Nomadic Voice
I don’t know exactly what to say, so Dylan picks up the slack. He lights a cigarette, moves over to the sofa, takes off his glasses and smiles a shy smile. “You know,” he says, “sometimes I think about people like T-Bone Walker, John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters — these people who played into their sixties. If I’m here at eighty, I’ll be doing the same thing. This is all I want to do — it’s all I can do. I mean, you don’t have to be a nineteen – or twenty-year-old to play this stuff That’s the vanity of that youth-culture ideal. To me that’s never been the thing. I’ve never really aimed myself at any so-called youth culture. I directed it at people who I imagined, maybe falsely so, had the same experiences that I’ve had, who have kind of been through what I’d been through. But I guess a lot of people just haven’t.”
He falls silent for a moment, taking a drag off his cigarette. “See,” he says, “I’ve always been just about being an individual, with an individual point of view. If I’ve been about anything, it’s probably that, and to let some people know that it’s possible to do the impossible.”
Dylan leans forward and snuffs out his cigarette. “And that’s really all. If I’ve ever had anything to tell anybody, it’s that: You can do the impossible. Anything is possible. And that’s it. No more.”
— Mikal Gilmore, 1986
He falls silent for a moment, taking a drag off his cigarette. “See,” he says, “I’ve always been just about being an individual, with an individual point of view. If I’ve been about anything, it’s probably that, and to let some people know that it’s possible to do the impossible.”
Dylan leans forward and snuffs out his cigarette. “And that’s really all. If I’ve ever had anything to tell anybody, it’s that: You can do the impossible. Anything is possible. And that’s it. No more.”
— Mikal Gilmore, 1986
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