I just went to see a theatrical version of A CHILD’S CHRISTMAS IN WALES. The production had its ups and downs, but the text — by
Dylan Thomas — sung even when the staging and acting fell flat.
The mind of Dylan Thomas took him to sheer beauty while he was killing himself through wet brain. I too love to drink. But I also love to be alive. I’m not sure with Dylan.
He was an amazing force in the realm of poetry. He must have known how fresh and vital his imagery was. He must have sensed
the seductive power of his voice. He must have hated some mornings waking up with the smell of vomit dribbling over his
senses. He died at 38, an age where I had accomplished little.
But then I never could have spewed forth that originality that
made his words into symphonies.
Thank god he left us these bouquets. We can smell the fragrance of his thought. Not pressed flowers, but living blossoms of speech.
I’ll drink to that.