Ashamed of sound?

A recent NYTimes article chronicled the shaming that some people experience when they tell their book book group that they haven’t read the book, but rather they listened to it. Audiobooks, according to many, simply aren’t books. The true literary experience is something that has to be experienced on the page.

Here’s something to chew on: did original “readers” of Homer actually read the book? How about theatergoers of Shakespeare’s King Lear? And isn’t there a reason why poetry is often recited aloud? When I read the article I wanted to laugh; in my poetry classes there’s a great deal of concern for hearing readings of the poem, so that you can catch it in various lights according to varying verbal stresses. Some of my peers may actually forget the poem ever existed on a page, experiencing it only by listening to others or reciting it to themselves. Poetry and sound have traditionally gone hand-in-hand, the page being a sort of last resort, although some modern poets have broken with that trend. Having read numerous books aloud to Sydney and long sections to my own students, I’m going to make the assertion that much can also be gained from reading prose aloud. So often when I read a passage from Jane Austen’s books to my students, they laugh and say, “Oh, yeah, now I get it.” On the page it’s often too dense to wade through without getting lost, but verbal inflections can help to clarify the words’ relations to each other. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m more than skeptical of these claims to literary superiority, despite the fact that I like to rely on sight for my own literary experiences.

But I think these shame-inducers are getting at something else that’s quite important, and quite beside the point of audiobooks, per se. In today’s world we seem to think of things to read as ways to pass the time or convey information, and things to listen to as background noise. That’s one thing that always drove me nuts about performing music: you get the sense that today’s culture has trained your audience members to treat you as pleasant tinkling in the background, despite the austerely quiet hall, pricey ticket, and lighted stage. Think of elevator music, ipods at the gym, music to study by, and loud but muffled music at a party. They’re all attempts to smooth things over, to distract you but not demand your attention. In a world like this, I’m guessing it’s pretty difficult to focus on an audiobook. The backlash against the invention may not come with the item itself, but with the culture it fosters. Do I think the lady who listens to her book for the ten-minute drive to and from work is getting a great literary experience? Not a chance. But how about an elderly man who settles into a chair with a cup of tea, listens attentively, and applauds the new invention as an eyesight-saver? Literary experience, absolutely.

Erin