Dylan accepts Nobel Prize

>Dylan treats her words with a certain hesitation. “I suppose so, in some way. Some [of my own] songs –Blind Willie, The Ballad of Hollis Brown, Joey, A Hard Rain, Hurricane, and some others – definitely are Homeric in value.”


telegraph.co.uk/men/the-filter/world-exclusive-bob-dylan---ill-be-at-the-nobel-prize-ceremony-i/?WT.mc_id=tmgliveapp_iosshare_Am0NvgtxJMxg

Do you agree with Bob?

Seen the arrow on the doorpost
Saying, "This land is condemned
All the way from New Orleans
To Jerusalem."
I traveled through East Texas
Where many martyrs fell
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

Well, I heard the hoot owl singing
As they were taking down the tents
The stars above the barren trees
Were his only audience
Them charcoal gypsy maidens
Can strut their feathers well
But nobody can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

See them big plantations burning
Hear the cracking of the whips
Smell that sweet magnolia blooming
(And) see the ghosts of slavery ships
I can hear them tribes a-moaning
(I can) hear the undertaker's bell
(Yeah), nobody can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

There's a woman by the river
With some fine young handsome man
He's dressed up like a squire
Bootlegged whiskey in his hand
There's a chain gang on the highway
I can hear them rebels yell
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

Well, God is in heaven
And we all want what's his
But power and greed and corruptible seed
Seem to be all that there is
I'm gazing out the window
Of the St. James Hotel
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

1/2

Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn, in the year of who knows when
Opened up his eyes to the tune of an accordion
Always on the outside of whatever side there was
When they asked him why it had to be that way, well, he answered, just because

Larry was the oldest, Joey was next to last
They called Joe Crazy, the baby they called Kid Blast
Some say they lived off gambling and runnin' numbers too
It always seemed they got caught between the mob and the men in blue

Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow you away

There was talk they killed their rivals, but the truth was far from that
No one ever knew for sure where they were really at
When they tried to strangle Larry, Joey almost got hit the roof
He went out that night to seek revenge, thinkin' he was bulletproof

Then, the war broke out at the break of dawn, it emptied out the streets
Joey and his brothers suffered terrible defeats
Till they ventured out behind the lines and took five prisoners
They stashed them away in a basement, called them amateurs

The hostages were tremblin' when they heard a man exclaim
Let's blow this place to kingdom come, let Con Edison take the blame
But Joey stepped up, he raised his hand, said, we're not those kind of men
It's peace and quiet that we need to go back to work again

Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow you away

The police department hounded him, they called him Mr. Smith
They got him on conspiracy, they were never sure who with
What time is it? said the judge to Joey when they met
Five to ten, said Joey, the judge says, that's exactly what you get

He did ten years in Attica, reading Nietzsche and Wilhelm Reich
They threw him in the hole one time for tryin' to stop a strike
His closest friends were black men 'cause they seemed to understand
What it's like to be in society with a shackle on your hand

They let him out in '71 he'd lost a little weight
But he dressed like Jimmy Cagney and I swear he did look great
He tried to find the way back into the life he left behind
To the boss he said, I have returned and now I want what's mine

Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow you away

It was true that in his later years he would not carry a gun
I'm around too many children, he'd say, they should never know of one
Yet he walked right into the clubhouse of his lifelong deadly foe
Emptied out the register, said, tell 'em it was Crazy Joe

One day they blew him down in a clam bar in New York
He could see it comin' through the door as he lifted up his fork
He pushed the table over to protect his family
Then he staggered out into the streets of Little Italy

Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow you away

2/2


Sister Jacqueline and Carmela and mother Mary all did weep
I heard his best friend Frankie say, he ain't dead, he's just asleep
Then I saw the old man's limousine head back towards the grave
I guess he had to say one last goodbye to the son that he could not save

The sun turned cold over President Street and the town of Brooklyn mourned
They said a mass in the old church near the house where he was born
And someday if God's in heaven overlookin' His preserve
I know the men that shot him down will get what they deserve

Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow you away

P shit lyrics desu.
Can't believe anyone even thinks this is approaching literature at all.

Gotta love that Crazy Nigger

>Homeric
In reference to The Simpsons?

The colorful, emphatic, engaging sonic jubilations of I Want You, Absolutely Sweet Marie, Just Like A Woman, One Of Us Must Know, are masterpieces of a more "courteous" genre, cadenced melodies bristling with troubled emotions, T. S. Eliot-like portraits of psychological symbolic female characters that produce a sumptuous wave of emotions as soon as they are caressed by the words of the poet. Richly colored by organ, harmonica and guitar and gently pushed by brilliant rhythms, the phrasing flies in engaging suggestions. The long ramblings of surreal irony are sweetened by raving reflections (the goliardic drinking bash of Rainy Day Women); and the blues of desolation renews itself serenely in Memphis Blues Again, a breath taking parade of senators, Shakespeare and common people, another structurally repetitive "dream" that cycles and recycles itself by twisting along the spiral of a rich and articulate sound.

If I gave you the contact of dylanites Salman Rushdie, Andrew Motion and Christopher Ricks, would you have the balls to debate them publicly on the quality of Dylan lyrics?

I didn't think so.

>The masterpiece of the album, one of the masterpieces of the year, however, is Desolation Row, the extreme stylization of the talking-blues, structured by Dylan sort of like Dante's Inferno: The overcrowded alley of desolation houses a tragicomic humanity that mirrors centuries of history, past and present, glorious and servile, real and imaginary, from Cain to Cinderella, from the Hunchback of Notre Dame to the Phantom of the Opera, from Einstein to Eliot, from Romeo to Casanova; apocryphal gospel, disquieting revelation of the true facade of human civilization, heretic bestiary of twisted myths, Desolation Row is the metaphysical kingdom where the inhabitants are forced to forever repeat their myth in an extremely degraded form (Einstein, once a famous fiddler is now a peddler). The social protest has culminated in a resentment toward the entire civilization, devoid of history. The structure of the rock poem moves forward dramatically and sardonically to replace the folk ballad, while words and music find a suggestive equilibrium. Musically, the piece employs the structure of an Indian mantra, which revives continually when it seems to have ended.

>Triumphant above all is Dylan's voice, the audience's heaven and hell from the very start. His nasal tone, at times unable to carry the tune, is the incarnation of ambiguity, the double face of a poetry always swinging between profound lyricism and burlesque cynicism, always able to confuse the literary meaning of a grunt with the crying of a baby and to confer to it one hundred emotional reflexes. The elasticity of Dylan's phrasing - impoverished and solemn at the same time, articulates the mood of a generation of idealists forever squeezed between the dichotomies faith/desperation and triumph/desolation. Dylan's influence from this point forward will be devastating: no song, musical arrangement or text will ever be the same. His bohemian cynical humor will give inflection to decades of rock music.

came here for this

Meh. Not as bad as Obama's Nobel peace prize.

Neither Russell's lit prize, for that matter.

>think the quote is made up to bait anons
>click
>he actually said that

>There's seven breezes a-blowin'
All around the cabin door
There's seven breezes a-blowin'
All around the cabin door
Seven shots ring out
Like the ocean's pounding roar

>There's seven people dead
On a South Dakota farm
There's seven people dead
On a South Dakota farm
Somewheres in the distance
There's seven new people born

The meter is different, as is the language, but the spirit is not at all different from that of Homer in many passages of the Iliad. The last stanza is in perfect harmony with the leaf metaphor, for instance.

(((Bob Zimmerman)))

underrated

The underage side of lit needs to go back to mu

Fuck this hack.

Yeah, as a fellow millennial I think Jason Beebers deserves the nobel more than this hack! Can't wait till I finish high school.

can nobody else detect a hint of intentional irony in this

Big Joe Turner lookin’ east and west
From the dark room of his mind
He made it to Kansas City
Twelfth Street and Vine
Nothin' standing there
High water everywhere

love bob.

but how would he look without the wig?

i like how dylan himself is like "eh, i guess i won?"

my payola

>Joey
lmao, bob bringing out the memes. top lad

Why the fuck would I not

I respected him because I thought he wouldn't accept.

Now I hope he dies painfully along with the whole committee.

Might as well nuke the whole of Sweden at this point.

dude scaruffi says that even the best lyricists are still mediocre poets like 20 times on his website

>definitely are Homeric in value.”
And I who kind of respected him for not entertaining this prize, what a cunt.

>Can't believe anyone even thinks this is approaching literature at all
Well in the kike's point of view literature is anything that causes the population to conform to their business model.

Don't believe anyone thinks that's literature. Modify you definition of "anyone". Don't count the brainless detained souls of the drones as people. They aren't.

And oh yeah, nepotism, Dylan himself is a kike. It's really fitting that the Official Golden Kike Prize for Excellent Art goes to a kike for kiking a generation of kike-fucked drug-addled retards.

TL;DR the definition of art to the establishment is any shit that jerks your soul off half way and then convinces you that you came

>Homeric in value
le reaction fase .jaypeegee

...

...

>homeric

What an annoyingly "interview". For every tiny quote from Dylan himself there's five paragraphs of the interviewer waffling about his history and plugging his new art exhibition. If you cut out all the chaff it seems like they exchanged about five sentences, which makes the interviewer bragging about how good he is at interviewing Dylan hilarious.

probably because your idea of literature is flowery prose

Poets claim that musicians are mediocre poets, and musicians claim that poets are mediocre musicians.

The take away, the simple truth to remember, is that they are all still complete fucking faggots.

Infinitely superior to last year's winner, at least.

I think he deserves it. If the argument against him is that a Nobel Prize in literature cannot be awarded to a musician then it a poor argument in light of a literal definition of literature. If the argument is against his works being undeserving then again I disagree. Certainly not all of his works are of literary quality but I would argue that many show a definite skill with words and a deeper meaning. Ex. "Lay lady lay", "Shelter from the storm", etc. Whether or not his works are 'Homeric' is a different case. The most I can say to that is Homer's word relied on oral tradition, and what is music but words spoken to a rhythm and melody.

>musicians claim that poets are mediocre musicians.
lol that phrase sounded better in your head, what musician ever say 'man those poets sure are shitty at music'

>Joey
That's one of his worst tho

...

yeah I think of that simpsons guy too when someone says that.

The nobel prize is good for selling as scrap metal to Russians (as Watson did). It's worthless. Distributed by a noxious coterie of people.

It has been third-rate hacks for years, getting it. Some woman sci-fi author, Obongo, the EU..
Should have given it to Merkel as well. Hollywood celebs are years away from receiving it; and soon it will be offered to abstract categories like the "TIME" man of the year award is. (Give the peace prize to the climate defenders!).
It is useless...

the nobel isn't that huge of a deal. it doesn't stop anyone from reading different books