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letters from Dylan: reconciliation

Three quarters of the world's literature deals with the outer world. Most modern fiction does. Some of it, of course, is purely reporting of outer incidents. Not that that need condemn it. Perhaps the greatest works of art are those that reconcile, perfectly, inner & outer.

--- to Trevor Hughes
February 1933
Beauty, you say, comes out of suffering. For we are born in others' pain & perish in our own. That, to those who have suffered, & in spite of it are still capable of appreciating and, sometimes, creating beauty, must appear perfectly true. I can't appreciate it why?Collapse )

--- to Trevor Hughes
February 1933

letters from Dylan: girlish thoughts

I have a horrid fear, when talking, of plunging into a hot bath of sentimentality, but on paper the most girlish thoughts can be expressed without much fear of a sudden immersion into those wicked waters.

--- to Trevor Hughes
late 1932 / early 1933

letters from Dylan: my purple

My purple is turning, I think, into a dull gray. I am at the most transitional period now. Whatever talents I possess may suddenly diminish or may suddenly increase. I can, with great ease, become an ordinary fool. I may be one now. But it doesn't do to upset one's vanity ...

--- to Trevor Hughes, February 1932

Note: for some reason this week, I've been wanting to revisit Dylan Thomas: The Collected Letters, as edited by Paul Ferris. They were a huge comfort to me several years ago, just the dirty humour and serious literariness, and I wanted to see if they still moved and amused me.

So where better place to post quotes, right?

on this day

Happy birthday dear Dylan.

Are You
Who is born
In the next room
So loud to my own
That I can hear the womb
Opening and the dark run
Over the ghost and the dropped son
Behind the wall thin as a wren's bone?
In the birth bloody room unknown
To the burn and turn of time
And the heart print of man
Bows no baptism
But dark alone
Blessing on
The wild

Inaugural post

It's only right that this should be the first one, right?

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
For the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

Quoted from The Dylan Thomas Omnibus.

Ta-rah! Have a drink, have a smoke. It's only fitting, after all.