The Bard and the Conventions

“I think of myself as a song and dance man”

Bob Dylan

“What did he do anyway?” This question, as a comment to an article in the “Atlantic”, reporting Dylan’s refusal to accept the Nobel Prize, prompted me to write this ode to the poet. It is not a “shock horror” reaction to a question, but more a laudation and at the same time an attempt to understand why a person, who has received so much recognition in his life, would suddenly refuse a knightly accolade, such as Nobel Prize.

I will not tire anyone with a long list of his achievements – the reader will either already know, or may look it up. I want to try and guess what might have happened. Bear with me. And bear in mind, that some of the articles, that are in the papers about him, have the facts simply wrong. Like the story about his disappearance from the stage in 1966 following a car accident and a broken vertebrae. In his autobiography “Chronicles”, Dylan admits: “I had been in a car accident and I’d been hurt, but I recovered. Truth was that I wanted to get away from the rat race.” And it has been not all that still around the mercurial star. Not at all. His retreat was not entirely from the stage or from the lire - more from the society. It resulted in a boost of creativity that went beyond the political and religious horizons. His literary work had lost its anger and found new depth.

“The poets are the holy chalices in which the wine of life, the soul of heroes, is held forever sacred”, writes Hölderlin. Dylan belongs to that rare breed of people who are convinced that when they have a good idea, this idea needs to become Form, reality. They then see it as their responsibility, if need be, to sacrifice themselves on the altar of their conviction. The idealists.

How many noble souls have withered on this vine? Euripides saw himself as prophetic poet, a politically active lawmaker of his time. Disappointed in society, he turned his wrath against it, maneuvering himself into periphery. He left Athens, retreated into a cave in Thessaly to live and work there, away from the maddening crowd. In the words of Rudolf Borchard, a 19th century writer and speaker ”he sought this cave, to seek which, he was born. This cave was what protected him, when God no longer did.” For anyone, especially a tender being like a poet, there is this place that “protects him when God no longer does”. Bob Dylan found his own place. Some evil tongues say that he became introverted, when he became clean. I bid to differ. He drunk and took drugs to overcome his natural shyness. This tranquility, this peaceful cave, is what gives a bard his strength and insight. It allows him to stop and hear. An impossible task for people, who write their unfounded opinions in two – three meaningless words.

What does a bard hear, you may ask? I wrote in one of my other essays that Pythagoras was rumored to hear the music of the spheres. A metaphor? Some are convinced that it exists. The belief that everything in the universe has its own inimitable sound, was shared by many great people. Among them, a very interesting person named Johann Wilhelm Ritter. This talented young chemist, physicist and philosopher worked around 1804 at the University in Jena. Ritter is seen as one of the pillars of electrochemistry. He was charming, brilliant and impressed many greats of his time – Goethe, Schlegel and Schelling among them. Still, he preferred to spend his time alone, avoiding company for weeks, to finally move to Munich, where he died in poverty, forgotten by everyone. He turned only 33. I am sure, there are newer studies on the nature of sound, but I find his most romantic, that’s all.

An excerpt from his work: ”Sounds are produced by oscillation, that repeats at regular intervals. Half of the oscillation per a particular time unit, results in a sound an octave lower, a quarter – two octaves and so forth. There are oscillations in nature that may take a day, a year, a whole human life to complete. Those may be of great importance. The turning of the Earth on its axis may produce a powerful sound. The turning of the Earth around the sun – another, the movement of the moon around the Earth - a third one. And so forth. This way, one may get an impression of the colossal Music, in comparison with which our little earthly one is only an allegory. We ourselves, all animals, plants, all living organisms, may be a part of this melody. Sound and life, melted into each other.” (….) Sounds are beings that understand one another, just as we understand the sound. Also the soul of the sound can be good and evil. The sound beckons like a word, a command. But it is up to us whether we serve it, or avoid it. (…). Sound and music are both a language, a common language. Perhaps, the first language altogether. Singing is a double language, common and special at once. With it, a Word is lifted to common understanding. In this way, every word we say, is a secret song, because it is continually accompanied by inner music.”

Do you hear it? I am not a poet. Still, sometimes when I am alone. In my room full of books, I light a candle and listen. In this self – imposed silence I hear myself think the best. I understand. And maybe there are a many more things we would be able to see and feel, would we be able to find time to listen to this silence filled with sound. We daren’t judge a poet for things he does or doesn’t do. We may or may not like his verse. It plays no role to him and it must be respected. There may be a dozen reasons for Bob Dylan to refuse his Nobel Prize. Some of them may be mundane. I do not care. I want to think that a great soul decided that there is no place in his cave for useless noise.