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Under Milk Wood
A moving and hilarious account of a spring day in a small Welsh coastal town, Under Milk Wood is "lyrical, impassioned and funny, an Our Town given universality" (The New Statesman and Nation).
121 pages, Paperback
First published March 1, 1954
About the author
Dylan Thomas
434 books1,297 followersDylan Marlais Thomas (1914-1953) was a Welsh poet who wrote in English. Many regard him as one of the 20th century's most influential poets.
In addition to poetry, Thomas wrote short stories and scripts for film and radio, with the latter frequently performed by Thomas himself. His public readings, particularly in America, won him great acclaim; his booming, at times, ostentatious voice, with a subtle Welsh lilt, became almost as famous as his works. His best-known work includes the "play for voices" Under Milk Wood and the celebrated villanelle for his dying father, "Do not go gentle into that good night." Appreciative critics have also noted the superb craftsmanship and compression of poems such as "In my craft or sullen art" and the rhapsodic lyricism of Fern Hill.
In addition to poetry, Thomas wrote short stories and scripts for film and radio, with the latter frequently performed by Thomas himself. His public readings, particularly in America, won him great acclaim; his booming, at times, ostentatious voice, with a subtle Welsh lilt, became almost as famous as his works. His best-known work includes the "play for voices" Under Milk Wood and the celebrated villanelle for his dying father, "Do not go gentle into that good night." Appreciative critics have also noted the superb craftsmanship and compression of poems such as "In my craft or sullen art" and the rhapsodic lyricism of Fern Hill.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 710 reviews
March 12, 2022
Some works of literature just beg to be read out loud - This is the House that Jack Built and Hiawatha are two that most people are familiar with. Under Milk Wood too, is better appreciated read aloud.
Try it for yourself. A sample (read aloud with Welsh accent, sing-song, go up like a question at the end of the line, extend vowels, as in 'weeedkiller' and emphasis is usually on the first syllable.)
FIRST VOICE
Mr Pugh, in the School House opposite, takes up the morning
tea to Mrs Pugh, and whispers on the stairs
MR. PUGH
Here's your arsenic, dear.
And your weedkiller biscuit.
I've throttled your parakeet.
I've spat in the vases.
I've put cheese in the mouseholes.
Here's your... [_Door creaks open_
...nice tea, dear.
MRS PUGH
Too much sugar.
Or try this, read by Richard Burton, who was also from the same area so has exactly the right intonation. full cast production of Under Milk Wood If you would like to listen to a young Richard Burton reading the play alone (which I much prefer), it is in two parts, part one and part two.
When I read this play by Dylan Thomas, I hear the village life of my childhood come to life. He caught the lilt and cadence of the Valleys speech and the trivial preoccupations of the people perfectly. Of course it helps that like Dylan Thomas, I am also from South Wales and have the accent down pat!
A little known fact, apparent to all Welsh people but no-one else, is that the village of Llareggub which looks perfectly Welsh is actually the English Bugger All backwards. (If it had been Welsh it would have been Llanreggub and mean the Parish of St. Reggub).
Dylan Thomas wasn't at all metaphorically poetic; his poems are just as much for people who don't like poetry as those who like reading it and contemplating what the poet meant by his imagery. There is not such issue with Dylan Thomas, he says what he means and you get it straightaway.
If you enjoyed the play, read Dylan Thomas's magnificent [book:Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night|6619539].
Considerably rewritten 18 October on being told the link to Under Milk Wood no longer worked.
Try it for yourself. A sample (read aloud with Welsh accent, sing-song, go up like a question at the end of the line, extend vowels, as in 'weeedkiller' and emphasis is usually on the first syllable.)
FIRST VOICE
Mr Pugh, in the School House opposite, takes up the morning
tea to Mrs Pugh, and whispers on the stairs
MR. PUGH
Here's your arsenic, dear.
And your weedkiller biscuit.
I've throttled your parakeet.
I've spat in the vases.
I've put cheese in the mouseholes.
Here's your... [_Door creaks open_
...nice tea, dear.
MRS PUGH
Too much sugar.
Or try this, read by Richard Burton, who was also from the same area so has exactly the right intonation. full cast production of Under Milk Wood If you would like to listen to a young Richard Burton reading the play alone (which I much prefer), it is in two parts, part one and part two.
When I read this play by Dylan Thomas, I hear the village life of my childhood come to life. He caught the lilt and cadence of the Valleys speech and the trivial preoccupations of the people perfectly. Of course it helps that like Dylan Thomas, I am also from South Wales and have the accent down pat!
A little known fact, apparent to all Welsh people but no-one else, is that the village of Llareggub which looks perfectly Welsh is actually the English Bugger All backwards. (If it had been Welsh it would have been Llanreggub and mean the Parish of St. Reggub).
Dylan Thomas wasn't at all metaphorically poetic; his poems are just as much for people who don't like poetry as those who like reading it and contemplating what the poet meant by his imagery. There is not such issue with Dylan Thomas, he says what he means and you get it straightaway.
If you enjoyed the play, read Dylan Thomas's magnificent [book:Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night|6619539].
Considerably rewritten 18 October on being told the link to Under Milk Wood no longer worked.
September 14, 2023
Originally written for BBC radio, the rise and fall of the voices are like the slow roll of the ocean. After reading it, I wished that I had opted for the audiobook. Under Milk Wood would be spectacular when read aloud.
The setting is a Welsh fishing village just tucking in for the night. From the first line, the dreamy lyrical prose captured my imagination, painting a clear picture of the locale and its residents.
"To begin at the beginning:
It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters’-and-rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea."
As I strolled through the sleeping town of Llareggub, I caught snippets of the things dreams are made of-from candy to crinoline and loving to laughable. I was drawn into each dreamer’s secret world by night and their curious routines by day.
This play strikes all the right notes with laughter, heartache and even some naughty bits! Under Milk Wood is an engaging read.
"You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing."
"Time passes. Listen. Time passes.
Come closer now.
Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and the silent black, bandaged night."
The setting is a Welsh fishing village just tucking in for the night. From the first line, the dreamy lyrical prose captured my imagination, painting a clear picture of the locale and its residents.
"To begin at the beginning:
It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters’-and-rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea."
As I strolled through the sleeping town of Llareggub, I caught snippets of the things dreams are made of-from candy to crinoline and loving to laughable. I was drawn into each dreamer’s secret world by night and their curious routines by day.
