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One Moonlit Night
Translated from the Welsh Philip Mitchell. This book was originally published in 1961 and is considered a modern Welsh literary masterpiece. The story is about a compassionate young boy coming of age in a small North Welsh village.
176 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1961
51 people are currently reading
1711 people want to read
About the author
Caradog Prichard
7 books13 followersPoet, novelist and journalist, Caradog Prichard was a native of Bethesda, Gwynedd, Wales. He worked for newspapers in Caernarfon, Llanrwst, Cardiff and in London where he spent most of his life, working for the News Chronicle and later the Daily Telegraph.
He was 23 when he first won the Crown at the National Eisteddfod which he went on to win three years in a row.
Today he is mostly remembered for his 1961 novel Un Nos Ola Leuad (One Moonlit Night) which is considered to be an important contribution to Welsh language literature, and was one of the first substantial works of fiction and prose to be written in a local dialect of spoken Welsh (that of Bethesda, Gwynedd) rather than in standard or literary Welsh. The novel has been translated into several languages.
He was 23 when he first won the Crown at the National Eisteddfod which he went on to win three years in a row.
Today he is mostly remembered for his 1961 novel Un Nos Ola Leuad (One Moonlit Night) which is considered to be an important contribution to Welsh language literature, and was one of the first substantial works of fiction and prose to be written in a local dialect of spoken Welsh (that of Bethesda, Gwynedd) rather than in standard or literary Welsh. The novel has been translated into several languages.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 161 reviews
November 20, 2023
As the English translator of this book, I'm probably more than a little biased in my appraisal. That having been said, I remain firmly of the opinion that this is one of the greatest novels ever written.
For some few readers who lack all heart, all soul, all imagination and all compassion for their fellow men and women, this book will appear to be no more than some boring Welsh bloke going on and on about his boring childhood in boring Wales.
For many, many others, however, it's a mind-blowing, life-changing, world-shaking experience akin to being allowed for several hours to stare into the face of God. It will change your life.
"One Moonlit Night" has been likened to Dylan Thomas's "Under Milk Wood" but such similarities as may exist are superficial. Dylan Thomas was a wonderful writer and one of Britain's most eloquent and engaging storytellers. I love his work - but did he bleed his heart and his soul into the pages he wrote? On the whole, I think not.
Prichard was also a wonderful writer but, unlike Thomas whose heart lies interred in the earth and whose soul is in Heaven (hopefully), Prichard's entire being, his entire life-force, his heart, his soul, his mind, his everything are contained - alive and vibrant - within the narrative of this book.
Prichard worked feverishly, eating and drinking very little while writing the book and, as soon as it was finished, he retired to bed for several days and nights - physically and emotionally drained but in a sense refreshed and reborn as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.
Many people are said to have a novel inside them but, in Caradog Prichard's case, it was a novel that spent a very long time inside him and which, with every passing day, was demanding ever more fervently to be released.
Read it as soon as you can and, if possible, pay for it.
I need the money. ;)
For some few readers who lack all heart, all soul, all imagination and all compassion for their fellow men and women, this book will appear to be no more than some boring Welsh bloke going on and on about his boring childhood in boring Wales.
For many, many others, however, it's a mind-blowing, life-changing, world-shaking experience akin to being allowed for several hours to stare into the face of God. It will change your life.
"One Moonlit Night" has been likened to Dylan Thomas's "Under Milk Wood" but such similarities as may exist are superficial. Dylan Thomas was a wonderful writer and one of Britain's most eloquent and engaging storytellers. I love his work - but did he bleed his heart and his soul into the pages he wrote? On the whole, I think not.
Prichard was also a wonderful writer but, unlike Thomas whose heart lies interred in the earth and whose soul is in Heaven (hopefully), Prichard's entire being, his entire life-force, his heart, his soul, his mind, his everything are contained - alive and vibrant - within the narrative of this book.
Prichard worked feverishly, eating and drinking very little while writing the book and, as soon as it was finished, he retired to bed for several days and nights - physically and emotionally drained but in a sense refreshed and reborn as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.
Many people are said to have a novel inside them but, in Caradog Prichard's case, it was a novel that spent a very long time inside him and which, with every passing day, was demanding ever more fervently to be released.
Read it as soon as you can and, if possible, pay for it.
