Dylan Thomas: Not for the proud man apart from the raging moon I write on the spendthrift pages, nor for the towering dead with their nightingales and psalms, but for the lovers, their arms round the griefs of the ages.
Dylan Thomas: Where's our son?
Caitlin MacNamara: Chopped up in little bids and packed with my knickers in the suitcase.
Dylan Thomas: Oh, dear, the police'll be chasing you.
William Killick: Live while you can, live all you can.
William Killick: You have a raindrop running down your cheek, just like a tear.
Dylan Thomas: I do it, sleep with other women... because I'm a poet, and a poet feeds off life.
William Killick: The boy is screaming.
