Why Dylan Thomas means a lot to me

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Dylan Thomas Festival

On Wednesday I read with Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch the Dylan Thomas Centre in Swansea as part of the Dylan Thomas Festival. I was very excited about the invitation, and it was only when the organiser, Jo Furber, asked me about whether Dylan Thomas had influenced me, that I realised why it meant so much to me.

I first remember being aware of Dylan Thomas when I was about eleven and my older brother studied Under Milk Wood at school. He relished the language and humour and started reciting chunks of it at home in his best Richard Burton impression. I’m glad to say his class were listening to it, not just reading it. I don’t think I’d realised before the importance of hearing poetry and the great pleasure of speaking it – particularly so with the kind of poetry that fills the mouth as this does. My brother was thrilled with the ‘naughtiness’ of Llareggub and that made a great impression on me, too. Neither of us realised you could be a serious and respected poet and subtly slip in something so rude (as we perceived it). And there was more, of course. My brother’s enthusiasm prompted my mother to dig out a Dylan Thomas collection from the bookcase, and although some of it was beyond me then, I knew Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night very well by the time my brother died three years later. I know that’s the one villanelle everyone digs out when they’re teaching form – something else that has been immensely important to me – but it remains the pinnacle of that particular form, and for good reason. The containment of strong emotion in the manacles of a tight form gives it great power, and that’s probably the most important thing I learnt from this particular master.

I was thrilled to appear at the Dylan Thomas Festival – a festival where the focus is, thanks both to its namesake and location, so much on a fundamental love of language and its musicality. It’s one of my greatest joys to read poetry to an appreciative audience. For me, poetry is meant to be experienced in the mouth and in the ear, and it’s always a thrill to bring those flat words on the page to life for the pleasure of other language lovers.  And I’m sure my brother was there in spirit.

New Blood and Flooding

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As a friend of mine posted on Facebook recently, ‘summer this year was on a Tuesday’.  The creative Yorkshire enclave of Hebden Bridge has experienced a particularly British summer this year, and the week before we arrived for the New Blood (New Novelists) event at Hebden Bridge Arts festival had suffered serious flooding.  One result of this was that Sophie Coulombeau and I, who met for the first time for a cup tea before the cafe closed (forcing us to shelter from the light drizzle in the White Swan) failed to eat before eating ceased to be an option.  In the Swan we bumped into Peter Salmon, who recognised us as fellow New Novelists from the fact that our we all simultaneously received a text from the organiser.  He had wisely (as it turned out, though we weren’t sure at the time) opted for the pub’s fish pie.

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What I Learned From Audrey Niffenegger

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During my PhD I read only books directly or indirectly related to it (mostly the numerous biographies of Marlowe and Shakespeare, and their complete works but also items like Bruce Lipton’s ‘The Biology of Belief’).  I continued buying contemporary fiction, however, and built up a considerable stack of books I would read once it was all over.  The very first of one of these to find it into my less-than-manicured paws just over a month ago was The Time Travellers Wife, and like a considerable portion of five million readers the world over, I was blown away.

Thus I couldn’t pass up a chance to see Ms Niffenegger when she recently visited my home town, courtesy of my excellent local bookstore City Books, to speak about her latest creation.

Here’s what I learned:

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