“Books are a uniquely portable magic.”
Stephen King
I’ve been in more arguments about audiobooks than politics. And that’s saying something, because I’ve lived through at least three election cycles and one book club.
It usually starts the same way. Someone at dinner—usually the guy who uses “Kafka-esque” correctly—mentions what he’s reading. Then someone else, maybe me, says, “Oh yeah, I listened to that.”
And suddenly, I’ve committed a crime.
Not a big one, like tax fraud or forgetting to Venmo for nachos, but something worse in certain circles: the crime of pretending to read.
There’s a pause. The table tilts. Someone swirls their wine like they’re auditioning for “Sideways.”
“Oh,” they say, eyebrows raised. “So… you didn’t read it.”
I don’t know what happens next because I’ve blacked out from shame.
Here’s the thing: listening to a book is reading. It’s just reading with your ears. If that bothers you, maybe you’re just jealous that your ears can’t multitask.
I’ve listened to whole novels while doing dishes, cleaning the garage, and sitting in traffic—three situations where paper books perform terribly.
And yes, maybe I can’t highlight sentences or dog-ear pages. But I also don’t spill salsa on the dust jacket, so I feel like it evens out.
Plus, there’s something intimate about it. You haven’t lived until you’ve had Wil Wheaton whispering The Martian into your left ear while your right ear monitors the GPS yelling, “Turn right in 500 feet.”
People act like unless you’ve physically lifted the weight of the book, you haven’t earned it. Which is ridiculous. By that logic, you didn’t really watch a movie unless you developed the film yourself.
Stories are stories. The words go in your brain, and your brain does the thing. The rest is just equipment preference.
So yes, I read that book.
I just did it while folding laundry.
Which, frankly, makes me the more impressive human being.
