Caitlin Thomas
Caitlin Thomas
Caitlin Thomaswas the wife of the poet and writer Dylan Thomas. Their marriage was a stormy affair, fuelled by alcohol and infidelity, though the couple remained together until Dylan's death in 1953. After her husband's death she wrote the book Leftover Life to Kill, an account of her self-exile to Italy. She paints a picture of a grieving widow seeking solace in distance, a younger lover, and alcohol...
pain book learning
none of what I know is out of books. ... I prefer tactual learning. Touching, on the quick of the sore nail, of present, mobile life. To toy, to gnaw, to tear: at the living element of pain. Like at a living drumstick.
bears ridicule
Love can bear anything better than ridicule.
drinking poor alcoholism
anybody who drinks seriously is poor: so poor, poor, extra poor, me.
drinking men law
There is a brotherliness about a drinking person, which is coldly lacking in the straight and narrow enemies of drink; the difference between the two is more marked than nationality or belief: it is an opposite species altogether. It is against the unwritten laws of congeniality for them to mix. For me, a man who does not drink is distinctly indecent ...
men want virtue
Virtue in a man doesn't make you want to grab him.
men tyranny dont-trust
I don't trust sentimentality in men; it goes with tyranny; you can't have one without the other.
america london too-much
In America they make too much fuss of poets; in London they make too little.
vulgarity-is heartless littles
A lot of warm vulgarity is incomparably preferable to a little bit of pinched niceness
mean roots feelings
England, where nobody ever says what they mean: and by denying feeling, kill it off stone-cold at the roots ...
men self native
... the mere thought of going near a man who is not mellowly pickled, and whose breath reeks of his native fleshy self, is squeamishly unpalatable to me.
grief broken gone
I am unable, mentally incapable, of relating the dead thing, the broken body refusing to divulge why or where the occupant has gone, to the thing that was alive.
cutting hands cake
My bitterness is not an abstract substance, it is as solid as a Christmas cake; I can cut it in slices and hand it round and there is still plenty left, for tomorrow.
desire particular persons
when the desire is on for one particular person, nobody else will do ...
beautiful caring degenerates
I had got to the dawn of the beautiful not caring, but fully aware, stage, which degenerates so imperceptibly into the doing something unpermissible stage.