![]() |
Photo Credit: Nobel Foundation |
I was awake for the announcement (Some people have their World Series, some people get up early for the Nobel announcements). I really do look forward to the announcement each year. It starts with the beginning of October and waiting for the announcement of the date (October 13th. Later than usual.), then the actual waiting for that date. In the interim, I occasionally check the betting odds makers, often review past winners to look at trends, and renew my yearly hope that Haruki Murakami doesn't win. (I know, I know. He has many fans, but I am not one of them. I'm sure he is worthy, but I suppose I am still bitter about 1Q84, also known as "1,000 pages of my life I will never get back".) This year was no different from any other.
Then Bob Dylan won.
And my Facebook feed blew up with not just news articles about it but also people posting to me specifically.
Why?
Yes, I am a follower of all things literary award. I really love literary awards. All of them. Following the journey from long list to short list, reading about controversies and revolutions, reading the works. Nobel, American Book Award, Abe Lincoln, Man Booker Rebecca Caudill, Printz, Hugo, Newberry, you name it. I love literary awards.
But I am also a longtime, faithful, loyal Bob Dylan fan.

So what happens when a vaunted literary award like the Nobel is given to a...folk singer? Rock star? Gravely voiced musician?
Many of the articles and comments I read had the same theme: Nobel Laureate Bob Dylan? Really?
They should have said: Nobel Laureate Bob Dylan? It's about time!
I am not here to wax poetic on the value of
Dylan's musical skill (Acoustic vs. Electric, Folk vs. Rock, Love that voice! Hate that voice!)
I am here to say that Dylan's Nobel doesn't lessen the award; it expands it. In one fell swoop, the Nobel became far more relevant to far more people, even those who are not fans of Bob Dylan.
First of all, the Nobel is awarded to a body of work, not a specific title or piece. Though it can be technically quantified, it is hard to really imagine the truly vast nature of the body of Dylan's work and the influence it has.
More than 35 albums. Over 5 decades. His published catalog alone is hundreds of songs. It is truly a body of work. With each work creating ripples in the pond, Dylan is responsible for waves. Decades of waves that changed the shoreline.
Second, the directions Alfred Nobel left dictating the mission statement of the literature prize are very vague. It states that the award should go the the person producing "the most outstanding work in an ideal direction". This gives great latitude to those awarding the prize. It has been given to novelists, essayists, journalist, poets. Those working in non-fiction, realism, romanticism, magical realism, on and on. There are few constraints. Let it just be "the most outstanding work".
Is Bob Dylan that? Someone creating the most outstanding work in an ideal direction? Absolutely. And he has been for 50 years.
For the Swedish Academy to recognize that really shows their expanding view of what it is to be working in an ideal direction. It expands the very concept of literature.
Let's be honest here. For far too long, the literary canon has been mostly dead white guys.


New style? Rubbish!
New themes? Unworthy!
New voices? Unnecessary!
So, for Bob Dylan to get this award, it broadens the scope of what it means to be literature. Poetry that is put to music. Poetry written for the people. Poetry written not just about but for the common man. Poetry that rebels. Poetry that has mass appeal. Poetry that is sometimes funny, sometimes dark, always entertaining. Poetry that is political, offensive, irreverent, nonconforming. How to quantify it?
All of these point to the true issue at hand: if the average person loves it, how can it be an example of greatness?
That which is great should be elite, out of reach, ideal, inaccessible. It should be fenced off, placed on a plinth, and admired from afar. It should be muttered about in hushed voices of admiration, with eyes downcast while mourning for the poor commoner who could never grasp, never fathom, never appreciate such perfection.
And then Bob Dylan has to go and ruin it all.
It is about time.
No comments:
Post a Comment