Dylan Thomas. Image: Hulton Archive/Getty. Tinting by Dan Murrell
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Myth busting: Rowan Williams on Dylan Thomas

The former Archbishop of Canterbury and lead NS book reviewer discusses a new biography of the Welsh poet and a new edition of his short stories. 

The Three Lives of Dylan Thomas 
Hilly Janes
Robson Press, 320pp, £18.99

Collected Stories 
Dylan Thomas
Phoenix, 384pp, £8.99

In her attractive and level-headed book, Hilly Janes (the daughter of one of Dylan Thomas’s closest Swansea friends, the artist Alfred Janes, whose three portraits of Thomas frame the narrative) muses on whether it was residual Welsh puritanism that so long delayed any serious public recognition in South Wales of perhaps its most famous modern writer. She is perfectly correct in saying that local disapproval of Thomas’s morals and habits died hard (it was alive and well in the Swansea of my teenage years) and that he was impossible to fit into a tidy story of Welsh, even “Anglo-Welsh”, literary development. “Too Welsh for the English and too English for the Welsh” is a familiar judgement.

I suspect that there is another factor that has somewhat complicated the reception of Dylan Thomas and still complicates his reputation in this centenary year of his birth; and that is embarrassment – a degree of cultural and political embarrassment to start with – over a writer whose near-total indifference to politics is still startling and whose attitudes to women are likely to win few allies today. But there is a deeper embarrassment yet. For so many male readers, he is the quintessential poet of adolescence. How many of us were convinced on reading him that this was what poetry was really like, heady, incantatory, obsessively sensual? How many proceeded to write terrible imitations of him in the back of school notebooks? That is what people wince over: the young Dylan, with his off-the-peg bohemianism, his obscure, symbolically coded resentments, his wild and frustrated sexuality, can look, to the literary (male) adult, like the fearful caricature of a half-forgotten self. And that embarrassment reinforces the element of caricature in depictions of him. Even the recent BBC drama about his last days in New York, with its splendid performance from Tom Hollander, reached for the mythological dressing-up trunk.

Which is where Hilly Janes’s book comes as a welcome refreshment. No one is likely to publish a biography of Thomas demonstrating that he was a monogamous and placid soul who could hold his drink and manage his money. But Janes simply sets him in the context of a group of variously gifted Welsh friends and gives some sense of how and why – exasperating as he undoubtedly was – he retained their love and (intermittently) tolerance. The remarkable circle that met in Swansea’s Kardomah Café in the late 1930s was in no sense an echo chamber for Thomas’s ego. These men – Fred Janes (as Alfred was known to family and friends), Daniel Jones, Vernon Watkins, among others – were deeply serious artists, prolific, thoughtful and self-critical. Watkins’s importance to Thomas as a sounding board for both ideas and poetic drafts tends still to be brushed aside a little, largely because of Watkins’s own idiosyncratic poetic style, highly traditional yet extraordinarily adventurous in subject matter and metaphorical range.

In other words, here is Dylan Thomas in conversation with those he thought of as peers. Reading Janes’s book, you realise that none of his friendships in the literary life of London, let alone the United States, provided anything like this atmosphere of creative sparring and nourishing (and hilarity). If Thomas’s relation with the mainstream narratives of English poetry in his lifetime, whether modernism or “the Movement”, is complex and often adversarial, if he never sounded like someone at or near the centre of a trend, this owes something to the robust provincial nursery of the Kardomah – a group of confident artists who felt little need of metropolitan reassurance.

Thomas’s work was belittled by Kingsley Amis and Larkin; Geoffrey Grigson, with a mixture of typical acidity and perception, described it as Victorian subject matter clothed in symbolist rhetoric – in essence no more than a final, eccentric flowering of Romanticism. There is a true insight here into Thomas’s Romantic sensibility (“Gothic” would also suit him); but what this judgement misses is the sheer iron discipline of his work, in which every word and every placement of a word is tested over and over until we have a poetry that is “saturated”. It makes no concession to the conversational, few to the colloquial – when it does, the deliberation is evident and powerful.

Tracing Thomas’s evolution as a poet, it is possible to see how the stylistically precocious but emotionally chaotic register of the early pieces mutates into a rare capacity for sustained self-awareness. The late poems – such as “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”, “Poem on His Birthday”, or, yes, “Fern Hill” (over-anthologised almost to death though it may be) – have the effect of a single string tuned to an exact pitch, surrounded by sometimes jagged and unexpected harmonics but insisting on its steady presence.

