I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, down throw and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression.

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.

Why do men think you can pick love up and re-light it like a candle? Women know when love is over.

I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.

Though they go mad they shall be sane, though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; though lovers be lost love shall not; and death shall have no dominion.

It snowed last year too: I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.

Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.