Quotes from Dylan Thomas

Or a nacreous sleep among soft particles and charms

Speak, then, o body, shout aloud, And break my only mind from chains To go where ploughing's ended.

My tears are like the quiet drift Of petals from some magic rose; And all my grief flows from the rift Of unremembered skies and snows.

Suffer the slash of vision by the fin-green stubble, Be by the ships' sea broken at the manstring anchored The stoved bones' voyage downward In the shipwreck of muscle; Give over, lovers, locking, and the seawax struggle, Love like a mist or fire through the bed of eels.

Goodbye, good luck, struck the sun & the moon To the fisherman lost on the land He stands alone at the door of his home, With his long-legged heart in his hand.

Mr. Kipling stands for everything in this cankered world which I would wish were otherwise.

Mr Pugh: Pigs can't read, my dear. Mrs Pugh: I know one who can.

To surrender now is to pay the expensive ogre twice. Ancient woods of my blood, dash down to the nut of the seas if I take to burn or return this world which is each man's work.

She has forgotten dying.

Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on in the world between the covers of books, such sandstorms and ice blasts of words, such slashing of humbug, and humbug too, such staggering peace, such enormous laughter, such and so many blinding bright lights breaking across the just-waking wits and splashing all over the pages in a million bits and pieces all of which were words, words, words, and each of which were alive forever in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.

And the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling pokers.

Some few large men sat in the front parlors (...), Uncles almost certainly, trying their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion;

This is the world: the lying likeness of Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move Loving and being loth; The dream that kicks the buried from their sack And lets their trash be honoured as the quick. This is the world. Have faith.

Non andartene docile in quella buona notte, Benché i saggi conoscano alla fine che la tenebra è giusta infuria, infuria, contro il morire della luce.

A good poem is a contribution to reality. The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it. – Dylan Thomas

final direction of the elementary town I advance for as long as forever is.

Dark is a way and light is a place, / Heaven that never was / Nor will be ever is always true.

furor poeticus

Land, land, land, nothing remains Of the pacing, famous sea but its speech, And into its talkative seven tombs The anchor dives through the floors of a church. Goodbye, good luck, struck the sun and the moon, To the fisherman lost on the land. He stands alone at the door of his home, With his long-legged heart in his hand

You get your face dirty, I'll kill you,' Patricia said absentmindedly.

Dylan talked copiously then stopped, 'Somebody's boring me,' he said, 'I think its me.

There are no seacaves deeper than her eyes;

Children in wonder watching the stars, Is the aim and the end.