鲍勃·迪伦诺贝尔文学奖致辞全文翻译

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鲍勃·迪伦诺贝尔文学奖致辞全文翻译 

原创 2017-06-06 降临翻译组 译 世界说

编者按：诺贝尔文学奖评奖机构瑞典文学院6月5日在其官方网站宣布，美国歌手鲍勃·迪伦终于向瑞典学院提交了诺贝尔文学奖获奖致辞音频，有资格领取800万瑞典克朗的奖金。他的演说音频与原稿已由诺贝尔官方发布在网站上。以下为世界说对致辞的全文翻译。

世 界 说

降临翻译组 译

发自 北京

刚拿到诺贝尔文学奖的时候，我就在想，我的歌究竟和文学有什么关系。我想认真思考这件事，找出其中的联系。今天我打算把我的思考结果说给你们听，可能会比较绕，但是我希望我将要说的这些是有价值的、有明确含义的。

如果要回到一切的开始，那我可能会从巴迪·霍利（注：美国当代著名摇滚乐歌星、摇滚乐坛最早的“青春偶像”之一）说起。巴迪死的时候22岁，我那时18岁。我第一次听到他的声音，就觉得无比亲切，心有戚戚，好像他是我的一个大哥哥。我甚至觉得自己很像他。我爱巴迪演奏的音乐——那是我成长的源泉：乡村音乐、摇滚、节奏布鲁斯。他将这三类音乐杂糅、融合在一起，自成一派。巴迪会自己写歌——充满着美妙的旋律和富有想象力的歌词。他唱得也很棒——他不止用一种声线歌唱。他是典范，拥有我当时所没有并且想成为的一切。我只见过他一次，几天后他就过世了。我当时去了一百多里开外的地方看他的演出，我没有失望。

他充满力量，令人振奋，气势镇住全场。我离他只有六英尺远，他实在是令人着迷。我看着他的面容、他的双手、他的舞步、他的大框黑色眼镜，还有镜片背后的目光，他抱着吉他的方式，他的站姿，他整洁的西装。有关他的一切。他看起来不止22岁。他身上有某种永恒的东西，为我注入了信念。接着，完全没有预兆的、最不可思议的事情发生了，他突然死死地盯住了我，好像在传达什么信息。我不知道那是什么，这让我浑身战栗。

差不多一两天后，他的飞机失事了。之后，我以前从未见过的某人交给我一盘莱德贝利（注：美国民歌和蓝调歌手、吉他演奏家）的磁带，上面有歌曲“棉花田”。那盘磁带从那一刻起改变了我的一生。将我带入了一个全新的世界，那种感觉是爆炸性的。就好像我一直走在黑暗中，突然间黑暗消逝、一片光明。就好像冥冥之中有人找到了我。那盘磁带我起码听了一百遍。

出这卷磁带的唱片公司我从没听过，公司小册子的广告里有其他的艺术家：萨尼·特里和布朗尼·麦基，新迷城漫步者，琴·芮特旭，蓝草乐队。我从未听说过他们，但是我想要是他们和莱德贝利同属一个唱片公司，肯定也很好，所以我得听听他们的音乐。我想知道这个世界的一切，想要弹奏那样的音乐。直到那时，我还忘不了伴随我成长的那些乐曲，但从那一刻起，我就把它们抛之脑后，甚至连想都没有想过，直到现在，它们已经消失了很久很久。

当时我还没有离开家，但我已经迫不及待。我想要学习这种音乐，想要认识表演音乐的人们。我最终离开了，也学会了去弹奏这些音乐。它们和我一直以来听到的电台音乐不同，它们充满生气，直面生活。在电台音乐里，一个表演者想要又节奏击中人心，就像掷出想要的点数或抽出指定的卡牌一样困难，但是民谣里则不是这样，因为处处都能击中你的心灵。你需要做的就是娴熟地弹奏。有些歌很简单，有些很难。我对古民谣和乡村布鲁斯有天然的感觉，其他的则需要从头学起。我当时只做非常小型的演出，一般是在一个房间里或者在街角，听众不超过四五个人。你得有很多保留曲目，知道什么时候该表演什么。有些歌曲娓娓道来，有些则需要声嘶力竭。

听着那些早期的民谣歌手，唱着他们的歌，你逐渐学会了这里面的行话。它们成为了你的一部分。你用拉格泰姆蓝调、劳动号子、佐治亚船夫号子、阿巴拉契亚民谣和牛仔歌去演唱。你能听到所有的细微之处，并且学习它们。

你知道了它的全部含义。掏出手枪，又放回口袋；来往快速穿梭，在黑暗中发声。你知道斯泰克·李是个坏人，而弗兰基是个好女孩。你知道华盛顿是一个小资产阶级的城市，你听过“拔摩岛的约翰”低沉的嗓音，你看见泰坦尼克在沼泽里沉没。你同爱尔兰的漂泊者和殖民地的男孩结伴，你听见沉闷的鼓声和低沉的横笛声。你看见健硕的唐纳德爵士用刀捅了他的妻子，你的许多同志被裹进了白色的亚麻布。