This play strikes all the right notes with laughter, heartache and even some naughty bits! Under Milk Wood is an engaging read.
"You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing."
"Time passes. Listen. Time passes.
Come closer now.
Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and the silent black, bandaged night."
February 14, 2015
We are not wholly bad or good, who live our lives under Milk Wood.
The voices of Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood rise and fall, crashing into each other like waves under a milky moon, their sweet prose an effervescence of sounds and syllables to intoxicate the soul. This ‘play for voices’ follows the lives of the citizens of Milk Wood across a full day, bookmarked by the surrealistically sensational dream sequences of the two nights. The play simply engulfs you in its beautiful embrace, like the warm encompassing feeling of sleep overtaking you under the coziest of blankets with the redolence of summer majesty breezing through an open window. Under Milk Wood offers a unique voyeuristic vantage-point for the reader—or listener—as they see all the hopes and dreams swimming in the hearts of these simple folks and watch them interact with one another. From dark and somber to hilarious and cynical, the spectrum of emotions and existence swings and sways to the vocal rhythm of Thomas’ sharp pen and wit. There is the aging sea captain haunted in dreams by pallid corpses speaking from their watery grave, the wife intent on poisoning her husband, the innocent cruelty of children, the lust of the village strumpet and the condescending remarks of those around her; all walks of life exist in the boundaries of this quiet village that could be any village. It satisfied my thirst for something similar to Woolf’s masterpiece The Waves and filled me with joy during the brief sitting it takes to read this play. Charged by the power of Thomas’ prose, sharpened over a distinguished career as a masterful poet, and alive with the madness and love of life, this ‘play for voices’ is an entertaining and exquisite event to read or listen to.
4.5/5
The only sea I saw
Was the seesaw sea
With you riding on it.
Lie down, lie easy.
Let me shipwreck in your thighs.
The voices of Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood rise and fall, crashing into each other like waves under a milky moon, their sweet prose an effervescence of sounds and syllables to intoxicate the soul. This ‘play for voices’ follows the lives of the citizens of Milk Wood across a full day, bookmarked by the surrealistically sensational dream sequences of the two nights. The play simply engulfs you in its beautiful embrace, like the warm encompassing feeling of sleep overtaking you under the coziest of blankets with the redolence of summer majesty breezing through an open window. Under Milk Wood offers a unique voyeuristic vantage-point for the reader—or listener—as they see all the hopes and dreams swimming in the hearts of these simple folks and watch them interact with one another. From dark and somber to hilarious and cynical, the spectrum of emotions and existence swings and sways to the vocal rhythm of Thomas’ sharp pen and wit. There is the aging sea captain haunted in dreams by pallid corpses speaking from their watery grave, the wife intent on poisoning her husband, the innocent cruelty of children, the lust of the village strumpet and the condescending remarks of those around her; all walks of life exist in the boundaries of this quiet village that could be any village. It satisfied my thirst for something similar to Woolf’s masterpiece The Waves and filled me with joy during the brief sitting it takes to read this play. Charged by the power of Thomas’ prose, sharpened over a distinguished career as a masterful poet, and alive with the madness and love of life, this ‘play for voices’ is an entertaining and exquisite event to read or listen to.
4.5/5
The only sea I saw
Was the seesaw sea
With you riding on it.
Lie down, lie easy.
Let me shipwreck in your thighs.
January 10, 2018
I don't know Llarregub about many things, but I do know that Thomas's sloe black, crow black, boat-bobbing, poetic creation was one of the most enjoyable books I read in school.
If you haven't yet acquainted yourself with his rich rhetoric and magical mischievousness, then please do!
If you haven't yet acquainted yourself with his rich rhetoric and magical mischievousness, then please do!
June 7, 2009
I can honestly say that the world would be a lesser place if I had never read this play. It is not just that it is laugh-out-loud funny or that it is sad enough to make me weep - Captain Cat being forgotten by Rosie near the end is almost too painful to remember. But it is so full, so wonderfully overflowing with all the day to day concerns of life and love that it is a world in and of itself. Here is true creative genius.
From husbands purchasing books on how to poison their wives to the terrible things we dream in the silence of the night, to postmen's wives steaming open mail and then their mailman husbands telling everyone what is in their letters. Listen. You can hear their voices speaking to you across the darkness and over the soft hush of the waves lapping at the shore while gently raising the boats of the fishermen who are drinking at the bar all day long because it is always just after opening time. You can sing along to the bawdy songs of the drunks or listen with blind Captain Cat as he identifies people in their passing by the tap of their steps on the cobbles or the sudden silence of the women pretending not to notice Polly who the police are sure to come after sooner or later. You can dream with the Sea Captain as the faces of the long dead come out of the sea to greet him each in their turn. Or if you are quiet, you can share in the lustful desires of a young girl tucked up toasty in her bed with her hairy lover rudely wagging his tail or lie starched in the icy cold sheets of a widow who remains anything but snug though forever bookended between her two dead husbands.
The children's songs will dance in your mind for years - I bought the George Martin production of this play when the kids were born and have sung them Johnny Crack and Flossy Snail ever since - even now they are both in their late teens.
There are 'adult themes' in this book, and not just because one of the characters is a loose woman with quite a few too many babies - but everyone has either two wives or two husbands or too few husbands or a wife too many.
The characters just stay with you - butchers selling man chop and bakers' wives who have to borrow loaves of bread from neighbours because the baker forgot the bread, wives who have two husbands, a sober and a drunk one, and my favourite, No Good Boyo, up to no good and who has the best line in the whole play - one I repeatedly quote at random when odd things happen in my life and which, if I'm overheard, no one ever seems to understand - "Bloody funny fish."
But the language, the song of the words, the lilt and crackle and exuberance of words themselves at play - god, to be able to write like that. Okay, so he was a poet, but with such an ear. And an eye for life and a hand that could balance the worth of a line and not give it either too much weight or too little, but just enough.
Time passes, listen, time passes.
