I dunno… The Pulitzer means nothing. Its myth is dead.

Dylan, however, stands strong.

I do not mean to deride these people’s feeble attempt — from within a husk, to resurrect… what?

“The voice of a generation?”

Life is now lived on desolation row, in the valley of dry bone dreams, under a red sky, or in the land of the midnight sun.

These accolades from a fragmented, half-remembered past recall Cheech and Chong:

“Knock-knock.”

“Bob?”

“Bob’s not here.”

Itzkoff tries to identify that which is odd, uneasy, or wrong about all this; what turns it into theater or farce.

I’ll tell him…the gardener is gone.

And that’s Dylan’s genius.