我记下了这些术语。我了解这种修辞。没有什么是我不能理解的- 乐器、技巧、所有的秘密和神秘- 我认识歌曲里出现的每一条无人问津的小路。我可以。当我开始自己写歌的时候，我唯一知道的辞藻就是民谣的语言，我也就使用这样的语言。

但我也有些其他的东西。我有我的主题，我的情感，和对世界的认知。我一度有过这些东西，全都是在文法学校学到的：《唐吉坷德》《艾凡赫》《鲁宾逊漂流记》《格列佛游记》《双城记》，等等——文法学校的典型阅读清单，教给你一种看待生活的方式，一种对人类本性的理解，和度量世间万物的尺度。当我开始写歌的时候，这些东西都陪伴着我，它们的思想以各种有意无意的方式走进我的歌里。我想要写的歌同以往任何歌曲都不一样，而这些书的主题是至关重要的。

我在文法学校读过的书里面，有些书对我影响至深——我想专门提出其中的三本：《白鲸记》《西线无战事》和《奥德赛》。

一

《白鲸记》是一本引人入胜的书，其中充满了生动剧情和戏剧性的对话。这本书对你有很强的要求。它的情节非常直接，跛脚船长神秘莫测，仿佛一个活在自我世界的狂人。亚哈船长驾驶着他的裴廓德号捕鲸船追捕他的宿敌--让他失去了一条腿的大白鲸莫比·迪克。他从大西洋非洲的一段追到了印度洋，这场航程横跨了地球两侧。他似乎是在追寻一个虚无飘渺的目标，没有任何确定和实在的终点。他把白鲸称作“海魔王”，视作是邪恶的化身。亚哈船长不时追忆他在楠塔基特岛的妻子和孩子。你可以想象之后会发生什么了。

船员们来自不同种族，只要谁看见了白鲸，都会得到一个金币的奖赏。他们身上代表了许多星座、宗教寓言和刻板印象。亚哈船长一遇到其他的捕鲸船，也要从其他船长那儿得到关于莫比的信息。有没有人看见它？他还在其中一艘船上遇到了一个疯狂的预言家加百列，说亚哈必死。加百列还告诉亚哈船长莫比是震教神的化身，如果他们惹它将会招致灾祸。另一艘船的布默船长被莫比咬掉了一条胳膊，但是他忍气吞声，庆幸自己还是活下来了。他无法接受亚哈狂热的复仇欲。

这本书也讲述了在同样的境遇下不同的人是如何有不同方式的反应。许多《旧约》的内容和圣经寓言都浮现文中：加百列、比勒达，耶罗波安,比尔达，以利亚。还有异教徒的名字：塔斯蒂哥，弗拉斯克，达古，弗里斯，斯塔巴克，斯塔布，马萨葡萄园岛这些异教徒都是偶像崇拜者：有人崇拜蜡像，有人崇拜木雕像，有人崇拜火，而“裴廓德号”的名字来源于一个印第安部落。

《白鲸记》是一个关于航海的故事。其中一个船员，也就是叙述者说：“我叫以实马利。”有人问他它来自哪里，他回答道，“那里在任何地图上都找不到。真实的地方都是这样。”斯塔博认为任何事都是没有意义的，都是上天注定的。以实马利的终生都在船上度过，他把航船看作是他自己的哈佛和耶鲁。他与其他人保持距离。

一场台风袭击了裴廓德号。亚哈船长认为这是一个好兆头。斯塔博克认为这是一个凶兆，甚至想着要除掉亚哈。风暴一结束，有一个船员就从船的桅杆上掉下来，溺水了，这也隐约预示着接下来的悲剧。一个桂格派和平主义神甫、实际上是嗜血成性的生意人，告诉弗拉斯克，“有些受伤的人会被带到上帝跟前，有的却只会走向愤恨。”

所有的事情都交织在一起。所有的传说：关于犹太基督圣经、印度神话、英国传奇、圣乔治、珀尔修斯和赫拉克利斯的传说--他们都是捕鲸人。希腊神话中早有关于捕鲸的血腥营生。《白鲸记》中多有记叙，其中有地理知识和关于鲸油的事实。贵族也和捕鲸难脱干系，皇家加冕时皇帝涂抹的圣油就是鲸油。鲸的历史，颅相学，古典哲学，伪科学理论和为这种歧视的辩护，凡此种种书中皆有，但几乎没有一样是理性的。不管是高雅还是通俗，追求幻想还是追求死亡，这大白鲸，白如北极熊，白如白人，这是“海魔王”，这是死敌，这是邪恶化身。数年前痛失一条腿的亚哈船长已经精神错乱，想要用一把刀屠杀莫比。

我们能看到的仅仅是事物的表面。我们可以用我们认为合适的任何方式解读。船员在甲板上四处活动，想要从船上听到美人鱼、鲨鱼和秃鹰的声音。去研读头骨和脸孔，就像读一本书。这里有一张脸，我就把它放在你面前。试着读读吧，如果你可以。