And the inventiveness of form, the ability (even more clearly than in the less mature work) to construct and manage tight verbal patterning means this is poetry that has to be read intelligently. One of the worst mistakes to make about Thomas is to think of his undoubted musicality as indicating an underlying “bardic” woolliness.

Of course, there are failures. A fair number of the early poems are a bit hard to take too seriously (and there is good reason to think that some were written not too seriously, exercises in patterning more than anything else); and the auto-erotic obsession of many of these early pieces brings its own kind of sentimentality. Even in later works, such as the remarkable “Ceremony After a Fire Raid”, you can find a painful gap between the almost feverish assonances of the phrases and an underlying emotional unease. Embarrassment again. The poetic resolution has not been earned by quarrying actual sensation. The words have to do the work of feeling – which is part of what we mean when we identify sentimentality in language.

But – just as with some Romantic or high Victorian verse – what we should beware of is assuming that every heightened verbal moment is fraudulent, simply because we ourselves have somehow lost our footing, slipped away from the place where we might have been able to grasp its emotional gravity. What makes “Fern Hill” still a stunningly beautiful and moving poem is that it challenges us in the nakedness of its sentiment; it says, in effect, if you find it difficult to “own” a pattern of feeling like this, it is no more than you might expect. You have forgotten something and all the embarrassment in the world should not make you conceal from yourself the reality of loss.

That reality of loss dominates so much of Thomas’s late work (not least the birthday poem, with its apparent premonitions of death). And the loss of the radiance of a childhood world was intensified by another kind of loss – the chaos of his marriage, a relationship becoming ever more complicated and toxic. Janes, thank goodness, cuts through the clichés about Caitlin’s “free-spirited” personality and states the obvious: she was an abused child and young woman who came to display a near-psychopathic indifference to the feelings and the well-being of those around her; whose almost perpetual state of boiling frustration led to physical and psychological violence on her part and often provoked violent reaction in others. Janes does not condemn or make light of Caitlin’s emotional solipsism and roots it in the neglect she experienced in childhood and the sexual violence she endured as Augustus John’s model (there is none of the tolerant tut-tutting that some male biographers have brought to this subject). In turn, Dylan’s infidelities are not condoned or minimised but seen as an increasingly despairing search for the unconditional mothering that he longed for – not out of childhood privation but more out of the excess of maternal indulgence he had always taken for granted (another very recognisable Welsh story).

And it was the repository of warm childhood memory that provided the material for his best-known and best-loved stories and broadcasts – and the brilliant and chilling radio piece Return Journey, depicting his search among the bombed ruins of postwar Swansea for his younger self. The reprinted volumes of Thomas’s work conveniently brought out by Phoenix provide a good selection of his prose as well as his poetry – though since they are mostly photographic reprints they represent a pre-critical text; there are several obvious misprints and there is a real need for critical work on the stories as well as the poems. (John Goodby’s edition of the poetry, due later this year, is eagerly awaited.)

For anyone who thinks of Thomas’s prose writing as predominantly autobiographical genre work, the earlier short stories will be a shock. They have been compared to the satirical tales of rural west Wales by Caradoc Evans. But – despite Thomas’s admiration for Evans – this is deeply misleading: they are not satires in any sense but Gothic tales, written in fantastically convoluted and highly charged prose, dealing with incest and witchcraft and mania. They have more in common with American Southern Gothic than any conventional rural British fictions. Their landscape is just about recognisable as Carmarthenshire but it is also a landscape of the psyche (as one of the stories, “The Map of Love”, spells out in a characteristically involved and elusive way). If there is a local pattern for the style and content, Arthur Machen would be a better bet than Caradoc Evans. Machen’s depictions of Gwent landscapes, in which unspeakable atrocities and nightmares take place, were familiar to Thomas and the parallels deserve some more study. Even so, there is a quite distinctive feel to these fictions. It is not surprising that they found few enthusiasts at the time and that Thomas’s prose took other routes. Yet a contemporary cultural sensibility for which the Gothic has (appropriately) been raised from its grave may yet find it can read these pieces with less, well, embarrassment.

