Bob Dylan
American folk and rock singer-songwriter, born in Duluth, Minnesota.
I'm sick of love but I'm in the thick of it.
I don't believe you! You're a liar! ... Play it fucking loud!
I don't call myself a poet, because I don't like the word.
But these visions of Johanna, they make it all seem so cruel.
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me.
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me.
In the jingle-jangle morning, I'll come following you.
You're an idiot, babe. It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.
Inside the museums, infinity goes up on trial.
Voices echo this is what salvation must be like after a while
But, Mona Lisa must have had the highway blues
you can tell by the way she smiles
She's got everything she needs, she's an artist, she don't look back.
they already expect you to just give a check to tax-deductible charity organization.
So many things that we never will undo
I know you're sorry, I'm sorry too.
Dylan is free now to work on his own terms. It would be foolish to predict what he will do next. But hopefully he will remain a mediator, using the language of pop to transcend it. If the gap between past and present continues to widen, such mediation may be crucial. In a communications crisis, the true prophets are the translators.
It is not he or she or them or it that you belong to.
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind.
All is gone, all is gone, admit it, take flight.
I gagged twice, doubled, tears blinding my sight.
My mind it was mangled, I ran into the night
Leaving all of love's ashes behind me.
The wind knocks my window, the room it is wet.
The words to say I'm sorry, I haven't found yet.
I think of her often and hope whoever she's met
Will be fully aware of how precious she is.
Well, I wanna be your lover, baby, I don't wanna be your boss.
How many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail before she sleeps in the sand?
Stay, lady, stay. Stay while the night is still ahead.
Come gather ’round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown.
And accept it that soon
You’ll be drenched to the bone.
If your time to you is worth savin’
Then you better start swimmin’ or you’ll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin’.
People today are still living off the table scraps of the sixties. They are still being passed around — the music and the ideas.
And if my thought-dreams could be seen, they'd probably put my head in a guillotine.
But it's alright, Ma, it's life, and life only.