Early-January of 1964, at which point his third studio album was soon-to-be released, 22-year-old Bob Dylan wrote the following letter to Sis Cunningham and Gordon Friesen — both founding editors of Broadside, a highly influential underground magazine of the period — and spoke of, amongst other things, his recent rise to fame, the money and guilt that came with it, and his love for Suze Rotolo. The letter was published in the magazine’s next issue.

Below is an image of its first page, followed by a full transcript; the original signed letter can be seen its entirety, here.

(Source: Broadside Magazine; Image: Bob Dylan, via Lost in the Cloud.)

Transcript

A LETTER FROM BOB DYLAN

for sis and gordon an all broads of good sizes

let me begin by not beginnin

let me start not by startin but by continuin

it sometimes gets so hard for me —

I am now famous

I am now famous by the rules of public famiousity

it snuck up on me

an pulverized me…

I never knew what was happenin

it is hard for me t walk down the same streets

I did before the same way because now

I truly dont know

who is waitin for my autograph…

I dont know if I like givin my autograph

oh yes sometimes I do…

but other times the back of my mind tells me

it is not honest… for I am just fulfillin

a myth t somebody who’d actually treasure my

handwritin more’n his own handwritin…

this gets very complicated for me

an proves t me that I am livin in a contradiction…

t quote mr froyd

I get quite paranoyd

an I know this isn’t right

it is not a useful healthy attitude for one t have

but I truly believe that everybody has their fears

everybody yes everybody…

I do not think it good anymore t overlook them

I think they ought t be admitted…

an I think that all fellings should be admitted…

people ask why do I write the way I do

how foolish

how monsterish

a question like that hits me…

it makes me think that I’m doin nothin

it makes me think that I’m not being heard

yes above all the mumble jumble an rave praises

an all the records I’ve sold… thru all the packed

houses I play… thru all the communication systems

an rants an bellows an yellin an clappin comes

a statement like “why do you do what you do”

what is this?

some kind of constipated idiot world?

some kind of horseshoe game we’re all playin

responding only when a ringer clangs

no no no

not my world

everybody plays in my world

aint nobody first second third or fourth

everybody shoots at the same time

an ringers dont count

an everybody wins

an nobody loses

cause everybody lives an breathes

an takes up space

an cant be overlooked

an I am a people too

I cannot pretend I’m not

an I feel guilty

god how can I help not feel guilty

I walk down on the bowery and give money away

an still I feel guilty for I know I do not

have enuff money t give away…

an people say “think a yourself, dylan, you’re

gonna need it someday” and I say yeah yeah

an I think maybe about it for a split second

but then the floods of vomit guilt swoop my

drunken head an I spread forth more gut torn

bloody money from the depths of my forsaken

pockets… an I whisper “ah it’s so useless”

man so many people need so many things

an what am I anyway? some kind a messiah walkin

around…?

hell no I’m not

an I ask why dont other people with things give

some of it away

an I know the answer without lookin

security security security…

everybody wants security

they want t be secure

they want t be protected

an I say protected?

protected aginst what?

protected against starvin I guess

an power too

an protected against the forces that they know will

get them if they lose their money.

an why does it have t be like that?

man why are these walls built?

who is this god that is so feared?

certainly not in my life this isnt

yes I have my fears but mine are the fears of

the mind. the fears of the head

a lonely person with money is still a lonely person

I have never had much money before

an so it is easy for me I guess t spend it

an overlook it

but I’m sure that many other people could overlook

some of theirs too

I’m not speakin now of the century ridin millionares

but rather of “get theirs and get out” people

I dont understand them

I dont understand them at all

there’s many things I admit I dont understand

I dont understand the blacklist

I dont understand how people aginst it go along

with it

I’m talkin about the full thing

not just a few of us refusin t be on the show

I’m talkin about the poeple that stand up

against it violently an then in some way have something t do with it…

not just the singers mind you

but the managers an agents an buyers an sellers…

they are the dishonest ones

for they are never seen

they play both sides against each other

an expect t be repected by everybody

the heroes of this battle are not me an Joan

an the Kingston Trio nor Peter Paul an Mary

for none of us need t go on that show

none of us really need that kind of dumbness

but there’s some that could use it

for they could use the money

I mean people like Tom Paxton, Barbara Dane,

an Johnny Herald… they are the heroes if

such a word has t be used here

they are the ones that lose materialistically

ah yes but in their own minds they dont

an that is much more important

it means much more

we need more kind a people like that

poeple that cant go against their conscience

no matter what they might gain

an I’ve come to think that that might be the most

important thing in the whole wide world…

not going against your conscience

nor your own natural senses

for I think that that is all the truth there

is… an no more

thru all the gossip, lies, religions, cults

myths, gods, history books, social books,

all books, politics, decrees, rules, laws,

boundarie lines, bibles, legends, an bathroom

writings, there is no guidance at all except

from ones own natural senses

from being born

an it can only be exchanged

it cant be preached

nor sold

nor even understood…

my mind sometimes runs like a roll of toilet paper

an I hate like hell t see it unravel an unwind

at my empty walls

I’m movin out a here soon

yes the landlord has beaten me it hurts t tell you.

