Depression lies. It lies in all sorts of ways. Depression tells you that you are worthless and that nobody needs you. It tells you that it cannot be treated. But if you are lost in the darkness, keep calling out. Someone will respond, I promise.
The British tend to think of poetry as a matter of economy, of compression. Dylan, like Whitman, like America, sees it as an occasion for extension. And why not? Life should be extended. That's what stories are all about.
We of the Woodstock generation have long been interested in pushing the limits of self-expression, and our desire to noisily overturn convention is unlikely to stop just because we're facing the big chill.
Forty-four years ago this week, I attended my first rock concert. It remains vivid, and historic, as it was part of the most significant tour ever -- Bob Dylan's first full road trip after going electric.
All the older Reynolds kids, including Randy -- the coolest girl I knew -- went to Woodstock. I felt left out even though I wasn't quite sure what Woodstock was. I knew I was missing something monumental.