Nobody reads James Baldwin like James Baldwin. I am listening to a recording made 50 years ago in Boston. His voice is lilting, clipped, authoritative, angry. He is reading a passage from his 1962 novel “Another Country”: the suicidal flight of the character Rufus through the New York City subway and up to the railing of the George Washington Bridge. “He was black and the water was black.” Then Baldwin’s voice changes, becomes older, takes on the sorrowful cadences of the preacher delivering Rufus’s eulogy. And then it changes again: the meditative, self-examining narrator of the 1956 “Giovanni’s Room,’’ remembering a poignant and confusing early sexual encounter.