As I was procrastinating about finishing my first post for this blog, something happened that I knew I would have to blog about and I did not want to put off posting. Bob Dylan received the Nobel Prize for Literature in October 2016 for "having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition". No one, apart from me, seems to be in favour of this on my Facebook feed. Twitter is ambivalent at best #BobDylanNobel. The Rolling Stone praises the decision. The New York Times has published an article titled "Bob Dylan Wins Nobel Prize, Redefining Boundaries of Literature". For me, this last statement summarizes what the criticism and mis-understanding is about: an uncertainty and potential misunderstanding about what literature is about. Firstly, literature is not the same as non-fiction available in all good bookstores. We seem to be comfortable with that, given that there was no outcry when the Prize was awarded by the Belorussian historian, Svetlana Alexievich last year. Other notable non-fiction winners of the Nobel Prize include Winston Churchill for his historical tomes and Bertrand Russell for his philosophical writings. The idea that poetry is literature is even less controversial. Thus we have already acknowledged that the bounds of literature are quite wide. Secondly, Bob Dylan works at the intersection of two artforms: poetry and music. This, by the way, is the raw original form of poetry: rhyming, rhytmical words sung to music. As in Homer's Odyssey and Iliad. Or the Psalms. When Heloise praises Abelard's love poems written to her, she says that people all over Paris sang them without knowing who they were addressed to. Thirdly, literature can be accessible and populist. Again, why do we think Homer's Iliad survived as long as it did? Truly great literature is one that can be picked up and read, recited, listened to by many people regardless of their background, education and the time they live in. Yes, we can debate how good each individual poet is. But there is not that much difference, after all in having this debate about Dylan than having it about Pablo Neruda (Nobel Prize Laureate, 1971). In my mind, he deserves the Nobel Prize for his poetry, but as so much in aesthetics the judgment in the is a subjective one. Bob Dylan: Shelter from the Storm: ’Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form “Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm” And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured I’ll always do my best for her, on that I give my word In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm “Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm” Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved Everything up to that point had been left unresolved Try imagining a place where it’s always safe and warm “Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm” I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail Poisoned in the bushes an’ blown out on the trail Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn “Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm” Suddenly I turned around and she was standin’ there With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns “Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm” Now there’s a wall between us, somethin’ there’s been lost I took too much for granted, got my signals crossed Just to think that it all began on a long-forgotten morn “Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm” Well, the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount But nothing really matters much, it’s doom alone that counts And the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn “Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm” I’ve heard newborn babies wailin’ like a mournin’ dove And old men with broken teeth stranded without love Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn? “Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm” In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes I bargained for salvation an’ they gave me a lethal dose I offered up my innocence and got repaid with scorn “Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm” Well, I’m livin’ in a foreign country but I’m bound to cross the line Beauty walks a razor’s edge, someday I’ll make it mine If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born “Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm
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