塔斯蒂哥说他死了，然后又重生了。所以余留之日都是恩赐。他并非被上帝所救，他说他是被一个异教徒所救，一个像他一样的凡人。所以这是一场对耶稣重生的滑稽模仿。

斯塔巴克告诉亚哈让过去随风而去，亚哈船长呛声道，“不要跟我说什么亵渎神明，伙计。如果太阳羞辱我，我也一定会反击。”亚哈也是舌灿莲花的诗人。他说：“我的目标之路铺满铁轨，我的灵魂也将顺此轨迹而奔。”他还说道，“所有可见的事物只不过是纸糊的面具”。他有太多绝妙的诗意言语，我们是难以胜过的。

最后，亚哈船长终于见到了莫比，亮出了鱼枪。他放下小船。亚哈船长的鱼枪在血中受洗。而莫比也袭击了亚哈的小船并且撞沉了它。第二天，亚哈又看到了莫比。他又放下小船，又遭到莫比的袭击。第三天，另一艘小船再次上阵。这又是宗教寓言。他升起来了。而莫比又一次攻击了他，猛撞了裴廓德号并撞沉了它。亚哈被渔枪线缠住了，被掀出了小船落水，掉进了水中的坟墓。

以实玛利活下来了。他掉进了大海浮在一口棺材上。这就是《白鲸记》的故事，这就是全部的故事。这个主题和它所有的隐喻，我的许多歌中都有它们的影子。

二

《西线无战事》是另一本能使我魂牵梦萦的书。《西线无战事》是一本恐怖小说。这本书就是你迷失童年、在意义纷繁世界中丢失信仰、失去对人类关注之所。你被噩梦所扰，无法逃离，被吸入死亡与疼痛的神秘漩涡。你在消亡中守卫着自己的存在。你正在地图表面上被清除。很久很久以前，你曾是一个纯真的年少人，有着像成为钢琴演奏家一般的伟大梦想。你曾爱过生命与世界，而今将这一切轰炸成碎片。日复一日，黄蜂叮咬你，蠕虫蚕食你的鲜血。你成为一头困兽，没有任何容身之所。降落的雨水千篇一律。这里有无尽的攻击，毒气、神经瓦斯、吗啡、燃烧的石油管道、拾荒者、流行病、伤寒、痢疾。生活分崩离析而贝壳吹响号角。这里是地狱的偏远地带。泥泞，裸露的电线，尽是老鼠的壕沟，它们啃食死人内脏，战壕满是污秽与排泄物。有人嘶喊着：“喂，就是你，站起来，去战斗。”

没人知道这场混乱会持续多久。战争没有终点。你正被毁灭，并且你的腿已经流失太多鲜血。昨日，你杀死一人，并对尸体私语。你告诉他当这一切结束，你会用余下的人生来帮他照顾家人。在这里，有谁真正得益？首领将军得名，其余众人赢财，但你却做着肮脏的勾当。在你的诸位将领中，其中一个说道“等等，你要去哪？”然后你答道“让我独处，我很快就会回来。”接着你步入死亡丛林，为猎食一片火腿。你觉得文明社会里的所有人都漫无目的。他们的一切忧虑与欲望，你无从理解。

更多机关枪蜂鸣作响，人体躯肢悬于电线之下，散碎的四肢与骨骼就似蝴蝶栖息牙齿之上，丑陋可憎的伤口，脓水从每处气口流出，肺部受伤，此身体无法承受之重，吹气的死尸，制造作呕的噪音。目之所及尽是死亡，毫无希望。有人会杀了你并用你的尸体做目标训练。靴子的下场也一样。它们是你宝贵的财产。但不久之后，它们会在别人的脚上。

法国佬们正穿过树林，那些无情的混蛋。你的躯壳正在消亡，你说：“这不公平,这么快就再次袭击。”一位同伴躺在尘土里，你想带他去野战医院。旁人说道“还是免了吧。” “这是什么意思？”“把他翻过来看看后背，你就会明白。”

你等着听新闻。你不能理解为什么战争还没结束。军队深陷人员缺乏的困境中，他们不断把没有经验的年轻小伙子招来，只是因为人手太不够了。病痛和羞辱让你心碎。你遭到了背叛，他们是你的父母、校长、官员，甚至政府。

那个缓慢抽着雪茄的将军也背叛了你——他把你变成了一个暴徒、谋杀犯。如果可以，你想朝他脸上来一枪。你也想朝你的指挥官脸上来一枪。你幻想着等自己有钱了，你会悬赏任何愿意不择手段杀了他的人。如果杀手因此丢了命，赏金留给他的后代。吃鱼子酱、喝咖啡的上校，他是另一个你想杀掉的人。他把时间都泡在军官的妓院里，你希望看到他的死尸。还有那些美国佬和英国佬，手里拎着瓶威士忌。杀了他们二十个，还会有二十个。你觉得臭不可闻。

你开始怨恨上一辈，将你推入疯狂之中，遭受这样的折磨。周边，战士们都在死去，死于腹部的伤、双腿截肢、髋骨骨折，而你想的是，“我只有二十岁，但是我有能力杀死任何人，甚至是我的亲生父亲，如果他向我冲来的话。”

昨天，你试着去救一条受伤的通信犬，有人朝你大喊，“别傻了”。一个法国佬躺在你脚边呻吟，你拿着匕首朝他肚子上给了一刀，但是这人还活着。你知道你应该结束他的生命，但是你做不到。你像被绑在铁十字架上，有个罗马士兵拿海绵沾满了醋送到你的嘴边（出自《约翰福音》19：29）。

