Richard Llewellyn (1906–1983)

“There is no fence or hedge round Time that has gone.
You can go back and have what you like if you remember it well enough.”

It's been a long time since I've cried that aching cry for fictional characters as I just did for the Morgans and their green Welsh valley.

The book is about change, often bitter changes, changes that cannot be prevented, and changes that could be prevented but each shortsighted generation has other things on their minds. The book is about natural changes, the show more natural change of a boy as he grows into a man, changes when we find love and change when love is lost, and the most unreconcilable change of all: when people we know as well as we know ourselves will die.

Reading it, I was keenly aware of other changes too, the many I've seen in my one lifetime. I recognized a lot of old ideas and old norms that were prevalent in this 1939 book, many of those those ideas and norms were there in my grandparents in 1969. Some for better, some for worse. I thought of the many changes now, decades later. Some are for the better, some that are disheartening to the spirit, and so many that remain desperately unrealized but needed.

The beauty and ache of the book is in the sensitivity of Llewellyn's writing. The story is timeless, in spite of the many changes it chronicles, because families and love, songs and good food, strivings to be good and to be just, and growing up and growing old, all are timeless.

There is a lovely book, it is, little one. show less

Wow. I really was disappointed by this book, and was surprised by my own reaction, which was very different from most of my GR friends.

There were many reasons why I wasn't moved, either emotionally or intellectually, by Llewellyn's novel. To begin with, I knew, of course, that he wasn't really Welsh; that he committed a fraud (and I don't think I'm being too harsh here) by insisting all his life that he was born in Wales, and was raised in Wales and only educated in England. Other readers, show more of course, can--and do--view the children of immigrants as having a special insight into the culture of the parents which can be a satisfactory substitute for direct knowledge. I don't myself; perhaps it is because I am the child and grandchild of immigrants, and I am acutely aware of how much I really don't grasp. I don't know if I would have been so acutely conscious of how second- hand most of the information that Llewelyn was passing on; I would like to think so. As it was, only the music and the food (the bits of culture that the immigrant can most easily pass on to the child) felt authentic to me. (Yes, I would like to sample some brandy broth!) That--and the descriptions, towards the end, of the house being slowly suffocated in slag. That felt real, too. But no, I am sorry, so much of the book seemed self-conscious and rather false to me; a Mrs Miniver tinged "A Million Little Pieces".

That sounds tough, I know, and I think another reason I'm being so critical is that I'm judging this book, naturally enough, by the books I've read just before this one. I've been doing an around the world book challenge, and I've been trying to read my books in geographic order. Well, most authors would suffer in comparison with Dylan Thomas (a true poet who makes Llewelyn's sing-songy efforts look rather flat); or Flaubert, whose cool and precise description of exactly what effects arsenic has on the body horrified me, (whereas Llewelyn's descriptions of the starving miners seem blurred and cliched, and left me completely unmoved.) Maybe it's unfair to compare this author to two of the masters of world literature, but I also read [b:The Book of Ebenezer le Page|750407|The Book of Ebenezer le Page|G.B. Edwards|http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1320461496s/750407.jpg|1091545] and [b:Venetia Kelly's Traveling Show: A Novel of Ireland|6704682|Venetia Kelly's Traveling Show A Novel of Ireland|Frank Delaney|http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1320421989s/6704682.jpg|6900439] during the same time period. When Edwards told me the type of tomatoes that would grow best on Guernsey, I knew I could trust him; when Frank Delaney would stop his tale and explain the mores of 1930's rural Ireland, I had faith that he was telling me the truth, as much as anyone can be trusted to resurrect the thought patterns of a vanished time.

Historical fiction, which I love, is a tricky thing. There's always a filter of the writer's time period, always, always, no matter how much the author tries to rid themselves of their own mind-set. With "How Green is My Valley", I was always conscious that there were two filters; my own, and Llewellyn's 1930 sensibilities. Again, if I thought this book really excellent, I could accept that, and I would find Llewellyn's world outlook, influenced by the imminent outbreak of WWII, interesting in its own right. But the figures are so trite, all stiff-yet-trembling-upper lip. The Mary-Sue sister-in- law that Huw, the protagonist, is in love with, with laughter always in her eyes. The fiery brother. The stalwart father. The mother who is so proud of her cooking. They are all figures out of a John Ford movie--which indeed he did film, as soon as possible--and which, weirdly, I could NOT get out of my head, even though I've never seen that particular Ford picture. Up and down the mountain the mountain they were going, singing always. I felt constantly manipulated; and yes, it is the author's job to manipulate the reader, but you've got to trust the author, you've got to feel that you are in good hands. And I didn't. Not for a moment.

