Macmillan, 982 pp., $45.00
Random House, 510 pp., $19.95
Chatto and Windus (distributed by Merrimack), 278 pp., $22.95
The sheer bulk of the book comes as a surprise, so few of Thomas's letters having been published in the thirty-three years since his death, and his life seeming to have allowed so little time for writing them. Was he wasting his talents, at any rate in the long and carefully composed one-way conversations with friends? Paul Ferris, Thomas's sympathetic editor, thinks that the revised, corrected, and painstakingly copied-out money-grubbing letters, a principal category, eventually became a literary end, replacing the writing of poems and stories. Since drafts of other correspondence survive as well, perhaps we should simply accept Thomas's explanation, in a note denying he has a 'theory of poetry,' that 'I like to write letters.' He shows it here by going out of his and relevance's way to work one of his better puns: 'genius so often being the infinite capacity for aching pains.' Who said anything about genius?
Review, 3511 words
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