How Long Was the Story

I finished reading How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn (Scribner, 1967) a couple of days ago.  I have been reading it for about 3 months.  I could probably stop writing there because who will be rushing out to pick up a book that an avid reader like me slowly slowly slowly got through?  I have nothing to say for myself except that it was a good, beautifully written book that took forever to read.

Funny, back at Christmastime, when I was telling my Uncle-in-law about the book I was reading, he had the same reaction that everyone over the age of, say 60, had when I mentioned reading it...they all had seen the movie, they all had loved the movie, they all had nostalgia about the movie.  No one I know, except my sister, by the way, has read the book.  The movie, I am sure you could still find somewhere.

Here is what was great about the book:  the writing.  I once took a fabulous class on Romantic Poetry (not love poems, but from the romantic era: 1798-1832).  Anyhoo, the class introduced me to Keats, Wordsworth, Blake, Byron, Coleridge, etc...  I had never enjoyed poetry as much as I did in this class.  The imagery and language were so beautiful to me and I really was entranced by it all.  I was reminded of that type of writing as I read How Green Was My Valley.  There is a lyrical nature to the writing in this book, as I read, I could hear the lilting singsong Welsh voices and wished that I could talk like them.  It was beautiful, and passages took my breath away with their loveliness.  For example, Huw, the main character, is old enough to get his first pair of long pants (trews, he calls them).  Hear the pride in this passage:

Royal, royal is the feeling, to be standing in your good long trews, and well I 

understand the feeling of gentlemen with sashes round their middles and 

feathers in their hats.  You are brave with glory, and with fear for none. (p. 306)

Later, Huw visits a nearby town for an excursion and skillfully the author describes this small town boy's perception of the strangeness and sadness of the city life:

There is strange to walk in a town.  Something is strange in the faces of 

people who live all their lives in a town.  For their lives are full of the 

clock and their eyes are blind with seeing so many wonders, and they

 have no plesure of expectations or prettiness of wish.  Good things are 

heaped in the windows all around  them, but their pockets are empty,

and thus they suffer in their minds, for where they would own, now they

must wish, and wishes denied soon turn to a lust that shows itself in the 

face.  Too much to see, day after day, and too much noise for peace, and 

too little time in a round of the clock to sit by themselves and think.  (p. 464)

The story is essentially the story of a Welsh coal-mining family and specifically almost a coming of age novel about its main character, Huw.  The world they inhabit is small and the world out there is something to be defended against.  Their world and livelihood as coal miners has been threatened by reduced wages and discontent workers.  However, I loved reading about the pride of this large family, and many moments brought tears to my eyes.  

And, on a completely different and seemingly unrelated note, this story reaffirmed to me something about what it means to honor women.  I wonder if ever anyone else might say that about this book.  You see, the mother in this family was uneducated, perhaps had never left her hometown and didn't have a single ounce of desire for learning, in fact, she didn't hold much value for education at all.  Yet, she was honored, respected and above all adored.  Here's where I go off on a pet peeve of mine.  I think that women's lib was a great thing; women had for centuries been held back from rights that they so obviously deserved.  However, one of the major fallouts for the feminist movement is that no one, not men and even not women themselves, respect motherhood or homemaking anymore.  Now, don't get me wrong, not every woman was meant to be either a mother or a homemaker, and I 100% support a woman's right to determine what she might do, however, when a woman might choose to be "just" a mom or "just" be a homemaker, they ought to be respected and revered for that particular choice.  There is a lot of lipservice out there for both occupations, but as a society, there is no reverence for either.  That said, this Welsh family couldn't have lifted a woman up higher in their awe of her.  She was the wheel that kept the family going and while she wasn't worldy, she was strong and just the kind of woman I would want to be.  At one point in the story, a young Huw witnesses a woman giving birth to a child, and he was obviously upset by the pain, blood and anguish he saw.  His father gave him this bit of wisdom:

"Listen to me.  Forget all you saw.  Leave it.  Take your mind from it.  It has 

nothing to do with you.  But use it for experience.  Now you know what hurt

it brings to women when men come into the world.  Remember, and make

it up to your Mama and to all women."

"Yes, Dada," I said.

"And another thing, let it do," my father said. "There is no room for pride in

any man.  There is no room for unkindness.  There is no room for wit at the

expense of others.  All men are born the same, and equal.  As you saw to-day,

so come the Captains and the Kings and the Tinkers and the Tailors.  Let the

memory direct your dealings with men and women.  And be sure to take good

care of Mama."

I have a suspicion that part of the strength of Huw's mother came directly as a result of the undaunted honor that was afforded her by a husband that respected her and a family that longed to please her.  

So, if ever you wanted to savor a page or a paragraph a day and reread and reread passages to soak in their beauty, this book is for you.  If you read it or have read it, let me know, I would love to reminisce about its loveliness.