One of the things that really bothered me was the emphasis on fighting. Yes, it was a tough time, and there was very little law, apparently, in that era and place; that wasn't the problem for me. It was quite obvious, too, that LLewellyn got a real thrill out of writing those scenes; there is a nasty boxing match is particular that is described in great detail, though it is completely extraneous to the course of the novel. What bugged me was that Huw's not-taking-anything-from-anybody's stance was never explored, but glorified. OK; that's fine, too, but let's be honest here: Huw's pugnacious attitude, which caused him to be thrown out of school right before he was to take entrance exams and had him arrested when he beat up someone who was making "remarks" about his sister and had him fired from every job he ever held circumscribed, if not actually blighted his life. You're kidding yourself if you think that ending up as a collier or a woodworker--and what was that BS about not accepting that bread-and-butter-work of making coffins? Please. was the best outcome for Huw, especially since in reality the effects of having a bone-shattering accident would have lingered throughout his life. It's easy to put the proudly self-sufficient working-by-the-sweat-of-his-brow honest laboring man on a pedestal, if you don't actually have to DO the work. Like Llewellyn.

I can't say that I was particularly thrilled by the audio book format. It wasn't bad, but I've listened to two audio books set in Wales this year; neither of the first-person narration was done by someone from the country. This would never be seen as acceptable for a book set in Scotland or Ireland nowadays. Why is it OK to fake a Welsh accent? It seems more than a bit of a slight to the culture.

I was wavering between two and three stars, until I came across the passage, describing Huw's first kiss:

"The softness of her mouth was a glory of surprise, and cool, not even warm, with an easiness of moisture, and the tip of her tongue making play in idle strolling, lazily, and yet full of life, and her weight lying heavily upon me, her hair falling about our faces, shutting out the light, and all other smells save that of her, that was the perfume of the broad, sweet lands of the living flesh, that rose from her, and covered her about and followed her as she walked."

Fraudulent author; all right. Cardboard characters; OK. A macho glorification of violence; go right ahead. But bad sex writing--well, there are some things that I just can't accept. show less

This novel is a coming-of-age story set in the Welsh coal mining region that blends sentimental nostalgia with gritty reality. The narrator is Huw Morgan, the 8th of 9 children and the youngest son in a family of coal miners. An accident in Huw's childhood makes him unable to walk for several years and during that time he develops a passion for reading that leads to him going on to higher levels of education than the rest of his family.

Through the novel Huw observes the conflicts between the show more miners and the companies that own the mines that leads to union organizing and strikes. Huw's father Gwilym and some of his brothers are opposed to activism while other brother are labor organizers. Over time the declining fortunes in the valley lead to Huw's siblings leaving Wales to try their luck elsewhere. Huw also observes the environmental degradation to the valley by the mining operations. The novel also deals with gossip and scandals in the valley such as affairs and unplanned pregnancy. While Gwilym supports Huw's education, his mother Beth is firmly against it, especially when Huw's teacher only speaks in English and discriminates against the Welsh.

There are apparently a whole series of books about Huw Morgan, but I think I've had my fill of Huw. The style of writing is too old-fashioned for my taste although I can see why it's considered a classic novel. I once watched the film adaptation of How Green Was My Valley as a teenager (mainly because I had a crush on Maureen O'Hara) but I don't remember it at all. I will have to rewatch the movie and see how faithful it is to the book. show less

This melancholic elegy for departed loved ones and the vanished way of life of a Welsh coal mining town is one of the most beautiful books ever written. The narrator, Huw Morgan, tells the story of the lives and loves of his extended family and their townfolk as their closeknit community disintegrates under the pressures of modern life and the decreasing profitability of the mine--from brothers who have to move to America to make a living or others who are killed in the coal pits, to the show more widowed sister-in-law who Huw loves for years but never tells, to Mr. Gruffudd the local minister who helps Huw through childhood paralysis & becomes his tutor, to Dai Bando who teaches him to box and most of all to the beloved parents who suffer long but love greatly. The language itself is lyrical and haunting, the story ineffably sad. But always, Huw reminds us that these remarkable people live on in him.

This is the second time I have read this book. The first time I don't think I fully appreciated it as I was 16 years old and was being "forced" to read it for a literature class. I am so glad I gave it another look after I had matured. It is indeed a true classic that is timeless. show less