself, in patterns that carry meaning through feeling. When we listen attentively, music becomes a teacher. It trains the ear—and the heart—to perceive relationships, to dwell with complexity, and to sense unity amid diversity. In a culture rediscovering sonic ways of knowing, music offers a powerful reminder that reason can be heard as well as read, and that understanding can arise through resonance as much as through argument.
Hearing God through Sound
Not everyone believes in God, at least not in the sense of assenting to verbal propositions about a divine reality. And yet it may still be possible to hear God. If knowing can occur through sound, through presence, through the felt coherence of what is shared, then the divine may be encountered in similar ways—not only in doctrines or arguments, but in experience.
God, in this sense, may be heard in meaningful conversations where something more than information is exchanged—where there is depth, connection, and a sense of truth emerging between people. God may be heard in music, in the movement of sound that carries beauty, longing, tension, and resolution. God may be heard in the sounds of nature—in wind, water, birdsong—where the world itself seems to speak in patterns that invite attention and wonder.
This does not require agreement about concepts or creeds. One may question or reject theological claims and still be open to what is disclosed in sound. To hear God, in this sense, is not necessarily to name God, but to be attuned to a presence that can be felt in the resonance of life itself—in those moments when what we hear carries a depth of meaning that exceeds what can be said.
God, in this sense, may be heard in meaningful conversations where something more than information is exchanged—where there is depth, connection, and a sense of truth emerging between people. God may be heard in music, in the movement of sound that carries beauty, longing, tension, and resolution. God may be heard in the sounds of nature—in wind, water, birdsong—where the world itself seems to speak in patterns that invite attention and wonder.
This does not require agreement about concepts or creeds. One may question or reject theological claims and still be open to what is disclosed in sound. To hear God, in this sense, is not necessarily to name God, but to be attuned to a presence that can be felt in the resonance of life itself—in those moments when what we hear carries a depth of meaning that exceeds what can be said.
Process Philosophy as Sonic Philosophy
Process philosophy invites us to understand reality not as a collection of static things but as a web of events—dynamic, relational, and unfolding in time. From this perspective, the universe and life on Earth, in both their subjective and objective dimensions, are best understood as processes of becoming. And if this is so, then the world of sound—especially music—may offer a particularly fitting way of presenting what the universe, and we ourselves, are like in our essential natures.
Sound is not a thing; it is an event. It exists only as it happens, as a pattern unfolding in time, as a relation between source and listener. In this respect, sound mirrors the character of reality as process philosophy understands it. A melody is not a static object but a sequence of tones whose meaning emerges in their temporal relation. A chord is not a fixed entity but a resonance—a togetherness of tones held in tension and harmony. Likewise, the world is composed not of isolated substances but of relational events whose significance arises in their interconnections.
This does not require a denial of subjectivity—quite the contrary. In process thought, all actualities are subjects, not merely objects. But these subjects are not best understood as fixed entities or enduring substances. They are moments of experience, acts of becoming. They are, in a sense, verbs rather than nouns. The “I,” the ego, is not a static thing but a process—a pattern of experience unfolding moment by moment. And so it is with every “I,” with every center of experience, whether atomic or molecular, terrestrial or galactic.
Seen in this light, music becomes more than an art form; it becomes a metaphor—or even a manifestation—of the nature of reality itself. It reveals a world in which identity is not fixed but emergent, in which meaning arises through relation, and in which coherence is something felt in time. To listen deeply to music is, perhaps, to glimpse the deeper structure of the universe: not a machine made of parts, but a living composition—an ongoing, improvisational event in which we, too, are participants.
Sound is not a thing; it is an event. It exists only as it happens, as a pattern unfolding in time, as a relation between source and listener. In this respect, sound mirrors the character of reality as process philosophy understands it. A melody is not a static object but a sequence of tones whose meaning emerges in their temporal relation. A chord is not a fixed entity but a resonance—a togetherness of tones held in tension and harmony. Likewise, the world is composed not of isolated substances but of relational events whose significance arises in their interconnections.
This does not require a denial of subjectivity—quite the contrary. In process thought, all actualities are subjects, not merely objects. But these subjects are not best understood as fixed entities or enduring substances. They are moments of experience, acts of becoming. They are, in a sense, verbs rather than nouns. The “I,” the ego, is not a static thing but a process—a pattern of experience unfolding moment by moment. And so it is with every “I,” with every center of experience, whether atomic or molecular, terrestrial or galactic.
