Quotessence
Home / Quotes / Quote by Dylan Thomas

Quote by Dylan Thomas

“And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Quote by Dylan Thomas

Create image

Author

Dylan Thomas
Dylan Thomas

Dylan Thomas was a renowned Welsh poet known for his unique poetic style and passionate recitations. His works were filled with love for life and contemplation of death, making him one of the most influential poets of the 20th century. more

You May Also Like

“Turn your attention to all that is dying and decaying. Look at dead leaves, a lifeless tree, a dead animal. Regard anything that is slowly returning to its constituent elements. Smell the pungent odor of decay. Inhale the effluvium of the dissolution process. The object of this exercise is to know the Earth, not just in its telluric aspect (flower bearing soil), but also in its chthonic aspect. Let death talk to you.”

DyingLifelessnessDecayingChthonicTelluricDead LeavesDissolution Process
Book:The Sun at Midnight: The Revealed Mysteries of the Ahlul Bayt Sufis
Create image

“What we call life...is the combination of the Five Aggregates, a combination of physical and mental energies. These are constantly changing; they do not remain the same for two consecutive moments. Every moment they are born and they die. 'When the Aggregates arise, decay and die, O bhikkhu, every moment you are born, decay, and die.' This, even now during this life time, every moment we are born and die, but we continue. If we can understand that in this life we can continue without a permanent, unchanging substance like Self or Soul, why can't we understand that those forces themselves can continue without a Self or a Soul behind them after the non-functioning of the body?”

DeathChangeDyingBuddhismReincarnationLife After DeathLife EnergyFive Aggregates
Book:What the Buddha Taught
Create image

“I have never fully unbosomed myself to any human being; I have never been encouraged to trust much in the sympathy of my fellow men. But we have all a chance of meeting with some pity, some tenderness, some charity, when we are dead: it is the living only who cannot be forgiven - the living only from whom men's indulgence and reverence are held off, like the rain by the hard east wind. While the heart beats, bruise it - it is your only opportunity; while the eye can still turn towards you with moist, timid entreaty, freeze it with an icy unanswering gaze; while the ear, that delicate messenger to the inmost sanctuary of the soul, can still take in the tones of kindness, put it off with hard civility, or sneering compliment, or envious affectation of indifference; while the creative brain can still throb with the sense of injustice, with the yearning for brotherly recognition - make haste - oppress it with your ill-considered judgements, your trivial comparisons, your careless misrepresentations. The heart will by and by be still - ubi saeoa indignatio ulterius cor lacerate nequit; the eye will cease to entreat; the ear will be deaf; the brain will have ceased from all wants as well as from all work. Then your charitable speeches may find vent; then you may remember and pity the toil and the struggle and the failure; then you may give due honour to the work achieved; then you may find extenuation for errors, and may consent to bury them ("The Lifted Veil")”

DeathDyingJudgementCynicalRomanticismDecadent
Book:The Lifted Veil
Create image

“When the little mouse, which was loved as none other was in the mouse-world, got into a trap one night and with a shrill scream forfeited its life for the sight of the bacon, all the mice in the district, in their holes were overcome by trembling and shaking; with eyes blinking uncontrollably they gazed at each other one by one, while their tails scraped the ground busily and senselessly. Then they came out, hesitantly, pushing one another, all drawn towards the scene of death. There it lay, the dear little mouse, its neck caught in the deadly iron, the little pink legs drawn up, and now stiff the feeble body that would so well have deserved a scrap of bacon. The parents stood beside it and eyed their child's remains.”

DeathDyingMiceKafkaMouse
Book:The Blue Octavo Notebooks
Create image

“The harassed look is that of a desperately tired swimmer or runner; yet there is no question of stopping. The creature we are watching will struggle on and on until it drops. Not because it is heroic. It can imagine no alternative. Staring and staring into the mirror, it sees many faces within its face - the face of the child, the boy, the young man, the not-so-young-man - all present still, preserved as fossils, dead. Their message to this live dying creature is: Look at us - we have died -what is there to be afraid of? It answers them: But it happened so gradually, so easily. I am afraid of being rushed.”

DyingLiving
Book:A single man
Create image

“A sematary," I say. "A what?" Viola says, looking round at all the square stones marking out their graves. Must be a hundred, maybe two, in orderly rows and well-kept grass. Settler life is hard and it's short and lotsa New World people have lost the battle. "It's a place for burying dead folk," I say. Her eyes widen. "A place for doing what?" "Don't people die in space?" I ask. "Yeah," she says. "But we burn them. We don't put them in holes." She crosses her arms around herself, mouth and forehead frowning, peering around at the graves. "How can this be sanitary?”

DeathDyingDeadGraveyardBurialCremationSemataryCemetary
Book:The Knife of Never Letting Go
Create image