From husbands purchasing books on how to poison their wives to the terrible things we dream in the silence of the night, to postmen's wives steaming open mail and then their mailman husbands telling everyone what is in their letters. Listen. You can hear their voices speaking to you across the darkness and over the soft hush of the waves lapping at the shore while gently raising the boats of the fishermen who are drinking at the bar all day long because it is always just after opening time. You can sing along to the bawdy songs of the drunks or listen with blind Captain Cat as he identifies people in their passing by the tap of their steps on the cobbles or the sudden silence of the women pretending not to notice Polly who the police are sure to come after sooner or later. You can dream with the Sea Captain as the faces of the long dead come out of the sea to greet him each in their turn. Or if you are quiet, you can share in the lustful desires of a young girl tucked up toasty in her bed with her hairy lover rudely wagging his tail or lie starched in the icy cold sheets of a widow who remains anything but snug though forever bookended between her two dead husbands.
The children's songs will dance in your mind for years - I bought the George Martin production of this play when the kids were born and have sung them Johnny Crack and Flossy Snail ever since - even now they are both in their late teens.
There are 'adult themes' in this book, and not just because one of the characters is a loose woman with quite a few too many babies - but everyone has either two wives or two husbands or too few husbands or a wife too many.
The characters just stay with you - butchers selling man chop and bakers' wives who have to borrow loaves of bread from neighbours because the baker forgot the bread, wives who have two husbands, a sober and a drunk one, and my favourite, No Good Boyo, up to no good and who has the best line in the whole play - one I repeatedly quote at random when odd things happen in my life and which, if I'm overheard, no one ever seems to understand - "Bloody funny fish."
But the language, the song of the words, the lilt and crackle and exuberance of words themselves at play - god, to be able to write like that. Okay, so he was a poet, but with such an ear. And an eye for life and a hand that could balance the worth of a line and not give it either too much weight or too little, but just enough.
Time passes, listen, time passes.
May 30, 2021
Omniscient hullabaloo, wickedly deep dwelling,
Llareggub takes with panache, Dylan's verbal swelling,
Part charade, part ribald, part delirium,
A delightful parade in the alleys of quotidian.
What else do you expect when the opening line is this helluva diva?
Llareggub takes with panache, Dylan's verbal swelling,
Part charade, part ribald, part delirium,
A delightful parade in the alleys of quotidian.
What else do you expect when the opening line is this helluva diva?
To begin at the beginning: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobble streets silent and the hunched, courters' and rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.
July 5, 2018
Thomas's voices are like a tide that's rising and falling in spite of the reader's convenience at the time of the reading. Like a choir of ghosts ignorant of their unsubstantial nature. I swear they gave me the chills a number of times while I was reading it during my night shift, not because it was particularly scary but because of the everyday humour and grief that they were drenched in. Such darkness, such humour, such insolent irony in such a haunting combination I've rarely come across, if ever, in my time as a reader. I curse my fate for not being Welsh, for if I were, I'm sure, the sentiments would be far more intense.
March 4, 2017
"This town's as full as a lovebird's egg."
- Dylan Thomas, Under Milk Wood
This book has languished on my shelf.
Ignored.
Left alone.
I bought this book years ago. It was a deal. It was a steal. It was $2 at Goodwill. I recognized Dylan Thomas and knew it was a Folio edition. $2? Value? Done. I brought it home, put it on the shelf. Thought about it only narrowly. I figured it was a book of poetry. Poems. Fights against the dying of the light and whatnots.
Nope. It is certainly poetic. Lyrical. Whimsical. A play, however. Meant for many voices. An innovation for Radio. Meant to be read. Think of later James Joyce, but something easy to understand. A well-spoken lust dream in a Welch coastal town.
So, ignored on the shelf? Why now? I'm trying and dying to read 100 books, during the first 100 days of either the year (closer) or year + Trump's 100 days (more than 100 I guess). So on days when I don't have 4+ hours to read, or the book I want to read is bigger than 240 pages, I generally use small books of poetry or philosophy to bridge a larger book into smaller bites without violating my first rule (1 book a day). So, yes, I am anal retentive about even things I enjoy.
So, back to Under Milk Wood. If you have the opportunity to read it, read it. If you have the opportunity to listen to either Dylan Thomas & Co read it, listen. Richard Burton & Co is also a nice treat.
Some of my favorite lines:
"It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobble streets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-blackrabbits' wood limping invisible down to the shoeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea."
"From where you are you can hear their dreams."
"And before you let the sun in, mind it wipes its shoes."
"And high above, in Salt Lake Farm, Mr Utah Watkins counts, all night, the wife-faced sheep as they leap the fences on the hill, smiling and knitting and bleating just like Mrs. Utah Watkins."
"...who kissed her once by the pig-sty when she wasn't looking and never kissed her again although she was looking all the time."
"Time Passes. Listen. Time passes. An owl flies home past Bethesda, to a chapel in an oak. And the dawn inches up."
"There is no leg belonging to the foot that belongs to this shoe."
- Dylan Thomas, Under Milk Wood
This book has languished on my shelf.
Ignored.
Left alone.
I bought this book years ago. It was a deal. It was a steal. It was $2 at Goodwill. I recognized Dylan Thomas and knew it was a Folio edition. $2? Value? Done. I brought it home, put it on the shelf. Thought about it only narrowly. I figured it was a book of poetry. Poems. Fights against the dying of the light and whatnots.
Nope. It is certainly poetic. Lyrical. Whimsical. A play, however. Meant for many voices. An innovation for Radio. Meant to be read. Think of later James Joyce, but something easy to understand. A well-spoken lust dream in a Welch coastal town.
So, ignored on the shelf? Why now? I'm trying and dying to read 100 books, during the first 100 days of either the year (closer) or year + Trump's 100 days (more than 100 I guess). So on days when I don't have 4+ hours to read, or the book I want to read is bigger than 240 pages, I generally use small books of poetry or philosophy to bridge a larger book into smaller bites without violating my first rule (1 book a day). So, yes, I am anal retentive about even things I enjoy.
So, back to Under Milk Wood. If you have the opportunity to read it, read it. If you have the opportunity to listen to either Dylan Thomas & Co read it, listen. Richard Burton & Co is also a nice treat.
Some of my favorite lines:
"It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobble streets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-blackrabbits' wood limping invisible down to the shoeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea."
"From where you are you can hear their dreams."
"And before you let the sun in, mind it wipes its shoes."
"And high above, in Salt Lake Farm, Mr Utah Watkins counts, all night, the wife-faced sheep as they leap the fences on the hill, smiling and knitting and bleating just like Mrs. Utah Watkins."
