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Barbara Holdridge, Whose Record Label Foretold Audiobooks, Dies at 95

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Barbara Holdridge, Whose Record Label Foretold Audiobooks, Dies at 95

Barbara Holdridge, who co-founded the first commercially successful spoken-word record label, one that began with the poet Dylan Thomas reciting his story “A Child’s Christmas in Wales” and that led to today’s multibillion-dollar audiobook industry, died on Monday at home in Baltimore, Md. She was 95.

Her daughter, Eleanor Holdridge, confirmed the death.

Ms. Holdridge, along with her best friend, Marianne Mantell, built the label, Caedmon Records, into a recording industry dynamo by releasing LPs of such notable authors and poets as W.H. Auden, T.S. Eliot, Langston Hughes, Gertrude Stein, Robert Frost, Eudora Welty, William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway reading their own words.

As the recordings’ popularity grew — sales reached $14 million by 1966 (about $141 million in today’s currency) — Caedmon began recording plays and other works of literature performed by famous actors, including Vanessa Redgrave, John Gielgud, Maggie Smith, Richard Burton and Basil Rathbone. The label also produced children’s stories like “Babar” and “Winnie the Pooh,” employing Boris Karloff, Carol Channing and other performers to read them.

But it was the Dylan Thomas album, featuring the poet’s resonant delivery, that put the infant company on the road to success. Thomas, an eccentric, hard-drinking Welsh poet, was at the height of his fame when the record was released in 1952, and it went on to sell more than 400,000 copies in the 1950s, an unheard amount for such literary fare. Just over a year later, he died of pneumonia at 39.

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“If we had started with some of the wonderful poets we recorded later, such as Katherine Anne Porter, Archibald MacLeish, Ezra Pound and Faulkner, I don’t think anybody would have cared that much,” Ms. Holdridge said in 2014 in an interview with WNYC radio in New York. “Students would have. Literature professors would have. But the spark was the Dylan Thomas recordings, and with the money that came from the sales of those recordings, we were able to go forward and record the authors whom we admired.”

The label aimed to present literature as it originated — in the spoken word, Ms. Holdridge explained. She and Ms. Mantell named the company Caedmon in honor of the seventh-century cowherd considered the earliest known English poet.

Though there had been attempts at spoken-word recordings before Caedmon, the two women, who had scraped together $1,500 to start the venture, foresaw a broad audience for authors reading their own words.

“They were enormously prescient,” Matthew Barton, the recorded sound curator for the Library of Congress, said in an interview last year for this obituary. “If you walked into a record store in 1952 and heard Dylan Thomas reading ‘A Child’s Christmas in Wales,’ you would say, ‘I want that,’ and your wallet comes out. It showed how well they understood the potential of the medium in this way.”

The Library of Congress added the album to its National Recording Registry in 2008, noting that “it has been credited with launching the audiobook industry in the United States.” By 2023, the audiobook market had achieved almost $7 billion in global sales, reaching an estimated 140 million listeners.

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Under Ms. Holdridge and Ms. Mantell, Caedmon earned dozens of Grammy nominations and became the gold standard for spoken-word recordings.

The Caedmon story is made more remarkable by the fact that Ms. Holdridge and Ms. Mantell — Barbara Cohen and Marianne Roney at the time — were 22-year-old recent graduates of Hunter College in Manhattan when they began their label. Both had degrees in the humanities, and neither had any business experience. In an era when women were expected to be housewives or schoolteachers, Ms. Holdridge, who worked as an assistant editor at a New York publisher, and Ms. Mantell, who wrote label copy for a record company, were ambitious, determined and bored.

Over lunch one day, they lamented that they were working for bosses “who were much more stupid than we,” Ms. Holdridge recalled in the WNYC interview. She suggested that they go to a reading that Thomas was giving that night at the 92nd Street Y. Ms. Mantell then made a further suggestion: “Let’s record him.” They had already been discussing the idea of recording authors reading their own works.

After the reading, they sent a note to Thomas asking if he would consider participating in a recording project with them. They signed the note “B. Cohen and M. Roney,” so that he wouldn’t know that they were women. His manager intercepted the note and sent them a reply, suggesting that they call Thomas at the Chelsea Hotel, where he was living at the time.

