Audiobook Sample
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- Title: Identical
- Author: Ellen Hopkins
- Narrator: Laura Flanagan
- Length: 08:45:00
- Version: Abridged
- Release Date: 27/08/2008
- Publisher: HighBridge Company
- Genre: Teen, Tough Topics
- ISBN13: 9.78E+12
The desert teaches you about silence – how it can be both comforting and terrifying. I learned this years ago driving through Chile’s Atacama, listening to García Márquez’s magical realism while the barren landscape stretched endlessly. That same duality of silence – as both sanctuary and prison – pulses through Ellen Hopkins’ ‘Identical,’ an audiobook that left me parked on the shoulder of memory lane, engine running but going nowhere until the last devastating word.
Laura Flanagan’s narration captures the fractured psyche of twins Kaeleigh and Raeanne with such visceral precision that I found myself checking my rearview mirror during listening sessions, half-expecting to see their haunted faces reflected back. There’s a particular moment when Flanagan’s voice cracks during Kaeleigh’s description of her father’s abuse that transported me back to Oaxaca, to that grandmother’s storytelling circle where truth wasn’t just spoken but embodied in every tremor and pause.
Hopkins’ signature verse novel format translates surprisingly well to audio, each line break a gasp of breath, each stanza a heartbeat. The twins’ alternating perspectives create a call-and-response rhythm that Flanagan navigates with the skill of a jazz musician – sometimes harmonizing their pain, other times letting their voices clash in dissonance. I particularly admired how she differentiated the twins not through exaggerated vocal tricks but through subtle shifts in timbre – Kaeleigh’s voice always slightly smaller, Raeanne’s edged with defensive bravado.
The novel’s exploration of inherited trauma and the masks we wear in toxic families resonated deeply with my anthropological studies. Like peeling back layers of an onion (to borrow Manson’s metaphor from ‘The Subtle Art’), Hopkins reveals how abuse distorts identity at its core. What appears identical on the surface – those picture-perfect family photos – becomes grotesquely asymmetrical beneath. Flanagan’s narration amplifies this effect, her pacing slowing during particularly painful revelations as if the words themselves resist being spoken.
Some listeners might find the subject matter overwhelming – this isn’t casual driving music. There were moments when I had to pause the audio during particularly intense scenes, the way you might look away from a brutal but beautiful desert sunset. The raw depiction of self-harm, substance abuse, and incest demands emotional bandwidth. Yet Hopkins, through Flanagan’s compassionate delivery, never exploits the trauma; she illuminates it with the unflinching clarity of high desert light.
Compared to other YA trauma narratives like ‘Speak’ or ‘Wintergirls,’ ‘Identical’ stands apart through its dual perspective structure and poetic form. Where Anderson’s and Hopkins’ other works focus on singular voices, this audiobook forces us to hold two conflicting truths simultaneously – a feat Flanagan accomplishes through masterful tonal control. The production quality remains consistently excellent, with crisp enunciation that does justice to Hopkins’ carefully crafted verse.
For those considering this audiobook: come prepared with emotional supplies as you would for a desert crossing – water, shade, and knowing when to rest. It’s not an easy journey, but like all great literature, it transforms you mile by painful mile. Listen when you can give it your full attention, preferably not during long night drives when the darkness outside starts mirroring the story’s shadows.
As a travel writer, I’m always searching for stories that map the uncharted territories of human experience. ‘Identical’ charts such a map with brutal precision, and Flanagan’s narration serves as the perfect guide – never leading you astray, but never softening the terrain either. The result is an audiobook that lingers like desert heat long after you’ve reached shelter.
With stories in my suitcase and dust on my shoes,
Marcus Rivera
