Dylan Thomas interview: 1952

Dylan Thomas
Interviewed by Harvey Breit
The New York Times Book Review
17 February 1952

In 1950 the brilliant, aseptic Welsh poet Dylan Thomas
(Dylan rhymes with
penicillin) visited us for the first time. He is back
a second time now - to
read his own and other poets' verses at the
Ninety-second Street YMCA, the
Modern Museum and scores of colleges and universities
as much by popular
demand as by his own wish. In celebration of this
event, New Directions is
bringing out his new poems, In Contrary Sleep, and in
celebration of a more
personal sort this writer engaged Mr Thomas in a
repeat performance talk.
Though Mr Thomas - it was an absolutely reliable bet
wouldn't repeat
himself, couldn't repeat himself. And so, inexorably,
it turned out.
In the course of the first talk (14 May 1950), Mr
Thomas described himself
as 'thirty-five years older, small, slim, dark,
intelligent, and
darting-doting-dotting-eyed'. He then added, 'Say I am
balding and
toothlessing. I am also well-dressed.' Mr Thomas
wasn't slim then, and still
isn't; he is still fair, with plenty of unruly hair,
enough teeth, and his
eyes are round and sleepy-looking. His tweeds are
definitely unpressed. Mr
Thomas, as a matter of fact, could easily have stood
in for Heywood Broun on
the occasion when he was described as resembling an
unmade bed. Mr Thomas,
it is nice to be able to report, continues 'all in all
to remain
intelligent, imaginative and unreconstructed.
The talk at first was on poetry in general and Thomas
Hardy in particular,
who turned out to be Mr Thomas's favorite poet of the
century. But Mr Thomas
was also a prose writer of talent, and one wondered
how he thought about the
two mediums. Did he, for example, care less and less
about prose? 'No,' Mr
Thomas said, 'as you grow older they are more and more
separate in what you
feel. When you are young you are liable to write this
bastard thing, a
prose-poetry. When you get a bit older you find they
get separated, and
prose becomes more clean and spare.'
One felt that about Eliot's prose. Mr Thomas nodded.
'Eliot does keep them
separate. He writes beautiful prose - only because
it's nothing to do with
the verse. A poet can't write extravagant prose: it
would be a slopover. A
prose writer can write extravagant poetry. Joyce is
the direct reverse. He
wrote simple, clean poetry and marvelously imaginative
prose. With most
people it's the opposite. Writers should keep their
opinions for their
prose.'
Supposing, the interviewer said, you were not you and
I were not I
'I'd believe it,' Mr Thomas said succinctly.
And then not-I asked not-you, why shouldn't poets have
opinions in their
poetry?
'Opinions,' Mr Thomas proceeded, 'are the result of
self-argument and as
most people can't argue with anybody and especially
with themselves,
opinions are bloody awful. There are opinions, of
course. In dramatic poetry
for one, but most of us are lyric poets. It was Eliot
in this century who
showed that one could talk about any subject in verse,
except one's self.'
Then wasn't there some sort of discrepancy in what Mr
Thomas was saying? 'I
suppose,' Mr Thomas said, 'the thing about opinion
should be qualified.'
That was precisely what Mr Thomas had been doing,
hadn't he? 'The slant,' Mr
Thomas went on, 'the tilt of the mind informs the
poetry.'
Mr Thomas kept his Between-the-Acts little cigar in
the corner of his mouth,
his head tilted at an angle away from the smoke. 'I
like to put down the
word "blood". It's a curious kind of word; it means
insanity, among other
meanings. It's part of the tilt of my mind that I put
it down often.'
Mr Thomas and his guest drank. 'What is interesting,'
he pursued, after a
while, 'is the way in which certain words either lost
their meaning or their
goodness. The word "honor", for instance. A world fit
for heroes. A world
fit for Neros is more like it.'
Why did words lose their meaning or goodness? 'The
wrong people crowed about
them,' Mr Thomas said, looking like an owl.
How long was he going to be here? 'About three
months,' Mr Thomas said. 'It
will be my last visit for some time. I will have had
the universities and
they will have had me.'
The writer wasn't taking that statement seriously at
all.
'Well,'Mr Thomas said, 7am.' .
Would he sum up?
'Poetry,' Mr Thomas summed up, avoiding what might
have sounded theatrical,
'poetry. I like to think of it as statements made on
the way to the grave.'

An mdc scan

=====
visit my website, updated
often:http://www.angelfire.com/al2/willdockerypoems/index.html

Dylan Thomas was one of my very favourite poets when I was a teenager (some
years back) and said something Theodore Roethke later glossed as Things Give
Way to Things and

all the stones have wings.

I'm not Ana, but such lovely times as those are Mavoureen times, always
remembered..............