If we can conquer both embarrassment and the lure of cliché, Dylan Thomas will amply repay study. He was half stifled by his own mythography while he was still alive – as well as being one of the first casualties of celebrity culture (which is not to ignore the plain fact, established by research in the past 15 years, that his death was caused ultimately by breathtaking medical clumsiness, rather than simple overindulgence on his part; mythography again). This is why it is helpful to have a memoir like that of Hilly Janes: Thomas becomes human again, not a doomed Dionysus. He was undoubtedly all that he has been represented as being – a drunkard and philanderer, compulsively incompetent and dishonest about money, a parasite on the generosity of many friends. But he was very deeply loved by those friends. All testify – even at times through gritted teeth – to a fundamental sweetness of nature. And when we might be tempted to think him portentous, we should remember his genius for self-parody and his underlying honesty about his neediness and his posturing.

Vernon Watkins wrote in an obituary that Thomas had lived his life as a consistent manifestation of Christian principle. This has provoked some mockery, or at least some condescending remarks about the blind affection felt by the fathomlessly patient, saintly and charitable Watkins. But he was serious. Thomas was no admirer or adherent of conventional religion; but his entire work struggles to articulate both a sense of the appalling and rich depths of the natural world and a clear-eyed compassion for all the varieties of human oddity.

Eli Jenkins’s evening hymn from Under Milk Wood is another over-anthologised piece, certainly inviting the label of sentimentality. Yet those rather haunting words – “O please to keep Thy lovely eye/On all poor creatures born to die” – tell us volumes about Thomas; about a poetry (and prose) “singing in chains” about our human invol­vement in a material world where death and birth alike open doors of perception. 

Rowan Williams is a lead book reviewer for the NS. His new poetry collection, “The Other Mountain”, will be published by Carcanet in August

Rowan Williams is an Anglican prelate, theologian and poet, who was Archbishop of Canterbury from 2002 to 2012. He writes on books for the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 23 July 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double 2014

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Jonn Elledge and the Young Hagrid Audition

I auditioned for Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, for the part of “Young Hagrid”. Except I didn’t.

I’ve been dining out for years now on the fact I auditioned for Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, for the part of “Young Hagrid”. It’s one of those funny stories I tell people when a bit drunk, under the no doubt entirely wrong impression that it makes me sound like I’ve lived an interesting life.

Except, when I came to write this thing, I realised that it’s not actually true. I didn’t actually audition for the part of Young Hagrid at all.

Technically, I auditioned to be Voldemort.

Let’s start from the beginning. In November 2001 I was in my last year at Cambridge, where I split my time roughly equally between pissing about on a stage, writing thundering student paper columns about the true meaning of 9/11 as only a 21-year-old can, and having panic attacks that the first two things would cause me to screw up my degree and ruin my life forever. I was, I suppose, harmless enough; but looking back on that time, I am quite glad that nobody had yet invented social media.

I was also – this is relevant – quite substantially overweight. I’m not a slim man now, but I was much heavier then, so much so that I spent much of my later adolescence convinced that my mum’s bathroom scales were broken because my weight was, quite literally, off the scale. I was a big lad.

Anyway. One day my friend Michael, with whom I’d co-written quite a bad Edinburgh fringe show eighteen months earlier, came running up to me grasping a copy of Varsity. “Have you seen this?” he panted; in my memory, at least, he’s so excited by what he’s found that he’s literally run to find me. “You have to do it. It’d be brilliant.”

“This” turned out to be a casting call for actors for the new Harry Potter movie. This wasn’t unusual: Cambridge produces many actors, so production companies would occasionally hold open auditions in the hope of spotting fresh talent. I don’t remember how many minor parts they were trying to cast, or anything else about what it said. I was too busy turning bright red.

Because I could see the shameful words “Young Hagrid”. And I knew that what Michael meant was not, “God, Jonn, you’re a great actor, it’s time the whole world got to bask in your light”. What he meant was, “You’re a dead ringer for Robbie Coltrane”.

I was, remember, 21 years old. This is not what any 21-year-old wants to hear. Not least since I’d always suspected that the main things that made people think I looked like Robbie Coltrane were:

  1. the aforementioned weight issue, and
  2. the long dark trench coat I insisted on wearing in all seasons, under the mistaken impression that it disguised (a).

Most people look back at pictures of their 21-year-old self and marvel at how thin and beautiful they are. I look back and and I wonder why I wasted my youth cosplaying as Cracker.

The only photo of 2001 vintage Jonn I could find on the internet is actually a photo of a photo. For some reason, I really loved that tie. Image: Fiona Gee.

