Chronicles, Volume 1 by Dylan, Bob (2004) Hardcover
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the Kettle of Fish Tavern next door. That place was usually packed, too, on any given night of the week. A frantic atmosphere — all kinds of characters talking fast, moving fast — some debonair, some rakish. Literary types with black beards, grim-faced intellectuals — eclectic girls, non-homemaker types. The kind of people who come from out of nowhere and go right back into it — a pistol-packing rabbi, a snaggle-toothed girl with a big crucifix between her breasts — all kinds of characters
rights of them all, risked his life to make things better for all the under-classed, the disadvantaged — the most poorly paid and mistreated workers in the country. If you read his history, his character comes through and you know he’s not the type who would rob and murder a grocery clerk at random. He just wouldn’t have that in him. It’s impossible he would have done something like that for a bit of change. Everything in his life speaks of honor and fairness. He was a drifter and protector and
blown over. He tells me about J. P. Morgan, the financier, that he was one of the six or eight persons at the beginning of the century who owned all of America. Morgan had said, “America is good enough for me,” and some senator commented that if he ever changes his mind, he should give it back. There was no way to measure the soul of a man like that. MacLeish asked me who my boyhood heroes were and I told him, “Robin Hood and St. George the Dragon Slayer.” “You wouldn’t want to get on their bad
everybody was a snob of one kind or another. I tried to keep everything in perspective. Whatever I heard people say was irrelevant — both good or bad — didn’t get caught up in it. I had no preconditioned audience anyway. What I had to do was keep straight ahead and I did that. The road ahead had always been encumbered with shadowy forms that had to be dealt with in one way or another. Now there was another one. I knew Jack was up there someplace and I hadn’t missed what Pankake had said about
baseball fanatic and could give you statistics on different players. One of the framed photos on the cabinet showed him standing shoulder to shoulder with Ford Frick, the commissioner of baseball. In another one he was at a charity function sitting at a table with Claire Ruth, the Babe’s widow. He knew a lot about the game and asked me if I ever heard of Paul Waner. Lou said Paul was a hitter who could blast a ball back at a pitcher 150 miles an hour and break his face. He was that accurate.