My friend James is a brilliant actor.  When asked in a recent interview about his career preferences, he said he loved Shakespeare best.  He said it was all about the words and how they feel in his mouth.  I’ve also come to believe that when you hear Shakespeare’s words spoken, it’s all about how the words feel in your ears, too – and your heart and mind, how they resonate through your whole body and being.

Of course, Shakespeare wrote his words to be spoken aloud – to be heard from the mouths of skilled actors.  But perhaps its a phenomenon of most well-written works – they take on new depth and connection when we read them aloud to each other.

I suspect most of us were read to as children – by mothers and fathers, babysitters and teachers, perhaps older siblings.  If we were lucky, they read to us from classic childhood novels and sometimes serialized stories printed in magazines.  Most were without pictures; the stories were created solely by the magic of the words themselves – words that became like shadows on the wall, animated and brought to life by the readers’ voices and our own personal imaginations.

Being read to out loud is one of the lasting pleasures of childhood we never seem to outgrow.  I suspect it’s the reason for the ongoing attraction of audio books and author book readings, poetry nights at the library and Shakespeare in the park.  I know couples who read aloud to each other on car trips and in bed at night and by firelight on cold afternoons and by flashlight in camping tents.

I think most authors would be pleased with the idea of their words being read aloud.  There’s no skipping ahead or speed-reading without meaning or tone, no jumping to the last page first.  The story unfolds the way it was meant to, the way it was put down on paper (usually with pencil or pen in hand scratching softly along the page), slowly, deliberately, with great thought and care, from beginning to end.  And then it receives the added voice and texture of the reader – colored as well by the sensitivity and curiosity and personal experience of the listener.  And the possibilities of it grow beyond the author, beyond the printed page.

There is a saying that I greatly appreciate (thoughts about the origin of this saying are rather mixed – variously attributed to a small child, a contemporary author, an ancient culture, even some Biblical texts).  But the saying is this:  “You can tell when a person loves you by they way they say your name; your name feels safe in their mouth.”

Perhaps there is something of this same sensibility when we read a story we love out loud – to another or just to ourselves.  How the words feel in our mouths, how they resonate in our ears, how they walk around in our heads and dance with our hearts, is a blending of the author’s words and our own souls.  And so the words become filled with new context, new understanding, a sort of recognition, a relationship.  Rather like holding hands.

I hope reading aloud never becomes a lost art.  I hope there are always words to read that feel good in our mouths.  Words that feel intriguing and experiential, complex and original, perhaps a bit heartbreaking as well as comforting.  Like Shakespeare.  But most of all, I hope the words in our mouths feel safe, like love.  And that we keep sharing them out loud with each other.