If you haven’t been following the Bob Dylan-Nobel saga, this post has a pretty good summary of the latest drama, although I disagree about the “damage” to the prize.
Anyway, I always look forward to the Nobel because it either introduces to a new author or motivates me to read a book that had been sitting on my shelf for a few years. Even though Dylan’s primarily a songwriter that are meant to be listened to, this year was no exception. Dylan has written some prose: an experimental novel entitled “Tarantula” (I’ll get to it in the coming weeks) and a memoir, “Chronicles.”
“Chronicles” is actually meant to be the first volume in a three book autobiography project, but it appears Dylan has all but given up on volumes two and three (one was published in 2004, the next book was supposed to come out a few years after, and here we are, 12 years later with no news). It’s not a straightforward story. It starts in the early 60s, when Dylan was trying to establish himself, and jumps around decades, like to the 80s, where the singer experiences a creative block. In fact, that’s what a lot of the chronologically later sequences are about.
Eventually the book loops back around and ends in the early 60s, and it’s these sections, where Dylan is struggling, that stand out. His eagerness and development back then is much more interesting than the malaise of middle age. Then again, I’m not a Dylan fanatic, so perhaps those later sections might have a special significance for someone following Dylan for a while now.
The debate about whether the singer’s lyrics were high enough quality to merit the Nobel (or if the genre deserved the prize) continues, but his artistry is on full display here. Dylan writes in a snappy prose style that barrels forward in a way reminiscent of fellow Nobel laureate’ Saul Bellow. And the out of order timeline never feels random. I couldn’t always see the logic behind the time jumps, but it never caught me off guard, never left me confused, never felt like Dylan was doing it just for the sake of doing it.
All in all, not the perfect piece, but one that has helped me look at his prize in a new way. I was hoping for Pynchon, DeLillo, Vollmann or Erdrich if the prize had to come back to America, and while I still think they would have been better winners, this book at least confirmed that Dylan’s work rises to the level I expect from Nobel laureates.