Quite Early One Morning

10/10

Quite early one morning in the winter in Wales, by the sea that was lying down still and green as grass after a night of tar-black howling and rolling, I went out of the house, where I had come to stay for a cold unseasonable holiday, to see if it was raining still, if the outhouse had been blown away, potatoes, shears, rat-killer, shrimpnets, and tins of rusty nails aloft on the wind, and if all the cliffs were left. It had been such a ferocious night that someone in the smoky ship-pictured bar had said he could feel his tombstone shaking even though he was not dead yet or, at least, was moving; but the morning shone as clear and calm as one always imagines tomorrow will shine.

Quite possibly one of the best beginnings to any show more story; unless of course it's the beginning to [b:A Child's Christmas in Wales|563820|A Child's Christmas in Wales|Dylan Thomas|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1348381389l/563820._SX50_.jpg|809138].

This is a perfect collection of Thomas's work, short stories and essays alike, that I've re-read often over the years, and that often coincides with my re-reading of [b:A Child's Christmas in Wales|563820|A Child's Christmas in Wales|Dylan Thomas|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1348381389l/563820._SX50_.jpg|809138] at this season.

It brings such hope with it. Such boundless joy.

One of the best essays (tribute more than essay) that ever was written about Wilfred Owen lies hidden in the very heart of this volume; lies nestled in the core of it, to make its own statement as to what matters in life; what should matter most of all, are the words of a dead poet reaching out from beyond the grave. None has written it so eloquently as Owen; none has recognized it so viscerally as Thomas.

This is one slim volume in which I find myself again and again, time after time; where I find jewels hidden that once were lost; where, even after 25 years of reading, I find new meaning, new magic.

Not every story is a poem, but every thought is an act of poetry; some that are simply reminiscences, observations, commentary, on the more mundane aspects of literature become gush-worthy examinations of the most astute and biting:

And see too, in that linguacious stream, the tall monocled men, smelling of saddle soap and club armchairs, their breath a nice blending of whisky and fox's blood, with big protruding upper-class tusks and county mustaches, presumably invented in England and sent abroad to advertise "Punch", who lecture to women's clubs on such unlikely subjects as "The History of Etching in The Shetland Islands"; and the brassy-bossy men-women, with corrugated-iron perms, and hippo hides, who come, self-announced, as "ordinary British housewives", to talk to rich minked chunks of American matronhood about the iniquity of the Health Services, the criminal sloth of miners, the visible tail and horns of Mr. Aneurin Bevan, and the fear of everyone in England to go out alone at night because of the organised legions of coshboys against whom the police are powerless owing to the refusal of those in power to equip them with revolvers and to flog to ribbons every adolescent offender on any charge at all.

Such a superb collection which paints a perfect arc of Thomas's talent, magic, wisdom, life. show less

Thomas's prose, like his poetry, requires, from me at least, immense concentration. Usually I don't have it. When, sometimes in the morning after two cups of coffee, I do find myself blessed with it, I am able to see, and feel, and appreciate why he's considered so great a poet. When I don't have that concentration available to me, his work is mostly frustrating.

Good writing. Sometimes becomes the Welsh equivalent of what he termed "Professional Irishmen: very leprecorny."

Droll humor and serious essays by a shortlived wordsmith in his prime.

A collection of stories by Dylan Thomas. I have owned and loved this book for more than fifty years. Acquired January, 1972 (Tenth Grade) at The Mountain School in Vershire, Vermont.