I need the money. ;)
July 17, 2023
“Give us this day our daily bread … bread.
And after saying daily bread, I didn’t go any further with the others, I just started thinking. I remembered Mam telling me before we came to Church that we had no bread to make bread and butter with, and so I asked God for some more daily bread cos the parish money wasn’t coming till Friday.”
This has been voted the greatest novel written in Welsh. It was published in 1961 and translated into English in 1995. The setting is the North Wales village of Bethesda, which was a community built around a slate quarry. The narrative voice is that of a young boy at various ages (well, it’s slightly more complicated than that …) and it happens around the time of the First World War, just before, during and just after. The author Caradog Prichard was born in 1904 and spent his childhood in Bethesda, so there is certainly an element of autobiography. One particular similarity is what happens to the child’s mother in the novel. As with Prichard’s own mother, she has mental health issues and ends up in the local asylum. The descriptions are vivid and harrowing. Prichard’s mother spent almost forty years in an asylum. He was a journalist, moving to London. He wrote some poetry and this novel.
It is a very powerful evocation of a working class childhood haunted by the spectre of poverty. There is a good deal of humour in it, but the whole is pretty bleak, but beautifully written. Despite the voice of the narrator being a child the reader is confronted with suicide, shellshock, indecent exposure, domestic violence, child abuse, alcoholism, prostitution, mental health issues, epilepsy, drug use, war, TB and much more. That makes the whole sound pretty grim, but it isn’t.
The village itself and the landscape are almost characters in themselves:
“Jees, the old lake looks good too. It’s strange that they call it Black Lake cos I can see the sky in it. Blue Lake would be a better name for it, cos it looks as though it’s full of blue eyes. Blue eyes laughing at me. Blue eyes laughing at me. Blue eyes laughing”
Religion is also central to the novel: Church and Chapel, along with a fair amount of singing. There is a good deal of Biblical language and a fair amount of Church going (that wasn’t a trigger warning!). It is about a brutal childhood and about three boys: the narrator, and his friends Huw and Moi. There isn’t really a plot, more a series of episodes which move around within the time frame. Some of the episodes are almost hallucinogenic and comparisons have been made with Under Milk Wood, but the differences are greater than the similarities. And there is great power here:
“And then I started crying. Not crying like I used to years ago whenever I fell down and hurt myself; and not crying like I used to at some funerals either; and not crying like when Mam went home and left me in Guto’s bed at Bwlch Farm ages ago. But crying just like being sick. Crying without caring who was looking at me. Crying as though it was the end of the world. Crying and screaming the place down, not caring who was listening. And glad to be crying, the same way some people are glad when they’re singing, and others are glad when they’re laughing. Dew, I’d never cried like that before, and I’ve never cried like that since, either. I’d love to be able to cry like that again, just once more.”
Then, of course there is the ending. It takes a great deal these days to shock or surprise me in a novel, but I really did not see this ending coming. It is an ending which makes the reader reappraise the whole thing. One of the greatest things about the novel is the descriptions about everyday life and death. I’m still processing it, but I would certainly recommend it.
And after saying daily bread, I didn’t go any further with the others, I just started thinking. I remembered Mam telling me before we came to Church that we had no bread to make bread and butter with, and so I asked God for some more daily bread cos the parish money wasn’t coming till Friday.”
This has been voted the greatest novel written in Welsh. It was published in 1961 and translated into English in 1995. The setting is the North Wales village of Bethesda, which was a community built around a slate quarry. The narrative voice is that of a young boy at various ages (well, it’s slightly more complicated than that …) and it happens around the time of the First World War, just before, during and just after. The author Caradog Prichard was born in 1904 and spent his childhood in Bethesda, so there is certainly an element of autobiography. One particular similarity is what happens to the child’s mother in the novel. As with Prichard’s own mother, she has mental health issues and ends up in the local asylum. The descriptions are vivid and harrowing. Prichard’s mother spent almost forty years in an asylum. He was a journalist, moving to London. He wrote some poetry and this novel.
It is a very powerful evocation of a working class childhood haunted by the spectre of poverty. There is a good deal of humour in it, but the whole is pretty bleak, but beautifully written. Despite the voice of the narrator being a child the reader is confronted with suicide, shellshock, indecent exposure, domestic violence, child abuse, alcoholism, prostitution, mental health issues, epilepsy, drug use, war, TB and much more. That makes the whole sound pretty grim, but it isn’t.