"...who kissed her once by the pig-sty when she wasn't looking and never kissed her again although she was looking all the time."
"Time Passes. Listen. Time passes. An owl flies home past Bethesda, to a chapel in an oak. And the dawn inches up."
"There is no leg belonging to the foot that belongs to this shoe."
October 23, 2021
I first listened to Dylan Thomas’ “play for voices” about 20 years ago, and have just done so again. On both occasions I listened to the 1954 BBC Radio Production, magnificently narrated by the orotund Richard Burton. It made a tremendous impression on me on the first occasion, and I’m not sure I could adjust to a different production.
The play relates a day in the village of Llareggub, a name Thomas invented by reversing the letters of the expression “Bugger all”. The dead and the living seem to exist side by side, but this isn’t a play where we worry about being grounded in reality. It’s one where we enjoy the richness of Dylan Thomas’ alliterative and adjective-laden language, and the lives of a cast of eccentric characters. There’s the music obsessed Organ Morgan, the lazy No-good Boyo, the drunkard Cherry Owen and his adoring wife, and the viperish Mrs Pugh and her bullied husband who dreams of poisoning her, along with a host of others. Almost every character speaks using the local idiom of South Wales and there’s plenty of humour mixed in.
This is definitely a work that should be listened to rather than read on the page. My only reservation is that the play may not be easy to follow for someone whose first language isn’t English. Otherwise, it’s worth immersing yourself in this unique experience.
The play relates a day in the village of Llareggub, a name Thomas invented by reversing the letters of the expression “Bugger all”. The dead and the living seem to exist side by side, but this isn’t a play where we worry about being grounded in reality. It’s one where we enjoy the richness of Dylan Thomas’ alliterative and adjective-laden language, and the lives of a cast of eccentric characters. There’s the music obsessed Organ Morgan, the lazy No-good Boyo, the drunkard Cherry Owen and his adoring wife, and the viperish Mrs Pugh and her bullied husband who dreams of poisoning her, along with a host of others. Almost every character speaks using the local idiom of South Wales and there’s plenty of humour mixed in.
This is definitely a work that should be listened to rather than read on the page. My only reservation is that the play may not be easy to follow for someone whose first language isn’t English. Otherwise, it’s worth immersing yourself in this unique experience.
February 17, 2013
A smorgasbord of language. I am still blown away every time I read that first measured sentence, about the woodland ‘limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea’.
If you only knew Dylan Thomas from his short poems (as I did before I read this) then prepare for a very pleasant shock. The wonderful rhythm of the lines here, the extraordinary creativity of compound words and unexpected similes, all sustained over a considerable distance, is something quite distinctive and entirely absorbing. And surprisingly funny at times: there is a lot of warm, affectionate interplay between the different characters of this sleepy Welsh town, rivalries, fantasies, frustrations, sexual liaisons real and imagined, boredom, dreams – everything you'd expect from small-town life is here.
But it's the poetic language that makes me really love it. The ‘sunhoneyed cobbles’, the ‘dumb goose-hiss of the wives’, Gossamer Benyon who is ‘spoonstirred and quivering’ and who ‘high-heels out of school’ – milk churns that stand ‘like short, silver policemen’, and lovers in ‘the grassgreen gooseberried double bed of the wood’ – it's all described as though in the throes of some ecstatic vision, which I suppose is what good poetry should be like.
I don't want to overstate my case too much, but go here and listen to Richard Burton reading the opening section, and if you're not rolling on the floor in delight after about thirty seconds, then you probably have no soul.
If you only knew Dylan Thomas from his short poems (as I did before I read this) then prepare for a very pleasant shock. The wonderful rhythm of the lines here, the extraordinary creativity of compound words and unexpected similes, all sustained over a considerable distance, is something quite distinctive and entirely absorbing. And surprisingly funny at times: there is a lot of warm, affectionate interplay between the different characters of this sleepy Welsh town, rivalries, fantasies, frustrations, sexual liaisons real and imagined, boredom, dreams – everything you'd expect from small-town life is here.
But it's the poetic language that makes me really love it. The ‘sunhoneyed cobbles’, the ‘dumb goose-hiss of the wives’, Gossamer Benyon who is ‘spoonstirred and quivering’ and who ‘high-heels out of school’ – milk churns that stand ‘like short, silver policemen’, and lovers in ‘the grassgreen gooseberried double bed of the wood’ – it's all described as though in the throes of some ecstatic vision, which I suppose is what good poetry should be like.
I don't want to overstate my case too much, but go here and listen to Richard Burton reading the opening section, and if you're not rolling on the floor in delight after about thirty seconds, then you probably have no soul.
February 5, 2016
“Sundown dazzling day gold through my eyes but my eyes turned within only see starless and bible black…” King Crimson – Starless.
Under Milk Wood has a texture of a lyrical myth so it is timeless…
People sleep and they dream... People wake up and they play fools, dawdle, muck around, misbehave, recollect, fantasize and build castles in the air…
“There's the clip clop of horses on the sun-honeyed cobbles of the humming streets, hammering of horse-shoes, gobble quack and cackle, tomtit twitter from the bird-ounced boughs, braying on Donkey Down. Bread is baking, pigs are grunting, chop goes the butcher, milk-churns bell, tills ring, sheep cough, dogs shout, saws sing. Oh, the Spring whinny and morning moo from the clog dancing farms, the gulls’ gab and rabble on the boat-bobbing river and sea and the cockles bubbling in the sand, scamper of sanderlings, curlew cry, crow caw, pigeon coo, clock strike, bull bellow, and the ragged gabble of the bear garden school as the women scratch and babble in Mrs Organ Morgan's general shop where everything is sold: custard, buckets, henna, rat-traps, shrimp-nets, sugar, stamps, confetti, paraffin, hatchets, whistles.”
People love and hate… People live.
“Bible black and captain cat keeps the world inside his hat with deep dry wells and cockled shells he holds his wife beneath his paws…” The Coral – Milkwood Blues.
