Face às reacções indignadas de alguns intelectuais da nossa praça ocorre-me, por ironia, o M Jourdain de «Le Bourgeois gentilhomme» de Molière: «il y a plus de quarante ans que je dis de la prose sans que j'en susse rien. Dylan faz poesia há mais de 5 décadas, aparentemente sem a isso dar muita importância, para não dizer sem se dar conta. E, no entanto, é poesia de qualidade (se merece ou não o Nobel é outra coisa, em que não estou interessado).
Citando uma criatura (Chris Dicken) que escreveu na Ozy sobre os indignados pelo Nobel de Dylan:
Have you noticed that the naysayers tend not to quote the man’s lyrics — to say, “Hey, this is why this isn’t literature”? The reason is simple: Doing so would undo their arguments, in a flash. Dylan is a master writer. When you hear lines like these, you don’t feel a need to define what it is. You feel awe:
Then take me disappearin’ through the smoke rings of my mind,
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.Go ahead, take that out of the context of music, see it as nothing more than words on a page. Let’s call it, for a moment, poetry. Dear God.
Never mind once you’ve heard the song. Forget literature. How about a Nobel in magic, or sorcery, or a Nobel Prize in what-world-is-this-person-from? I dare the naysayers to do better. Or to deny the truth — the absolute poetic, rhetorical truth — of this:
Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won’t come again
And don’t speak too soon
For the wheel’s still in spin
For the times they are a-changin’.
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