Early on in this book, Paul Ferris exposes the weakness both of himself as a biographer and Dylan Thomas as a poet. He says there are two views about Thomas and religion: one that he was an ‘essentially religious’ poet, the other that he only used religion only as stage-dressing; but that only the latter view is ‘feasible’. Well, you’ve just told us there are two views so they must both be feasible! Perhaps he means that the first is not *tenable*, but he doesn’t explain why. A glib and perfunctory judgement on a crucial question, you assume he will return to it at some point; but no, that’s it. It’s typical of a book which fails to get to the heart of what Thomas was about.
Actually there is a third possible view, surely nearer the truth than either of the others: that although not an orthodox, committed Christian, spirituality was important to him and he had a faith which was definite though undefined. If Ferris’ only reason for dismissing this possibility is, as it seems, the drinking and womanising, he is making an extraordinarily shallow and naïve judgement. There are poems Thomas wrote – notably And Death Shall Have No Dominion, one of his own favourites, and No Man Believes – in which religion is, inescapably, not stage dressing but the central subject. If No Man Believes is not a serious examination of the issue of faith by one who, in spite of his doubts, still believes (and of course if you don’t believe you can’t doubt), then nothing Thomas wrote means anything at all.
And there’s the rub: perhaps it didn’t. One thing the book makes clear is that Thomas was extremely uncomfortable trying to explain or account for his poetry, and that he frequently used words without having any particular idea attached to them. Some people may think this is a valid way of writing poetry, even a higher way than writing ‘from ideas to words’ (as the alternative approach is rather disparagingly described). I don’t, and actually I think the true poet works neither ‘from words’ nor ‘towards words’, but conceives idea and words together. Poetry with no meaning is, literally, nonsense.
Thomas seems to have decided he was a poet before he had worked out whether he could really do it or not. He had the ability to attract peoples’ attention, both in his eccentric, exuberant person, and by striking, memorable phrases in his poems; but it was easy for him to hide a lack of real content by these fireworks. His work is only really worthwhile when some overall meaning, at least, is discernible behind them (and actually, No Man Believes is one of the most coherent and unevasive of his pieces).
So though mildly entertaining at times, particularly in describing the famous American tours (though they don’t sound as Bacchanalian as they have sometimes been portrayed), this is a book which I not only didn’t much enjoy but which unintentionally left me with diminished respect for its subject.