Opening Lines From Dylan's Autobiography

Chapter 1

Lou Levy, top man of Leeds Music Publishing Company, took me up in a taxi to the Pythian Temple on West 70th Street to show me the pocket sized recording studio where Bill Haley and his Comets had recorded ‘Rock Around the Clock’--then down to Jack Dempsey’s restaurant on 58th and Broadway, where we sat down in a red leather upholstered booth facing the front window. Lou introduced me to Jack Dempsey, the great boxer. Jack shook his fist at me. “You look too light for a heavyweight, kid, you’ll have to put on a few pounds. You’re gonna have to dress a little finer, look a little sharper--not that you’ll need much in the way of clothes when you’re in the ring--don’t be afraid of hitting somebody too hard.” “He’s not a boxer, Jack, he’s a song-writer and we’ll be publishing his songs.” “Oh yeah, well I hope to hear ‘em some of these days. Good luck to you, kid.” Outside the wind was blowing, straggling cloud wisps, snow whirling in the red lanterned streets, city types scuffling around, bundled up-salesmen in rabbit fur earmuffs hawking gimmicks, chestnut vendors, steam rising out of manholes. None of it seemed to matter...

The sound of trains off in the distance more or less made me feel at home, like nothing was missing, like I was at some level place, never in any significant danger and that everything was fitting together. Across the street from where I stood looking out the window was a church with a bell tower. The ringing of bells made me feel at home, too. I'd always heard and listened to the bells. Iron, brass, silver bells--the bells sang. On Sunday, for services, on holidays. They clanged when somebody important died, when people were getting married. Any special occasion would make the bells ring. You had a pleasant feeling when you heard the bells. I even liked doorbells and the NBC chimes on the radio. I looked out through the leaded glass window across to the church. The bells were silent now and the snow swirled off the rooftops. A blizzard was kidnapping the city, life spinning around on a drab canvas. Icy and cold. Across the way a guy in a leather jacket scooped frost off the windshield of a snow-packed black Mercury Montclair. Behind him, a priest in a purple cloak was slipping through the courtyard of the church through an opened gate on his way to perform some sacred duty. Nearby, a bare-headed woman in boots tried to manage a laundry bag up the street. There were a million stories, just everyday New York things if you wanted to focus in on them. It was always right out in front of you, blended together, but you'd have to pull it apart to make any sense of it. St Valentine's Day, lovers' day, had come and gone and I hadn't noticed. I had no time for romance. I turned away from the window, from the wintry sun, crossed through the room, went to the stove and made and poured myself a cup of hot chocolate and then clicked on the radio.