If there's one thing that might put an end to the current Dylan-fest, it's the republication of his one and only "novel", first published in 1966 - Tarantula.

Banged out on a typewriter whilst Dylan was stoned, speeding or both during 1965-66, the 100-page prose poem is a virtually unreadable (and certainly indegistible) stream of consciousness, which the 25-year old poet worked on in between his three era-altering albums Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde, and the two world tours and two documentaries (one released, Don't Look Back, one, Eat The Document, barely ever seen).

Tarantula evolved out of the off-kilter liner notes Dylan had produced for his most recent albums, but is evidence that, though he's arguably the supreme lyricist and poet of his generation, and an entertainingly off the wall film-maker (see 1978's Renaldo & Clara, and 2003's Masked & Anonymous - if you get the chance), Dylan is no novelist.

Indeed, he seems to have realised as much himself, repeatedly delaying publication of the book through the late 1960s, after his June 1966 motorbike crash allowed him to shed various commercial obligations and nurse himself back to health in the company of his wife and newborn children.

As someone once said, the best things in Tarantula are the chapter headings - which in themselves have spawned an infamous bootleg (Guitars Kissing & the Contemporary Fix) and a (short-lived) Dylan fanzine: Homer the Slut.