Dylan Thomas Quotes
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Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I hold a beast, an angel and a madman within me.
Life always offers you a second chance. is called tomorrow.
Light breaks where no sun shines; Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart; Push in their tides.
When one burns one's bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.
Love is the last light spoken.
An alcoholic is someone you don't like who drinks as much as you do.
It snowed last year too: I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.
The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps... so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in.
I do not need any friends. I prefer enemies. They are better company and their feelings towards you are always genuine.
I went on all over the States, ranting poems to enthusiastic audiences that, the week before, had been equally enthusiastic about lectures on Railway Development or the Modern Turkish Essay.
Youth calls to age across the tired years: 'What have you found,' he cries, 'what have you sought?" 'What have you found,' age answers through his tears, 'What have you sought.
Cold beer is bottled God.
And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
Come on up, boys -I'm dead.
My birthday began with the water - Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name.
I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream.
Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time, with my eyes hanging out.
Why do men think you can pick love up and re-light it like a candle? Women know when love is over.
The closer I move To death, one man through his sundered hulks, The louder the sun blooms And the tusked, ramshackling sea exults.
Though lovers be lost love shall not.
I believe in New Yorkers. Whether they’ve ever questioned the dream in which they live, I wouldn’t know, because I won’t ever dare ask that question.
Though they go mad they shall be sane, though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; though lovers be lost love shall not; and death shall have no dominion.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Whatever talents I possess may suddenly diminish or suddenly increase. I can with ease become an ordinary fool. I may be one now. But it doesn't do to upset one's own vanity.
To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
I like to think of poetry as statements made on the way to the grave.
Poetry is not the most important thing in life... I'd much rather lie in a hot bath reading Agatha Christie and sucking sweets.
And books which told me everything about the wasp, except why.
I said some words to the close and holy darkness and then I slept.
Oh, I'm a martyr to music.
Don't be too harsh to these poems until they're typed. I always think typescript lends some sort of certainty: at least, if the things are bad then, they appear to be bad with conviction.
If you want a definition of poetry, say: Poetry is what makes me laugh or cry or yawn, what makes my toenails twinkle, what makes me want to do this or that or nothing and let it go at that.
A horrid alcoholic explosion scatters all my good intentions like bits of limbs and clothes over the doorsteps and into the saloon bars of the tawdriest pubs.
... an ugly, lovely town ... crawling, sprawling ... by the side of a long and splendid curving shore. This sea-town was my world.
When logics die, The secret of the soil grows through the eye, And blood jumps in the sun; Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.
Out of the sighs a little comes, But not of grief, for I have knocked down that Before the agony; the spirit grows, Forgets, and cries; A little comes, is tasted and found good.
These are but dreaming men. Breathe, and they fade.
Never be lucid, never state, if you would be regarded great.
A good poem is a contribution to reality.
After the first death, there is no other.
I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.
Chastity prays for me, piety sings, Innocence sweetens my last black breath, Modesty hides my thighs in her wings, And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
Join the army and see the next world.
A worm tells summer better than the clock, The slug's a living calendar of days; What shall it tell me if a timeless insect Says the world wears away?
Do not go gentle into the good night. Old age should burn and rage at close of day.
Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?
The best poem is that whose worked-upon unmagical passages come closest, in texture and intensity, to those moments of magical accident.