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Thursday
March 18, 2010 Since 1922 |
Into that good night
By Luke Hales
Published September 17, 2009 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.
Though wise men at their end
know dark is right,
Because their words had forked
no lightning they
Do not go gentle
into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by,
crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced
in a green bay,
Rage, rage
against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang
the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it
on its way,
Do not go gentle
into that good night.
Grave men, near death,
who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors
and be gay,
Rage, rage
against the dying of the light.
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.
— Dylan Thomas
I love that poem.
Dylan Thomas came up with it after watching his dad get old. Through the poem he urged his father to fight impending death, and in that same regard he urged all men to fight against death, if only to live one more day on this earth for the sake of their kin and their legacy.
It means something a little different to me, though.
See, for the last several months I’ve been living with a touch of the insomnia. It may have a little to do with my schedule; I put the paper to bed, then stay hyped up from the deadline stress until at least midnight or so. Then, of course, my body says to itself, “Dude, we’re already awake. Let’s read the new Dan Brown (which I got yesterday at like 8 a.m. I hate that guy because he forces you to read the next chapter.), or let’s check Facebook for the 27th time today, or let’s write the next chapter in your novel (yup, I’m doing that too).”
Of course, all this leads to being extraordinarily tired the next day, what with having to get up like a normal human being and all.
So I’ll put the book down as soon as I close my eyes, or shut down the laptop once the screen gets blurry, and I’ll lay my head down to go to sleep.
That’s when the random thoughts occur.
I think my brain does this on purpose, just to keep itself from … well … going gently into that good night, I guess. Right before I lose consciousness, things like this pop into my brain:
• “Did you pack your bag for tomorrow? You know it would be so much easier if you had done it tonight. And are your clothes ready? Because then you could just throw them on in the morning.”
• “Who was the first guitarist for Def Leppard? It was Pete Willis, right? And he was replaced by Phil Collen, but not the Phil Collins from Genesis, because he played drums I think, plus it’s just not him. And the drummer for Def Leppard is Rick Allen, and he only has one arm, which is cool but not because, you know, he’s only got one arm.”
• “Who am I? I mean, who am I really? And where am I headed? Who do I want to be? Am I living the life I want to? And Rick Nielson is the singer for Cheap Trick, but he’s not Ricky Nelson, because he died a long time ago. Why do these rock band people all have similar names? And when I die, what will people remember me for?
That one always leads to the cold sweats. Especially the whole rock star name thing.
But it still applies, you know? I worry about that last one a lot. I’m in my 30s now, I’ve got a son, and what legacy am I going to leave behind? When I do go gentle into that night, whenever it is, who will they say I was?
Morbid or not, as I’m hurled through time with no brake, these thoughts happen more and more frequently.
I remember being a kid. Well, sort of. That fades with time too, which is really unfortunate since some of those memories are really fun. Seems like I’m stuck with mostly junior high memories, which aren’t pleasant for anyone.
But when I was a kid, mortality didn’t seem like a possibility at all. I don’t think I realized that one day I would, in fact, not be here until I did turn 30. While I looked forward to that age so that people might actually take me seriously, it set off an alarm in my head. Much like the infamous “biological clock” we often hear about from women who really, really want to be mommies, I appear to have set the timer on the “inevitability clock.” Yikes.
There’s actually a Web site that lets you calculate the day and time and year you’ll die. While this is obviously stupid, it does serve as a harbinger for times to come.
I did finally come up with an answer for that last lingering thought.
Who am I? I’m me. I’ll never be more than me. All I can do is hope that I’m being the me I should be.
Where am I headed? I hope in the right direction. But is there a right direction, really? Everywhere we go, everything we do leads us to where we’re going.
Who do I want to be? Do we ever know the answer? The closest I can get is that I want to be happy with who I am.
And what do I want people to remember me for? All I care about is that, when I shuffle off the coil, that I’m remembered as a good man, a man who loved others completely, and was willing to give anything to help another in their time of need.
Okay, so that’s not really an answer, I guess. But it’s the best I can do with those types of questions. And I sincerely hope that, when the good night comes, I can review the life behind me and say that the line I walked was the right one.
And I assure you, I will not go gently. I will rage, rage against the dying of the light until I can’t rage anymore. I’ve got a lot of living to do.
