Majestic Performance of Dylan Song By Patti Smith at Nobel Prize Awards

[+ nycman]

When you start quoting your own posts...it's time to stop.

[AdamSmith]

When you start quoting your own posts...it's time to stop.

No less brain-dead than before. Thanks for the consideration.

[AdamSmith]

Foundationally:

 

Dylan's insight that Smith, for reasons said in above posts, and then for so many larger reasons also, would be the one person alive who would be capable to so far exceed him in giving a Nobel-worthy performance.

 

That word "exceed" fell into my understanding from Truman Capote, when he wrote that (quoting from memory), "People like Updike and Styron are 'fine' writers, but they won't last because they don't try to exceed themselves, the way Flannery O'Connor to take one of our current greatest examples always does."

 

A statement equally applicable to, and true of, Capote himself.

[AdamSmith]

The piece itself is simply so large as to be unperformable.

 

He knew that.

 

Her capacity to do so nonetheless.

 

Beyond comment.

[AdamSmith]

PPS, regarding the Nobel award to Dylan, could this have been an early moral shot across the bow of Trump?

[AdamSmith]

...And I'll know myself

When the fire starts singing...

 

As unperformable as LvB's last quartets.

 

Or the poems of Wallace Stevens.

 

She gave us a miracle.

[AdamSmith]

Per me si va ne la città dolente,

per me si va ne l’etterno dolore,

per me si va tra la perduta gente.

 

Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore:

fecemi la divina podestate,

la somma sapienza e ‘l primo amore.

 

Dinanzi a me non fuor cose create

se non etterne, e io etterno duro.

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.

[+ WilliamM]

Per me si va ne la città dolente,

per me si va ne l’etterno dolore,

per me si va tra la perduta gente.

 

Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore:

fecemi la divina podestate,

la somma sapienza e ‘l primo amore.

 

Dinanzi a me non fuor cose create

se non etterne, e io etterno duro.

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.

 

Translation, please.

[+ nycman]

Translation, please.

 

I won't pretend to be able translate Italian....

but I recognize the last line as the inscription on

the Gates of Hell in Dante's The Divine Comedy.

 

Specifically Canto III from the Inferno in The Divine Comedy:

 

Through me the way to the suffering city;

Through me the everlasting pain;

Through me the way that runs among the Lost.

Justice urged on my exalted Creator:

Divine Power made me,

The Supreme Wisdom and the Primal Love.

Nothing was made before me but eternal things

And I endure eternally.

Abandon all hope - Ye Who Enter Here.

 

Source

[AdamSmith]

Per me si va ne la città dolente,

per me si va ne l’etterno dolore,

per me si va tra la perduta gente.

 

Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore:

fecemi la divina podestate,

la somma sapienza e ‘l primo amore.

 

Dinanzi a me non fuor cose create

se non etterne, e io etterno duro.

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.

See also:

 

https://www.google.com/amp/www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/a-hell-of-a-ride-1343901.html?amp?client=safari

[AdamSmith]

Per me si va ne la città dolente,

per me si va ne l’etterno dolore,

per me si va tra la perduta gente.

 

Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore:

fecemi la divina podestate,

la somma sapienza e ‘l primo amore.

 

Dinanzi a me non fuor cose create

se non etterne, e io etterno duro.

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.

What I meant by that post was, essentially, to say: look how very close indeed Dylan approaches to Dante's aesthetic achievement and greatness. Particularly that Hard Rain is in much the same spirit as D's immortal inscription on the Gate of Hell. (Some lit crits even read it as the Gate itself speaking the inscription aloud.)

 

I don't mean this as hyperbole. Dylan's work is, I think, Up There with the immortals.

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son

And where have you been, my darling young one

I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains

I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways

I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests

I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans

I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard

And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard

It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son

And what did you see, my darling young one

I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it

I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it

I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin'

I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin'

I saw a white ladder all covered with water

I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken

I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children

And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard

It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?

And what did you hear, my darling young one?

