Erich Frieds Nachdichtung von Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood (1954)

2009 ◽  
pp. 195-231
Keyword(s):  
Author(s):  
Deirdre David

The last years of Pamela’s life were marked by further illness but also by a remarkable dedication to work. She was hospitalized several times for respiratory illnesses, but in 1974 she published a book of autobiographical essays, Important to Me, which covered such topics as memories of her father, her relationship with Dylan Thomas, her visits to the USSR, and her friendship with other writers such as Edith Sitwell. After months of undiagnosed pain, Snow died in 1980 of a perforated ulcer and Pamela died almost one year later of congestive heart failure and respiratory illness exacerbated by having smoked since the age of fourteen. Yet characteristically she worked courageously until the very end on a novel published posthumously: A Bonfire, which similarly to her first novel deals explicitly with sexual desire. Her ashes were scattered at Stratford-upon-Avon, a place she visited every year on Shakespeare’s birthday.


Tempo ◽  
1955 ◽  
pp. 13-20 ◽  
Author(s):  
Hans Keller

Music examples usually illustrate articles, but the present article is no more than an illustration appended to my analytic music example of the complete central song from Strawinsky's most recent composition (Spring, 1954), In Memoriam Dylan Thomas. I think that writers on music should be encouraged to keep to the music, and seriously contend that all the adverse critics of Schoenberg's serial technique, and most of the writers who pass for serial experts, are incapable of a serial analysis and have only the very vaguest notion of what makes a serial piece “tick.” They quote a bar or two—usually from the opening of Schoenberg's 4th Quartet—where the note-row is fairly obvious or, anyway, has previously been uncovered by someone else, and then proceed to let obscure theory take the place of clear if complex practice. The reason is simple: they don't hear the row, and if you are unable to imagine a row aurally, it is very difficult, usually indeed impossible, to trace it throughout a piece. Let me hasten to add that I should not dream of reproaching any critic with his tone-row-deafness if he left it at that: for all we know, he may otherwise be a musical genius. If, however, he professes to talk serial “shop” at the same time, I raise the strongest moral objections.


2011 ◽  
Vol 58 (1) ◽  
pp. 127-130 ◽  
Author(s):  
J. Goodby
Keyword(s):  

Author(s):  
Monika Müller ◽  
Rainer Emig
Keyword(s):  

Author(s):  
Deborah Bowman

Dylan Thomas often described his writing process as one of putting-in: poems are ‘“watertight compartments”’; he was ‘tightly packing away everything I have and know into a mad-doctor’s bag’. To be sure, Thomas’s writing has in it a lot of containers, the escape of whose contents constitutes a threat or a promise or an enacted drama: rooms, houses, mouths, towns, tins of peaches, dead dogs, world-views, stomachs, keepings of secrets and guilts. This chapter offers an approach to some of these things, and in doing so reveals another peculiarity: the way in which Thomas’s ‘tightly packed’ writing prompts in his critics an urge to explain, unfold, and unpack his ‘mad-doctor’s bag’, combined with an anxiety and embarrassment about the propriety of seeing and touching what’s in it, which they might even turn out to have illegitimately smuggled in themselves. A poem is a can of worms; opening some of Thomas’s, this chapter explores ways in which criticism could be something more than a worm-tidy. The chapter looks into numerous cans of worms, including ‘The Conversation of Prayers’, ‘Request to Leda (Homage to William Empson)’ – the chapter touches on Empson and pastoral – and a short story called ‘The Peaches’.


2021 ◽  
pp. 114-115
Keyword(s):  

La bahía de Rhossili es la más salvaje, desolada y estéril que conozco, cuatro o cinco millas de frialdad amarilla entrando en la distancia del mar. Dylan Thomas Para Diego Angelino Al frente todo es cielo, horizonte desmesurado, lluvias que aún no alcanzan a vislumbrarse sobre la bahía perfecta. En la lejanía cabe, si no detenemos nunca la marcha, aquello que aún no hemos visto. Es un desvío, una bifurcación para perderse, el placer de aquel dolor intenso que pudimos conjurar, la recepción de un hotel antiguo, el polvo que levantaron nuestras huellas en el camino. Es Ella, no un recuerdo, otra cosa. Alejadas de uno, las marcas en la arena no desaparecen ni borradas por la marea. Es un hálito, una casa perdida en la montaña, una foto extraviada que ahora sí es recuerdo. Es eso lo que sostiene, al frente, el cielo. Nubes, aire gélido de otras tierras, nos queman los pulmones. No sabemos qué sostiene el horizonte en la vida inmóvil....


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