Under Milk Wood has a texture of a lyrical myth so it is timeless…
People sleep and they dream... People wake up and they play fools, dawdle, muck around, misbehave, recollect, fantasize and build castles in the air…
“There's the clip clop of horses on the sun-honeyed cobbles of the humming streets, hammering of horse-shoes, gobble quack and cackle, tomtit twitter from the bird-ounced boughs, braying on Donkey Down. Bread is baking, pigs are grunting, chop goes the butcher, milk-churns bell, tills ring, sheep cough, dogs shout, saws sing. Oh, the Spring whinny and morning moo from the clog dancing farms, the gulls’ gab and rabble on the boat-bobbing river and sea and the cockles bubbling in the sand, scamper of sanderlings, curlew cry, crow caw, pigeon coo, clock strike, bull bellow, and the ragged gabble of the bear garden school as the women scratch and babble in Mrs Organ Morgan's general shop where everything is sold: custard, buckets, henna, rat-traps, shrimp-nets, sugar, stamps, confetti, paraffin, hatchets, whistles.”
People love and hate… People live.
“Bible black and captain cat keeps the world inside his hat with deep dry wells and cockled shells he holds his wife beneath his paws…” The Coral – Milkwood Blues.
August 23, 2023
In the afterword of my edition I read this was an attempt to create a Welsh Ulysses. I understand where that comes from: the text as a literary powerhouse, the evocation of 24 hours in a dull Welsh town, and especially the chaotic voices of the little people who are put on stage. In others I read that this tries to be a more accessible Welsh version of Finnegan's Wake, almost as illegible without footnotes. That's a bit far fetched, I think, but anyhow, the connection with Joyce is obvious. And Thomas certainly has given it his own twist. Especially in the auditive version the expressive power of this text comes into its onw, the alternation of bravado and more intimate parts in particular. But I must confess that I am not much for this kind of thing, this exuberance without much substance didn't really resonate. My bad, I guess.
November 21, 2011
I like Dylan Thomas for two reasons
1. I grew up in Wales
2. I read his book Under Milk Wood when I was in school.
Wales is a strange place to grow up. For a start you're told as a child that it's full of castles and dragons and daffodils and that there is evil over the border (England) and that Rugby is the one true sport. Some of those things are true. I'm sure even Dylan Thomas thought them from time to time. I lived outside Cardiff and Thomas was busily engaged in being Welsh in and around the area of Swansea which is just a bit further along the coast. He described Swansea as an "ugly lovely town" which was then translated in the film Twin Towns to " a pretty shitty city". A bit unfair perhaps but then Swansea is fairly unlovely. The area of the Mumbles however is stunning and its natural beauty which influenced Thomas, should not be overlooked.
Reading Under Milk Wood was simultaneously fun and a form of torture for me as we read it out loud and tried in turn to make it replicate the radio play it was originally supposed to be. The characters of Llareggub were supposed to spring to life in our hands and through our voices. I can still remember chunks of the text "Nothing grows in my garden, only washing and babies", springs to mind first and foremost. As a child this made me ponder about what sort of green fingeredness it would take for children to start sprouting in the back yard.
Unfortunately as I'd only recently arrived from Edinburgh, where I was initially educated, my "valleys" accent left a little to be desired. Everyone else already had a welsh accent and could just lay it on a bit more thickly to create a passable approximation of a valley twang and then there was me with a Scots brogue trying to sound like one of the Mrs Dai Breads for the recording we were making and failing miserably.
Part send up, part caricature, part hymn to the eccentricities of a welsh town Under Milk Wood is post war Wales at its colourful best.
1. I grew up in Wales
2. I read his book Under Milk Wood when I was in school.
Wales is a strange place to grow up. For a start you're told as a child that it's full of castles and dragons and daffodils and that there is evil over the border (England) and that Rugby is the one true sport. Some of those things are true. I'm sure even Dylan Thomas thought them from time to time. I lived outside Cardiff and Thomas was busily engaged in being Welsh in and around the area of Swansea which is just a bit further along the coast. He described Swansea as an "ugly lovely town" which was then translated in the film Twin Towns to " a pretty shitty city". A bit unfair perhaps but then Swansea is fairly unlovely. The area of the Mumbles however is stunning and its natural beauty which influenced Thomas, should not be overlooked.
Reading Under Milk Wood was simultaneously fun and a form of torture for me as we read it out loud and tried in turn to make it replicate the radio play it was originally supposed to be. The characters of Llareggub were supposed to spring to life in our hands and through our voices. I can still remember chunks of the text "Nothing grows in my garden, only washing and babies", springs to mind first and foremost. As a child this made me ponder about what sort of green fingeredness it would take for children to start sprouting in the back yard.
Unfortunately as I'd only recently arrived from Edinburgh, where I was initially educated, my "valleys" accent left a little to be desired. Everyone else already had a welsh accent and could just lay it on a bit more thickly to create a passable approximation of a valley twang and then there was me with a Scots brogue trying to sound like one of the Mrs Dai Breads for the recording we were making and failing miserably.
Part send up, part caricature, part hymn to the eccentricities of a welsh town Under Milk Wood is post war Wales at its colourful best.
February 2, 2018
Not a play or a poem, exactly. This was written to be performed as a BBC radio drama, and it's about life in a sleepy town in Wales. We follow a few characters as they go from dream to wakefulness and then move through the rest of their day. We get to hear their thoughts and reflections as they do every day things. Sounds very dull, I know, which is why you have to read (or listen to) it for yourself.
In the tradition of small towns (both fictional and nonfictional), everyone has a big secret. Each character is haunted by old ghosts and rivals, and all are hiding their true intentions, and at least one has murder on the mind. Not so dull once you go further into the story. The writing is incredibly interesting in its simplicity and depth. Dylan Thomas has a thing for lyrical wordplay, and his prose can speak volumes in just a couple of lines.
What's most fascinating to me about this piece is the way it reads like a slightly discomforting tour guide of this seemingly quaint little town. You get to take a walk about the town and see the sights, but beyond that, you also get to see into the people who live there. And these people sort of hate each other, but they're sort of stuck to the town. So a lot of forced niceties are exchanged on the surface, but behind the smiles and small talks, they're imagining each other dead.
Originally posted at https://covers2covers.wordpress.com/2...
In the tradition of small towns (both fictional and nonfictional), everyone has a big secret. Each character is haunted by old ghosts and rivals, and all are hiding their true intentions, and at least one has murder on the mind. Not so dull once you go further into the story. The writing is incredibly interesting in its simplicity and depth. Dylan Thomas has a thing for lyrical wordplay, and his prose can speak volumes in just a couple of lines.