几个月过去了，你请假回家。你无法跟父亲沟通，他说：“如果你不参军，你就是个胆小鬼。”你的母亲也是，在你临出门前，她说：“现在你要小心那些法国姑娘。”简直是疯了。奋战了一周还是一月，你们也只推进了十码地。下个月，这块地又被夺走了。

传承自千年前的文化、哲学和智慧——柏拉图、亚里士多德、苏格拉底，发生了什么？本来应该阻止这样的事发生。你的思绪回到了过去。又一次，你是那个走在高高的白杨树之间的男学生，那是令人喜悦的记忆。越来越多炸弹从飞艇扔向你。你根本无法直视一个人，因为担心有什么不测会发生在他们身上。被所有人共享的坟墓，没有其他的可能性。

接着，你注意到了盛开的樱花，你看到大自然完全未受任何影响。白杨树、红蝴蝶，花朵的脆弱的美丽，太阳——你看到大自然是如此的漠视。这所有的暴力和人类遭受的罪难，大自然根本未曾注意。

你是如此孤单，然后一块榴弹片从你脑袋一边射进去，然后，你死了。

你被排除了，被划掉，被消灭了。我把书放下，关上它。我再也不想看战争主题的小说了。之后我也再没有看过。

来自北卡罗来纳州的查理·普尔（Charlie Poole）有首歌与此相关。歌名叫做《你不和我说话了》，歌词是这样写的：

一天，我走在镇上，在一块窗户上看到一个告示

参军吧，看看这个世界，它上面写着

你将和一帮让人愉悦的小伙伴们，一起去到令人激动的地方

你会遇到有趣的人们，并且学会杀掉他们

哦，你不和我说话了，你不和我说话了

我也许是疯了，但是你看，我是个有良知的人的

你不和我说话了，你不和我说话了

用枪杀人听起来并不好玩，

你不和我说话了

三

《奥德赛》是一本伟大的书。许多作曲家在歌里引用它的主题。“返航”，“故乡的青草地”，“牧场是我家”等等。《奥德赛》也出现在我的歌里。

《奥德赛》是一个奇怪的冒险故事，讲一个成年人战场厮杀之后想要回家。回家的道路漫长，又充满陷阱和诱惑。他受了诅咒，四处徘徊。他总会被带到大海上，又总是虎口脱险。巨石撞击他的船只，他惹怒不该得罪的人。队伍里有人捣乱，背叛。他的船员被变成了猪，然后又变成更为年轻英俊的男人。他总是想去帮助别人。他是一个旅人，却常常驻足。

他在荒岛搁浅。他躲进了废弃的山洞，在那儿遇见一个巨人，对他说，“我会把你吃得渣都不剩。”他从巨人手中逃脱，试图回家，可因为大风而辗转难眠。不停歇的风，冷冰冰的风，充满敌意的风。他行至远方，又被风吹回。

他总能得到预示不详的警告，但还是会去碰被告知不该碰的东西。有两条路可以选，两条路都不好，都很危险。走其中一条你会溺水，另一条则会挨饿。他驶进窄窄的海峡，泡沫横飞的旋涡要吞没他。他见到了六个脑袋、牙齿锋利的怪物。闪电击中他。他猛跃一下够到斜出的树枝才免于被咆哮的河流吞噬。有一些神保护他，另一些想要他死。他不停地变换身份，疲惫不堪，他沉沉睡去，被笑声惊醒。他向陌生人倾诉自己的故事：远走二十年，在别处被绑架，又被丢在另一个地方。有人在他的酒里下毒。真是条辛苦的路。

很多同样的事，通过很多方式，也曾发生在你的身上。也许有人曾在你的酒里下毒。你也会和错误的女人上床。你也曾被那些伴随着奇妙旋律的、充满魔力的、甜甜的声音迷惑。你一路行来走了很远，又被吹回原地。你也曾千钧一发。你也惹怒过不该得罪的人。你也在这个国家到处游荡。你也能感受到那些充满敌意的风，没有带给你任何帮助。而这些也不是全部。

奥德赛回家后，事情仍没有好转。恶棍搬进来，利用他妻子的好客，死搅蛮缠。他们人数太多，尽管奥德赛胜过他们所有，精通一切事物——最好的木匠、猎人、动物专家和水手——他的勇气救不了他，可他的计谋会。

这些恶棍要为亵渎他的宫殿付出代价。他假扮成肮脏的乞丐，一个下等仆人，傲慢而愚蠢地把他从台阶上踢下去。这仆人的自大让他恶心，但他控制住了愤怒。他是以一敌百，但他们都倒下了，包括最强壮的。他只是无名小卒。当一切落定，当他终于到家，他和妻子坐在一起，告诉了她所有的故事。

四

所以这一切意味着什么呢？我和其他许多作曲者都曾被这相同的主题影响过。它们可能意味着许多不同的事。如果一首歌打动了你，那就够了，我不需要知道这首歌是什么意思。我在歌里写过很多东西，我也不去想——想它们的含义。当梅尔维尔（注：十九世纪美国浪漫主义作家）把旧约、圣经、科学理论、新教教义，以及所有那些关于航海和鲸的知识，写进同一个故事的时候，我想他也不会去担心这一切究竟意味着什么。