The village itself and the landscape are almost characters in themselves:
“Jees, the old lake looks good too. It’s strange that they call it Black Lake cos I can see the sky in it. Blue Lake would be a better name for it, cos it looks as though it’s full of blue eyes. Blue eyes laughing at me. Blue eyes laughing at me. Blue eyes laughing”
Religion is also central to the novel: Church and Chapel, along with a fair amount of singing. There is a good deal of Biblical language and a fair amount of Church going (that wasn’t a trigger warning!). It is about a brutal childhood and about three boys: the narrator, and his friends Huw and Moi. There isn’t really a plot, more a series of episodes which move around within the time frame. Some of the episodes are almost hallucinogenic and comparisons have been made with Under Milk Wood, but the differences are greater than the similarities. And there is great power here:
“And then I started crying. Not crying like I used to years ago whenever I fell down and hurt myself; and not crying like I used to at some funerals either; and not crying like when Mam went home and left me in Guto’s bed at Bwlch Farm ages ago. But crying just like being sick. Crying without caring who was looking at me. Crying as though it was the end of the world. Crying and screaming the place down, not caring who was listening. And glad to be crying, the same way some people are glad when they’re singing, and others are glad when they’re laughing. Dew, I’d never cried like that before, and I’ve never cried like that since, either. I’d love to be able to cry like that again, just once more.”
Then, of course there is the ending. It takes a great deal these days to shock or surprise me in a novel, but I really did not see this ending coming. It is an ending which makes the reader reappraise the whole thing. One of the greatest things about the novel is the descriptions about everyday life and death. I’m still processing it, but I would certainly recommend it.
May 5, 2018
This book really defies description. Reading the plot outline is just a beginning, but you have to be willing to inhabit the mind and body of a 10 year old boy to really get a sense of the brilliance of this author. The Welsh people seem to be born with poetry in their marrow. This has been compared with Dylan Thomas' Under Milkwood, but for my part, I associated it strongly with How Green Was My Valley.
The last two chapters threw this childhood tale into an entirely different realm, and I may be sorting those scenes out for a while. But a worthy read for those not afraid to work for their literary understanding. If I can ever make sense of the book's conclusion, I may change my four star rating to five.
My favorite line: The unnamed narrator and his best friend Huw are discussing their possible futures as clergymen. "But I don't want to be Godly. I just want to be good".
The last two chapters threw this childhood tale into an entirely different realm, and I may be sorting those scenes out for a while. But a worthy read for those not afraid to work for their literary understanding. If I can ever make sense of the book's conclusion, I may change my four star rating to five.
My favorite line: The unnamed narrator and his best friend Huw are discussing their possible futures as clergymen. "But I don't want to be Godly. I just want to be good".
February 8, 2021
Oh my, this was so good. A cross between Under Milk Wood and Lanny. Welsh village life with all its death, desertion, gossip, madness, and joy. Lyrical and sometimes mystical its unnamed narrator goes out one moonlit night and remembers his past. The end is shadowy and shocking. It was first published in 1961 in Welsh, and this translation is by Philip Mitchell. How could I only just have heard of this?
July 10, 2024
El nombre de Caradog Prichard quizás resulte un desconocido para el lector medio español, pero en su Gales natal, esa tierra caracterizada por la tenue poesía que esconde su carácter íntimo y retrotraído, es más que conocido. En vida ganó gran prestigio como periodista y crítico literario en Londres, y ganó tres veces consecutivas la corona en el prestigioso certamen poético Eisteddfod, convirtiéndose, además, en la persona más joven en obtenerla en su momento. “Una Noche de Luna” fue la única novela que escribió en vida, y está considerada como uno de los pilares fundamentales de la literatura galesa. En España fue publicada en su momento, pero ahora la editorial Muñeca Infinita saca al mercado una edición revisada que permite que los hispanohablantes entremos en contacto con una historia que puede parecer simple e inocente, pero que en realidad es como una puñalada en el corazón. Yo he tenido la suerte de llegar a ella gracias a la nueva edición de Masa Critica de la plataforma Babelio. Así que muchas gracias tanto a la editorial como a la plataforma por el envío de este ejemplar. Probablemente si no fuera por esto, yo nunca me habría fijado en una novela con la que debo reconocer que empecé con mal pie. Las primeras páginas me parecieron un inicio de historia muy abrupto, me costó mucho conectar con los personajes y con la forma de narrar.
