This book will end with the Nobel ceremony in Stockholm, but for now let’s visit a more recent stop there on Dylan’s long path. On April 1, 2017, Bob Dylan, still on the road at the age of seventy-five, started a twenty-eight-concert European tour with the first of two performances at the Stockholm waterfront. Earlier in the day, he had met privately with twelve of the eighteen members of the Swedish Academy to receive his diploma and gold medal for the 2016 Nobel Prize in Literature, which had first been announced five months before, “for having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition.” Sara Danius, academy member and its permanent secretary, reported the essentials of the private medal ceremony on her blog:
Spirits were high. Champagne was had. Quite a bit of time was spent looking closely at the gold medal, in particular the beautifully crafted back, an image of a young man sitting under a laurel tree who listens to the Muse. Taken from Virgil’s Aeneid, the inscription reads: Inventas vitam iuvat excoluisse per artes, loosely translated as “And they who bettered life on earth by their newly found mastery.”
Danius’s evasive “quite a bit of time was spent looking closely at the gold medal” fools nobody: everyone else in that room had seen the medal many times before. Dylan was clearly the one who must have been studying it most carefully. An artist who notices everything in the world around him, and one with a connection to Virgil’s work, as we’ll learn more about later in this book, Dylan would have been fascinated by the image on the reverse side of the medal, designed by Swedish engraver Erik Lindberg in 1902.
The man we see here is not just any young man. He would seem to represent the poet Virgil, one of the shepherd-singers of his poem Eclogue 1, “meditating the woodland Muse” as he sings in the shade of a tree. The singer on the medal is likewise looking up at the Muse as she plays the seven-stringed lyre, or cithara as the Greeks and Romans called it—the word that gives us guitar. Beside him is depicted an ancient box (capsa) with three papyrus rolls, the young man’s supply of writing materials. Dylan knew just what he was looking at, having integrated Homeric singing and lyre playing from the Odyssey into his 2012 song “Early Roman Kings”—“Take down my fiddle, tune up my strings”—which he would perform the next day in Stockholm. Like the image, the words engraved around the medal’s rim are also Virgil’s: Inventas vitam iuvat excoluisse per artes. In its larger context the line comes from a description of the privileged place that singers have deserved in Virgil’s version of paradise in Book 6 of his epic the Aeneid:
And Orpheus himself, the Thracian priest with his long robes,
keeps their rhythm strong with his lyre’s seven ringing strings,
plucking now with his fingers, now with his ivory plectrum.
And faithful poets whose songs were fit for Apollo
those who enriched our lives with the newfound arts they forged
and those we remember well for the good they did mankind.
—Virgil, Aeneid 6, tr. Fagles
In 1945, T. S. Eliot wrote an essay titled “What Is a Classic?” devoted to Virgil, and to why the Aeneid became a classic over time. In 1948, when Eliot received his Nobel Prize in Literature, he must have been pleased to see Virgil’s line of poetry, and the image, on the medal. What Eliot wrote of Virgil as classic in his essay could apply equally to his own work The Waste Land, the classic of modernist poetry, or to the work of Bob Dylan:
[Virgil] was, if any poet ever was, acutely aware of what he was trying to do; the one thing he couldn’t aim at, or know that he was doing, was to compose a classic: for it is only by hindsight, and in historical perspective, that a classic can be known as such.
This is a book about Bob Dylan, the genius of my lifetime in his artistic use of the English language, and of its song traditions—just as surely as Eliot was the poetic genius of the first half of the twentieth century. It is mildly ironic that Dylan has acquired this status. After all, the mention of Eliot in his 1965 song “Desolation Row”—a song he also sang on the Stockholm waterfront on the evening of the medal award—had an iconoclastic ring to it:
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain’s tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
In that song, Dylan may seem to be on the side of the calypso singers and fishermen, situated like them
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row
As readers have noted, not only does Dylan name Eliot and Pound; in Eliot-like fashion his verse allusively builds on the ending of Eliot’s first great poem The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (124–31):
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Even though he seems in “Desolation Row” to distance himself from the two modernist poets, even as he alludes to one of them, like it or not, and like T. S. Eliot, Bob Dylan has also become an icon and a classic. Over that he has no control.
This is also a book about how Dylan’s genius has long been informed by the worlds of ancient Greece and Rome, and why the classics of those days matter to him and should matter to all of us interested in the humanities. We live in a world and an age in which the humanities—the study of the best that the human mind has risen to in art, music, writing, and performance—are being asked to justify their existence, are losing funding, or are in danger of losing funding. At the same time, those arts seem more vital than ever in terms of what they can teach us about how to live meaningful lives. The art of Bob Dylan, no less than any other works produced by the human mind in its most creative manifestation, can be put to work in serving and preserving the humanities.
In his final treatise, On Moral Duties, written in 44 BC, Marcus Tullius Cicero, the Roman statesman, orator, writer, and thinker, quoting from the Roman playwright Terence, wrote: “I am a human. I consider nothing connected to humanity to be alien to me.” For Cicero, thinking about justice and correct action in difficult times is a hallmark of humanistic thought, as is having empathy for the human condition. That was a mark of Cicero, and it is a mark of the focus on humanity that is at the core of Dylan’s art. Dylan’s art has long enriched the lives of those who listen to his music, through a genius that captures the essence of what it means to be human.
As was the case for many who came of age in the mid-1960s, my first Dylan experience centered on issues of social justice. When I was thirteen or fourteen, I sang “Blowin’ in the Wind” with my school chorus in New Zealand. This song, from Dylan’s first original album, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, was my first, true introduction to Dylan’s music, though I was already familiar with the chart-topping version sung by the folk trio Peter, Paul and Mary. When