Transcript
Jack Wilson (0:01)
The History of Literature Podcast is a member of the podglomerate Network and Lit Hub Radio.
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Jack Wilson (0:41)
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Jack Wilson (0:58)
Hello. He was the author of some of the 20th century's greatest poetry, stories and radio plays. And yet he's often characterized as a self indulgent, ne'er do well, a garrulous drunk who squandered his talent and worse. He's Dylan Thomas, the inventive Welshman who's still widely known and widely debated. We talked to his biographer John Goodby about the man beneath the myth today on the history of literature. Okay, here we go.
John Goodby (1:38)
Welcome to the podcast.
Jack Wilson (1:39)
I'm Jack Wilson. Thank you for being here today.
John Goodby (1:41)
There's a lot of options out there.
Jack Wilson (1:43)
A lot of choices you make. I'm grateful that listening to this show.
John Goodby (1:48)
Was one of them.
Jack Wilson (1:49)
So let's lock in and talk some Dylan Thomas. But before we do that, I want to talk about something else. Darkness, despair, optimism and hope. I've been rereading my Emily Bronte. What a mind she had, what a person she was, and what a novelist. So, so good. I guess I shouldn't use two so's, should I? That doesn't make it. That's not an intensifier. So, so good. That's not what I meant. I didn't mean so, so I meant so good with 10 O's. But she was also quite dark. What was Charlotte's line? Spirits so lost and fallen. That's Wuthering Heights. That's us too, isn't it? These days in early 2025. Spirits so lost and fallen I. I feel seen. I encountered an essay by Emily Bronte that astonished me with its darkness, which is not easy to do to astonish an American living through 2025 with darkness. She was out in nature. And the way. Look, I think there's a common idea that runs through literature. You can see this. Thousands of years of literature and this is what you see is that one only needs to go outside and breathe in the air, contemplate the stars or the sunset, view the majesty of a mountain or the magic of a forest, and one will have one's spirits restored. Lie on your back in a meadow, poet, gazing up at the blue, blue sky and the puffy white clouds, etc. Well, Emily took a different view. Her view is more like, look at all this death and decay and pain and suffering in nature. Everything out here is eating or being eaten, hungry or devoured. It's a bleak view where not even the awe inspiring sublime leads you into a wondrous joy at being alive. And yet, in spite of herself, it seemed she does find some hope. And that's what I appreciate about her. I'm aware of what's happening in America in 2025. It's awful, it's bleak, it's dark. But I am choosing hope. It's a small act of resistance, not to be confused with naivete or willful blindness. It is a choice. This is an essay called the Butterfly by Emily J. Bronte. August 11, 1842. In one of those moods that everyone falls into sometimes, when the world of the imagination suffers a winter that blights its vegetation, when the light of life seems to go out and existence becomes a barren desert where we wander, exposed to all the tempests that blow under heaven, without hope of rest or shelter, in one of these black humors, I was walking one evening at the edge of a forest. It was summer. The sun was still shining high in the west, and the air resounded with the songs of birds. All appeared happy, but for me it was only an appearance. I sat at the foot of an old oak among whose branches the nightingale had just begun its vespers. Poor fool, I said to myself, is it to guide the bullet to your breast or the child to your brood that you sing so loud and clear? Silence. That untimely tune. Perch yourself on your nest. Tomorrow perhaps it will be empty. Let me pause. There we have a nightingale of all creatures, the pinnacle of poetic inspiration, serving as shorthand for Keatsian reveries for thousands of years. It's in Homer. And here's Emily in her state, her black humor state, where when all appears happy. But that's false, she says, that's just an appearance. She hears the song, the music that Homer, everyone through from Homer, through Keats, heard and revered, transported them, those poets. But she says, what a fool is it to guide the bullet to your breast? You sing like that. You're singing. Your singing is Dumb nightingale, You're. You'll die. Maybe today. Your nest might be empty tomorrow. This isn't. As for Emily Bronte, the nightingale song is not a song. It's not music to inspire lovers or poets. It's a dumb creature putting a bullseye on its chest. In Wuthering Heights, the narrator says at one point, oh, oh, there's a pile of something that looks like cats, and it turns out to be a heap of dead rabbits. Shut up, nightingale. Enjoy your nest now. It might be empty tomorrow. That's pretty bleak. And then we're just getting started. Emily Bronte doubles down and triples down.