Pero menos mal que persistí con ella. La prosa y la propuesta de Caradog Prichard tardaron un poco en conquistarme, pero casi sin darme cuenta, fui sumergiéndome, lenta, pero implacablemente, en esta obra de iniciación y aprendizaje o Bildungsroman, que se balancea, a veces, febrilmente, a veces suavemente; entre el costumbrismo, la crítica a la sociedad galesa rural de mediados del siglo XX, el simbolismo y la fabula lírica.
En un pueblo minero del Gales de la I Guerra Mundial, el anónimo protagonista de esta novela (cuyo nombre nunca llegaremos a conocer) se pasea de noche por el lugar en compañía de sus amigos mientras piensa sobre su vida y la de sus vecinos, recordando acontecimientos que le han pasado a él o han sido protagonizado por algunos de los peculiares habitantes de un pueblo marcado por la guerra, la pobreza, el trabajo duro o la religiosidad extrema. Así, la tierna mirada del narrador pasará por hechos tan duros como asesinatos, enfermedades, muertes e , incluso, la degeneración mental de su querida madre.
Nos encontramos ante una obra de difícil clasificación, que aparentemente parece muy sencilla, narrando tan solo las vivencias de un pueblo minero galés a través de la perspicaz, mirada de un niño, cargada de inocencia, pero también de mucha sátira. Sin embargo, a medida que el muchacho va desplegando delante del lector, recuerdos y acontecimiento, descubrimos que esta lectura es de todo menos sencilla. Caradog Prichard dota a su narrador de una voz muy definida y llena de brillo y optimismo. Nos va contando las cosas de una manera clara y casi alegre. Y eso se convierte en una suerte de Tami, que va traspasando hechos y situaciones extremadamente duros. Es posible que los leas y no te quedes con eso en un primer momento, pero pasados unos minutos o unas horas te vas dando cuenta de la brutalidad que acabas de tragarte como cualquier cosa y dejando que esta adonde en tu interior. Por lo menos a mí es lo que me pasó. Así, “Una Noche de Luna” va dejando poco a poco en el lector, una huella amarga y de sabor cobrizo, en la que la melancolía y la alegría se entrelazan fuertemente hasta que no acabas distinguiendo donde empieza una y acaba la otra. Hay chispa en la forma en que el niño cuenta las cosas y en como va bebiendo de los pequeños actos de amabilidad que va pescando por el camino, las cuales nacen del horror del que nos hace participe, pese a que nos cueste aceptar eso. Así uno siente que no es para tanto que nos encontremos frente a un profesor que disfruta golpeando a sus alumnos y que a veces se lleva a una habitación vacía a una de las niñas, la cual termina también en manos de un perturbado mental que se la llevará al bosque. Que nos parezca un mero contratiempo que en el baño de ese mismo colegio aparezca el cadáver con la garganta abierta de un viejo epiléptico. O
catalogaremos como anécdota como un hombre amenaza a su amante, con un cuchillo o la vuelta a casa en un ataúd de un muchacho que vivió sus últimas horas en un manicomio. Desde luego, estos son algunos de los episodios más trágicos, los cuales se dan de la mano con otros no menos duro como la condenación religiosa que sufre una madre soltera, las peleas habituales entre vecinos o el maltrato animal, que también se pasean entre estas páginas. La maestría con la que Prichard lleva la batuta de esta historia es que esa brutalidad va empapándonos lentamente, pero lo hace con tenazas de hierro. Y eso hace del viaje que es este libro algo oscuramente inolvidable.
