By Dylan Thomas
In print for 50 years, this gem of lyric prose has enchanted either old and young from its first actual edition.
Dylan Thomas, one of many maximum poets and storytellers of the 20 th century, captures a child's-eye view, and an adult's fond thoughts, of a mystical time of offers, aunts and uncles, the frozen sea, and within the better of conditions, newly fallen snow.
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Extra resources for A Child's Christmas in Wales
As she struggled to understand the war and its impact on the world around her, Staebler also grappled with a “constant war” within herself (January 26, 1946). “I grasp at things that prevent me from writing and yet am depressed because I fail to write,” she observed January 26, 1946. “But I have these other responsibilities—Mother, Cdn [Canadian] Club, Library Board. They take time, ideas. If I don’t do my best for them, I feel guilty, ashamed. ” The constant conflict Staebler felt between her desire to write and the demands of her responsibilities drained her energy.
The oriental dancer and the background at the Uptown with Wilf. The tinsel trees. Holy night. Auditorium, Masonic Temple, Detroit. Rachmaninoff. The English Church nun on the street car. The spider making his web. 5 The picnic by the river in St Jacobs. The capricious moon in the wheat field—June 30 . […] Things I don’t like People—young ones—dragging their feet and slipslopping in bedroom slippers. November 17, 1927 6 Wrote essay. 7 It makes me feel so terrible and guilty. I get all sorts of beautiful thoughts and I know exactly what should be there and can always tell what doesn’t sound right, but somehow I never can write what I’d like to.
December 9, 1929 The last three months have been the most awful I’ve ever lived. Perhaps they’ve been good for me too. I’ve learned so many things. I wish I’d kept on writing but I hadn’t enough courage at the start. I didn’t want to write all the terrible low thoughts I had and often I’d not written for so long. I just kept putting things off and it does seem silly now, but I’m afraid that if I don’t write things I’ll forget them and there are always some things I don’t want to forget. All thro’ September I sat around afraid of living—afraid to think, afraid to talk, afraid to do anything, thinking always of myself and my personality, afraid I’ll lose it.
A Child's Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas