An enduring lesson in pity: Bob Dylan has won the Nobel Prize for literature, or at least that's what the smart set is currently claiming. Most likely, it happened because we thought about him just this Tuesday morning.
In some ways, our favorite Dylan album is New Morning, because it's about discovering, fairly early in life, that you know how to be happy. But when we read David Brook's column this Tuesday, we thought about the Dylan lyric which comes to us more than any other:
BROOKS (10/11/16): Politics is an effort to make human connection, but Trump seems incapable of that. He is essentially adviser-less, friendless. His campaign team is made up of cold mercenaries at best and Roger Ailes at worst. His party treats him as a stench it can’t yet remove.For reasons he goes on to explain, Brooks is able to feel pity for the lost soul Trump. We think that's a good thing to do. It made us think of our most durable Dylan lyrics:
He was a germophobe through most of his life and cut off contact with others, and now I just picture him alone in the middle of the night, tweeting out hatred.
Trump breaks his own world record for being appalling on a weekly basis, but as the campaign sinks to new low after new low, I find myself experiencing feelings of deep sadness and pity.
I pity the poor immigrantWho eats but is not satisfied, who hears but does not see. Who falls in love with wealth itself, and turns his back on me!
Who wishes he would’ve stayed home
Who uses all his power to do evil
But in the end is always left so alone
That man whom with his fingers cheats
Who lies with ev’ry breath
Who passionately hates his life
And likewise fears his death
I pity the poor immigrant
Whose strength is spent in vain
Whose heaven is like Ironsides
Whose tears are like rain
Who eats but is not satisfied
Who hears but does not see
Who falls in love with wealth itself
And turns his back on me.
We recommend pity for lost fallen souls. It takes us much farther than hate.