Como he dicho antes, “Una Noche de Luna” tiene mucho de sátira y de crítica hacia una empobrecida sociedad rural de un Gales marcado por el trabajo en la cantera o la mina, el hambre, las desigualdades sociales, la pobreza y la red de apoyos que se crean entre familiares y vecinos, gente humilde pero digna y fuerte de una manera humana y resilente. Un microcosmos en la que la religiosidad extrema, los cotilleos, las relaciones entre sus participantes, las creencias, los prejuicios y las duras condiciones de vida también marcan de una manera extenuante los tiempos y los hechos que se narran. En el esclarecedor epílogo que acompaña esta edición, escrito por una periodista, escritora e historiadora llamada Jan Morris, se nos habla de que esta historia bebe mucho de la propia biografía de su autor, dándonos muchos datos y pistas que conectan a la criatura y al creador, y que explica muchas de las cosas que encontramos entre sus páginas. En un momento determinado, la autora habla de hasta qué punto es necesario que una obra se sustente en su propio creador, y comenta que ella es partidaria de que ambos vayan por caminos diferentes. Personalmente yo no estoy de acuerdo con eso, me gusta ver hasta qué punto las vivencias personales y las creencias de un autor sirven para dar forma sus historias, me parece algo fascinante y queda mucha vivacidad a una trama, la convierte en algo que se mueve y que respira y que tiene vida propia. Para mí, que un autor sepa componer una historia que esté bien escrita con algo más que íntimo marca mucho la diferencia. Es un ejercicio alquímico que si sale bien puede ser espectacular. Y creo que este es uno de estos casos que no abundan tanto como a los lectores nos gustaría. Saber que el pueblo en el que tienen lugar los acontecimientos de la novela se basa sin ningún pudor en el Bethseda natal de Prichard no solo aporta mucho interés a la lectura. Y te da una pista de hasta qué punto esta es, en realidad, la historia de una madre y su hijo, pese a la multitud de episodios y personajes que sazonan todo el libro y que pueden hacerte perder el norte. La voz de ese niño que corretea por la noche entre las montañas es la de un autor que nunca pudo dejarle ir, marcado permanentemente por los acontecimientos que en el libro son el penúltimo (o decimocuarto) capítulo. Sin duda alguna la parte más triste y descorazonadora de todo el conjunto y su autentico motor, la que se siente como si una mano te retorciera el corazón mientras la lees. Ese capítulo es de tal fuerza que uno nota instintivamente hasta qué punto es real, está plasmado con tanta tristeza y abandono que hace que esas líneas y por ende todo el libro acaben convirtiéndose en algo inolvidable y descorazonador.
La obra está articulada en 15 capítulos que siguen una estructura similar. El protagonista va caminando de noche mientras recuerda una jornada concreta, y dentro del mismo capítulo se dan diferentes saltos de tiempo que sirven para conectar distintas historias o acontecimientos entre sí. La prosa de Prichard en un principio parece muy directa y parca en recursos literarios o estilísticos, incluso árida y brusca a ratos. Quizás, al lector hispanohablante al principio le parezca muy lioso que los personajes sean mencionados con sus nombres seguidos por largos epítetos, que hacen referencia a su trabajo, al de sus padres o al lugar donde viven. Ese, creo, fue uno de los motivos por los que me costó un poco conectar al principio con la historia. Pero una vez que te acostumbras, esta característica tan común de la cultura galesa te ayuda mucho ubicar a cada personaje dentro de la historia y del organigrama general del pueblo. El autor va desarrollando con precisión y eficacia cómo es la vida en el pueblo minero del protagonista y nos va presentando a sus habitantes más significativos, señalándonos sus curiosidades y haciéndoles perfectamente reconocibles. Pero poco a poco vas descubriendo que no todo es tan sencillo y directo en la forma de escribir el autor. Hay mucho simbolismo en una novela tan llena de silencios y de sutilezas, por lo que hay que tener el ojo avizor para captar lo que esconde cada detalle o hecho. En varias ocasiones, además, aparece una voz de corte más poético que descoloca totalmente mientras lees, ya que no sabes muy bien que es lo que quiere decirle al lector y que pinta en todo el conjunto, ya que lo que aporta al mismo no tiene mucho sentido. Dicha voz parece retrotraernos a tiempos más antiguos que el mundo, al folklore y poesía galesa; tiene un matiz vibrante y melancólico, y un carácter un tanto profético, uno siente que es la voz de la naturaleza que nos adelanta que bajo la tenue luz de la luna hechos oscuros van a tener lugar, de una forma tan lorquiana como entroncada en la lírica de los antiguos bardos galeses. Y que va cobrando sentido justo al final. En el último capítulo hay un giro de guion que da a toda la historia un aura más trágica y oscura, que realmente es muy abrupto que no podías esperarte ni en sueños. En otra obra no me habría gustado. Pero en este caso lo compro totalmente. Me ha parecido que le daba a todo un aire diferente y que era el devenir natural de el arco evolutivo de un niño que pasa a la adultez en las peores condiciones posibles, que paulativamente va quedándose solo y desamparado. Uno casi puede sentir, pese a todo, su grito subterráneo en las tinieblas, llamando desesperado a su madre y llorando por todo lo que ha perdido.
