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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.
Dylan Thomas
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Dylan Thomas
Age: 39 †
Born: 1914
Born: October 27
Died: 1953
Died: November 9
Author
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Abertawe
Dylan Marlais Thomas
May
Suddenly
Increase
Ordinary
Diminish
Fool
Talents
Talent
Possess
Whatever
Vanity
Doesn
Upset
Become
Ease
More quotes by Dylan Thomas
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.
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I sang in my chains like the sea
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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.
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In the beginning was the word, the word That from the solid bases of the light Abstracted all the letters of the void.
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And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
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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.
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[I'm]a freak user of words, not a poet.
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To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
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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.
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Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels.
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The only sea I saw Was the seesaw sea With you riding on it. Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs.
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Poetry is the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision that depends in its intensity on the strength of the labour put into the creation of the poetry.
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Seventeen whiskeys. A record, I think.
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... Rebel against the flesh and bone, The word of the blood, the wily skin, And the maggot no man can slay.
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And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
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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
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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.
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You just wait. I'll sin 'til I blow up!
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