this place I am typin in is so filthy

my clothes cover the floor an once in a while

I pick up somethin an use it for a blanket…

the damn heat goes off at ten

an dont come on til ten…

that’s mornin wise

gushes of warm smelly heat always wake me up

when I sleep here

the plaster falls constantly

an the floor is tiltin an rottin

but somehow there is a beauty to it

columbia records gave me a record player

of the goodness of some keeps on amazin me

an sometimes I play it.

gettin back t the landlord tho

he is really too much

he owns I guess three buildings

I pay him way too high

an I’m gettin screwed an I know it

an he knows it

but I just dont have the time t go down t the

rent control board. I been told they’d get after

him but I’m so lazy. when sue was here he was

gonna jack up the price cause he said I never told

him I had a wife. you really got t see this place

t believe it. I ought a’ve jacked him up a long

time ago an used him for heat. last year he put

in a new window (there was a god damn hole in the

other one) man it was like I asked ‘m for his blood relation

or something. (which he’d probably give away)

anyway the record player’s on now

an I’m listenin t Pete sing Guantanamera for

the billionth time. I dont have many folk music

records (I dont have many records really) but

I do have that one of Pete’s.

god it’s like I go in a trance

he is so human I could cry

he tells me so much

he makes me feel so good

it’s as tho of all the things that’re sold t make

one feel better, aint none of it worth while.

all the cars, an clothes, an trinkets an foods,

an jewels an diamonds an lollypops an gifts of

glad tidings, just dont do nothin for the soul.

I believe I’d rather listen t Pete sing Guantanamera than t

own everything there is t own…

(that’s my own private selfishness shinin thru there)

yes for me he is truly a saint

an I love him

perhaps more than I could show

(as always is the case ha)

I think of love in weird terms.

sometimes I even feel guilty about it

because I know I love sue

but I should love everybody like I love sue

an in all honesty I dont

I just love her that way

an I say what way?

an a voice says “that way”

an I get quite up tite

an I know I have a long way t go

when the day comes when I can love everything

that breathes the way I love sue then

I will truly be a Jesus Christ ha ha

(but I dont wanna be a Jesus Christ ha ha)

an so I am again contradictin myself

away away be gone all you demons

an just let me be me

human me

ruthless me

wild me

gentle me

all kinds of me

saw the last issue of broadside

an especially flipped out over

“talkin Merry Christmas”

I have never met Paul Wolfe but I’d like to

he has an uncanny sense of touch

as for Phil, I just cant keep up with him

an he’s gettin better an better an better

(spoke with someone who was with him in Hazzard

named Hamish Sinclair.. an englishman

of high virtues an common tongue)

I want t get over an see Phil’s baby

I’m told the girl came out yellin about

the bomb. good girl

my novel is going noplace

absolutely noplace

like it dont even tell a story

it’s about a million scenes long

an takes place on a billion scraps

of paper… certainly I cant make nothin out of

it.

(oh I forgot.

hallelullah t you for puttin Brecht in your

same last issue. he should be as widely known as

Woody an should be as widely read as Mickey Spalline

an as widely listened to as Eisenhower.)

anyway I’m writin a play out of this here so called

novel (navel would be better I guess)

an I’m up to my belly button in it.

quite involved yes

I’ve discovered what the power of playwriting means

as opposed t song writing means

altho both are equal, I’m wrapped in playwriting

for the minute, my songs tell only about me an how

I feel but in the play all the characters tell how

they feel. I realize that his might be more confusin

for some but in the total reality of things it might

be much better for some too. I think at best you could

say that the characters will tell in an hour

what would take me, alone, two weeks t sing about

I shall get up t see you one of these days

just cause I haven’t in a while please dont think

I’m not with you. I am with you more’n ever.

yours perhaps is the only paper that I am on the

side of every single song you print

an I am with with with you

my nite is closin again now

an I shall drift off in dreams

an climb velvet carpets up t the stars

with newsweek magazines burnin an disappointin

people smoulderin and disgustin tongues blazin

an jealous mongrel dogs walkin on hot coals

before my smilin unharmful eyes

(oh such nitemares)

an I shall wake in the mornin an try t start

lovin again

I got a letter from Pete an he closed by sayin

“take it easy but take it” I thought about that

for an hour or more when I reached my conclusion

of what it really meant I either cried or laughed

(I cant remember which) I will repeat the same an

add “give it easy but give it” an I’ll think about

that for an hour an at the end either cry or laugh

(I’ll write you another letter an tell you which

one it is)

all right then

faretheewell

shaloom an vamoose

I’m off agian

off t the hazzards an lost angels an minneapoilcemen

an boss towns an burnin hams an everything else

combined an combustioned for me…

tryin t remain sane at all times

love t agnes

she is one of the true talents of the universe

I’ve always thought that an would like t see her

again some time

love t everybody in your house

see yuh

softly an sleepy

but ready an waitin

Bob Dylan