Dylan Thomas (1914–1953)

"One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six. All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop show more at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find."

So begins A Child's Christmas in Wales, in which acclaimed twentieth-century poet Dylan Thomas reminisces about his childhood Christmas experiences. With an impressionistic, string-of-consciousness format, in which memories rush in, one upon the other, crowding together in chaotic ways, and yet somehow combining unexpectedly into a moving whole, this is a lovely little holiday book. One gets a sense of the wealth of family and tradition that surrounded Thomas in his youth, and of the wider community around him in his childhood hometown of Swansea. There is a wonderful sense of humor here, especially in some of the descriptions of the aunts and uncles who come to visit, and a poignant sense of a world and a time - the world and time of childhood - now lost.

Apparently based upon some recordings that Dylan Thomas did for the BBC, A Child's Christmas in Wales is one of those holiday classics I have been meaning to read for years. I'm glad that I finally did, as I greatly enjoyed the experience, both of reading the author's poetic prose, and of perusing the lovely artwork done by Trina Schart Hyman for the edition that I read. Hyman is one of my favorite fairy-tale artists, but whatever the subject matter, her illustrations always do her source material justice. Recommended to Dylan Thomas fans, if they have not already picked it up, as well as to anyone looking for nostalgic reexaminations of childhood, as seen through a Christmas lens. show less

I'm in love.

I want to read and listen again. Probably multiple times, if possible. There's so many sudden flashes of humor and delight, and this being my first time through, I reveled in those moments when you feel uncertain, then a lightbulb goes on with that adrenaline rush of illumination.

And the language is to die for.

It reminded me a bit of two other classics, the 1914 [Spoon River Anthology] poems by Edgar Lee Masters (except Thomas' people are sleeping, Masters' people are sleeping show more forever) and also the 1922 poem [The Waste Land] by T S Eliot, especially in the "Goodnight, ladies" part. But this work came later--equally good and definitely Dylan made it his own.

I listened to the play on YT, the one with Richard Burton and followed along reading it. I noticed the play did not include all the text. Wonder if Dylan continued to work on the play even after that performance, or if some was cut due to time constraints. Never mind, the audio was dreamy good and added immensely to the pleasure of the play.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=im7ICMh0h9M&list=PLBx3BOGiHZrXqgEZ2xhUZWn4Ep...

https://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks06/0608221.txt show less

Some poets have a way with words, but Dylan Thomas had a way with the rhythm of words. Many of his poems are lyrical ciphers, hard to parse on a line-by-line basis but which have a roll to them which carries you along. When Thomas matched that roll with a tough lucidity, the effect was profound, as in the starkly immediate 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night'. Sadly, that fond favourite is not representative of the rest of his work. This new 2025 Penguin selection, however, is show more representative, and a worthy brief challenge for a reader so inclined. show less

One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six. All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop show more at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, ...

And so begins the heart-song of my Christmas holidays.

Along with a recording by Dylan Thomas (1952) reading it, this little story defines Christmas for me, in an unnameable way. I become six again ... or maybe twelve ... or both at once, as I listen to the magic of his words. It is a yearly tradition that I indulge in; and indeed listen to, and re-read a few times over the Christmas season, for the lovely sing-song cadence of his words, written and spoken.

'Tis wizardry that he employs, for I am utterly bewitched, each and every time. show less