What's most fascinating to me about this piece is the way it reads like a slightly discomforting tour guide of this seemingly quaint little town. You get to take a walk about the town and see the sights, but beyond that, you also get to see into the people who live there. And these people sort of hate each other, but they're sort of stuck to the town. So a lot of forced niceties are exchanged on the surface, but behind the smiles and small talks, they're imagining each other dead.
Originally posted at https://covers2covers.wordpress.com/2...
October 12, 2020
Drama, poetry or comedy?, how about all of them. Centering around one day in a small, unexceptional Welsh coastal town. We first meet those who recide at a point before dawn, the night "flying like black flour", as the reader drifts off through the dark fields and streets, through the bedrooms of the sleeping residents and into their dreams. From there we watch as they wake up and work, following them out of bed over this one day and then finally back into bed as night falls.
The melodic and beautiful use of language creates a charming world, through a lens we affectionately observe all their passions, predicaments, comings and goings. He writes with great warmth, rogues and saints alike treated with charity and humour. Thomas views all characters with an easy sympathy, happy to be in their company. A spirited toast to humanity, he makes the sun shine in the most dullest of places. Along with Daffodils, leeks and sheep, Thomas is another with a strong symbolic meaning.
The melodic and beautiful use of language creates a charming world, through a lens we affectionately observe all their passions, predicaments, comings and goings. He writes with great warmth, rogues and saints alike treated with charity and humour. Thomas views all characters with an easy sympathy, happy to be in their company. A spirited toast to humanity, he makes the sun shine in the most dullest of places. Along with Daffodils, leeks and sheep, Thomas is another with a strong symbolic meaning.
December 18, 2018
Μια ανοιξιάτικη μέρα.
Μια υπέροχη γεύση του απλού κ αγαθού της ουαλικης επαρχίας. Όλοι διεκδικούν ισάξια τον τίτλο του τρελού του χωριού κ εμείς ξανα ανακαλύπτουμε τα βασικά
Χωρίς πραγματικές υστεροβουλιες κ ιδιοτελειες
Το ύφος απλά απαράμιλλο
Μια υπέροχη γεύση του απλού κ αγαθού της ουαλικης επαρχίας. Όλοι διεκδικούν ισάξια τον τίτλο του τρελού του χωριού κ εμείς ξανα ανακαλύπτουμε τα βασικά
Χωρίς πραγματικές υστεροβουλιες κ ιδιοτελειες
Το ύφος απλά απαράμιλλο
October 16, 2020
Ovde vas slapovi verbalne muzike jogunasto zapljuskuju poput uzburkanog mora koje nekoliko večnosti golica obale Velsa. Tu muziku je čuo i u reči obukao Dilan Tomas, vaseljenski velški bard. Po zahtevu BBC-ja, napisao je poetsku radio-dramu, za koju bi od pomoći bilo reći da je i metapatriotska, snovna oluja, u čijem se neodoljivom ozvučju krije srž jednog malog mesta. Pozajmio je Dilan Tomas mesečinu od Šekspira i to iz „Sna letnje noći” i njome zalio stanovnike Laregiba (gde je glavna ulica, kao na Vračaru, Krunska) i Mlečne šume. Uvučeni u ozvučje i šuškavo osvetljeni, likovi ne svedoče samo o svojoj poesti, koliko o svom zvučnom ne-postojanju, gde je svaka replika muzička karika – šuma šumova i kristalizacija pogradsko-prigradskih govorkanja.
Magija je to.
A i kako da ne bude magija, kad potiče sa padina velških predela gde je volšebništvo obično koliko i gajenje kućnog bilja. Pa tako imate naselje koje se zove: Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch ili zmaja na zastavi. I da je samostalan, Vels bi bio jedina država, uz Butan, koja na svojoj zastavi ima zmaja.
A osim što ne mogu svetu dovoljno da preporučim ovo književno savršenstvo, samo mogu da kažem da slobodno dozvolite da vam ništa ne bude jasno. Jer tek kada ono što je nejasno prevlada, procvetaće ono što treba.
Ni da sad počnem i ne zaustavim se dok ne naučim tečno da izgovaram ime spomenutog velškog gradića i ponavljam ga ko mantru, do besvesti, ne mogu dovoljno da ishvalim ingeniozan prevod Svetozara Brkića. Svaka mu čast za ovo ispod-radarno remek-delo.
I naravno, ovo je dušu dalo za, sada već potpuno kao medij arhaično, radio-pozorište.
Može da se postavi i kao kompozicija, trbušasti polilog, opereta sa potopljenim ljubavima i zamkama u snu, zvučna instalacija ili dramatizovana zbirka poezije.
Namamljujem iz dva izbora/izvora – najpre samim početkom dela, ali i linkom gde Ričard Barton oživljava već neumirljive reči Dilana Tomasa.
PRVI GLAS (Veoma tiho.)
„Da počnemo od početka:
Proleće je, noć je bez mesečine u malom gradiću, bez zvezda, crna kao Biblija, tihi džombasti sokaci, zgrčena se šuma ljubavnika i kunića gega nevidljivo prema ko trnjina crnom, ko trnjina modrom, otežalom, tamnom, ko gavran crnom moru sa slućenim ljuljanjem ribarskih barki. Kuće su ko krtice slepe (ali krtice noćas dobro vide u njuškavom, somotskom šumnom dolu), il’su slepe ko kapetan Ket u prigušenom središtu grada, kod česme i gradskog sata i trgovine za ukope, i ubožnice uvijene u udovički veo. I svi ljudi ovog uljuljkanog, u nemost utonulog grada spavaju sad.
Ssssst! Spavaju bebe, seljaci, ribari, trgovci, penzioneri i obućar, učitelj, gostioničar, pismonoša, grobar, i laka ženska, ispičutura i krojač, pop i policajac, i školjkarke, nogu kao u ptica plivačica, i redeuše-vrednuše.”
Ričard Barton: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJtzO...
Magija je to.
A i kako da ne bude magija, kad potiče sa padina velških predela gde je volšebništvo obično koliko i gajenje kućnog bilja. Pa tako imate naselje koje se zove: Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch ili zmaja na zastavi. I da je samostalan, Vels bi bio jedina država, uz Butan, koja na svojoj zastavi ima zmaja.
A osim što ne mogu svetu dovoljno da preporučim ovo književno savršenstvo, samo mogu da kažem da slobodno dozvolite da vam ništa ne bude jasno. Jer tek kada ono što je nejasno prevlada, procvetaće ono što treba.
