Rage Against the Dying of the Light

Several people have asked if I will continue writing articles about politics and such, The short answer is . . . absolutely and I promise that I will write more about such than politics.

I am currently reading The Life you Save May Be Your Own by Paul Elie. The book traces the lives of four writers and their pilgrimage within Christianity. The writers are two of my favorites: Walker Percy and Flannery O’Connor and two relatively unknown to me: Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton. I look forward to sharing that review with you.

Also, I have ordered White Debt by Thomas Harding, a descendent of British plantation owners. His book makes the case for British reparations to the descendants of those who were enslaved and forced to accept colonial rule. According to an interview of him about this book, he fully supports the 10 point plan of CARICOM, the Caribbean Reparations Commission. Given South Carolina’s own colonial ties with Britain and our historical relationship with Barbados, we should pay attention to this growing issue.

In the meantime, I am finishing up an article about Donald Trump which should be interesting, I hope. Or it may turn out to be an act of self-immolation. We shall see.

I will leave you with the much quoted poem that I took the above title from. Written by Dylan Thomas, who died from lung disease at age 39 and whose words are an admonition for old men and old civilizations whose lights are fading.

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.