I heard the sound of a thunder that roared out a warnin'

Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world

Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin'

Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin'

Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin'

Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter

Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley

And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard

It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

Oh, what did you meet, my blue-eyed son?

Who did you meet, my darling young one?

I met a young child beside a dead pony

I met a white man who walked a black dog

I met a young woman whose body was burning

I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow

I met one man who was wounded in love

I met another man who was wounded with hatred

And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard

It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

And what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?

And what'll you do now, my darling young one?

I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin'

I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest

Where the people are many and their hands are all empty

Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters

Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison

And the executioner's face is always well hidden

Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten

Where black is the color, where none is the number

And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it

And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it

Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin'

But I'll know my song well before I start singin'

And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard

It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

[+ Keith30309]

Nifty neato!

...

Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters

 

 

And, in other news,

 

Fox News Bias Alert - January 24, 2017:

"Disgraced newsman Rather thumps Conway for 'alternative facts'"

[+ WilliamM]

What I meant by that post was, essentially, to say: look how very close indeed Dylan approaches to Dante's aesthetic achievement and greatness. Particularly that Hard Rain is in much the same spirit as D's immortal inscription on the Gate of Hell. (Some lit crits even read it as the Gate itself speaking the inscription aloud.)

 

Bob Dylan's words and music are strong enough to stand alone, without comparisons to Dante or anyone else.

 

I started this thread and was hoping for a discussion about Dylan, not Dante.

[AdamSmith]

Bob Dylan's words and music are strong enough to stand alone, without comparisons to Dante or anyone else.

 

I started this thread and was hoping for a discussion about Dylan, not Dante.

My thoughts cante are about Dylan, in complete service to your intent.

 

Odd that would even need to be said.

[Nvr2Thick]

What I meant by that post was, essentially, to say: look how very close indeed Dylan approaches to Dante's aesthetic achievement and greatness. Particularly that Hard Rain is in much the same spirit as D's immortal inscription on the Gate of Hell. (Some lit crits even read it as the Gate itself speaking the inscription aloud.)

 

I don't mean this as hyperbole. Dylan's work is, I think, Up There with the immortals.

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son

And where have you been, my darling young one

I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains

I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways

I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests

I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans

I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard

And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard

It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son

And what did you see, my darling young one

I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it

I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it

I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin'

I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin'

I saw a white ladder all covered with water

I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken

I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children

And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard

It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?

And what did you hear, my darling young one?

I heard the sound of a thunder that roared out a warnin'

Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world

Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin'

Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin'

Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin'

Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter

Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley

And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard

It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

Oh, what did you meet, my blue-eyed son?

Who did you meet, my darling young one?

I met a young child beside a dead pony

I met a white man who walked a black dog

I met a young woman whose body was burning

I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow

I met one man who was wounded in love

I met another man who was wounded with hatred

And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard

It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

And what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?

And what'll you do now, my darling young one?

I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin'

I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest

Where the people are many and their hands are all empty

Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters

Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison

And the executioner's face is always well hidden

Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten

Where black is the color, where none is the number

And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it

And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it

Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin'

But I'll know my song well before I start singin'

And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard

It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

 

It reminded me of "Robin Hood"

And the part where Little John jumped from the rock

To the Sheriff of Nottingham's back.

And then Robin and everyone swung from the trees

In a sudden surprise attack.

And they captured the sheriff and all of his goods

And they carried him back to their camp in the woods

And the sheriff was guest at their dinner and all

But he wriggled away and he sounded the call

And his men rushed in and the arrows flew-

Peter Rabbit did sort of that kind of thing too.

[+ WilliamM]

My thoughts cante are about Dylan, in complete service to your intent.

 

Odd that would even need to be said.

 

I don't mean this as hyperbole. Dylan's work is, I think, Up There with the immortals.

 

I have never read Dante. But, I have read far more widely than most college non-literature majors. So I am not intimidated by your comments. I disagreed with many things you have written in this thread, but I did not respond until now.

[AdamSmith]

So I am not intimidated by your comments.

