Confessions of an Audiobook Addict

As a compulsive reader of physical books, I tend to cue up an audiobook not so much as a sonic counterpart to print but as a portable verbal atmosphere to accompany some errand or everyday hustle. I don’t drive and haven’t had a valid driver’s license in twenty years, so I never have the opportunity to tackle, say, all of “Beowulf” or “Don Quixote” during a regular commute. But I’ve taken in “The Waste Land” while waiting in line at the post office, listened to Richard Feynman explain electromagnetism on the 7 train out to Citi Field, heard Marx anatomize the commodity form while walking trails in Van Cortlandt Park, had Iris Murdoch’s swirling sentences in my earbuds while ordering an everything bagel (lightly toasted). Once at a Key Food in Riverdale, I became so entranced by the mellifluous unctuousness of Jeremy Irons reading “Lolita” that, in my fugue state, the names of the different Triscuit varieties on the shelves were mystically annexed to Humbert Humbert’s monologue: “Ladies and gentleman of the jury, fire-roasted tomato, smoked gouda, hint of sea salt, avocado cilantro and lime.”