"the best of leonard cohen" was given to me my freshman year of college by this red-headed girl from the midwest who had big round vowel sounds and beautiful eyes. i thought that she might be my best friend, or that i might be in love with her. shortly after christmas, she became one of those minor casualities of fast friendship: we exchanged a few rushed emails and then never saw one another again. the record however was just the perfect mix of depraved chelsea hotel poetry, weirdo folk production and tragic/romantic lyricism to keep me constantly returning and loving. i've always said this girl was the most bountiful stranger i'd ever known, and if i see her again in my lifetime i'll tell her so.
no one gets off free in cohen's songs, least of all him, which is why he's more my lyric hero than dylan (dylanologists be damned). i never trust someone who's always the hero of their story (least of all myself, in moments of selfpity or, as recently suggested, faux martyrdom) and the lyrics that cut aren't so obviously on 'you' as much as sensed someone said maybe to him, and he's letting himself languish in them. "you're living for nothing now, i hope you're keeping some kind of record," now there's one you wonder about. it's almost taboo, it's so dark.