Rage Against the Dying of the Light

This post was originally shared on our Patreon page on Jan 15, 2025. We made mention of this post in Season 3 Episode 2 of Provident Vox, our podcast.

As we were scrolling through Facebook, we saw a post made by a suggested page...and as we went through the comments, we saw how many people are terribly disconnected from the meaning of the shared post.

So, today we would like to discuss a uncomfortable subject to some, and all-too-welcome to others: the concept of death and one's own mortality. To help carry our point across, we will make use of a very well-known poem by Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, which we are sure that most of you at least know a bit. It is called "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night".

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.

Beautiful, isn't it? We suppose the interesting thing about all arts - including poetry - is that the reader is free to interpret it however they wish, drawing whatever meanings or conclusions as they see fit or associate with...even if this contradicts the true intended meaning of the work itself.

What did Dylan Thomas intend this poem to mean? What went through his mind as he write this poem while his father was on his deathbed? Well, we are not him, so we cannot speak for him - but, we can say that this poem is not born from a fear of death, that much is clear enough.

So then, what do we think it means - or at least - what does it mean to us?

It means this:

Although death is inevitable, this does not mean that you should simply throw your hands in the air in resignation at your own mortality. It means that you should live. It means that you should not give up, even when all odds are against you, and even when inevitability stares you in the eyes. Oh, you might not win...but winning is not the point.

This can also apply to many other aspects of your life - do not give up, do not give in. Do not go quietly into any "good night" no matter what form that night takes.

To end this post, we would like to quote something else, a passage from a book by Dmitry Glukhovsky called Metro 2033. Giving the general background will be difficult, so we can recommend the book actually if you enjoy the genre (or if you played the games).

For some context, in the book's post-apocalyptic setting, there are a new species of beings or "mutants" that serve as a threat to the remaining humans. In the passage we are sharing, another individual goes on quite the fatalistic monologue about how fighting them is useless, and how humanity's days are numbered and that they will all perish. The quote we want to focus on is from another individual, named Hunter, who the first individual was doomsday-preaching to in fear. Hunter's response is magnificent, which we will quote in bold...but we're adding a bit more for the sake of context (apologies, it's a bit long):

"You don’t have anything to say, Hunter? Nothing? Go on, contradict me! Where are your arguments? Where is that optimism of yours? Last time when I spoke to you, you were certain that the levels of radiation would lower, and people could return to the surface again. Eh, Hunter . . . “The sun will rise over the woods, but just not for me. . .”’ Sukhoi sang in a teasing voice. ‘We'll seize life with our teeth, we will hold onto it with all our strength — but what would the philosophers have said and the sectarians confirmed, if there was suddenly nothing to grab? You don’t want to believe it, can’t believe it, but somewhere in the depths of your soul you know that that’s how it is . . . But we like this whole business, Hunter, don’t we? Me and you, we really love living! We will crawl through the stinking underground, sleep in an embrace with pigs, eat rats, but we will survive! Right? Wake up, Hunter! No one will write a book about you called The story of a real person, no one will sing about your will to live, your hypertrophic instinct for self-preservation ... How long will you last on mushrooms, multivitamins and pork? Surrender, Homo sapiens! You are no longer the king of nature! You’ve been dethroned! No, you don’t have to die instantly, nobody will insist on that. Crawl on a little more in agony, choking on your own excrement... But know this, Homo sapiens: you are obsolete! Evolution, the laws of which you understood, has already created its new branch, and you are no longer the latest stage, the crown of creation. You are a dinosaur. Now you must step aside for a new, more perfect species. No need to be egotistical. Game over, it’s time you let others play. Your time is up. You’re extinct. And let future generations wrack their brains over the question of what made Homo sapiens extinct. Though, I doubt anyone will be interested...

Hunter who was studying his fingernails through this monologue, raised his eyes to Sukhoi and said gravely, “You have really given up on everything since I last saw you. I remember that you were telling me that if we preserve culture, if we don’t turn sour, if we don’t stop using proper Russian, if our children learn to read and write, then we'll be fine and we’ll last here underground . . . Didn’t you say all that — or wasn’t it you? And now, look at you — surrender, Homo sapiens .. . What the hell is that?’

‘Yeah, well, I just figured out a thing or two, Hunter. I have felt something which you have yet to get, and maybe you'll never get it: we are dinosaurs, and we are living the last days of our life . . . It might take ten or even a hundred years, but all the same . . .’

‘Resistance is futile, right?” Hunter offered, in a mean voice. “What are you driving at?’

Sukhoi was silent, his eyes downcast. Clearly this had cost him a lot — having never admitted his weaknesses to anybody, or said such a thing to an old friend. Even worse that it was in front of Artyom. It was painful to him to hold up a white flag.

‘But no! You won’t wait!’ Hunter slowly said, standing up to full height. ‘And they won’t wait! New species you say? Evolution? Inevitable extinction? Dung? Pigs? Vitamins? I’m not there yet. I’m not afraid of it either. Got it? I am not putting my hand up to volunteer. The instinct of self-preservation? You call it that. Yes, I will sink my teeth into life. Fuck your evolution. Let other species wait their turn. I’m not a lamb being led to slaughter. Capitulate and go off with your more perfect and more adapted beings — give them your place in history! If you feel that you’ve fought all you can fight, then go ahead and desert, I won’t judge you. But don’t try to scare me. And don’t try to drag me along with you into the slaughterhouse. Why are you giving me a sermon? If you don’t do it alone, if you need to do it collectively, you won't be so ashamed? Or has the enemy promised you a bowl of hot porridge for each person that you bring to them in captivity? My fight is hopeless? You say that we’re at the edge of the abyss? I spit on your abyss. If you think that your place is at the bottom of the abyss then take a deep breath and forward march. But I’m not coming for the ride. If rational man, refined and civilized Homo sapiens chooses to capitulate — then I refuse to be called one and would rather become a beast. And I will, like a beast, sink my teeth into life and gnaw on the throats of others in order to survive. And I will survive. Got it?! I will survive!’

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