"I can't help it if I'm lucky."
— Bob Dylan
In the library that my small row house has become — a room for baseball, another for Judaica, a long shelf of Bolano beneath the skylight — the front parlor is designated for winners of the Nobel Prize in Literature.
There, where my parents raised glasses of wine after their wedding in 1953 — the year Winston Churchill won the prize — Kipling (1907) leans against Agnon (1966), and Faulkner (1949) bridges Morrison (1993) and Lessing (2007).
Earlier this month, a boll weevil chewed through the plaster looking for a home, little Bobby Dylan from Hibbing come a rocking with dreams, visions, six-string and...