I just finished reading a novel I had previously “read” by listening. I approached this as an experiment. Would I catch more of the nuance when my eyes scanned ink on paper? Would I possess the story more fully?

The answer, so far, is inconclusive. While the spoken version brought forth the rhythm of the language, and the voice of the narrator captured its emotive power, the act of reading did what it always does for me: it created a private conversation between me and the author. It’s a conversation that seems more completely “mine” when there’s no middleman. 

The words of the novel, Cloud Cuckoo Land, say it better than I can: “Turn a page, walk the lines of the sentences: the singer steps out, and conjures a world of color and noise in the space inside your head.”