Writers are notoriously noise-averse, perhaps none more so than the historian Thomas Carlyle. “SILENCE, SILENCE: in a thousand senses I proclaim the indispensable worth of Silence, our only safe dwelling-place ­often,” he wrote a friend in 1840. A few years later, after his neighbor in London’s Chelsea district added a flock of “demon fowl” to his yard, Carlyle resolved to defend himself against the clamor of roosters, organ grinders, the neighbor’s piano, etc., by adding a floor to his house for a sound-proof study. It didn’t work: with certain sounds shut out, others became more audible — distant whistles among them. “The silent room is the noisiest room in the house,” his wife, Jane, observed.

So it might not surprise that a writer has just come out with a book about the problem of noise. But what does it mean that three have done so, within barely a month? Has a sonic tipping point been reached?

I do know that each of these writers had me saying, “I know just what you mean,” within the first few pages. With George Michelsen Foy, it was a moment, described in the first paragraphs of “Zero Decibels,” that took place on the uptown platform of the Broadway local at the 79th Street station. A perfect storm of subway noise enveloped him when all four trains (two express and two local) screamed through the station at the same time. He put his hands over his ears “and screwed my face into the scrunched expression of a root-canal patient. I usually despise people who do that on subway platforms, . . . who cough if someone is smoking across the street, who wear cardigans and bicycle clips; for God’s sake, if you’re so delicate, move to an ashram! But here I was doing the same thing.”

With George Prochnik, it came on the second page of “In Pursuit of Silence,” when he says he has had a “passion for quiet as long as I can remember.” Worried that he’s a borderline “noise crank,” he admits to having “snitched on contractors who started work early” and “battled neighbors who hold large parties.” “My most notorious moment,” he confesses, “occurred when I called our cable company to come check out the volume of sound that the DVR made when it was turned off. I wasn’t home when the cable man showed up, and my wife was forced to try and help him make out the faint clicking projecting from deep inside the machine. (“There can you — there, no — wait, I think that’s it. . . .) It’s an incident I will never live down.” (Reviewer’s confession: I can relate to Prochnik because I did exactly the same thing, for exactly the same reason.)