Contrary to popular belief, Bob Dylan is not dead. In fact, he just won the fucking Nobel Prize for Literature on Thursday, being the first musician to do so.
Nearly everybody knows who Bob Dylan is. If not through his music, then it’s through some acquaintance with one of his famous lines “The times are a’ changin’,” that they’ve heard uttered by some uni student bum-puffing his way through an existential crisis.
Grammy, Academy and Golden Globe awards are among another honours Dylan has received for his art. Many people see Dylan as a musician rather than a writer, but he was awarded the international prize for his lyrics and poetry. Sarah Danius, permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy stated:
“We’re really giving it to Bob Dylan as a great poet – that’s the reason we awarded him the prize. He’s a great poet in the great English tradition, stretching from Milton and Blake onwards. And he’s a very interesting traditionalist, in a highly original way. Not just the written tradition, but also the oral one; not just high literature, but also low literature.”
Dylan will receive an 18-karat gold medal and a check for about $925,000—That’s a lot of nuts.
It was during the 1960’s that he rose up like a thorn in the side of the Vietnam war’s arse where ever since has been one of the most influential voices in America. By 1964, he was playing 200 shows a year, while being the cool older brother to the Beatles by introducing them to marijuana (we can all thank Dylan for Sgt. Pepper).
He has released critical acclaimed albums decade after decade, all by constantly regenerating like some kind of Time Lord from the folk hero to the electric rolling stone and the born again Christian, always being completely unpredictable—and now he is the Nobel Prize winner of 2016 for literature.
So in honour of Bobby D-dwag winning the prize for his poetry, let’s finish with one of my favourite lines from his song ‘One More Cup of Coffee’:
Your sister sees the future
Like your mama and yourself
You’ve never learned to read or write
There’s no books upon your shelf
And your pleasure knows no limits
Your voice is like a meadowlark
But your heart is like an ocean
Mysterious and dark…