On Dylan and the Dying of the Light.

Many moons ago, when I was in my twenties and thought myself more erudite than I actually was (or still am), I bought an anthology of poetry by Dylan Thomas. I thought erudition important, you see, and I thought that knowing the works of Dylan Thomas would broaden my education. It didn’t because I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Or, to put it another way, I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. (‘Do not go gentle into that goodnight’ was the one exception.)

And ever since then the book has rested uncomplaining on a bookshelf; and every so often I take it up again and try some more; and every time I do I still don’t get it. I tried again tonight. I even tried reading it while listening to Sheila Chandra because she’s a bit weird, too. It didn’t work, so now it will go uncomplaining back onto the bookshelf.

But at least I have ‘Do not go gentle’ to help me in my hour of need. When the hour finally comes – when I’m lying in some horribly uncomfortable hospital bed awaiting the inevitable – I intend to quote the first three lines to the nearest nurse:

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.

And the nearest nurse will ask ‘where does that come from?’ and I will answer ‘it’s Dylan Thomas.’ And the nurse will think me very erudite, and I will leave the earth in a good mood because I finally got a nurse to notice me. I like nurses.

*  *  *

Tonight’s twilight was balmy again, but it was also damp. We’ve had rain today for the first time in a few weeks, and it fell softly as the light did in the gloaming. The casement of my front bedroom window was standing open again, as it was last night, and so I went up to the room and looked out over the far landscape, luxuriating in the tepid, still air and the smell of rain. A little bat flew up close to my face, and then flew away again. I said ‘thank you.’