On the esteemed occasion of the 84th birthday of Robert Allen Zimmerman, here is what the Nobel Laureate had to say about it:
"Well, here I am @ 84.
Time's a strange companion. It walks beside you, sometimes silent, sometimes singing, sometimes just watching. It never tells you where you're going, only where you've been. I've ridden along backroads and city streets, watched the moon lean close over quiet towns, sat with ghosts at kitchen tables and laughed with strangers who felt like brothers.
Some days, I feel like I've lived a hundred lives. Other times, like I'm just getting started. The candles on the cake don't matter so much. It's the light in the eyes of those still with you, and the flicker of memory in the ones who've gone ahead. It's the rhythm of footsteps that won't stop, not for fame, not for fear, not for time.
So here's to today. A little older, maybe a little slower, but still here. Still moving. Still curious. Thanks to those who've been walking with me, whether it's been for decades or just a few steps. You're part of the story, and I'm grateful.
See you somewhere down the road. — celebrating a birthday."
Lots to dig into here. First, Dylan anthropomorphizes time, and the different moods it may have, along with its capricious nature. He then quickly transitions to evoking the more unknowable Dylan, a mysterious everyman, the ubiquitous American living the troubador life below anyone's radar. Well, that doesn't sound so bad: time walking along side him, he wanders down anonymous streets, just taking it all in. But the word "ghosts" caught my attention, like he threw a quick jab; is time really a companion of sorts or is time the grim reaper, or both? What felt comfortable for a minute doesn't feel so comforting anymore.
In the second paragraph he elicits a universality: that time passes without us knowing it passed. And then the genius of the Nobel Laureate really shines through for me: "the light of the eyes of those still with you, and the flicker of memory in the ones who've gone ahead." I read that line at least 10 times. I'm entranced by the rhythm and cadence. The imagery of the eyes, both in those who are alive and those "who've gone ahead." It would be too ham-fisted to actually use the D word, too obvious. Dylan doesn't wield a bludgeon; he wields a literary weapon that none of us have ever seen or can even imagined.
Time becomes footsteps, in keeping with his anthropomorphizing time, that are intractable in their pace and destination. There's a rhythm to it too, one of only two references to music (singing) in the entire piece. Add that to the eyes and he's really got the imagery going.
The last paragraph whips us back to reality. He is grateful. He is acknowledging his audience, both old and new and makes sure we know that we're "part of the story," a very inclusive and generous theme. This kind of rings back to the first paragraph where he "laughs with strangers who felt like brothers." He admits that he's not slowing down/still moving and that what drives him (even more than love or faith) is curiosity. It is this admission that should get all the Dylan faithful excited- as long as the man stays curious, he's got more to say.
After I read it for the third or fourth or nth time, I thought to myself, oh man how many versions did he write? Did he have to make a lot of edits? How much of himself did he exert to create this painfully beautiful, effortlessly moving piece of art? How long did it take him to write this? The answer to that last question came to me easily enough: a lifetime.