Seen in this light, music becomes more than an art form; it becomes a metaphor—or even a manifestation—of the nature of reality itself. It reveals a world in which identity is not fixed but emergent, in which meaning arises through relation, and in which coherence is something felt in time. To listen deeply to music is, perhaps, to glimpse the deeper structure of the universe: not a machine made of parts, but a living composition—an ongoing, improvisational event in which we, too, are participants.
Popular Music as Everyday Mysticism
In a culture increasingly shaped by sonic forms of knowing, popular music takes on a significance that goes beyond entertainment. For many people, it functions as an occasion for entering into altered or heightened states of consciousness—sometimes subtle, sometimes intense, often brief, yet nevertheless meaningful. In listening to music, people may find themselves transported: absorbed in rhythm, carried by melody, opened by harmony, or moved by lyrics that resonate with their own experience. These moments can involve a loosening of ordinary self-consciousness and a heightened sense of presence—what might be called, in a modest sense, a form of everyday or democratized mysticism.
This mysticism is not confined to religious institutions or formal practices. It is widely available, accessible through headphones, concerts, shared playlists, and communal listening. It does not require assent to doctrines or participation in structured rituals. And yet, it can evoke experiences that are recognizably spiritual: a sense of unity, of connection, of intensity, of being carried beyond oneself while also being more deeply oneself. In this way, music becomes a medium through which people can encounter depth—however they may interpret it.
At the same time, popular music plays a crucial role in the formation of identity and the cultivation of belonging. Musical taste is rarely neutral; it is a way of situating oneself in the world. To identify with a genre, an artist, or even a particular song is often to align oneself with a set of moods, values, and sensibilities. Concerts, festivals, and even online communities become spaces of shared recognition, where people experience themselves as part of a larger “we.” In this sense, music does not simply express identity—it helps create it.
From the perspective of sonic knowing, this dual role of music is especially significant. It is both inward and outward: a pathway into altered consciousness and a bridge into community. It shapes how people feel, how they understand themselves, and how they relate to others. In a world where traditional sources of meaning and belonging are often fragmented, popular music has become one of the most accessible and powerful sites in which people experience depth, connection, and, in some sense, the sacred.
This mysticism is not confined to religious institutions or formal practices. It is widely available, accessible through headphones, concerts, shared playlists, and communal listening. It does not require assent to doctrines or participation in structured rituals. And yet, it can evoke experiences that are recognizably spiritual: a sense of unity, of connection, of intensity, of being carried beyond oneself while also being more deeply oneself. In this way, music becomes a medium through which people can encounter depth—however they may interpret it.
At the same time, popular music plays a crucial role in the formation of identity and the cultivation of belonging. Musical taste is rarely neutral; it is a way of situating oneself in the world. To identify with a genre, an artist, or even a particular song is often to align oneself with a set of moods, values, and sensibilities. Concerts, festivals, and even online communities become spaces of shared recognition, where people experience themselves as part of a larger “we.” In this sense, music does not simply express identity—it helps create it.
From the perspective of sonic knowing, this dual role of music is especially significant. It is both inward and outward: a pathway into altered consciousness and a bridge into community. It shapes how people feel, how they understand themselves, and how they relate to others. In a world where traditional sources of meaning and belonging are often fragmented, popular music has become one of the most accessible and powerful sites in which people experience depth, connection, and, in some sense, the sacred.
Oral Tradition and Oracy
Oracy - the ability to express oneself fluently - has been included in plans to modernise the national curriculum, with a new focus on equipping young people with the skills they need for life and work. In Radio 4's round-table discussion programme, Anne McElvoy and guests look at how you teach oracy and explore the value of passing on traditional knowledge using methods like songs and poems. Joining Anne are:
Reetika Subramanian is based at the University of East Anglia and is currently a researcher in residence with BBC Radio 4. She hosts the Climate Brides podcast and studies women’s work songs as records of environmental change
Edith Hall, Professor of Classics at Durham University who champions the use of Classical rhetoric to foster oracy in schools
Philip Collins, former speechwriter to Tony Blair
Edith and Philip have taken part in Our Public House, a theatre performance staged by Dash Arts that builds on workshops with over 700 people nationwide who shared their visions for our nation's future.
Stephen Batchelor, secular Buddhist teacher and writer and author of Buddha, Socrates and Us: Ethical Living in Uncertain Times, published by Yale University Press (2025).
Tom F. Wright, historian of rhetoric at the University of Sussex
Producer: Eliane Glaser