“This project began when a friend mentioned reading a book, then suddenly backtracked to confess that he had not actually read the book—he had listened to it. Listening to books is one of the few forms of reading for which people apologize. … I felt compelled to look into the roots of this shame” (pg. 1).
Lovers of literature have surely all heard the question, “do audiobooks count as reading?”
As a Talking Book librarian, even my patrons – comprised of those who are blind, low vision, and otherwise print-disabled — are prone to correct themselves. “I need some more books to read—I mean, to listen to,” is a common refrain.
Rubery arranges The Untold Story of the Talking Book into three parts, which reflect on the evolution of the recorded word: from Edison’s cylinders and phonographs, to the founding of National Library Service (NLS) and its cousin Royal National Institute of Blind People (RNIB) in the 1930s, to the boom of the commercial audiobook industry in the 20th century (pg. 20-24).
But Rubery does not simply recount the history of the talking book. While he favors reiteration to the point of repetition, his writing is accessible and well-structured. It is undoubtably an academic work (the book was published by Harvard University Press), but Rubery is as enamored with his subject as he seems to be with audiobooks themselves.
He quickly abandons the “reductive debate” about whether audiobooks count as reading and instead explores “what it means to read a book in the first place” (pg. 276). Rather than focus on physiological evidence (pg. 14-16), he reaches back into historical sources to let patrons of talking book libraries (NLS and RNIB) speak to their own experiences.
“Readers perceived the talking book both as a restoration of the ability to read” (for those who had lost their vision later in life), and “an altogether new way of reading” (pg. 145).
The quotations from those readers were the highlight of the book for me. There was not a single comment from a historical patron that felt out of place for 2025; I have heard almost everything from my own contemporary patrons. The only comment I have yet to hear is that talking books allow patrons to “lie down, put on my head phones, light a cigarette or pipe, and enjoy the world’s finest drama” (pg. 84) — although I do understand the sentiment.
I read this book both in print and in audio: in print, because it was available to me and because it is easier to cite from print, and in audio because I could listen at 1.5x speed and finish it quickly (necessary, because I confess I’d forgotten that it was my turn for a write-up).
Because this is an academic text, in-text citations are prevalent. In the print, Rubery does not use footnotes. Instead, one needs to flip back and forth to the Notes at the end of the book to get the full story. However, in the NLS-produced audiobook, the notes (where they are not simply citations) are included directly in the narrative stream.
This highlighted what Rubery emphasizes about talking books, and what historical and modern patrons champion: access to the same information, regardless of whether one is blind or sighted. Although Rubery probably had little to do with the audiobook’s production, it felt like a little wink. Another wink comes from the fact that John Lescault narrates instead of Rubery; in the Introduction, Rubery comments that “authors who are mediocre readers can be especially disillusioning,” and “professionals are nearly always superior readers to the book’s author and—I’m reluctant to admit—to me” (pg. 10). Lescault, I think Rubery would likely agree, is the perfect fit for this book.
If you are a patron of the Nebraska Talking Book and Braille Service, you can borrow the audiobook from our collection or download it — and many of the books mentioned in it — on BARD. It is also available in braille.
It is, ironically, a little less accessible to print readers – WorldCat suggests that its holdings are mostly limited to academic libraries.
Rubery, Matthew. The Untold Story of The Talking Book. Harvard University Press, 2017.
