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You would hardly be able to tell from this recent sports report in the London Times that 'the Rimbaud of Cwmdonkin Drive,' as Dylan Thomas used to call himself in his green and dying Swansea days, has been dead for twenty-five years, and was never interested in the Welsh national game of rugby, though always easily lured from the home fire. These sporting words suggest the strange existence of thousands of people who are still interested in Thomas, and can be expected to spot a reference to his evocation of a Welsh Christmas, even though they would probably find most of his poems altogether indecipherable.
Review, 2478 words
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