Dylan Thomas

Hotel Chelsea

I recently read that the iconic Hotel Chelsea sign is being auctioned off, letter by letter. It feels like a sad end for a building that dates back to the 1880s, one that has undergone many transformations, been sold multiple times, and eventually turned into a luxury hotel.

I visited a friend at the Chelsea back in the early seventies, when it still retained much of its magic. The hotel embodied both fantasy and death, weaving a haunting tapestry of creativity and despair. It was a place where dreams and demons coexisted, making it both enchanting and melancholic, forever suspended between creation and destruction.

Many people died within its walls—Nancy Spungen, stabbed by Sid Vicious; Eugene O'Neill's daughter, who took her own life; Charles R. Jackson, author of The Lost Weekend, who also died by suicide; and Robert Mapplethorpe’s partner, who succumbed to AIDS.


But perhaps the saddest loss was Dylan Thomas. A lifelong alcoholic, he binged at two nearby bars before falling into a stupor and dying at just 39. Many have tried to romanticize his death, but it’s widely acknowledged that, brilliant as he was, he struggled with alcohol and infidelity throughout his life.


In 1953, Thomas came to New York on a lecture and reading tour. His wife Caitlin didn’t accompany him, as was typical of their increasingly strained relationship due to his affairs and excessive drinking. Often broke, Thomas seized every opportunity to make some money. He loved the Chelsea and had his favorite bars nearby.


By the time of his death, Thomas was already suffering from respiratory issues and pneumonia, but his alcoholism undoubtedly weakened him further. When his wife was called to his bedside, as he lay in a coma, it’s said that when she arrived, she angrily demanded, “Is the bloody man dead yet?”


During his last visit to the Chelsea, Thomas had an affair with Liz Reitell, his primary companion and assistant to his American literary agent. He was also rumored to have had affairs with Pamela Glendower, Margaret Taylor (the wife of historian A.J.P. Taylor), and Pearl Kazin, a literary editor.


Dylan Thomas has always been one of my favorite writers, so when I saw that the hotel’s letters were being auctioned off, he immediately came to mind. I also thought of other Chelsea luminaries, like Jack Kerouac, who wrote On the Road there, Patti Smith, Allen Ginsberg, Mark Twain, Charles Bukowski, Bob Dylan (who wrote “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” there), William S. Burroughs, and Jackson Pollock. Arthur Miller once wrote of the Chelsea: “No vacuum cleaners, no rules, no shame.” And let’s not forget that Arthur C. Clarke wrote 2001: A Space Odyssey there, and Leonard Cohen’s iconic song “Chelsea Hotel” immortalized his brief affair with Janis Joplin in room 424.


When I visited, the hotel was already showing “cracks,” not so much from age but from poor management. By 1977, longtime manager Stanley Bard was forced to sell his controlling interest. By the 1980s, the hotel had fallen into neglect, and in the 1990s, gentrification began pushing history aside.


For decades, progress has slowly chipped away at the Chelsea. Now, even its famous sign, once a beacon to artists, is gone, sold letter by letter like a side of beef. Yet, even progress can’t snuff out its magic. It still lingers there, if you know where to look—and listen.

If you ever find yourself wandering through its halls, you might hear the echoes of laughter bouncing off the walls or the faint cries of a tortured poet. Many say the hotel is haunted, and some even claim to have seen the ghost of Dylan Thomas near his old room, 205. Perhaps it’s just a story, but it’s fitting that a place so full of life and loss would never fully let its dead rest.