"... which a fresh-from-Minnesota Dylan took down from Van Ronk’s bookshelf, on Macdougal Street, in 1960—that provided the impetus for that poet’s own stream of imagery. Rimbaud’s 'A Season In Hell' gave the idea that poetry should be, first of all, a journey into extreme experience, evidenced not by a coherent evocation of a story but by subversive images and sensual evocations that subvert logic and language itself. (Dylan’s great songs from 'Blonde on Blonde'—'Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands' and 'Visions of Johanna'—are straight applications of Rimbaud’s symbolist methods to popular music.)... Rimbaud is the exemplar of the mad youth, the
poete maudit, that runs right to Kurt Cobain, and also the model of the mysterious disappearance, which touches legends as different as those of Ambrose Bierce and Jack Black. (Not the actor Jack Black, but the California vagabond whose memoir has the best title in American literature,
'You Can’t Win,' and who disappeared, in New York, in the nineteen-thirties.)"
If you're trying to remember the Bob Dylan song with Verlaine and Rimbaud,
it's: "Situations have ended sad/Relationships have all been bad/Mine’ve been like Verlaine’s and Rimbaud/But there’s no way I can compare/All those scenes to this affair/Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go."
Are you looking for incoherent stories of extreme experience, evoked with subversive images and sensual evocations that subvert logic and language itself? Yeah, me neither. And yet, I do still read the newspaper.
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Which justifies my adolescent reaction to Dylan: don't analyze his lyrics. Instead, experience them.
Are you looking for incoherent stories of extreme experience, evoked with subversive images and sensual evocations that subvert logic and language itself?
I am, which is why “Visions of Johanna,” “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues,” and “Desolation Row” are so profoundly satisfying. But I understand your mileage may vary.
"I have called for executioners; I want to perish chewing on their rifle butts."
That line induced me to buy the book, long ago. The lines are essentially zingers.
"Are you looking for incoherent stories of extreme experience, evoked with subversive images and sensual evocations that subvert logic and language itself? Yeah, me neither. And yet, I do still read the newspaper."
❤️
I think people waaaay overthink the motivations of 'artists.'
Unless a writer, singer, etc. actually tells you in their own words what their motivation is, it's all speculation and bullshit.
"Rimbaud’s 'A Season In Hell' gave the idea that poetry should be, first of all, a journey into extreme experience, evidenced not by a coherent evocation of a story but by subversive images and sensual evocations that subvert logic and language itself."
Who writes like this? Didn't anyone teach these people how to write a clear sentence?
"What a waste of time."
Dylan? I was under the impression we had recently decided a singled named musician was a racist micro aggression or something.
Then she opened up a book of poems
And handed it to me
Written by an Italian poet
From the thirteenth century
And everyone of them words rang true
And glowed like burnin' coal
Pourin' off of every page
Like it was written in my soul
From me to you
Tangled up in blue
My wife's Uncle is in a bluegrass band and does a wonderful version of "You're going to Make Me Lonesome." Somewhat embarrassingly, I'd never heard it before that. That led to me looking into more Bob Dylan music which I hadn't quite ignored but never really focused on. Just in the last week, I've learned to play "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright" finger style on guitar.
"I looked for you in Honolulu, San Francisco and Asthabula" -- Is that from "Blood on the Tracks"? Nicely turned lyrics. There are Dylan songs that are hard for me to listen to because of his -- how should I say -- erratic voice. "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go" is one I like, with Dylan singing.
Whoa. Dave van Ronk. My goodness that brings back vinyl memories.
I have his "Folksinger" vinyl album in a box in my basement. ...from the good old days of the 60s folksingers. Keeping Dave company are:
Buffy Ste. Marie
Tom Rush
Eric Andersen
Joan Baez
New Christy Minstrels (!)
Kingston Trio
...and more.
Much more....
I remember Dave Van Ronk's version of "Rompin' Through the Swamp" (could be a good tune to play at Trump's inaugural party) with the Hudson Dusters.
I’m more of an acmeist kind of guy. Symbolist Dylan is over-rated.
"a journey into extreme experience, evidenced not by a coherent evocation of a story but by subversive images and sensual evocations that subvert logic and language itself."
I was reading part of this article to my husband and he thought I meant Rambo. I did pronounce Rimbaud correctly according to how'd you say app.
Bob Dylan is a great singer and a great poet. There, I said it. For his non stop inventiveness, if for nothing else. I was recently reading a novel written “in the 14th century,” literally, and even though it was both absurd and fantastic, it was inventive on every page, and kept you turning the pages in spite of yourself. It made me think of Bob Dylan at the time.
Gave the idea that poetry should be, first of all, a journey into extreme experience
Who the fuck is this guy to say what poetry should be? Maybe this would be better: "Gave the idea that poetry can be a journey into extreme experience."
Just wait until they begin to argue about Houellebecq on Parnassus; I can hear the screams and gnashing of teeth even now although today, of course, they all have a more somber cause to argue about; martyres Nicaei, orate pro nobis.
Long ago, forty years ago, I contrived a little tune to accompany the singing of Rimbaud's Chanson de la plus Haute Tour; every once in a while, in the shower, maybe, I can recall it: Oisive jeunesse,/ à tout asservie,/ par delicatesse/ J'ai perdu ma vie./ Ah! Que le temps vienne/ Où les coeurs s'éprennent.
Rimbaud is the exemplar of the mad youth, the poete maudit, that runs right to Kurt Cobain, and also the model of the mysterious disappearance, which touches legends as different as those of Ambrose Bierce and Jack Black. (Not the actor Jack Black, but the California vagabond whose memoir has the best title in American literature, 'You Can’t Win,' and who disappeared, in New York, in the nineteen-thirties.)"
Lew Welch, Weldon Kees, Arthur Cravan, Oscar Acosta. For writers, disappearing can be a great career move.
Ashtabula? Albuquerque!
Ya Dave was the first of that folk crew to arrange House of the Rising Sun the way Dylan and then the Animals recorded it.
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