约翰·多恩，莎士比亚时期的诗人、牧师，同样也是如此。他写下了“塞斯托斯与阿卑多斯是她的双峰 里面寓居的不是两位爱人 而是两段爱”。我不知道那是什么意思。但听起来很美。而你希望你的歌也是一样的。

《奥德赛》里，奥德修斯在冥府拜访了久负盛名的战士阿喀琉斯——后者牺牲了平静美满的长寿人生，换来了短暂的荣光——他告诉奥德修斯自己的生涯是个错误。“我只是死去，如此而已。”没有荣耀。没有不朽。如果可以的话，他会选择从头再来，做凡间佃农的一个下奴，也好过他如今的角色——阴间的王——无论活着有多么辛苦，也好过在这死亡之地。

歌曲也是同理。我们的歌活在生命的大地上。可是歌和文学不同。它们应该被歌唱，而不是被阅读。莎士比亚的戏剧应该演出来，就好像歌曲中的歌词也是应该被唱出来，而不是印在纸上读。我希望你们当中一些人，可以在歌中听出创作者写下这些歌词的本意：无论是在音乐会上，还是在唱片里，还是现在任何一种听歌方式。我得再一次引用荷马：“在我的体内歌唱吧，缪斯！让故事从这里生发。”

（翻译：胡越 殷雯迪 徐彦颀 王飘怡 徐典 徐一彤）

（英文原稿请点击阅读原文）

源济

The Nobel Prize in Literature 2016
Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan - Nobel Lecture
© THE NOBEL FOUNDATION 2017
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Nobel Lecture
5 June 2017

When I first received this Nobel Prize for Literature, I got to wondering exactly how my songs related to literature. I wanted to reflect on it and see where the connection was. I'm going to try to articulate that to you. And most likely it will go in a roundabout way, but I hope what I say will be worthwhile and purposeful.

If I was to go back to the dawning of it all, I guess I'd have to start with Buddy Holly. Buddy died when I was about eighteen and he was twenty-two. From the moment I first heard him, I felt akin. I felt related, like he was an older brother. I even thought I resembled him. Buddy played the music that I loved – the music I grew up on: country western, rock ‘n' roll, and rhythm and blues. Three separate strands of music that he intertwined and infused into one genre. One brand. And Buddy wrote songs – songs that had beautiful melodies and imaginative verses. And he sang great – sang in more than a few voices. He was the archetype. Everything I wasn't and wanted to be. I saw him only but once, and that was a few days before he was gone. I had to travel a hundred miles to get to see him play, and I wasn't disappointed.

He was powerful and electrifying and had a commanding presence. I was only six feet away. He was mesmerizing. I watched his face, his hands, the way he tapped his foot, his big black glasses, the eyes behind the glasses, the way he held his guitar, the way he stood, his neat suit. Everything about him. He looked older than twenty-two. Something about him seemed permanent, and he filled me with conviction. Then, out of the blue, the most uncanny thing happened. He looked me right straight dead in the eye, and he transmitted something. Something I didn't know what. And it gave me the chills.

I think it was a day or two after that that his plane went down. And somebody – somebody I'd never seen before – handed me a Leadbelly record with the song "Cottonfields" on it. And that record changed my life right then and there. Transported me into a world I'd never known. It was like an explosion went off. Like I'd been walking in darkness and all of the sudden the darkness was illuminated. It was like somebody laid hands on me. I must have played that record a hundred times.

It was on a label I'd never heard of with a booklet inside with advertisements for other artists on the label: Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, the New Lost City Ramblers, Jean Ritchie, string bands. I'd never heard of any of them. But I reckoned if they were on this label with Leadbelly, they had to be good, so I needed to hear them. I wanted to know all about it and play that kind of music. I still had a feeling for the music I'd grown up with, but for right now, I forgot about it. Didn't even think about it. For the time being, it was long gone.

I hadn't left home yet, but I couldn't wait to. I wanted to learn this music and meet the people who played it. Eventually, I did leave, and I did learn to play those songs. They were different than the radio songs that I'd been listening to all along. They were more vibrant and truthful to life. With radio songs, a performer might get a hit with a roll of the dice or a fall of the cards, but that didn't matter in the folk world. Everything was a hit. All you had to do was be well versed and be able to play the melody. Some of these songs were easy, some not. I had a natural feeling for the ancient ballads and country blues, but everything else I had to learn from scratch. I was playing for small crowds, sometimes no more than four or five people in a room or on a street corner. You had to have a wide repertoire, and you had to know what to play and when. Some songs were intimate, some you had to shout to be heard.

By listening to all the early folk artists and singing the songs yourself, you pick up the vernacular. You internalize it. You sing it in the ragtime blues, work songs, Georgia sea shanties, Appalachian ballads and cowboy songs. You hear all the finer points, and you learn the details.