Linda


Will Dockery <shadowville.TakeThisOut@yahoo.com> wrote in message
news:bd2f3245.0308050541.3a03ca67@posting.google.com...
 > Dylan Thomas
 > Interviewed by Harvey Breit
 > The New York Times Book Review
 > 17 February 1952
 >
 > In 1950 the brilliant, aseptic Welsh poet Dylan Thomas
 > (Dylan rhymes with
 > penicillin) visited us for the first time. He is back
 > a second time now - to
 > read his own and other poets' verses at the
 > Ninety-second Street YMCA, the
 > Modern Museum and scores of colleges and universities
 > as much by popular
 > demand as by his own wish. In celebration of this
 > event, New Directions is
 > bringing out his new poems, In Contrary Sleep, and in
 > celebration of a more
 > personal sort this writer engaged Mr Thomas in a
 > repeat performance talk.
 > Though Mr Thomas - it was an absolutely reliable bet
 > wouldn't repeat
 > himself, couldn't repeat himself. And so, inexorably,
 > it turned out.
 > In the course of the first talk (14 May 1950), Mr
 > Thomas described himself
 > as 'thirty-five years older, small, slim, dark,
 > intelligent, and
 > darting-doting-dotting-eyed'. He then added, 'Say I am
 > balding and
 > toothlessing. I am also well-dressed.' Mr Thomas
 > wasn't slim then, and still
 > isn't; he is still fair, with plenty of unruly hair,
 > enough teeth, and his
 > eyes are round and sleepy-looking. His tweeds are
 > definitely unpressed. Mr
 > Thomas, as a matter of fact, could easily have stood
 > in for Heywood Broun on
 > the occasion when he was described as resembling an
 > unmade bed. Mr Thomas,
 > it is nice to be able to report, continues 'all in all
 > to remain
 > intelligent, imaginative and unreconstructed.
 > The talk at first was on poetry in general and Thomas
 > Hardy in particular,
 > who turned out to be Mr Thomas's favorite poet of the
 > century. But Mr Thomas
 > was also a prose writer of talent, and one wondered
 > how he thought about the
 > two mediums. Did he, for example, care less and less
 > about prose? 'No,' Mr
 > Thomas said, 'as you grow older they are more and more
 > separate in what you
 > feel. When you are young you are liable to write this
 > bastard thing, a
 > prose-poetry. When you get a bit older you find they
 > get separated, and
 > prose becomes more clean and spare.'
 > One felt that about Eliot's prose. Mr Thomas nodded.
 > 'Eliot does keep them
 > separate. He writes beautiful prose - only because
 > it's nothing to do with
 > the verse. A poet can't write extravagant prose: it
 > would be a slopover. A
 > prose writer can write extravagant poetry. Joyce is
 > the direct reverse. He
 > wrote simple, clean poetry and marvelously imaginative
 > prose. With most
 > people it's the opposite. Writers should keep their
 > opinions for their
 > prose.'
 > Supposing, the interviewer said, you were not you and
 > I were not I
 > 'I'd believe it,' Mr Thomas said succinctly.
 > And then not-I asked not-you, why shouldn't poets have
 > opinions in their
 > poetry?
 > 'Opinions,' Mr Thomas proceeded, 'are the result of
 > self-argument and as
 > most people can't argue with anybody and especially
 > with themselves,
 > opinions are bloody awful. There are opinions, of
 > course. In dramatic poetry
 > for one, but most of us are lyric poets. It was Eliot
 > in this century who
 > showed that one could talk about any subject in verse,
 > except one's self.'
 > Then wasn't there some sort of discrepancy in what Mr
 > Thomas was saying? 'I
 > suppose,' Mr Thomas said, 'the thing about opinion
 > should be qualified.'
 > That was precisely what Mr Thomas had been doing,
 > hadn't he? 'The slant,' Mr
 > Thomas went on, 'the tilt of the mind informs the
 > poetry.'
 > Mr Thomas kept his Between-the-Acts little cigar in
 > the corner of his mouth,
 > his head tilted at an angle away from the smoke. 'I
 > like to put down the
 > word "blood". It's a curious kind of word; it means
 > insanity, among other
 > meanings. It's part of the tilt of my mind that I put
 > it down often.'
 > Mr Thomas and his guest drank. 'What is interesting,'
 > he pursued, after a
 > while, 'is the way in which certain words either lost
 > their meaning or their
 > goodness. The word "honor", for instance. A world fit
 > for heroes. A world
 > fit for Neros is more like it.'
 > Why did words lose their meaning or goodness? 'The
 > wrong people crowed about
 > them,' Mr Thomas said, looking like an owl.
 > How long was he going to be here? 'About three
 > months,' Mr Thomas said. 'It
 > will be my last visit for some time. I will have had
 > the universities and
 > they will have had me.'
 > The writer wasn't taking that statement seriously at
 > all.
 > 'Well,'Mr Thomas said, 7am.' .
 > Would he sum up?
 > 'Poetry,' Mr Thomas summed up, avoiding what might
 > have sounded theatrical,
 > 'poetry. I like to think of it as statements made on
 > the way to the grave.'
 >
 > An mdc scan
 >
 > =====
 > visit my website, updated
 > often:http://www.angelfire.com/al2/willdockerypoems/index.html<!-- ~MESSAGE_AFTER~ -->