After several unsuccessful attempts to reach him, Ms. Holdridge tried calling at 5 o’clock one morning, on the chance that he might just be stumbling home after a night of hard drinking. He picked up the phone. Yes, he said, he would meet the women to discuss their idea.

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To their surprise, he actually showed up at the appointed hour, bringing along his wife, the writer Caitlin Thomas. Over a boisterous lunch, he agreed to do the recording for a $500 advance, plus royalties.

“He even wrote down a number of poems he wanted to record,” Ms. Holdridge recalled. “Getting him to the recording studio, though, was something else.”

After one no-show, Thomas eventually arrived at Steinway Hall, a studio on West 57th Street, and recorded a series of poems, including his masterpiece “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.” When they still didn’t have enough material to fill both sides of a 33⅓ LP, the women asked if he had anything else to record, and he remembered a story he had published in Harper’s Bazaar called “A Child’s Christmas in Wales,” a nostalgic reminiscence from a young boy’s viewpoint. He recorded it as the B-side of the album, and it was that tale that catapulted the record to best-sellerdom.

The women began contacting other famous writers, both male and female, asking them to come to the studio to record their words. And many did.

Barbara Ann Cohen was born in New York City on July 26, 1929, to Herbert Lawrence Cohen, a textile sales representative, and Bertha (Gold) Cohen, who oversaw the household.

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Barbara was an avid reader as a child and studied Greek. She also developed a lifelong love of gardening, starting out by making little gardens of twigs and acorns on her apartment windowsill.

She married Lawrence Holdridge, a hydraulic engineer, in 1959. He died in 1998. In addition to her daughter Eleanor, she is survived by another daughter, Diana Holdridge, and two grandchildren. Ms. Mantell died in 2023 at 93.

Ms. Holdridge and Ms. Mantell sold Caedmon to Raytheon in 1970, and it was later acquired by Harper Collins, where the Caedmon imprint of HarperAudio still exists.

In 2001, Ms. Holdridge was inducted into the National Women’s Hall of Fame, which lauded her for creating a broad audience for “diverse, high-quality literature” and demonstrating the significance of spoken-word recordings. “The Caedmon catalog is extraordinary for the dramatic gender equality and cultural inclusiveness it achieved,” the Hall of Fame website states. “It expanded the audience for American women’s writing, and women’s writing in general.”

After selling Caedmon, Ms. Holdridge and her husband bought the 18th-century Stemmer House in Owings Mills, Md., and she created Stemmer House Publishers, which put out children’s books and sourcebooks for designers and artists. There, she leaned into another of her passions, developing a 40-acre garden on the property. She also taught book publishing and writing at Loyola University Maryland.

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Explaining her aspirations for Caedmon, Ms. Holdridge told NPR in 2002: “We did not want to do a collection of great voices or important literary voices. We wanted them to read as though they were recreating the moment of inspiration. They did exactly that. They read with a feeling, an inspiration that came through.”

Ash Wu contributed reporting.

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I Think This Poem Is Kind of Into You

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I Think This Poem Is Kind of Into You

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A famous poet once observed that it is difficult to get the news from poems. The weather is a different story. April showers, summer sunshine and — maybe especially — the chill of winter provide an endless supply of moods and metaphors. Poets like to practice a double meteorology, looking out at the water and up at the sky for evidence of interior conditions of feeling.

The inner and outer forecasts don’t always match up. This short poem by Louise Glück starts out cold and stays that way for most of its 11 lines.

And then it bursts into flame.

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“Early December in Croton-on-Hudson” comes from Glück’s debut collection, “Firstborn,” which was published in 1968. She wrote the poems in it between the ages of 18 and 23, but they bear many of the hallmarks of her mature style, including an approach to personal matters — sex, love, illness, family life — that is at once uncompromising and elusive. She doesn’t flinch. She also doesn’t explain.

Here, for example, Glück assembles fragments of experience that imply — but also obscure — a larger narrative. It’s almost as if a short story, or even a novel, had been smashed like a glass Christmas ornament, leaving the reader to infer the sphere from the shards.

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We know there was a couple with a flat tire, and that a year later at least one of them still has feelings for the other. It’s hard not to wonder if they’re still together, or where they were going with those Christmas presents.