You know what it's all about. Takin' the pistol out and puttin' it back in your pocket. Whippin' your way through traffic, talkin' in the dark. You know that Stagger Lee was a bad man and that Frankie was a good girl. You know that Washington is a bourgeois town and you've heard the deep-pitched voice of John the Revelator and you saw the Titanic sink in a boggy creek. And you're pals with the wild Irish rover and the wild colonial boy. You heard the muffled drums and the fifes that played lowly. You've seen the lusty Lord Donald stick a knife in his wife, and a lot of your comrades have been wrapped in white linen.

I had all the vernacular all down. I knew the rhetoric. None of it went over my head – the devices, the techniques, the secrets, the mysteries – and I knew all the deserted roads that it traveled on, too. I could make it all connect and move with the current of the day. When I started writing my own songs, the folk lingo was the only vocabulary that I knew, and I used it.

But I had something else as well. I had principals and sensibilities and an informed view of the world. And I had had that for a while. Learned it all in grammar school. Don Quixote, Ivanhoe, Robinson Crusoe, Gulliver's Travels, Tale of Two Cities, all the rest – typical grammar school reading that gave you a way of looking at life, an understanding of human nature, and a standard to measure things by. I took all that with me when I started composing lyrics. And the themes from those books worked their way into many of my songs, either knowingly or unintentionally. I wanted to write songs unlike anything anybody ever heard, and these themes were fundamental.

Specific books that have stuck with me ever since I read them way back in grammar school – I want to tell you about three of them: Moby Dick, All Quiet on the Western Front and The Odyssey.

Line.


Moby Dick is a fascinating book, a book that's filled with scenes of high drama and dramatic dialogue. The book makes demands on you. The plot is straightforward. The mysterious Captain Ahab – captain of a ship called the Pequod –  an egomaniac with a peg leg pursuing his nemesis, the great white whale Moby Dick who took his leg. And he pursues him all the way from the Atlantic around the tip of Africa and into the Indian Ocean. He pursues the whale around both sides of the earth. It's an abstract goal, nothing concrete or definite. He calls Moby the emperor, sees him as the embodiment of evil. Ahab's got a wife and child back in Nantucket that he reminisces about now and again. You can anticipate what will happen.

The ship's crew is made up of men of different races, and any one of them who sights the whale will be given the reward of a gold coin. A lot of Zodiac symbols, religious allegory, stereotypes. Ahab encounters other whaling vessels, presses the captains for details about Moby. Have they seen him? There's a crazy prophet, Gabriel, on one of the vessels, and he predicts Ahab's doom. Says Moby is the incarnate of a Shaker god, and that any dealings with him will lead to disaster. He says that to Captain Ahab. Another ship's captain – Captain Boomer – he lost an arm to Moby. But he tolerates that, and he's happy to have survived. He can't accept Ahab's lust for vengeance.

This book tells how different men react in different ways to the same experience. A lot of Old Testament, biblical allegory: Gabriel, Rachel, Jeroboam, Bildah, Elijah. Pagan names as well: Tashtego, Flask, Daggoo, Fleece, Starbuck, Stubb, Martha's Vineyard. The Pagans are idol worshippers. Some worship little wax figures, some wooden figures. Some worship fire. The Pequod is the name of an Indian tribe.

Moby Dick is a seafaring tale. One of the men, the narrator, says, "Call me Ishmael." Somebody asks him where he's from, and he says, "It's not down on any map. True places never are." Stubb gives no significance to anything, says everything is predestined. Ishmael's been on a sailing ship his entire life. Calls the sailing ships his Harvard and Yale. He keeps his distance from people.

A typhoon hits the Pequod. Captain Ahab thinks it's a good omen. Starbuck thinks it's a bad omen, considers killing Ahab. As soon as the storm ends, a crewmember falls from the ship's mast and drowns, foreshadowing what's to come. A Quaker pacifist priest, who is actually a bloodthirsty businessman, tells Flask, "Some men who receive injuries are led to God, others are led to bitterness."

Everything is mixed in. All the myths: the Judeo Christian bible, Hindu myths, British legends, Saint George, Perseus, Hercules – they're all whalers. Greek mythology, the gory business of cutting up a whale. Lots of facts in this book, geographical knowledge, whale oil – good for coronation of royalty – noble families in the whaling industry. Whale oil is used to anoint the kings. History of the whale, phrenology, classical philosophy, pseudo-scientific theories, justification for discrimination – everything thrown in and none of it hardly rational. Highbrow, lowbrow, chasing illusion, chasing death, the great white whale, white as polar bear, white as a white man, the emperor, the nemesis, the embodiment of evil. The demented captain who actually lost his leg years ago trying to attack Moby with a knife.

We see only the surface of things. We can interpret what lies below any way we see fit. Crewmen walk around on deck listening for mermaids, and sharks and vultures follow the ship. Reading skulls and faces like you read a book. Here's a face. I'll put it in front of you. Read it if you can.

Tashtego says that he died and was reborn. His extra days are a gift. He wasn't saved by Christ, though, he says he was saved by a fellow man and a non-Christian at that. He parodies the resurrection.

When Starbuck tells Ahab that he should let bygones be bygones, the angry captain snaps back, "Speak not to me of blasphemy, man, I'd strike the sun if it insulted me." Ahab, too, is a poet of eloquence. He says, "The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails whereon my soul is grooved to run."  Or these lines, "All visible objects are but pasteboard masks." Quotable poetic phrases that can't be beat.

