My artistic, flighty mother, who's in her 70's, flits in and out of my life, leaving quirky gifts behind. Sometimes they go straight to Goodwill (used clothing, cheap knickknacks); sometimes they're useful (a type of mop she particularly loves?); sometimes they're delightful (my grandmother's sterling silver set, books that have moved her, beautiful impressionistic landscapes that she paints in oils or watercolor). This book was one of my mother's more recent gifts; she dropped it on me a month or so ago when she was visiting, with very little explanation. But it's nostalgic and old-timey and European-flavored, which are sure-fire appeals to her sensibilities (and often mine). It's also got Dylan Thomas' lovely, poetic writing:Years and years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the colour of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlours . . .Dylan Thomas was a Welsh poet who lived a short, intense life (he died of his excesses when he was only 39). He disliked being regarded as a "Welsh" writer and had no use for Welsh nationalism. And yet he came up with this beautiful, lyrical tribute to his childhood Christmases in the coastal town of Swansea, Wales, in the early 1900's, "before the motor-car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and snowed." There's no real structure to this short book; it's more a grab bag of random childhood Christmastime stories, filled with boys' mischief, Useful Presents and Useless Presents (the best!), and relatives who indulge in a little too much parsnip wine.Short, affectionate and poetic, this is a sweet tribute to bygone days and those Christmas memories that linger through the years.
Long, long before I read Dylan Thomas, he read to me. It started at Christmas. Which I cannot recall, nor can I recall a childhood Christmas without him, sonorously, excitedly, rhapsodically evoking his own experience of the holy day and thereby formulating a bit of my own.The recordings of Thomas, this and his Under Milkwood, came to my family, care of WFMT, Chicago's fine arts station, my father's companion from Sousa marches in the morning to a concluding nocturne sixteen hours later. Usually it was background, the soundtrack, however inappropriate, of our family life. Evenings, good evenings, however, Father would fill up a pipe, lean back in his great black chair and listen, a glass of sherry on the table near the ashtray, a fire on the grate if the weather was appropriate, the dog at his feet. On especial evenings he would be joined by the rest of us.Saturdays were always special. I could stay up until one in the morning those nights in order to join him in listening to WFMT's weekly "Midnight Special", a compilation of folk music, comedic sketches and showtunes, but mostly folk music, broadly defined. I still listen to it sometimes.But Christmasses were most special. In addition to the classical music appropriate to the season, there was the radio play of Dickens' Carol and, of course, Thomas' A Child's Christmas.
Do You like book A Child's Christmas In Wales (1985)?
One of the surprises that I received this year was the poetry (and voice) of Dylan Thomas. As good as Thomas' poetry is, it was his voice that has captivated me. I think this voice is what most young American kids thought the British nobility sounded like. This prose is a simple recollection of various memories of Thomas' Christmas as a child. He is able to paint a picture of the scene in your head and I found myself almost seeing my own image in the vignettes being described. In all, this piece feels you with nostalgia and makes you really long for that Christmas you spent in Swansea.
—Ken Moten
Because Circus Flora is performing with the St. Louis Symphony again this year, and the theme is based on A Child's Christmas in Wales, I just had to read this classic. The poetic language is richly descriptive--"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 at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves . . . " I felt sorry for the cats who were pelted with snowballs by the author and his buddies, and I laughed when his neighbor with her kitchen filled with smoke, asked the firemen if they'd like a book to read. This is in the children's section at the library, but I think it takes an adult to really appreciate his words. If you haven't read it, do!
—Roberta
This is not a poem, but it is written so well that the language approaches poetry. I first learned of this in the early 1990's in the form of a video on PBS. My uncle recorded it, and it became a Christmas tradition to watch this with my kids. We practically have it memorized and all have our favorite lines. We now watch it on DVD. The video version incorporates all of the text from the book, but adds some material to give it a bit more context. Being familiar with the video version first, the book version pales slightly--but is still very strong. This is one of two illustrated book versions that I have. I slightly prefer the other (illistrated by Trina Hyman), but am glad to have both. There is also a recording of Dylan Thomas reading the story, which is well worth having. The writing focuses on family scenes, with no mention of religion, and shows how much of value there can be even if you leave the Christ out of Christmas. But the closing lines always bring tears to my eyes: "I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept." Amen.
—James Klagge