Ni da sad počnem i ne zaustavim se dok ne naučim tečno da izgovaram ime spomenutog velškog gradića i ponavljam ga ko mantru, do besvesti, ne mogu dovoljno da ishvalim ingeniozan prevod Svetozara Brkića. Svaka mu čast za ovo ispod-radarno remek-delo.
I naravno, ovo je dušu dalo za, sada već potpuno kao medij arhaično, radio-pozorište.
Može da se postavi i kao kompozicija, trbušasti polilog, opereta sa potopljenim ljubavima i zamkama u snu, zvučna instalacija ili dramatizovana zbirka poezije.
Namamljujem iz dva izbora/izvora – najpre samim početkom dela, ali i linkom gde Ričard Barton oživljava već neumirljive reči Dilana Tomasa.
PRVI GLAS (Veoma tiho.)
„Da počnemo od početka:
Proleće je, noć je bez mesečine u malom gradiću, bez zvezda, crna kao Biblija, tihi džombasti sokaci, zgrčena se šuma ljubavnika i kunića gega nevidljivo prema ko trnjina crnom, ko trnjina modrom, otežalom, tamnom, ko gavran crnom moru sa slućenim ljuljanjem ribarskih barki. Kuće su ko krtice slepe (ali krtice noćas dobro vide u njuškavom, somotskom šumnom dolu), il’su slepe ko kapetan Ket u prigušenom središtu grada, kod česme i gradskog sata i trgovine za ukope, i ubožnice uvijene u udovički veo. I svi ljudi ovog uljuljkanog, u nemost utonulog grada spavaju sad.
Ssssst! Spavaju bebe, seljaci, ribari, trgovci, penzioneri i obućar, učitelj, gostioničar, pismonoša, grobar, i laka ženska, ispičutura i krojač, pop i policajac, i školjkarke, nogu kao u ptica plivačica, i redeuše-vrednuše.”
Ričard Barton: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJtzO...
February 6, 2017
This just takes my breath away.
The language. The evocation of time and place.
The exquisite rhythm.
I'm in love with this piece of work
The language. The evocation of time and place.
The exquisite rhythm.
I'm in love with this piece of work
March 29, 2023
I was in this play some years ago, and the story has only increased its charm.
July 7, 2012
Dylan Thomas originally intended this work to be radio play. However, my first experience of it was seeing the film adaptation narrated by Richard Burton, back when I was in high school in the 1970s. I remember two things about the experience: loving the sound of Richard Burton's voice, and feeling overwhelmed. This extract from the review in the New York Times goes some way to explaining my reaction:
Too many words, perhaps, for the stage. Too many words, I'm convinced, for the screen. It's not simply the quantity of words, though. It's also their ornateness. They overflow the ears and get into the eyes. Great clouds of them everywhere, like swarms of big soft gnats. They won't stop, and they make the job of the film adapter almost impossible.
Since then I've read the play and seen at least one stage production. However, it took until today, when I saw this production by the Sydney Theatre Company that I came to fully appreciate not just the magic of Thomas' words, but the fact that a stage production really can work. The production was wonderful and the words are still racing around inside my head.
A few years ago, my daughter recited these lines from the play at the wedding of her best friend to a Welsh boy. This is what Mr Edwards says to Miss Price:
I am a draper mad with love. I love you more than all the flannelette and calico, candlewick, dimity, crash and merino, tussore, cretonne, crepon, muslin, poplin, ticking and twill in the whole Cloth Hall of the world. I have come to take you away to my Emporium on the hill, where the change hums on wires. Throw away your little bedsocks and your Welsh wool knitted jacket, I will warm the sheets like an electric toaster, I will lie by your side like the Sunday roast.
Wonderful, wonderful writing. The great clouds of words no longer overwhelm me. They transport me.
February 25, 2016
I remember the first time I came across Under Milk Wood, and it was when I was learning about imagery for my GCSEs. I fell in love with it - and, of course, with Richard Burton's beautiful First Voice.
One joy of being an English teacher is teaching your favourite texts to someone new - which I'm pretty sure was what was happening to to me, the first time I was taught this. It wasn't on the syllabus.
Another joy is that you can take playful, inventive, poetic language and give it to a kid who's inevitably petrified by it. And then you can break it down, and explain it to them, and it's a bit like you're showing someone a secret language, a second story just underneath the surface of the one you're reading, and you can watch that kid go from fear and mistrust, to real appreciation of rhythm and metaphor and description and sound - right in front of your eyes. It's like magic. I'll never get tired of it as long as I live.
We spent an hour and a half on the opening monologue, and then the same again comparing it with the use of pace, sound, description of night time in Auden's The Night Mail. I got to remember exactly what I love about linguistic gymnastics, and as for him, he'll never be scared of poetry, or imagery, again.
One joy of being an English teacher is teaching your favourite texts to someone new - which I'm pretty sure was what was happening to to me, the first time I was taught this. It wasn't on the syllabus.
Another joy is that you can take playful, inventive, poetic language and give it to a kid who's inevitably petrified by it. And then you can break it down, and explain it to them, and it's a bit like you're showing someone a secret language, a second story just underneath the surface of the one you're reading, and you can watch that kid go from fear and mistrust, to real appreciation of rhythm and metaphor and description and sound - right in front of your eyes. It's like magic. I'll never get tired of it as long as I live.
We spent an hour and a half on the opening monologue, and then the same again comparing it with the use of pace, sound, description of night time in Auden's The Night Mail. I got to remember exactly what I love about linguistic gymnastics, and as for him, he'll never be scared of poetry, or imagery, again.
March 18, 2022
Dylan Thomas achieves a funny and touching account of a whole day in the little Welsh town of Milk Wood, dawn to dusk. There is a bit for everyone, love, jealousy, a poetic preacher, a husband yearning to prepare poisons for his fierce wife, etc.
July 12, 2012
If I could go back in time about 45 minutes ago and beat myself into a bloody, vegetative state, or at least into an illiterate delirium, so that I wouldn't have read this book, I would. If I could fit pliers into my ears so that I could rip out the sound of this play from my head forever, I would. If I could dig up Dylan Thomas' body and rig it with explosives and blow it up, making me blind from the concussion and so ensuring that I never accidentally read so much as a line of this again, because I know I'm too lazy to learn Braille, I would.
