Viewport width =
September 4, 2006 | by  | in Books |
Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

Dylan Thomas (1914 – 1952)

Born in 1914 in Swansea, Thomas’ career began almost immediately. His father exposed him to poetry at the age of two, and by four had him reciting Shakespeare. Thomas was always fascinated by words: “The first poems I knew were nursery rhymes, and before I could read them for myself I had come to love just the words of them, the words alone.” Dylan went on to write stories (including Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog) and plays (such as his ‘play for voices’ Under Milk Wood, which is currently playing at Downstage) but was always most famous for his poetry (including Deaths and Entrances and The Map of Love). Much has been said by and about Thomas: when asked why he moved to America, Thomas is reported to have said, “to touch the titties of a beautiful blonde starlet and to meet Charlie Chaplin.” Truman Capote described Thomas as “an over-grown baby who’ll destroy every last thing he can get his hands on, including himself.” And, in an article from Time magazine, Thomas is, again, unflatteringly depicted: “When he settles down to guzzle beer, which is most of the time, his incredible yarns tumble over each other in a wild Welsh dithyramb in which truth and fact become hopelessly smothered in boozy invention.” However, despite his lack of social graces, Thomas wrote some undeniably wonderful stuff; as Herbert Read wrote, “one can only pray that this poet will not be forced in any way to surrender the subtle course of his genius.”

Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

About the Author ()

Comments are closed.

Recent posts

  1. Laneway: Luck of the Draw
  2. Cuttin’ it with with Miss June
  3. SWAT
  4. Ravished by the Living Embodiment of All Our University Woes
  5. New Zealand’s First Rainbow Crossing is Here (and Queer)
  6. Chloe Has a Yarn About Mental Health
  7. “Stick with Vic” Makes “Insulting” and “Upsetting” Comments
  8. Presidential Address
  9. Final Review
  10. Tears Fall, and Sea Levels Rise

Editor's Pick

This Ain’t a Scene it’s a Goddamned Arm Wrestle

: Interior – Industrial Soviet Beerhall – Night It was late November and cold as hell when I stumbled into the Zhiguli Beer Hall. I was in Moscow, about to take the trans-Mongolian rail line to Beijing, and after finding someone in my hostel who could speak English, had decided