To some extent, those questions can be addressed with the help of biographical clues. The version of “Early December in Croton-on-Hudson” that appeared in The Atlantic in 1967 was dedicated to Charles Hertz, a Columbia University graduate student who was Glück’s first husband. They divorced a few years later. Glück, who died in 2023, was never shy about putting her life into her work.

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Louise Glück in 1975.

Gerard Malanga

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But the poem we are reading now is not just the record of a passion that has long since cooled. More than 50 years after “Firstborn,” on the occasion of receiving the Nobel Prize for literature, Glück celebrated the “intimate, seductive, often furtive or clandestine” relations between poets and their readers. Recalling her childhood discovery of William Blake and Emily Dickinson, she declared her lifelong ardor for “poems to which the listener or reader makes an essential contribution, as recipient of a confidence or an outcry, sometimes as co-conspirator.”

That’s the kind of poem she wrote.

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“Confidence” can have two meanings, both of which apply to “Early December in Croton-on-Hudson.” Reading it, you are privy to a secret, something meant for your ears only. You are also in the presence of an assertive, self-possessed voice.

Where there is power, there’s also risk. To give voice to desire — to whisper or cry “I want you” — is to issue a challenge and admit vulnerability. It’s a declaration of conquest and a promise of surrender.

What happens next? That’s up to you.

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Can You Identify Where the Winter Scenes in These Novels Took Place?

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Can You Identify Where the Winter Scenes in These Novels Took Place?

Cold weather can serve as a plot point or emphasize the mood of a scene, and this week’s literary geography quiz highlights the locations of recent novels that work winter conditions right into the story. Even if you aren’t familiar with the book, the questions offer an additional hint about the setting. To play, just make your selection in the multiple-choice list and the correct answer will be revealed. At the end of the quiz, you’ll find links to the books if you’d like to do further reading.

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From NYT’s 10 Best Books of 2025: A.O. Scott on Kiran Desai’s New Novel

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From NYT’s 10 Best Books of 2025: A.O. Scott on Kiran Desai’s New Novel

Inge Morath/Magnum Photos

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When a writer is praised for having a sense of place, it usually means one specific place — a postage stamp of familiar ground rendered in loving, knowing detail. But Kiran Desai, in her latest novel, “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny,” has a sense of places.

This 670-page book, about the star-crossed lovers of the title and several dozen of their friends, relatives, exes and servants (there’s a chart in the front to help you keep track), does anything but stay put. If “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny” were an old-fashioned steamer trunk, it would be papered with shipping labels: from Allahabad (now known as Prayagraj), Goa and Delhi; from Queens, Kansas and Vermont; from Mexico City and, perhaps most delightfully, from Venice.

There, in Marco Polo’s hometown, the titular travelers alight for two chapters, enduring one of several crises in their passionate, complicated, on-again, off-again relationship. One of Venice’s nicknames is La Serenissima — “the most serene” — but in Desai’s hands it’s the opposite: a gloriously hectic backdrop for Sonia and Sunny’s romantic confusion.

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Their first impressions fill a nearly page-long paragraph. Here’s how it begins.

Sonia is a (struggling) fiction writer. Sunny is a (struggling) journalist. It’s notable that, of the two of them, it is she who is better able to perceive the immediate reality of things, while he tends to read facts through screens of theory and ideology, finding sociological meaning in everyday occurrences. He isn’t exactly wrong, and Desai is hardly oblivious to the larger narratives that shape the fates of Sunny, Sonia and their families — including the economic and political changes affecting young Indians of their generation.

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But “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny” is about more than that. It’s a defense of the very idea of more, and thus a rebuke to the austerity that defines so much recent literary fiction. Many of Desai’s peers favor careful, restricted third-person narration, or else a measured, low-affect “I.” The bookstores are full of skinny novels about the emotional and psychological thinness of contemporary life. This book is an antidote: thick, sloppy, fleshy, all over the place.

It also takes exception to the postmodern dogma that we only know reality through representations of it, through pre-existing concepts of the kind to which intellectuals like Sunny are attached. The point of fiction is to assert that the world is true, and to remind us that it is vast, strange and astonishing.

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See the full list of the 10 Best Books of 2025 here.

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