You have me baffled. Please help me understand.

[+ WilliamM]

I have no intention of discussing this issue in public, @AdamSmith

[AdamSmith]

I have no intention of discussing this issue in public, @AdamSmith

As you wish. We seem not to be communicating.

[+ WilliamM]

Adam and I did communicate through PMs..

[AdamSmith]

The Nobel committee's award presentation speech for Dylan:

 

What brings about the great shifts in the world of literature? Often it is when someone seizes upon a simple, overlooked form, discounted as art in the higher sense, and makes it mutate. Thus, at one point, emerged the modern novel from anecdote and letter, thus arose drama in a new age from high jinx on planks placed on barrels in a marketplace, thus songs in the vernacular dethroned learned Latin poetry, thus too did La Fontaine take animal fables and Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales from the nursery to Parnassian heights. Each time this occurs, our idea of literature changes.

 

In itself, it ought not to be a sensation that a singer/songwriter now stands recipient of the literary Nobel Prize. In a distant past, all poetry was sung or tunefully recited, poets were rhapsodes, bards, troubadours; 'lyrics' comes from 'lyre'. But what Bob Dylan did was not to return to the Greeks or the Provençals. Instead, he dedicated himself body and soul to 20th century American popular music, the kind played on radio stations and gramophone records for ordinary people, white and black: protest songs, country, blues, early rock, gospel, mainstream music. He listened day and night, testing the stuff on his instruments, trying to learn. But when he started to write similar songs, they came out differently. In his hands, the material changed. From what he discovered in heirloom and scrap, in banal rhyme and quick wit, in curses and pious prayers, sweet nothings and crude jokes, he panned poetry gold, whether on purpose or by accident is irrelevant; all creativity begins in imitation.

 

Even after fifty years of uninterrupted exposure, we are yet to absorb music's equivalent of the fable's Flying Dutchman. He makes good rhymes, said a critic, explaining greatness. And it is true. His rhyming is an alchemical substance that dissolves contexts to create new ones, scarcely containable by the human brain. It was a shock. With the public expecting poppy folk songs, there stood a young man with a guitar, fusing the languages of the street and the bible into a compound that would have made the end of the world seem a superfluous replay. At the same time, he sang of love with a power of conviction everyone wants to own. All of a sudden, much of the bookish poetry in our world felt aenemic, and the routine song lyrics his colleagues continued to write were like old-fashioned gunpowder following the invention of dynamite. Soon, people stopped comparing him to Woody Guthrie and Hank Williams and turned instead to Blake, Rimbaud, Whitman, Shakespeare.

 

In the most unlikely setting of all - the commercial gramophone record - he gave back to the language of poetry its elevated style, lost since the Romantics. Not to sing of eternities, but to speak of what was happening around us. As if the oracle of Delphi were reading the evening news.

 

Recognizing that revolution by awarding Bob Dylan the Nobel Prize was a decision that seemed daring only beforehand and already seems obvious. But does he get the prize for upsetting the system of literature? Not really. There is a simpler explanation, one that we share with all those who stand with beating hearts in front of the stage at one of the venues on his never-ending tour, waiting for that magical voice. Chamfort made the observation that when a master such as La Fontaine appears, the hierarchy of genres - the estimation of what is great and small, high and low in literature - is nullified. “What matter the rank of a work when its beauty is of the highest rank?" he wrote. That is the straight answer to the question of how Bob Dylan belongs in literature: as the beauty of his songs is of the highest rank.

 

By means of his oeuvre, Bob Dylan has changed our idea of what poetry can be and how it can work. He is a singer worthy of a place beside the Greeks' ἀοιδόι, beside Ovid, beside the Romantic visionaries, beside the kings and queens of the Blues, beside the forgotten masters of brilliant standards. If people in the literary world groan, one must remind them that the gods don't write, they dance and they sing. The good wishes of the Swedish Academy follow Mr. Dylan on his way to coming bandstands.

 

http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/nobel-committee-bob-dylan-changed-our-idea-of-poetry-w455063