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And his poetry, his troubadour's traveling art, seems to me to be more meaningful than ever. It is not his voice that has grown richer, stronger, more certain it is Dylan himself. The warning voice of the innocent boy is no longer here, because Dylan has chosen not to remain a boy. The words, the music, the tones of voice speak of regret, melancholy, a sense of inevitable farewell, mixed with sly humor, some rage, and a sense of simple joy.
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In this album, he is as personal and as universal as Yeats or Blake speaking for himself, risking that dangerous opening of the veins, he speaks for us all.
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Only the artists can help the poor land again to feel.Īnd here is Dylan, bringing feeling back home. There is no politician anywhere who can move anyone to hope the plague recedes, but it is not dead, and the statesmen are as irrelevant as the tarnished statues in the public parks. The signposts have been smashed the maps are blurred. We live in the smoky landscape now, as the exhausted troops seek the roads home. Remember that he gave us voice, When our innocence died forever, Bob Dylan made that moment into art. So forget the clenched young scholars who analyze his rhymes into dust. In the teargas in 1968 Chicago, they hurled Dylan at the walls of the great hotels, where the infected drew the blinds, and their butlers ordered up the bayonets. But of all the poets, Dylan is the one who has most clearly taken the rolled sea and put it in a glass.Įarly on, he warned us, he gave many of us voice, he told us about the hard rain that was going to fall, and how it would carry plague. He was not the only one, of course he is not the only one now. He had remained, in front of us, or writing from the north country, and remained true. Novels served as furnished rooms for ideology.Īnd as the evidence piled up, as the rock was pushed back to reveal the worms, many retreated into that past that never was, the place of balcony dreams in Loew's Met, fair women and honorable men, where we browned ourselves in the Creamsicle summers, only faintly hearing the young men march to the troopships, while Jo Stafford gladly promised her fidelity. Painters lift the easel to scrawl their innocence on walls and manifestos. And through the fog of the plague, most art withered into journalism. The bacillus moved among us, slaying that old America where the immigrants lit a million dreams in the shadows of the bridges, killing the great brawling country of barnstormers and wobblies and home-run hitters, the place of Betty Grable and Carl Furillo and heavyweight champions of the world. The infected young men machine-gunned babies in Asian ditches they marshalled metal death through the mighty clouds, up above God's green earth, released it in silent streams, and moved on, while the hospitals exploded and green fields were churned to mud.Īnd here at home, something died. The plague ran in the blood of men in sharkskin suits, who ran for President promising life and delivering death. It turned up again in America, breeding in-a-compost of greed and uselessness and murder, in those places where statesmen and generals stash the bodies of the forever young. It was not confined to the Oran of Camus.