Finally, Ahab spots Moby, and the harpoons come out. Boats are lowered. Ahab's harpoon has been baptized in blood. Moby attacks Ahab's boat and destroys it. Next day, he sights Moby again. Boats are lowered again. Moby attacks Ahab's boat again. On the third day, another boat goes in. More religious allegory. He has risen. Moby attacks one more time, ramming the Pequod and sinking it. Ahab gets tangled up in the harpoon lines and is thrown out of his boat into a watery grave.

Ishmael survives. He's in the sea floating on a coffin. And that's about it. That's the whole story. That theme and all that it implies would work its way into more than a few of my songs.

Line.


All Quiet on the Western Front was another book that did. All Quiet on the Western Front is a horror story. This is a book where you lose your childhood, your faith in a meaningful world, and your concern for individuals. You're stuck in a nightmare. Sucked up into a mysterious whirlpool of death and pain. You're defending yourself from elimination. You're being wiped off the face of the map. Once upon a time you were an innocent youth with big dreams about being a concert pianist. Once you loved life and the world, and now you're shooting it to pieces.

Day after day, the hornets bite you and worms lap your blood. You're a cornered animal. You don't fit anywhere. The falling rain is monotonous. There's endless assaults, poison gas, nerve gas, morphine, burning streams of gasoline, scavenging and scabbing for food, influenza, typhus, dysentery. Life is breaking down all around you, and the shells are whistling. This is the lower region of hell. Mud, barbed wire, rat-filled trenches, rats eating the intestines of dead men, trenches filled with filth and excrement. Someone shouts, "Hey, you there. Stand and fight."

Who knows how long this mess will go on? Warfare has no limits. You're being annihilated, and that leg of yours is bleeding too much. You killed a man yesterday, and you spoke to his corpse. You told him after this is over, you'll spend the rest of your life looking after his family. Who's profiting here? The leaders and the generals gain fame, and many others profit financially. But you're doing the dirty work. One of your comrades says, "Wait a minute, where are you going?" And you say, "Leave me alone, I'll be back in a minute." Then you walk out into the woods of death hunting for a piece of sausage. You can't see how anybody in civilian life has any kind of purpose at all. All their worries, all their desires – you can't comprehend it.

More machine guns rattle, more parts of bodies hanging from wires, more pieces of arms and legs and skulls where butterflies perch on teeth, more hideous wounds, pus coming out of every pore, lung wounds, wounds too big for the body, gas-blowing cadavers, and dead bodies making retching noises. Death is everywhere. Nothing else is possible. Someone will kill you and use your dead body for target practice. Boots, too. They're your prized possession. But soon they'll be on somebody else's feet.

There's Froggies coming through the trees. Merciless bastards. Your shells are running out. "It's not fair to come at us again so soon," you say. One of your companions is laying in the dirt, and you want to take him to the field hospital. Someone else says, "You might save yourself a trip." "What do you mean?" "Turn him over, you'll see what I mean."

You wait to hear the news. You don't understand why the war isn't over. The army is so strapped for replacement troops that they're drafting young boys who are of little military use, but they're draftin' ‘em anyway because they're running out of men. Sickness and humiliation have broken your heart. You were betrayed by your parents, your schoolmasters, your ministers, and even your own government.

The general with the slowly smoked cigar betrayed you too – turned you into a thug and a murderer. If you could, you'd put a bullet in his face. The commander as well. You fantasize that if you had the money, you'd put up a reward for any man who would take his life by any means necessary. And if he should lose his life by doing that, then let the money go to his heirs. The colonel, too, with his caviar and his coffee – he's another one. Spends all his time in the officers' brothel. You'd like to see him stoned dead too. More Tommies and Johnnies with their whack fo' me daddy-o and their whiskey in the jars. You kill twenty of ‘em and twenty more will spring up in their place. It just stinks in your nostrils.

You've come to despise that older generation that sent you out into this madness, into this torture chamber. All around you, your comrades are dying. Dying from abdominal wounds, double amputations, shattered hipbones, and you think, "I'm only twenty years old, but I'm capable of killing anybody. Even my father if he came at me."

Yesterday, you tried to save a wounded messenger dog, and somebody shouted, "Don't be a fool." One Froggy is laying gurgling at your feet. You stuck him with a dagger in his stomach, but the man still lives. You know you should finish the job, but you can't. You're on the real iron cross, and a Roman soldier's putting a sponge of vinegar to your lips.

Months pass by. You go home on leave. You can't communicate with your father. He said, "You'd be a coward if you don't enlist." Your mother, too, on your way back out the door, she says, "You be careful of those French girls now." More madness. You fight for a week or a month, and you gain ten yards. And then the next month it gets taken back.

All that culture from a thousand years ago, that philosophy, that wisdom – Plato, Aristotle, Socrates – what happened to it?  It should have prevented this. Your thoughts turn homeward. And once again you're a schoolboy walking through the tall poplar trees. It's a pleasant memory. More bombs dropping on you from blimps. You got to get it together now. You can't even look at anybody for fear of some miscalculable thing that might happen. The common grave. There are no other possibilities.