Luke Hales is the assistant managing editor for The Baytown Sun.
Published September 17, 2009 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.
Though wise men at their end
know dark is right,
Because their words had forked
no lightning they
Do not go gentle
into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by,
crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced
in a green bay,
Rage, rage
against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang
the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it
on its way,
Do not go gentle
into that good night.
Grave men, near death,
who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors
and be gay,
Rage, rage
against the dying of the light.
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.
— Dylan Thomas
I love that poem.
Dylan Thomas came up with it after watching his dad get old. Through the poem he urged his father to fight impending death, and in that same regard he urged all men to fight against death, if only to live one more day on this earth for the sake of their kin and their legacy.
It means something a little different to me, though.
See, for the last several months I’ve been living with a touch of the insomnia. It may have a little to do with my schedule; I put the paper to bed, then stay hyped up from the deadline stress until at least midnight or so. Then, of course, my body says to itself, “Dude, we’re already awake. Let’s read the new Dan Brown (which I got yesterday at like 8 a.m. I hate that guy because he forces you to read the next chapter.), or let’s check Facebook for the 27th time today, or let’s write the next chapter in your novel (yup, I’m doing that too).”
Of course, all this leads to being extraordinarily tired the next day, what with having to get up like a normal human being and all.
So I’ll put the book down as soon as I close my eyes, or shut down the laptop once the screen gets blurry, and I’ll lay my head down to go to sleep.
That’s when the random thoughts occur.
I think my brain does this on purpose, just to keep itself from … well … going gently into that good night, I guess. Right before I lose consciousness, things like this pop into my brain:
• “Did you pack your bag for tomorrow? You know it would be so much easier if you had done it tonight. And are your clothes ready? Because then you could just throw them on in the morning.”
• “Who was the first guitarist for Def Leppard? It was Pete Willis, right? And he was replaced by Phil Collen, but not the Phil Collins from Genesis, because he played drums I think, plus it’s just not him. And the drummer for Def Leppard is Rick Allen, and he only has one arm, which is cool but not because, you know, he’s only got one arm.”
• “Who am I? I mean, who am I really? And where am I headed? Who do I want to be? Am I living the life I want to? And Rick Nielson is the singer for Cheap Trick, but he’s not Ricky Nelson, because he died a long time ago. Why do these rock band people all have similar names? And when I die, what will people remember me for?
That one always leads to the cold sweats. Especially the whole rock star name thing.
But it still applies, you know? I worry about that last one a lot. I’m in my 30s now, I’ve got a son, and what legacy am I going to leave behind? When I do go gentle into that night, whenever it is, who will they say I was?
Morbid or not, as I’m hurled through time with no brake, these thoughts happen more and more frequently.
I remember being a kid. Well, sort of. That fades with time too, which is really unfortunate since some of those memories are really fun. Seems like I’m stuck with mostly junior high memories, which aren’t pleasant for anyone.
But when I was a kid, mortality didn’t seem like a possibility at all. I don’t think I realized that one day I would, in fact, not be here until I did turn 30. While I looked forward to that age so that people might actually take me seriously, it set off an alarm in my head. Much like the infamous “biological clock” we often hear about from women who really, really want to be mommies, I appear to have set the timer on the “inevitability clock.” Yikes.
There’s actually a Web site that lets you calculate the day and time and year you’ll die. While this is obviously stupid, it does serve as a harbinger for times to come.
I did finally come up with an answer for that last lingering thought.
Who am I? I’m me. I’ll never be more than me. All I can do is hope that I’m being the me I should be.
Where am I headed? I hope in the right direction. But is there a right direction, really? Everywhere we go, everything we do leads us to where we’re going.
Who do I want to be? Do we ever know the answer? The closest I can get is that I want to be happy with who I am.
And what do I want people to remember me for? All I care about is that, when I shuffle off the coil, that I’m remembered as a good man, a man who loved others completely, and was willing to give anything to help another in their time of need.
Okay, so that’s not really an answer, I guess. But it’s the best I can do with those types of questions. And I sincerely hope that, when the good night comes, I can review the life behind me and say that the line I walked was the right one.
And I assure you, I will not go gently. I will rage, rage against the dying of the light until I can’t rage anymore. I’ve got a lot of living to do.
Luke Hales is the assistant managing editor for The Baytown Sun.