In an unprecedented move, the Nobel Committee for Literature has honored Bob Dylan as the first songwriter to be chosen as the Nobel Prize in Literature laureate “for having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition.” On several fronts, this decision was met with resistance, even resentment. What at first seemed like a bit of bright news (it’s certainly not every year that a fellow American is awarded a Nobel Prize!) quickly became a controversy. Does Dylan, a musician of the same generation as, for example, the renowned novelist Philip Roth, who has yet to win such an award, deserve this commemoration? Was the decision simply one of nostalgia, as Dylan’s counterculture contemporaries approach their deathbeds?
Possibly. In accord with his buzzkill tendencies, Dylan’s only recognition of the award has been the removal of any mention of it from his website. He has yet to return the call of Nobel officials. Despite having performed several times since the news of the award, he has neglected to acknowledge his new title of Nobel laureate. Perhaps he feels the sentiment that his peer Leonard Cohen has expressed: “To me, [the Nobel Prize] is like pinning a medal on Mount Everest for being the tallest mountain.”
Dylan’s popularity is another reason many commentators have expressed opposition. Nobel prizes often, though not always, expose upcoming brilliant writers, or otherwise underappreciated writers. Was the selection of Bob Dylan motivated merely by sentimentality?
While I am willing to consider and understand the backlash, I don’t think it’s so catastrophic that Dylan’s phenomenal lyricism be recognized by an internationally respected award. I think that the most legitimate criticism is that involving Dylan in this conventional tradition counters his persona, in which he works by his own standards and not to please anyone but himself. However, this is petty. As these things go, it will likely lead those with minimal tolerance for his peculiar voice to proclaim themselves the original Dylan fans, or other hyperbolic claims regarding their connections to the man. This is unfortunate, but the same thing will happen when he kicks the bucket; it’s inevitable.
The variability of Bob Dylan’s repertoire coupled with its consistent success isn’t exactly unique to him; all successful artists go through this evolution as the times change and they gain experience. But right off the bat, Dylan’s lyrics stuck out. Unlike, for example, the Beatles, who underwent equally dramatic changes, it wasn’t Dylan’s charisma or even his sound that exposed him. His first Phil Ochs-esque pieces of social commentary like “Only a Pawn in Their Game” and “With God on Our Side” have lyrics as evocative as his later, increasingly bizarre works, such as “Ballad of a Thin Man,” a surreal, unsettling, second-person narrative in which Dylan takes a stab at you, the perplexed wannabe, trying to assimilate into his exclusive Chelsea-Hotel-residing counterculture.
But perhaps most deserving of mention is “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands,” an 11-minute 22-second finale to Blonde on Blonde, Dylan’s seventh studio album (1966). This track (or maybe “Visions of Johanna,” also from Blonde on Blonde) is the stream-of-consciousness love song you wish were about you (but it’s about Sara Lownds, as is hinted in “Sara” on Desire. And “Visions of Johanna” is probably about Joan Baez). In my mind, these songs alone are enough to merit an award in literature. But I suppose it’s a matter of taste.