Quote

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.

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
World
Smoking
Round
Rounds
Devil
Drug
Curling
Half
Daft
Eye
Bud
Girl
Forks

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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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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.
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He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
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I used to think that once a writer became a man of letters, if only for a half hour, he was done for. And here I am now, at the very moment of such an odious, though respectable, danger.
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Seventeen whiskeys. A record, I think.
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I have just had eighteen whiskeys in a row. I do believe that is a record.
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Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.
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Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.
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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.
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I sang in my chains like the sea
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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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To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
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Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
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Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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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 springful of larks in a rolling Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling Blackbirds and the sun of October Summery On the hill's shoulder.
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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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One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.
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After the first death, there is no other.
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My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time, with my eyes hanging out.
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