"Rage, rage against the dying of the light"

by Richard L. Weaver II

That, of course, is the last line of Dylan Thomas’s most famous poem “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” [1952], and, to be certain, one of the greatest lines ever written. The poem is addressed to Thomas’s father as he approached blindness and death and, too, reflects Thomas’s profound respect for his father’s uncompromising independence of mind, now tamed by illness.

Thomas’s father had been a robust, militant man for most of his life. When in his eighties, he became blind and weak, and Dylan was disturbed seeing his father become “soft” or “gentle.” In the poem, Thomas is rousing his father to continue being the fierce man he had previously been:

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.

Those are the first three lines, and the final four (of 19 total) read like this:

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.

For me, the “rage, rage” line has been a mantra from the first time I heard it.

I have never been one to contemplate my own death even when faced directly with the death of my father (having to identify his body) and the death of close friends, but the unspeakable spectacle of planes flying into skyscrapers, opening envelopes full of deadly anthrax spores, and the unnerving threat that we could fall victim to the designs of fanatics, for many people, have bullied their way to the front of the line, even though death by murder and accident account for less than 5 percent of mortalities in the United States.

The majority of us will succumb to natural causes late in life.

When the Reaper comes calling, how will you greet him? With defiance or serenity? With sorrow or laughter? With planning and preparation? Or, will you trust your inspiration of the moment?

For guidance, Benjamin Franklin’s comment in 1789, offers little solace: “In this world, nothing can be said to be certain except death and taxes.” Of course, there is some comfort in certainty. Because of such certainty, too, one may find great consolation in not thinking about it at all—in any way. Death becomes a natural part of life to be accepted.

Fear of the unknown. Think about how much of our lives is oriented around resolving, or at least assuaging, our fears of the unknown.

Fear of death may involve worry over being just corpses in graves when we die, the fear of decaying, leaving loved ones, bringing sadness to the family, being judged, or facing it by ourselves; it could be the lack of assurance of one’s salvation, or unknown answers to worrisome questions such as will it be painful, will it involve suffering, could I have prepared better, or could I have lived a better life? Fear of death could involve missing being alive, not seeing friends anymore, or not being able to move. Or, when looking back over one’s life, asking the question, is that all there is? There could be any number of concerns.

Considering the number of potential fears reminds me of Act II, Scene II of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, when Caesar remarks to Calpurnia, “Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once.” This is not to suggest that the various fears of the unknown are specious or unwarranted, it is simply a reminder of how compelling fear of the unknown can be as one’s psyche is wracked time and again by the impending doom.

Better to lock these fears away in the basement of our subconscious. When fears of death intrude into the course of daily life decades before old age arrives, it detracts from quality of life by fostering debilitating anxieties, neuroses, and depression.

My life is focused on avoiding dying before my time by minimizing risks. Perhaps I don’t possess the angry defiance of reality that Thomas’s poem represents, but when you contrast the rage with the phrase “Do Not Go Gentle,” then it better represents my view that death is a disvalue to be avoided up to the last breath. It is, indeed, an end I struggle against—without giving it an actual voice or existence—all my life.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” however, provides a wonderful motivator that we must savor life while it lasts. It, too, has power as a memorable phrase.

If we consider our lives as narrative, then, when we were young, there wasn’t much of a story. Now, however, the story is further along. We are not only into the action and development of the narration, the strands of the plot now are weaving together in interesting ways. Ways, I might add, that are unpredictable, unexpected, and unanticipated. Life has become far more interesting, creative, and exceptional.

I hold similar beliefs to those expressed by Nathaniel Branden in his book Honoring the Self (1983). We needn’t dwell on the past, even though our memory of a meaningful past contributes more and more to the developing narrative, but the past affects our sense of current goals and actions. These goals and actions have significant value for our present and future, but they contribute, too, to a life of which we are the author. It is a story that we began years and years ago, but as we are beginning to see, has more coherence and significance than we could have imagined. Of course it will come to a close at some point.

It is important to understand that the ticking of the clock is not a tragedy. It is essential to the meaning and excitement of life and to the intensity of love and joy. “The glory of life,” writes Branden, “ is inseparable from the fact that it is finite.”

Our most important concern, regarding our impending death, is simply to live well and without regret. Focus on life. We have only the here and now. We need to make the most of the time we have left. Since death is inevitable, we must face it with rationality and dignity. That could be one of the most important impressions we leave for others.

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Steve Pavlina has written an essay, “Dealing with Tragedy and Loss.” Pavlina defines tragedy, socially conditioned attachment, moving beyond attachment, joyful transformation, a spiritually-minded context, and the joyful expansion of consciousness. Pavlina says, “But even while we regard ourselves as victims, we are still powerful creators. We’re so powerful in fact that we can even choose to create ourselves as victims.” This is both interesting and important information.


At HealthyPlace.com , Jack Redden has written a useful, practical, and informative essay, “Helping Yourself and Others Deal With Death.” Redden discusses children, adults, and loved ones, but the part that I found most valuable was the five assumptions that may complicate the issue.

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