My earliest memory of being read to as a child involves my father gleefully reading AA Milne while stretched out on my little bed, his shoes disappearing over the edge. His enthusiasm was infectious. I still know the poem Happiness by heart: “John had great big waterproof boots on …” Milne’s collection When We Were Very Young marked the beginning of my reading journey and has a place on my bookshelf to this day.
I passed on my love of literature to my daughter, who, like me, took over her own reading duties from a young age. My sons were more reluctant but loved being read to well into their teens. Harry Potter on cassette – and Stephen Fry’s narration – saved us from murdering each other on many a long road trip, although homicide was a distinct possibility the year I accidentally bought the Jim Dale version.
Therein lies the secret of the audiobook experience.
Our inner narrator – the voice in our heads that has served us well throughout a lifetime of reading – is replaced by a flesh-and-blood version. An audiobook narrator has the power to enhance or diminish our reading experience.
A shining example is Sarah Winman’s 2021 novel Still Life. Opening in Florence during the second world war, it’s a love story infused with the kind of magic realism that almost makes you believe in a talking tree – if only you listened hard enough.
The author narrates her own book and it is superlative. She is an accomplished screen actor and it shows in her slightly nuanced accent for each character, which helps in distinguishing the large cast without being cloying.
Equally, an ill-matched voice has the potential to ruin an otherwise rollicking read. The narrator of Boy Swallows Universe tested my nerves to such an extent that I opted instead for the hard copy. I’m grateful for the free trial. The five-minute sample was enough to convince me I was better off with my inner narrator and she did a fine job. Boy Swallows Universe remains one of my favourite books.
I quote these two examples every time someone asks for audiobook recommendations. My book clubs are usually aflame with debate – but when it comes to audiobooks, there’s often consensus on who is and isn’t a good narrator.
This isn’t always the case, however. When the narrator for Richard Osman’s very successful Thursday Murder Club series changed midway through, pandemonium ensued. Osman employs a winning Agatha Christie-esque formula for his novels: an eccentric cast of four septuagenarian main characters, a cosy village setting and murder most foul, but with an edge. The first two instalments were narrated by Lesley Manville – whom I immediately pictured playing the unworldly Joyce, one of the central quartet – to universal book club approval.
An unexpected new narrator for books three and four hit many readers hard. To me, the replacement choice was inspired: Fiona Shaw, who played a chilly MI6 leader in Killing Eve, could easily take on the role of retired spy operative Elizabeth in any Thursday Murder Club adaptation. And yet Shaw’s unheralded appearance was still met with shock and disdain in my book communities – the levels of which I have not seen since Dale replaced Fry on the Hume Highway heading north.
Arguments about who narrated it best are the bread and butter of audiobook nerds everywhere. What we can agree on – backed up by recent research – is that both listening to and reading a book stimulate the same cognitive and emotional parts of the brain.
Listening provides the same – if not better – comprehension as reading, especially if, like me, your eyesight is not what it once was. We can listen to an audiobook and stir the bolognese. Or prune the roses. The only thing we can’t do is annotate – a habit I acquired later in life and no longer apologise for.
The attraction of the audiobook is many and varied. For me, it comes back to memories of my father, Milne, John and his waterproof boots. And the belief that deep down we all still long to be read to.
