Famous Dylan Quotes

It's easier to be me than someone else. But just like most famous people, I just want to be left alone most of the time.

Wales' most famous writer, Dylan Thomas, spoke no Welsh.

Dylan [Thomas] I knew before and after he became famous. He was splendid, rapacious, demanding as a young man. To much has been written about him for me to add to the legend. As that legend began to grow in his lifetime I learned to separate him from his poetry, to find him in person increasingly tedious and his poems increasingly exciting, both in print and when he was reading them.

One such individual was Amos Tutuola, who was a talented writer. His most famous novels, The Palm-Wine Drinkard, published in 1946, and My Life in the Bush of Ghosts, in 1954, explore Yoruba traditions and folklore. He received a great deal of criticism from Nigerian literary critics for his use of “broken or Pidgin English.” Luckily for all of us, Dylan Thomas, the Welsh poet and writer, was enthralled by Tutuola’s “bewitching literary prose” and wrote glowing reviews that helped Tutuola’s work attain international acclaim. I still believe that Tutuola’s critics in Nigeria missed the point. The beauty of his tales was fantastical expression of a form of an indigenous Yoruba, therefore African, magical realism. It is important to note that his books came out several decades before the brilliant Gabriel García Márquez published his own masterpieces of Latin American literature, such as One Hundred Years of Solitude.

Those who accuse these women of fraud in their image craft seem not to have heard of David Bowie's successful alter ego Ziggy Stardust or even Bob Dylan, the folksy creation of a genius named Robert Allen Zimmerman. There is a tradition of male artists taking on personae that are understood to be part of their art. It is as though there is so much genius within them that it must be split between these mortal men and the characters they create. Women who venture to do the same are ridiculed as fakers and try-hards.

Waternish Estate was sold to a Dutchman in the 1960s when Bad-tempered Donald died. In turn, the Dutchman sold a part of the estate to the Scottish singer-songwriter Donovan. Donovan was the first of the British musicians to adopt the flower-power image. He is most famous for the psychedelically fabulous smash hits “Sunshine Superman,” “Season of the Witch” and “The Fat Angel,” and for being the first high-profile British pop star to be arrested for the possession of marijuana. Donovan has a history of being deeply groovy and of being most often confused with Bob Dylan, which reportedly annoys Donovan quite a lot. “Sometime in the early seventies, Bob Dylan bought part of the estate,” Mum tells me. “But he put a water bed on the second floor of the house for whatever it is these hippies get up to, and it came crashing through the ceiling.” “Not Bob Dylan,” I say. “Donovan.” “Who?” Mum says.

Benjamin Libet, a scientist in the physiology department of the University of California, San Francisco, was a pioneering researcher into the nature of human consciousness. In one famous experiment he asked a study group to move their hands at a moment of their choosing while their brain activity was being monitored. Libet was seeking to identify what came first — the brain’s electrical activity to make the hand move or the person’s conscious intention to make their hand move. It had to be the second one, surely? But no. Brain activity to move the hand was triggered a full half a second before any conscious intention to move it…. John-Dylan Haynes, a neuroscientist at the Max Planck Institute for Human Cognitive and Brain Studies in Leipzig, Germany, led a later study that was able to predict an action ten seconds before people had a conscious intention to do it. What was all the stuff about free will? Frank Tong, a neuroscientist at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee, said: “Ten seconds is a lifetime in terms of brain activity.” So where is it coming from if not ‘us,’ the conscious mind?

There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and get lost in a sea of blue. A Jersey-accented voice says, “It’s about time, kid,” and Frank Sinatra rattles the ice in his glass of Jack Daniel’s. Looking at the swirling deep-brown liquid, he whispers, “Ain’t it beautiful?” This is my introduction to the Chairman of the Board. We spend the next half hour talking Jersey, Hoboken, swimming in the Hudson River and the Shore. We then sit down for dinner at a table with Robert De Niro, Angie Dickinson and Frank and his wife, Barbara. This is all occurring at the Hollywood “Guinea Party” Patti and I have been invited to, courtesy of Tita Cahn. Patti had met Tita a few weeks previous at the nail parlor. She’s the wife of Sammy Cahn, famous for such songs as “All The Way,” “Teach Me Tonight” and “Only the Lonely.” She called one afternoon and told us she was hosting a private event. She said it would be very quiet and couldn’t tell us who would be there, but assured us we’d be very comfortable. So off into the LA night we went. During the evening, we befriend the Sinatras and are quietly invited into the circle of the last of the old Hollywood stars. Over the next several years we attend a few very private events where Frank and the remaining clan hold forth. The only other musician in the room is often Quincy Jones, and besides Patti and I there is rarely a rocker in sight. The Sinatras are gracious hosts and our acquaintance culminates in our being invited to Frank’s eightieth birthday party dinner. It’s a sedate event at the Sinatras’ Los Angeles home. Sometime after dinner, we find ourselves around the living room piano with Steve and Eydie Gorme and Bob Dylan. Steve is playing the piano and up close he and Eydie can really sing the great standards. Patti has been thoroughly schooled in jazz by Jerry Coker, one of the great jazz educators at the Frost School of Music at the University of Miami. She was there at the same time as Bruce Hornsby, Jaco Pastorius and Pat Metheny, and she learned her stuff. At Frank’s, as the music drifts on, she slips gently in on “My One and Only Love.” Patti is a secret weapon. She can sing torch like a cross between Peggy Lee and Julie London (I’m not kidding). Eydie Gorme hears Patti, stops the music and says, “Frank, come over here. We’ve got a singer!” Frank moves to the piano and I then get to watch my wife beautifully serenade Frank Sinatra and Bob Dylan, to be met by a torrent of applause when she’s finished. The next day we play Frank’s eightieth birthday celebration for ABC TV and I get to escort him to the stage along with Tony Bennett. It’s a beautiful evening and a fitting celebration for the greatest pop singer of all time. Two years later Frank passed away and we were generously invited to his funeral. A

