I’ve talked a little about audio books in my bookstore blog, but here I’d like to blather on about narration. The disadvantages of audio books might, in some cases, be more than made up for by excellent narrators. I’m thinking in particular of the heart-breaking narration of Susan Lyons, whose accent and childlike wonder bring Matilda so richly to life in Mister Pip. I have to wonder if I would have stuck with this novel – it begins in a very sort of Heart of Darkness mode – if I’d been reading it on the page without that ingenuous sweet child’s voice describing village life, and how, when the war begins, a disreputable expat named Mister Watts takes over the abandoned classroom, and gives “us kids” a reading of Dickens’ masterpiece, fires their imaginations and gives them hope. Good narration is so crucial – you need a professional actor. And possibly a director. The audio book of Mister Pip had both.
Another beautifully narrated audio book was Geraldine Brook’s People of the Book, a historical fiction about the Sarajevo Haggadah. That narrator, Edwina Wren, was required to master about a dozen accents, and acquitted herself admirably indeed.
Though there probably are exceptions, I think that the worst thing an author can do is to read his/her own work. In almost every case, this is a very bad idea. I have turned off self read books galore – David Rakoff and Augusten Burroughs to name two.
Anne Lamott, whom I adore, narrates her own spiritual memoir, Travelling Mercies. Bad mistake. The flatness renders her heart-wrenching prose dull. Barbara Kingsolver on Animal, Vegetable, Miracle is somewhat better but still, you guys, get a pro. Spend a buck.
