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A Child's Christmas in Wales

At the suggestion of the producers of a program of BBC Children's Hour, between summer and autumn of 1945, Dylan Thomas writes a monologue entitled "Memories of Christmas . We are in that time about a year, from mid 1944 to mid 1945, that Thomas was for the last period of intense work in his life, a return to the feverish adolescent creativity. And above all we are in the heart of Wales, in a place called Blaen Camartenshire of CWN, a place he considered deeply "wet and Wales, where he composed poetry since his youth. Fernhill, the farm where he spent summer vacations as a child, was only a mile. These are only the first clues that explain the nature of a work so intensely nostalgic. Nostalgia for the Wales of his childhood, nostalgia Christmas of his childhood, through his writing becomes strongly evocative of Christmas each of us, a universal experience, " there are always Uncles at Christmas. Uncles The Same," says the narrator of the curious questions of the child story. At the same time, no Christmas will never be the same as stuck in his memory, the gap with the past has become unbridgeable and insistently, we are told we can no longer find the same snow, nor the same tastes, nor the same characters then.

And then, once the application child curious about what kind of gifts we receive, it breaks the poet Thomas, a riot of sounds, suggestive juxtapositions of language, which constitute one of the most obvious characteristics of his style. "There Were the Useful Presents: engulfing Mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum That Could Be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o ' shanters-like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes. "You forget the boundary between prose and poetry and is dragged by the vortex of images that the language of Thomas is able to suggest. But it's not even poetry, is almost a song: "Always on Christmas night There Was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang 'Cherry Ripe, 'and Another uncle sang' Drake's Drum '. "is no coincidence that one of the most popular Welsh Christmas traditions is the one of carolsinging - as in Plygain ceremony, which attracts still living in certain areas of Wales in the church from 3 to 6 in the morning to sing accompanied by a 'harp. All this makes us reflect further on the extreme importance of the tradition that Thomas had to read aloud his works, and aesthetic value but also on the interpretation of these records.

As we have mentioned, this work began as radio piece, and was broadcast by the BBC on December 16, 1945. Two years later, using the same material he wrote a piece for the magazine Picture Post in the form of a "Conversation about Christmas . Only in 1950, during his first visit to America, Thomas reworked the "Memories" and "Conversation" and laid out the final version entitled " A Child's Christmas in Wales ", which you can read in full here . Sold it to the American magazine Harper's Bazaar for only $ 300 - became his most famous prose work of the United States.

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This is Christmas?

In paradise the soul of animals donkey asked the soul of the ox: "Do you remember by chance that night, many years ago when we found ourselves in a kind of hut and there in the manger ...?"
"Let me think ... Oh yes -" said the ox - in the manger, if I remember correctly, c ' was a newborn baby. "
"Bravo. And then imagine you would know how many years have passed? "
"Oh no, imagine! With the memory I find that bull. "
"More than two thousand."
"Wow."
"And by the way, you know who was that child?"
"How do I know? He was passing people, I think. Of course it was a beautiful child. " The donkey
whispered something to the ox.
"But no! - Did he - serious? I hope you will want to play. "
"The truth, I swear. Besides, I immediately knew I had ... "
" Not me - confessed to the bull - you see that you're smarter. I had not even touched the suspect. Although, of course, to see, was an extraordinary child. "
"Well, since men are big party every year on the anniversary of his birth. For them it is the most beautiful day. You saw them. It is a time of peace, the sweetness of repose of the soul, peace and joy of family, of loving. Even the villains become good like lambs. They call it Christmas. In fact, I have an idea, while we're at it, why do not we take a look? "
" Where? "
" Down to earth, no! "
" We've already been? "
" Every year or so, I make a run. I have a special pass. I'll you do too. After all, some little merit can boast two of us. "
"Because he had warmed the baby with the wind?"
"Come on, if you do not want to lose the best. Today is the day before. "
"And the pass to me?"
"I have a cousin to the passport office."
The pass was granted. They left. Mild, mild. Descending onto the ground, spotted a light, I point to above.
The light was a great city.
And here is the donkey and the ox to walk around the streets of downtown, in the case of spirit, and tram cars passed him in half without harm, and in turn the two animals passed through as if they were made air. So they could see everything well.
was an impressive sight, a thousand lights, shop windows, wreaths, fir trees and the endless traffic jam of cars, and the dizzying tingling of the people who came and went, came and went out, all laden with packages, looking anxious and frantic, as if they were being chased.
The donkey seemed amused. The ox was looking around in fear.
"Listen, friend: You told me you took me to see Christmas. But you must be wrong. Here are making the war. "
"But I do not see how they are all happy?"
"Happy? To me it seems crazy. "
"Because you're a hick, my dear ox. You're not practical for modern humans, that's all. To feel happy, they need to ruin your nerves. "
to withdraw from the confusion, the ox, availing himself of his natural spirit, made a svolazzatine and stopped to browse in a window on the tenth floor. And the colt, gently behind.
saw a room richly furnished and the room, sitting at a table, a lady very worried.
To his left on the table, put up a pile meter cards and colored cards, white cards to his right. With the obvious worry of not wasting a minute, lady, not long, take a colored card for a moment then looked at the large volumes consulted, now wrote on a white card stock, put it in an envelope, wrote something on the envelope, seal the envelope and then took another right from the pile of cardboard and start the maneuver. How long will it take to dispose of it? The wretch gasped.
"The good pay, I suppose, - said the bull - for a similar job"
"You're naive, my friend. This is a rich lady and the best society. "
"So why is it killing?"
"You massacred. Is responding to the greeting cards. "
"Congratulations? And what are they? "
" Nothing. Zero. But somehow, the men have a mania. "
went to the house away, to another window. Here too, people who, out of breath, wrote tickets at tickets, forehead beaded with sweat. Wherever they looked the beasts, men and women here do parcels, preparing envelopes, running to the phone, move like lightning from room to room carrying bundles, cords, ribbons, cards, pendants and meanwhile entered young attendants with his face ravaged by bringing other parcels other boxes, other flowers, some piles of cards. And all was haste, anxiety, discomfort, confusion and a terrible effort.
Everywhere the same show.
Coming and going, buying and packaging, shipping and receiving, packing and unpacking, call and answer and all looked continually at the clock, everybody was running, panting with all the terror of not making time and someone collapsed gasping.
"But you said - said the cow - which was the feast of serenity and peace."
"Well -" said the donkey - once was. But what you want, for some years, will be a matter of a consumer society ... We have a mysterious tarantula bites. Hear, Hear! "The ox
strained his ears. In the streets, in shops, offices, factories busy men and women talked like automatons intense exchange of monotone formulas merry Christmas, best wishes, greetings, greetings to her as thanks. A buzz that filled the city.
"But we believe? - Asked the ox - I say seriously? They want very much good to your neighbor? "
The donkey was silent.
"And if we retreated a little to one side? - Suggested the animal - which I now head a ball. Are you sure that have not come all mad? "
" No, no. It's just Christmas. "
"There's too much, then. Do you remember that night in Bethlehem, the hut, the shepherds, the beautiful boy. It was cold there too, but there was a peace and satisfaction. How was it different! "" And those who felt distant bagpipes just barely. " "And on the roof, you remember, as a mild fluttering. Who knows what kind of birds they were. "
Birds? Big head that you are nothing. Angels were. "
"And the star? Do not you remember what kind of star, just above the hut? Who knows that there is still, the stars have long life. "
"I have no idea - said the ass - there is little air of stars here."
They raised the nose to look, and indeed could not see anything, the city had a ceiling of haze and smog.

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I did !!!!!

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