Prologue
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.
You do not know what it is to rage against the dying of the light. You do not know because it is an experience not spoken of by those who know it. And if you knew it you would not be reading these words now. They – we who raged against the dying of the light – are a brotherhood, united by a strand of light that we have fought tirelessly to preserve. You do not know what it is to rage against the dying of the light. You do not know, and I will not try to tell you.
What I will tell you is what I know, and what I am able to put into words.
The rest you'll have to figure out on your own.
There is one more thing you must understand before you read this: I am not recording a tale of bravery and selflessness. There is nothing noble in the telling of my tale, nor in the events that occurred in it. There was no honor in what took place that day. That is the thing you will protest most, I know it because that is the thing that others before you have most disputed. But believe me, there was no honor in us that day, not in our hearts, not in our thoughts, not in our actions. Not a man, woman, or child among us committed a single honorable act. We did just what would keep ourselves alive. Our families, friends too.
If you can understand that which I have just told you, then the following story will seem less like a hero's boast and more like a confession. That is the way it was meant though. I am confessing.
You do not know what it is to rage against the dying of the light. But I do.