Then you notice the cherry blossoms, and you see that nature is unaffected by all this. Poplar trees, the red butterflies, the fragile beauty of flowers, the sun – you see how nature is indifferent to it all. All the violence and suffering of all mankind. Nature doesn't even notice it.

You're so alone. Then a piece of shrapnel hits the side of your head and you're dead.
You've been ruled out, crossed out. You've been exterminated. I put this book down and closed it up. I never wanted to read another war novel again, and I never did.

Charlie Poole from North Carolina had a song that connected to all this. It's called "You Ain't Talkin' to Me," and the lyrics go like this:

I saw a sign in a window walking up town one day.
Join the army, see the world is what it had to say.
You'll see exciting places with a jolly crew,
You'll meet interesting people, and learn to kill them too.
Oh you ain't talkin' to me, you ain't talking to me.
I may be crazy and all that, but I got good sense you see.
You ain't talkin' to me, you ain't talkin' to me.
Killin' with a gun don't sound like fun.
You ain't talkin' to me.

Line.


The Odyssey is a great book whose themes have worked its way into the ballads of a lot of songwriters: "Homeward Bound, "Green, Green Grass of Home," "Home on the Range," and my songs as well.

The Odyssey is a strange, adventurous tale of a grown man trying to get home after fighting in a war. He's on that long journey home, and it's filled with traps and pitfalls. He's cursed to wander. He's always getting carried out to sea, always having close calls. Huge chunks of boulders rock his boat. He angers people he shouldn't. There's troublemakers in his crew. Treachery. His men are turned into pigs and then are turned back into younger, more handsome men. He's always trying to rescue somebody. He's a travelin' man, but he's making a lot of stops.

He's stranded on a desert island. He finds deserted caves, and he hides in them. He meets giants that say, "I'll eat you last." And he escapes from giants. He's trying to get back home, but he's tossed and turned by the winds. Restless winds, chilly winds, unfriendly winds. He travels far, and then he gets blown back.

He's always being warned of things to come. Touching things he's told not to. There's two roads to take, and they're both bad. Both hazardous. On one you could drown and on the other you could starve. He goes into the narrow straits with foaming whirlpools that swallow him. Meets six-headed monsters with sharp fangs. Thunderbolts strike at him. Overhanging branches that he makes a leap to reach for to save himself from a raging river. Goddesses and gods protect him, but some others want to kill him. He changes identities. He's exhausted. He falls asleep, and he's woken up by the sound of laughter. He tells his story to strangers. He's been gone twenty years. He was carried off somewhere and left there. Drugs have been dropped into his wine. It's been a hard road to travel.

In a lot of ways, some of these same things have happened to you. You too have had drugs dropped into your wine. You too have shared a bed with the wrong woman. You too have been spellbound by magical voices, sweet voices with strange melodies. You too have come so far and have been so far blown back. And you've had close calls as well. You have angered people you should not have. And you too have rambled this country all around. And you've also felt that ill wind, the one that blows you no good. And that's still not all of it.

When he gets back home, things aren't any better. Scoundrels have moved in and are taking advantage of his wife's hospitality. And there's too many of ‘em. And though he's greater than them all and the best at everything – best carpenter, best hunter, best expert on animals, best seaman – his courage won't save him, but his trickery will.

All these stragglers will have to pay for desecrating his palace. He'll disguise himself as a filthy beggar, and a lowly servant kicks him down the steps with arrogance and stupidity. The servant's arrogance revolts him, but he controls his anger. He's one against a hundred, but they'll all fall, even the strongest. He was nobody. And when it's all said and done, when he's home at last, he sits with his wife, and he tells her the stories.

Line.


So what does it all mean? Myself and a lot of other songwriters have been influenced by these very same themes. And they can mean a lot of different things. If a song moves you, that's all that's important. I don't have to know what a song means. I've written all kinds of things into my songs. And I'm not going to worry about it – what it all means. When Melville put all his old testament, biblical references, scientific theories, Protestant doctrines, and all that knowledge of the sea and sailing ships and whales into one story, I don't think he would have worried about it either – what it all means.

John Donne as well, the poet-priest who lived in the time of Shakespeare, wrote these words, "The Sestos and Abydos of her breasts. Not of two lovers, but two loves, the nests." I don't know what it means, either. But it sounds good. And you want your songs to sound good.

When Odysseus in The Odyssey visits the famed warrior Achilles in the underworld – Achilles, who traded a long life full of peace and contentment for a short one full of honor and glory –  tells Odysseus it was all a mistake. "I just died, that's all." There was no honor. No immortality. And that if he could, he would choose to go back and be a lowly slave to a tenant farmer on Earth rather than be what he is – a king in the land of the dead – that whatever his struggles of life were, they were preferable to being here in this dead place.

That's what songs are too. Our songs are alive in the land of the living. But songs are unlike literature. They're meant to be sung, not read. The words in Shakespeare's plays were meant to be acted on the stage. Just as lyrics in songs are meant to be sung, not read on a page. And I hope some of you get the chance to listen to these lyrics the way they were intended to be heard: in concert or on record or however people are listening to songs these days. I return once again to Homer, who says, "Sing in me, oh Muse, and through me tell the story."