Remember the famous line from Dylan Thomas’s poem: Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I have always felt compelled to live like Bob Dylan’s famous song “Shelter from the Storm.” You know, the woman who says, “Come in, I’ll give you shelter from the storm.” I’ve wanted to be the outstretched arms, the hopeful heart, and the kind words that others may need. My journals are packed with quotes and meditations on being hospitable, generous, and kind. Yet I’ve been too timid to embrace this lifestyle. I don’t struggle with giving my possessions, but I do struggle with trusting other people, sharing my thoughts, and loving people nonjudgmentally and without jealousy. I do struggle to believe that my friendship and support are beneficial to others. I do struggle in affirming and serving other people when the work is dirty, difficult, and frightening.

Braun the AI took his name from a popular character in Welsh mythology. A great warrior and an intrepid mariner, Braun the Blessed was the high king of the Island of the Mighty. Frequenting the famous ancient stories known as the Welsh Triad, Braun was often portrayed as a giant among mortals and a force of great power. The tales of his ocean navigation and the descriptions of his superhuman size inspired the programmers,

Garlock, you might have thought, had taken the Christian opposition to Rock as far as anyone could: “Bringing racism into his attack, Garlock noted that rock had its roots in the music of Africa, South America, and India, places he said where voodoo, sex orgies, human sacrifices, and devil worship abounded. Garlock linked some rock performers with Satan.”17 Yet, even further excesses of abuse on the theme of Rock-as-Satanic have followed as the years have passed. Possibly the craziest is Jacob Aranza’s claims that “75 percent of the rock and roll today (top 10 stuff!) deals with sex, evil, drugs, and the occult.” And that this is all part of a decades’ long, four step plan, “Satan’s Agenda”, to “pronounce rock stars as messiahs”.18 Jeff Godwin took this even further: “The Lord has also revealed to some Christians that incarnate demons from the netherworld actually are members of some of the most popular bands.”19 Converts are famous for their zeal, and as early as 1957 one celebrated rock’n’roller turned on the music that had propelled him to fame when he found religion. Richard Wayne Penniman, better known as Little Richard, stopped playing rock’n’roll and began to preach against it: “I was in the eighth grade at San Diego Adventist Elementary School, his conversion touched my life. Little Richard arrived at our school with an entourage of about three black limousines and a staff of personal assistants in black suits. He spoke in chapel, then preached Sabbath morning in a local church (probably San Diego 31st Street), then spoke and sang in the afternoon for a standing-room-only Associated MV (AY) meeting at the old San Diego Broadway church.

