I don't understand Bob Dylan. Maybe that's how it should be: something that fascinates is something that does not have to be, or cannot be, understood. I read Dylan's book of poetry, Tarantula, which he wrote in 1966 when he was twenty-five. In it, words move not like letters, not like vessels of meaning, but as sound, in their repetition, consonants, emphasis, and syllable length:
What was it about Picasso? Or Sudjojono? Some time in the early 1950s, when Sudjojono was not yet 40, he decided to do something unusual: He and other artists rode their motorbikes from Yogya to Jakarta. Their aim was to convince President Sukarno to agree to the idea of Sticusa, the Dutch foundation for cultural cooperation, to mount a large exhibition of 20th-century European painters: Picasso, Matisse, Braque.
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