Resumo de The Chronicles

I had a whale in my glove compartment called Moby Dick. When i entered Kelvin's (my cousin) place and saw Bob Dylan staring at me, the great whale hunt was put on hold. Surely one cannot traverse the ocean till one learns to swim. I had a preconceived idea of Bob Dylan. He always wore black, his shirt has almost no creases (where it did have creases it was in the right places), Bob always knew who he was and where he was going he had a chest in his head where songs could be pulled out by choice. This book was going to tell me how Bobby Zimmerman becomes Bob Dylan.So he arrives in New York,guitar, rag bag of clothes and his love for folk music. He spoke of his time there, New Orleans, the studios, bars, even an anecdote aboutBono. Introduced me to the fathers of rock and roll called Robert Johnson(sounds like Hendrix on acoustic), Woody Guthrie (a pre-distorted Kurt Cobain),Jack Elliot (Maynard James Keenan if there was no metal), and Dave Van Ronk(Trent Reznor minus all his digital genius). I could taste ingredients in hismusic that I was previously numb to. Many a friend and family can attest that for a week I answered questions with "I'm Bob Dylan!" It was enlightening to know that he is a mortal, and most of the images born inmy mind were shaped by media (stick it to the man!). Bob never wanted to be poster boy for ideals or the voice of a generation.He writes like his songs, images which engage a feeling. A voice truely BobDylan-esque. Vulnerable, yet powerful. Its probably truer to say that he recalls episodes in his life. Waving backwards and forwards through the sands of time while blowing answers in the wind. I found myself drowning in his thoughts, was in a darker place than which I had began. I wanted so much to find the treasure chest at the bottom of his ocean,I lost sight of surface. When the last leaf of his pages fell, I awoke on a shore where familiar sounds crash about, how many roads must a man walk down? Why do kamikaze pilots wearhelmets? How did Bob become Bob? Catching my breath I found something in my hand, a mirror. Bob began as a young man head full of ideals and a little light that he let shine. With this reflection I get up and walk on. I have since ceased calling myself Bob Dylan (more likely to say "i'm noBob Dylan man"), but the kinship feeling remains. Learn to swim, let Bob push you in the deep end. p.s. theres another im truely grateful for, a page aptly stamped "this book was stolen from Kelvin's library". guess i should keep it, lest i make him a liar.

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