I was first introduced to Bob Dylan back in 1982 – the year of my debs (prom). I remember my date being less than impressed that I hadn’t a clue who Dylan was. Back then, my level of musical illiteracy had yet to be defined. As we drove to the dance (he’d borrowed his dad’s car and it had a tape deck) he introduced me to the man and during the evening, instead of whispering sweet nothings in my ear, he whispered Dylan lyrics.
And many lifetimes later, I still remember:
Well, I set my monkey on the log
And ordered him to do the Dog
He wagged his tail and shook his head
And he went and did the Cat instead
He’s a weird monkey….
Lay, Lady, Lay still ranks up there as one of my all time favourite songs. Every time I hear it, the clock goes back to 1982 and I wonder…
But back to Dylan and his prize. I hadn’t realised that each award came with a justification of sorts.
In 2011, it went to the late Tomas Gösta Tranströmer because ‘through his condensed, translucent images, he [gave] us fresh access to reality’. In 2007, Doris Lessing, ‘that epicist of the female experience’ won for how ‘with scepticism, fire and visionary power [she] subjected a divided civilisation to scrutiny.’ In 2003, it went to John M. Coetzee, ‘who in innumerable guises portrays the surprising involvement of the outsider.’
In 1995, Irishman Seamus Heaney won ‘for works of lyrical beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles and the living past’.
In 1969, it went to Samuel Beckett ‘for his writing, which – in new forms for the novel and drama – in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation.’ WB Yeats won it in 1923 ‘for his always inspired poetry, which in a highly artistic form gives expression to the spirit of a whole nation’. And two years later, it came back to Ireland, to George Bernard Shaw ‘for his work which is marked by both idealism and humanity, its stimulating satire often being infused with a singular poetic beauty’.
Back in 1901, French poet Sully Prudhomme won the first prize ‘in special recognition of his poetic composition, which gives evidence of lofty idealism, artistic perfection and a rare combination of the qualities of both heart and intellect’. And 116 years later, in 2016, it goes to Bob Dylan.
That’s a party I’d like to be at 🙂 But in the absence of an invitation, I think I’ll simply take myself back to 1982 and spend the day there.
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