Thought-Provoking Quotes By Dylan Thomas
Dylan Thomas was a 20th century Welsh poet, known for his works, ‘Under the Milk’, “Do not go gentle into that good night” and “And death shall have no dominion”. His literary career began to unfurl in 1933, when ‘The New English Weekly’, published his first poem in London. Dylan went to London to chase his dream of becoming an acclaimed writer. He also worked for short periods with the British Council and BBC. His book ‘Death and Entrances’ depicted the plight of the people during and post war. He grew famous in America and connected to the people via radio shows. Though he shot to fame with his sayings, writings and quotes his drinking habit and inconsistent behavior intensified, pushing his body to its limits. However in his small lifespan, Dylan became a legend, and his thoughts and quotes are still relevant and motivate many!
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though lovers be lost, love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.
Somebody’s boring me. I think it’s me.
When one burns one’s bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.
I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream.
An alcoholic is someone you don’t like, who drinks as much as you do.
I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, down throw and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression.
…Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
The only sea I saw Was the seesaw sea With you riding on it. Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs.
Why do men think you can pick love up and re-light it like a candle? Women know when love is over.
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 now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time, with my eyes hanging out.
[I’m]a freak user of words, not a poet.
And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days…
Our discreditable secret is that we don’t know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don’t care that we don’t.
Though lovers be lost love shall not.
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.
I hold a beast, an angel and a madman in me.
Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is always true “Poem on His Birthday
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.
I sang in my chains like the sea
Man’s wants remain unsatisfied till death. Then, when his soul is naked, is he one With the man in the wind, and the west moon, With the harmonious thunder of the sun
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
And books which told me everything about the wasp, except why.
I’ve had eighteen straight whiskies, I think that’s the record . . .
We are not wholly bad or good, who live our lives under Milk Wood.
Love is the last light spoken.
… an ugly, lovely town … crawling, sprawling … by the side of a long and splendid curving shore. This sea-town was my world.
Come on up, boys -I’m dead.
I do not need any friends. I prefer enemies. They are better company and their feelings towards you are always genuine.
This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.
These are but dreaming men. Breathe, and they fade.
One: I am a Welshman; two: I am a drunkard; three: I am a lover of the human race, especially of women.
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.
These poems, with all their crudities, doubts and confusions, are written for the love of man and in Praise of God, and I’d be a damn fool if they weren’t.
Before you let the sun in, mind he wipes his shoes.
Love drips & gathers, but the fallen blood Shall calm her sores…” -Thomas, The Force that through the green fuse drives the flower.
My birthday began with the water – Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name.
Man be my metaphor’,
Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
Rhianon, he said, hold my hand, Rhianon. She did not hear him, but stood over his bed and fixed him with an unbroken sorrow. Hold my hand, he said, and then: why are your putting the sheet over my face?
This world is half the devil’s and my own, / Daft with the drug that’s smoking in a girl / And curling round the bud that forks her eye.
Wales: The land of my fathers. My fathers can have it!
Make gentle the life of this world.
After the first death, there is no other.
The sloeback, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat bobbing sea
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer
Call me Dolores. Like they do in the stories.
Do not go gentle into that good night
My birthday began with the water- Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name Above the farms and the white horses And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
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?
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Teach me the love that is evergreen after the fall leaved/Grave
Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which / Shall fall awake when cures and their itch / Raise up this red-eyed earth?
There shall be corals in your beds, There shall be serpents in your tides, Till all our sea-faiths die.
Great is the hand that holds dominion over/Man by a scribbled name.
Life is a terrible thing, thank God.
Time passes. Listen. Time passes. Come closer now. Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night.
Thousands of miles,’ I said. It’s Rhosilli, USA. We’re going to camp on a bit of rock that wobbles in the winds.
The dream has sucked the sleeper of his faith