February 13, 2018
I absolutely loved this radio play. It is a delicious peek into the lives of a sleepy Welsh fishing village and all the intrigues that go on in the peoples' lives.
The book is great fun to read in a group but I would recommend you hear the audio version (with Richard Burton as one of the narrators) to get a true feel for the musicality and poetic beauty of this book.
The book is great fun to read in a group but I would recommend you hear the audio version (with Richard Burton as one of the narrators) to get a true feel for the musicality and poetic beauty of this book.
August 27, 2012
OK, I don't know what this is, but it's not your average play... Under Milk Wood is something else. It deserves its own category. Shortly before his death I reckon Dylan Thomas came sublimely close to the perfect narrative. Readers of 'Cold Comfort Farm' will definitely recognise an Aunt Ada Doom-ish humour that rides on the coattails of stream of consciousness.
Under Milk Wood is very hard to pin down as it's a mix of so many things, and that's what makes it so astonishingly brilliant. It delves into the unlikely dreams and nightmares of a small Welsh port town (quite literally), which shocking hinge rather a lot on sex, love, longing and even murder. Let's put it this way, their waking dreams do not waver much from their night ones! Having said that, it is rather hilarious and had me in stitches at one point. Who said that inbred villagers were boring? Every character is a fascination unto itself; paragons of the town gossip and the village idiot head a wonderfully rich cast which is further enriched by a dynamic, odd yet strangely 'on the ball' type of language. In fact if words could be tasted and felt like tangible things, then the only place you could experience that would be in Under Milk Wood.
You must read it and see for yourself.
Under Milk Wood is very hard to pin down as it's a mix of so many things, and that's what makes it so astonishingly brilliant. It delves into the unlikely dreams and nightmares of a small Welsh port town (quite literally), which shocking hinge rather a lot on sex, love, longing and even murder. Let's put it this way, their waking dreams do not waver much from their night ones! Having said that, it is rather hilarious and had me in stitches at one point. Who said that inbred villagers were boring? Every character is a fascination unto itself; paragons of the town gossip and the village idiot head a wonderfully rich cast which is further enriched by a dynamic, odd yet strangely 'on the ball' type of language. In fact if words could be tasted and felt like tangible things, then the only place you could experience that would be in Under Milk Wood.
You must read it and see for yourself.
September 5, 2022
i enjoyed the dreaminess of this classic play, but i think the language kept me from engaging deeply. which is too bad, because the language is probably one of its greatest attributes. it's beautifully written and so very welsh, and perhaps easier to listen to rather than read a paper copy?
it's a day in the life of an odd little town, filled with eccentric characters. i think the one who will stick with me the most is captain cat, an old sailor who is still in love with someone named rosie, who is long gone. their passage toward the end is tragically romantic.
it's a day in the life of an odd little town, filled with eccentric characters. i think the one who will stick with me the most is captain cat, an old sailor who is still in love with someone named rosie, who is long gone. their passage toward the end is tragically romantic.
I'll tell you no lies.
The only sea I saw
Was the seesaw sea
With you riding on it.
Lie down, lie easy.
Let me shipwreck in your thighs.
December 5, 2015
Under Milk Wood is exactly what it says it is - a play for voices; and no-one's voice does it more justice than that of Richard Burton, a Welshman whose reading of this work is committed, passionate, resonant, rich and second-to-none.
I should also say that this is not a monologue. Burton is the narrator but there is also a full cast of actors reading all the parts, which brings the play to life and gives it depth.
If you liked reading the play, listen to this and feel its power. I might try listening to it whilst reading it at the same time.
The audio version is also available on Spotify.
Wonderful stuff.
I should also say that this is not a monologue. Burton is the narrator but there is also a full cast of actors reading all the parts, which brings the play to life and gives it depth.
If you liked reading the play, listen to this and feel its power. I might try listening to it whilst reading it at the same time.
The audio version is also available on Spotify.
Wonderful stuff.
January 30, 2022
A quick listen at 1.5 hours. I enjoyed the rich language & the humor. It is by chance that this recording exists & I am thankful for the opportunity to hear it. Read 11/14/2011
Update: we enjoyed the 1972 film version very much. The visualization brought an added depth of meaning to Dylan Thomas' wonderful words. 1/30/2022.
Update: we enjoyed the 1972 film version very much. The visualization brought an added depth of meaning to Dylan Thomas' wonderful words. 1/30/2022.
April 22, 2022
(3.5) I discovered A Child’s Christmas in Wales just last year and delighted in the language and the flights of fancy. Under Milk Wood is a short play completed just a month before Thomas’s death at the age of 39. It features a chorus of voices as the inhabitants of Llaregyb, a made-up coastal Welsh town, journey from one night through to the next. Gossipy neighbours, bickering spouses, flirtatious lovers; a preacher, a retired sea captain, fishermen; and much more. Some of the character names are jokes in and of themselves, like “Nogood Boyo” and “Willy Nilly” and others sound so silly they might as well be rhyming slang.
The dead feel as vibrant as the living. The musicality of the prose sometimes made me feel I was reading poetry instead (indeed, a number of songs and rhymes are performed), and there is a bawdy charm to the whole thing. What might be stage directions in another play are read aloud here by “First Voice” and “Second Voice,” who trade off narration.
Maybe it was too much to hope that there could have been a plot somewhere in there as well? No matter. I could see how Thomas influenced the likes of Max Porter and George Saunders (Lincoln in the Bardo, anyway). I’m sorry I missed the chance to see it performed locally last month.
A favourite passage:
“It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters’-and-rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.”
Originally published on my blog, Bookish Beck.
The dead feel as vibrant as the living. The musicality of the prose sometimes made me feel I was reading poetry instead (indeed, a number of songs and rhymes are performed), and there is a bawdy charm to the whole thing. What might be stage directions in another play are read aloud here by “First Voice” and “Second Voice,” who trade off narration.
Maybe it was too much to hope that there could have been a plot somewhere in there as well? No matter. I could see how Thomas influenced the likes of Max Porter and George Saunders (Lincoln in the Bardo, anyway). I’m sorry I missed the chance to see it performed locally last month.
A favourite passage:
“It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters’-and-rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.”
Originally published on my blog, Bookish Beck.
June 20, 2017
Wow... Yup, this is going in my recommendation list to other people whether they ask for it or not.
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