How Green Was My Valley
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How Green Was My Valley is Richard Llewellyn's bestselling -- and timeless -- classic and the basis of a beloved film. As Huw Morgan is about to leave home forever, he reminisces about the golden days of his youth when South Wales still prospered, when coal dust had not yet blackened the valley. Drawn simply and lovingly, with a crisp Welsh humor, Llewellyn's characters fight, love, laugh and cry, creating an indelible portrait of a people.
coming backwards. “How have you been looking at me these months?” she asked me, quick from the kiss, with quietness, and with something of tears. I looked down at my hands and saw the veins swollen in the blackness of grime, and I knew a shame that had the edge of a razor cutting deep into me with a hurt that made me want to scream. “There is shamed I am, Bron,” I said. “Shamed?” she said, and pushed breath from her nose with a sound of impatience, “of being a man? Or being found out?” “No,”
brought in the paper. They were all in the kitchen, for it was reading time, and we were waiting for my father because he was late, and a strange event with him. But when he came in, breathing a little extra from the Hill, he had the paper under his arm as he carried his Bible, and we knew from the way he came in and sat down in his chair that there was something serious to be said. So we all sat quiet. We could hear my mother singing to my new sister upstairs. My father put on his glasses, and
for them, and if your sorrow is as great as your hurt, you will allow them to go free of punishment, for their eyes are the eyes of dogs that have done wrong and know it, and are afraid. “I will fight you all one by one,” I said, “but nobody will be told about this.” “Go now,” Mervyn Phillips said, “before I will empty red ink on you.” “No matter,” I said, “I will fight you all, and you first.” Outside I went, and Mr. Tyser was standing in the door of Standard Six, talking to Mr. Elijah
Jonas-Sessions, but Mr. Jonas for short in school, and him I saw with my heart falling inside me. Sandy coming to ginger was Mr. Jonas, and small and pale in the eyes, with that look in them to warn you he had the tongue of a mountain adder, to be careful in what you said, or he would twist every word of it for you. “What a long time you took, Morgan,” Mr. Tyser said. “Perhaps he is used to taking his time,” said Mr. Jonas, and smiling with his lips going back over his teeth to look as though
level?” asked Mr. Gruffydd, in the same voice, quiet and without edge. “Third,” he shouted, after a wait. “Third was closed to-day,” Rhys Howells said, and folded his arms, rocking on his heels, looking up at the mountain. Then he stood still, and his eyes went to Mr. Gruffydd. Quiet, except for the whisper of the torches, and the tiny sounds that come from many men who wait with breath held tight. Swine looked about him with his mouth open, and his nostrils wide, and his eyes gone red with