Sons of Goethe: Bob Dylan

How Bob Dylan's career reflects Goethe's, both in its longevity and in their mutual appreciation of classical antiquity

Few fail to recognize Bob Dylan as belonging to a class of musician above his contemporaries for his contributions to folk music. In truth, the most striking quality about his career has been its longevity. Since his first release in 1964, Dylan has only failed to have an album peak in the top 10 of the charts in one decade.¹ 2023’s Blood on the Tracks marks his fortieth studio album, not including the sea of collected bootlegs and unreleased material he’s left on the cutting room floor. Whereas most artists are content to put out new music over the course of one or two decades and then coast on a limited concert circuit or residency into their old age, Dylan has shown himself to be a workhorse. Part of this dedication to his craft comes from an appreciation for classical antiquity; one he shared with another famous poet, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Indeed, in his Nobel prize acceptance speech, Dylan cites three works that played a major influence on his songwriting: Melville’s Moby Dick, Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front, and Homer’s Odyssey. He opens the lecture by questioning whether this is something he deserves, and if there truly is a connection between his music and the wider literary tapestry. Holding the controversy of his winning of that award in mind, he ends the speech with that famous invocation: “sing, muse.”

The bulk of this section would have been much harder to write six or seven years ago. Richard F. Thomas’ masterful Why Bob Dylan Matters² does a fantastic job outlining the role that the classics played on a young Bob Dylan’s life before he ever picked up a guitar. According to Thomas’ firsthand research, Dylan was a member in his school’s Latin club, and even once played a Roman soldier in his Minnesotan home town’s passion play. The theme of the classics appears early on in his catalog; The song “Goin' Back to Rome” was nestled into a collection of bootlegs from recordings in someone’s basement affectionately referred to as the “Banjo tapes.” In the grand scheme of things, it’s hardly a masterpiece, but a similar theme of traveling to, in, and around Rome is explored in “When I Paint my Masterpiece.” This song is clearly built out of a real personal experience traveling throughout the eternal city, but one can’t help but to recall Juvenal’s Satires when reading any negative comments about the city being in ruins. Dylan’s words aren’t as passionate as Juvenal’s, but it shares the same quality of comparing the grandeur of the old Roman masters to the disappointment of the present. Sure, the Coliseum is nice and all, but you have to contend with the lions while you are there. Instead, he’d prefer to move back to the land of Coca-Cola. Juvenal unfortunately failed to record which soda Umbricius preferred.

Thomas’s book does a lot to connect Dylan to the ancient world through 20th century poetry, similarly to how this series connects people across diverse backgrounds to Goethe and the classics. Some notable examples that act as “grandfathers” to Bob Dylan’s lyrics are: Vergil, by way of Alfred, Lord Tennyson; Homer, by way of Willie McTell; and Ovid (and if we stretch a little, Dante), by way of T.S. Eliot. One poet that frequently has a direct connection to Dylan’s music, however, is Catullus. Both have a shared passion for writing about intense romantic loss. Catullus’ inspiration comes from the desire he’d maintained for his “Lesbia,” a pseudonym referencing Sappho, and believed to mask the identity of Clodia, sister to Clodius Pulcher. The inspirations that Dylan has left in his wake are considerably more numerous, but each has left an impact in their own right. “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright” is perhaps his most famous break-up song, which details the aftermath of some kind of falling out where the singer departs before they have the chance to make up. To me, this evokes the same attitude as Catullus 8; not only do these poems each come from the immediate end to a relationship, but further it’s clear that both feel a disconnect between the expectations of their former flames (i.e. I gave her my heart but she wanted my soul/nec quae fugit sectāre, nec miser vīve). Dylan’s “Ballad in Plain D” reaches the closest to that true Catullan cruelty towards a spurned lover, to a point where he even expresses regret for writing it. It’s a deep lamentation for a dead love that analyzes the major factors in how things came to be that way. For that reason, it’s closely linked in my mind to Catullus 3. They both share a bird metaphor, although Dylan’s taking flight of a since-chained bird is much less risque than the original. Not only did Dylan write about heartache, but he also had others write about the heartache he caused as well. Joan Baez’s “Diamonds & Rust” is about the way their relationship changed after their breakup in its own Catullan way. Sure, she isn’t calling Bob Dylan a prostitute or implying anything about whatever the male equivalent of a sparrow is, but there’s a quality of “odi et amo” from Catullus 85 to the lyrics. A closer summation of that mood in his song is perhaps Catullus 75; on the one hand the heart bleeds, on the other hand it aches. Even she can’t help but reference the classical world when talking about Dylan; she compares the way that he pictured her in his head to “the girl on the half-shell,” which is an obvious allusion to Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus.