Without Lifting A Finger

I visited my father a few days ago. Although visit isn’t quite the right word, since he’s not present mentally. Not only does he not recognize me; I always come away with the impression that his gaze no longer retains concrete images, it doesn’t focus on any single object. My father lies in bed and sleeps for days on end. He’s still in his apartment, in his room, he’s well cared for. These visits are so sad. And once I fell into despair because he left without saying goodbye.  * * *  Cioran reports that Dylan Thomas was seized by convulsions and threw himself on the floor when someone once tried to interpret one of his poems in the poet’s presence.  * * *

... In Time -- two weeks ago now -- I saw a mysterious little announcement of the death of Dylan Thomas. It must be true, but I still can't believe it -- even if I felt during the brief time I knew him that he was headed that way. I just can't believe it and dread what might have happened to him -- in New York ... Thomas's poetry is so narrow -- just a straight conduit between birth & death, I suppose -- with not much space for living along the way.

He's not my favorite, but this is certainly my favorite of his. The only one I can kind of remember. It came to me lying in bed this morning. Slept later than usual; woke when the light came through the slats. *** 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.   ...