Is that the only reason you’re helping me?” “Isn’t it enough?” “It is. I’m just wondering if there’s something else.” “No,” he harrumphed. “Wait, yes. Now I remember—I also want to fuck you again.” I tripped over my own feet, about to dive into the ground. He caught me by the hem of my shirt, jerking me upright. I’ll always catch you. When have I ever let you take the hit for something, Dot? “You did not just say that.” I slapped branches out of my way as I regained my balance. “Did too. Fair warning—I want much more than fucking this time around. I want dates. I want laughs. I want you to be honest with me. All the stuff that freaks you out for some reason. No strings attached. No commitment. Just fun. A perfect do-over.” “Why do you need a do-over?” “So my last memory of us won’t be you almost vomiting because we had sex.” “I almost vomited because your sister caught us!” I shrieked. “Which is exactly why this won’t happen again. You’re high if you think I’m betraying her trust a second time around.” “Thought you’d say that. I have great news for you.” “What?” “She no longer gives a fuck.” “That’s not tru—” “It is. Ask her yourself.” The confidence with which he’d said that made my heart twist like Play-Doh. What had changed between then and now? Why was she okay with us hooking up all of a sudden? “Why wouldn’t she care?” I asked in a panic. “Because it no longer matters.” “How c—” “Come on, Bitchy. Put two and two together.” Bitchy. He’d called me Bitchy. The rain intensified, knocking on our faces. I skidded to an abrupt stop. A wave of memories crashed into me all at once, nearly knocking me down on my ass. Everything became crystal clear in one swift moment. Row defending me when Dylan caught us having sex. Row teaching me how to slow dance in his room before my very first prom because I knew I would be too terrified to ever dance with anyone else and didn’t want to miss out. Row and I sitting on the hood of his car, in front of an endless ocean, the moon, and the stars. Me saying, “Isn’t it beautiful?” and him answering, “Yes, you are.” Row being essentially in love with me. I couldn’t even touch the other revelation right now. It was too much to process. Bitchy. Bitchy. Bitchy. McMonster. Selfless, sweet McMonster. Who seemed to know me inside out. Who could read me like an open book. Could it be? But it couldn’t be. No. It couldn't. Not him. not the shinest boy in Staindrop. "No more running." I planted my feet on the pavement, clutching my knees, panting. Tears prickled the back of my eyeballs. Row looked on high alert. Neither of us seemed ready to acknowledge the fact that he was McMonster and I was Bitchy. For the first time since I'd known him, he looked like a boy. Not a heartthrob, not a world-famous chef, not a formidable boss-- just a boy.

By 1965, no longer the prince of the protest movement, Dylan was the coolest star in the rock firmament. Notwithstanding this, he sang of ‘Gates of Eden’ on 1965’s Bringing it All Back Home and on the same year’s Highway 61 Revisited, the title track’s opening verse retells a famous biblical passage in modern street language: “Oh God said to Abraham, “Kill me a son” / Abe says, “Man, you must be puttin’ me on

With Bob Dylan, Black Panther Eldridge Cleaver, and convicted Watergate lawyer Charles Colson proudly declaring to be 'born again,' Newsweek and Time called 1976 'the Year of the Evangelical.' The most famous 'born-again' Christian in the United States that year, however, was president-elect James Earl Carter. That same year, Francis Schaefer wrote How Should We Then Live, explicitly arguing that proliferating pornography, accelerating abortion rates, prohibition of prayer in public school, and other examples of 'secular humanism' were the work of Satan. It was the mission of evangelical Christians to save the country from Satan by taking back their government. Schaefer was central in bringing evangelical Christians to politics, but he was a reclusive intellectual theologian living on a mountaintop in Switzerland. His clarion call would not have been distributed so extensively without an infusion of money from Nelson Bunker Hunt. The rotund international oilman bankrolled a documentary adaptation of How Should We The n Live. A phenomenal success, the film convinced thousands of evangelical Christian that a culture war was afoot, and they had an obligation to take the fight to Satan by abandoning any past reluctance to engage in politics.

Muhammad Ali famously said that he didn’t start counting his sit-ups until they hurt. “They’re the only ones that count,” he said. “That’s what makes you a champion.” Bob Dylan said there’s pain behind every beautiful creation. You probably already know that this is true. I’m sure you’ve heard some of those popular sayings that get at this message. Get out of your comfort zone. Embrace the suck. Lean into the pain. Do something every day that scares you. These are just different ways of trying to tell you that if you want to grow, or you want to be great, it’s not going to be easy. It’s going to hurt a little bit. Or a lot.

Epstein also channeled funds from his famous friends like Bill Gates to the lab. In another email, the lab’s then–director of development and strategy, Peter Cohen, wrote, “This is a $2M gift from Bill Gates directed by Jeffrey Epstein. For gift recording purposes, we will not be mentioning Jeffrey’s name as the impetus for this gift.” (Gates’s rep denied Epstein had anything to do with the donation.) What did these men get from their associations with Epstein?

[...] Land, land, land, nothing remains Of the pacing, famous sea but its speech, And into its talkative seven tombs The anchor dives through the floors of a church. Goodbye, good luck, struck the sun and the moon, To the fisherman lost on the land. He stands alone at the door of his home, With his long-legged heart in his hand

The first thing to note is how apt an image ‘lifelessness’ is in terms of Dylan’s songs of the period. Lifelessness being a sin perfectly chimes with Dylan’s writing at the time. The hip, visionary Dylan was constantly contrasting the vibrant young with the stagnant and decaying old, and the vital against the lifeless. “He not being busy born, is busy dying.” sang Bob in ‘It’s Alright Ma, (I’m Only Bleeding’)’ in perhaps the most famous of these assertions. It is not, however, a fair depiction of Ophelia as she appears in the play. The Ophelia in Dylan’s song is portrayed as a wrongdoer rather than the victim she is in Hamlet.