Go on thinking that you don't need to be read and you'll find

In the vivid and uncompromising words of Dylan Thomas, poet of thunder and tenderness, we find a warning as sharp as truth itself: “Go on thinking that you don’t need to be read and you’ll find that it may become quite true: no one will feel the need to read it because it is written for yourself alone; and the public won’t feel any impulse to gate crash such a private party.” These words, spoken from the heart of an artist who lived by the fire of language, reveal a timeless truth about the relationship between creation and communion, between the writer and the world. For Thomas, poetry—and by extension, all art—is not a monologue spoken into the void, but a bridge between souls. To write only for oneself, he warns, is to risk building a temple without doors, a flame that no other heart can warm its hands by.

Dylan Thomas, born in Wales in 1914, was a man who lived and breathed words. His verses roared with rhythm, passion, and music; his voice could fill a room, or a nation, with wonder. Yet he was also deeply aware of the loneliness of creation—the temptation for artists to retreat into self-expression so private that it becomes sealed against the world. He wrote and spoke often of the purpose of art, not as a mirror held to one’s own face, but as a lantern lifted for others to see. This quote, drawn from his reflections on writing and audience, was not a denial of the artist’s individuality but a reminder that art lives only when it is shared. The poet who forgets this, he suggests, becomes like a hermit muttering to himself in the dark, his brilliance unseen, his words echoing in a void of his own making.

Thomas’s warning is not merely practical—it is spiritual. The act of writing, of creating, is both personal and universal. It begins in solitude, but its purpose is communion. When he says, “the public won’t feel any impulse to gate crash such a private party,” he reminds us that art that excludes the human heart—its griefs, its joys, its longings—ceases to move others. The audience, sensing that they are unwelcome guests, will turn away. The writer, though he may feel pure in his isolation, will soon discover that the life of art is not purity, but connection. To create only for oneself is to forget the sacred covenant between the artist and the world: that beauty is meant to be shared, and truth, once spoken, belongs not to the speaker alone, but to all who can hear it.

The history of literature is filled with those who learned this lesson through struggle. Consider Vincent van Gogh, though a painter rather than a poet, whose early works were dark and solitary—creations of suffering turned inward. Only when he began to paint for others, to express not just his pain but his compassion for humanity, did his art begin to speak with immortal power. His Starry Night and The Potato Eaters are not self-portraits of despair, but visions that invite others to see the world through his eyes—to feel what he felt. Though the world rejected him in his time, his art endured because it reached outward. So too, Dylan Thomas teaches, must the writer write not only from himself but toward others, lest his words die unborn in the silence of self-satisfaction.

There is, in Thomas’s teaching, a subtle balance. He does not command the artist to pander to the crowd or dilute his voice in pursuit of popularity. Rather, he calls for authenticity joined with empathy. The true poet must speak his truth—but in doing so, he must remember that every truth, to be alive, must find another heart to echo within. The finest writing arises when personal experience is rendered with such honesty that it becomes universal. When Thomas wrote of the small Welsh towns of his childhood, or of the mysteries of birth and death, he wrote not for his own reflection, but for every soul who has ever stood in awe before the same mysteries. The great artist is one who, by delving deeply into himself, finds the pulse of all mankind.

Dylan Thomas’s words, therefore, are a challenge to all who create—to the poet, the painter, the thinker, the dreamer. They remind us that to speak meaningfully, we must be willing to be heard. To write only for oneself may feel safe, but it is a safety that kills. The purpose of art is not to hide one’s soul, but to offer it. The writer’s task is not to build walls, but to open windows—to invite the world into the banquet of imagination. The “private party” that Thomas describes is a sterile feast; the true celebration is the one where others are welcomed, where art becomes a shared act of discovery and joy.

The lesson, then, is clear: create not from pride, but from generosity. Let your art be a gift, not a diary locked away. Seek to connect, not to conceal. The words that endure are those that speak to the human heart, not those that echo only in the mind of their maker. Ask yourself, whenever you write, paint, or sing: Who will this touch? Who might find themselves in these words? If your creation reaches even one soul, it has fulfilled its divine purpose.

So remember this, O seeker of expression: to create is to converse with eternity, and a conversation requires two voices. Let your words be bridges, not fortresses; your art a gathering, not a retreat. For as Dylan Thomas teaches, those who write only for themselves will indeed find themselves alone—but those who write to awaken, to comfort, to reveal, will live forever in the hearts of others. The artist’s immortality lies not in solitude, but in the communion of souls joined through the timeless language of truth.