I didn’t want to lean into the Coltrane thing; since childhood I’d had this weird primal terror that dressing up as something meant accepting it as part of your identity, and at fancy dress parties (this is not a joke) I could often be found hiding under tables screaming. And I didn’t want to be Hagrid, young or otherwise. So I told Michael, quite plainly, that I wasn’t going to audition.

But as the days went by, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. This was an audition for a proper, actual movie. I’d always had this idea I must have some kind of talent*, and that Cambridge was where I would find out what it was**. What if this was my big break?*** What if I was being silly?****

So when it turned out that Michael had literally started a petition to get me to change my mind, I acceded to the inevitable. Who was I to resist the public demand for moi?

And so, I graciously alerted the people doing the casting to the fact of my existence. A few days later I got an email back inviting me to go see them in a room at Trinity College, and a few pages of script to read for them.

The first odd thing was that the script did not, in fact, mention Hagrid. The film, I would later learn, does include a flashback to Hagrid’s school days at Hogwarts. By then, though, the filmmakers had decided they didn’t need a young actor to play Young Hagrid: instead that sequence features a rugby player in a darkened corner, with a voiceover courtesy of Coltrane. The section of the script I was holding instead featured a conversation between Harry Potter and a character called Tom Riddle.

I asked my flat mate Beccy, who unlike me had actually read the books, who this person might be. She shuffled, awkwardly. “I think he might be Voldemort...?”

Further complicating things, the stage directions described Riddle as something along the lines of, “16 years old, stick thin and classically handsome, in a boyish way”. As fervently as I may have denied any resemblance between myself and Robbie Coltrane, I was nonetheless clear that I was a good match for precisely none of those adjectives.

I’m not sure what I was expecting when I went to the audition. I don’t suppose I expected Chris Columbus to be there, let alone Robbie Coltrane ready to embrace me like a long-lost son.  But I was expecting more than a cupboard containing a video camera of the sort you could buy at Dixons and a blonde woman not much older than me. She introduced herself as “Buffy” which, given that this was 2001, I am not entirely convinced was her real name.

“My friends always tell me I look like Robbie Coltrane,” I told her, pretending I was remotely enthusiastic about this fact. 

“Oh yeah,” said Buffy. “But he’s really... big isn’t he? I mean he’s a huge guy. You’re more sort of...”

Or to put it another way, if they had still been looking for a young Hagrid, they would have wanted someone tall. I’m 6’, but I’m not tall. I was just fat.

If they had been looking for a Young Hagrid. Which, as it turned out, they weren’t.

The section I read for was included in the final film, so with a bit of Googling I found the script online. It was this bit:

TOM RIDDLE Yes. I’m afraid so. But then, she’s been in so much pain, poor Ginny. She’s been writing to me for months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes. Ginny poured her soul out to me. I grew stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful enough to start feeding Ginny a few secrets, to start pouring a bit of my soul back into her...

Riddle, growing less vaporous by the second, grins cruelly.

TOM RIDDLE Yes, Harry, it was Ginny Weasley who opened the Chamber of Secrets.

I mean, you can see the problem, can’t you? I don’t remember this many years on what interpretation I put on my performance. I suspect I went beyond camp and into full on panto villain, and I dread to think what I may have done to communicate the impression of “growing less vaporous”.

But what I do feel confident about is that I was absolutely bloody awful. Five minutes after arriving, I was out, and I never heard from Buffy again.

So – I didn’t become a star. You probably guessed that part already.

In all honesty, I didn’t really realise what a big deal Harry Potter was. I’d seen the first film, and thought it was all right, but I was yet to read the books; three of them hadn’t even been written yet.

I had some vague idea there was an opportunity here. But the idea I was missing a shot at being part of an institution, something that people would be rereading and re-watching and analysing for decades to come – something that, a couple of years later, at roughly the point when Dumbledore shows Harry the Prophecy, and a tear rolls down his cheek, would come to mean quite a lot to me, personally – none of that ever crossed my mind. I’d had an opportunity. It hadn’t worked out. Happened all the time.

I do sometimes like to think, though, about the parallel universe in which that audition was the start of a long and glittering career – and where the bloke who played Tom Riddle in this universe is scratching a living writing silly blogs about trains.

*I don’t.

**I didn’t.

***It wasn’t.

****I was.

Jonn Elledge edits the New Statesman's sister site CityMetric, and writes for the NS about subjects including politics, history and Daniel Hannan. You can find him on Twitter or Facebook.

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