where have you been, my darling young one?

I consider myself a deeply devoted follower of Bob Dylan. His music has been the soundtrack to many of my life's great joys and dramas, and even the inconsequential moments in between. His words still, and will always, make me cry. But I had not, until recently, seen any of Martin Scorsese's documentary No Direction Home. This probably makes me a very pale pretender in the eyes of Dylan diehards, but I'll put it down to the fact that I haven't watched anything feature-length that doesn't involve animation for at least five years.

I still haven't watched No Direction Home in its entirety. But I have seen enough to realise that my love for this man's poetry was just scratching the surface. Seeing the young Bob Dylan, the kid prophet who everyone wanted a piece of, I fell under his spell. His grainy black-and-white, before-I-was-born spell. Sexy doesn't even come close. It was love on a whole new level.