“Una Noche de Luna” no es una mera crónica rural y de crecimiento. Es un viaje de locura y muerte, una nana que se toca bajo la luz de la luna, tan realista como lírica, tan dulce y amable como cruel y amargo. Es una obra que compromete al lector con su crudeza y con la amabilidad de la voz de su protagonista que forman un todo insoldable. Hay tristeza y melancolía en cada una de sus líneas, y estas solo impactan en ti justo al final. Sin duda ha sido un libro inolvidable que ha sobrepasado todos mis esquemas. No ha resultado nada de lo que esperaba. Y, desde luego, se va a mi lista de mejores lecturas de este 2024.
Pero menos mal que persistí con ella. La prosa y la propuesta de Caradog Prichard tardaron un poco en conquistarme, pero casi sin darme cuenta, fui sumergiéndome, lenta, pero implacablemente, en esta obra de iniciación y aprendizaje o Bildungsroman, que se balancea, a veces, febrilmente, a veces suavemente; entre el costumbrismo, la crítica a la sociedad galesa rural de mediados del siglo XX, el simbolismo y la fabula lírica.
En un pueblo minero del Gales de la I Guerra Mundial, el anónimo protagonista de esta novela (cuyo nombre nunca llegaremos a conocer) se pasea de noche por el lugar en compañía de sus amigos mientras piensa sobre su vida y la de sus vecinos, recordando acontecimientos que le han pasado a él o han sido protagonizado por algunos de los peculiares habitantes de un pueblo marcado por la guerra, la pobreza, el trabajo duro o la religiosidad extrema. Así, la tierna mirada del narrador pasará por hechos tan duros como asesinatos, enfermedades, muertes e , incluso, la degeneración mental de su querida madre.
Nos encontramos ante una obra de difícil clasificación, que aparentemente parece muy sencilla, narrando tan solo las vivencias de un pueblo minero galés a través de la perspicaz, mirada de un niño, cargada de inocencia, pero también de mucha sátira. Sin embargo, a medida que el muchacho va desplegando delante del lector, recuerdos y acontecimiento, descubrimos que esta lectura es de todo menos sencilla. Caradog Prichard dota a su narrador de una voz muy definida y llena de brillo y optimismo. Nos va contando las cosas de una manera clara y casi alegre. Y eso se convierte en una suerte de Tami, que va traspasando hechos y situaciones extremadamente duros. Es posible que los leas y no te quedes con eso en un primer momento, pero pasados unos minutos o unas horas te vas dando cuenta de la brutalidad que acabas de tragarte como cualquier cosa y dejando que esta adonde en tu interior. Por lo menos a mí es lo que me pasó. Así, “Una Noche de Luna” va dejando poco a poco en el lector, una huella amarga y de sabor cobrizo, en la que la melancolía y la alegría se entrelazan fuertemente hasta que no acabas distinguiendo donde empieza una y acaba la otra. Hay chispa en la forma en que el niño cuenta las cosas y en como va bebiendo de los pequeños actos de amabilidad que va pescando por el camino, las cuales nacen del horror del que nos hace participe, pese a que nos cueste aceptar eso. Así uno siente que no es para tanto que nos encontremos frente a un profesor que disfruta golpeando a sus alumnos y que a veces se lleva a una habitación vacía a una de las niñas, la cual termina también en manos de un perturbado mental que se la llevará al bosque. Que nos parezca un mero contratiempo que en el baño de ese mismo colegio aparezca el cadáver con la garganta abierta de un viejo epiléptico. O
catalogaremos como anécdota como un hombre amenaza a su amante, con un cuchillo o la vuelta a casa en un ataúd de un muchacho que vivió sus últimas horas en un manicomio. Desde luego, estos son algunos de los episodios más trágicos, los cuales se dan de la mano con otros no menos duro como la condenación religiosa que sufre una madre soltera, las peleas habituales entre vecinos o el maltrato animal, que también se pasean entre estas páginas. La maestría con la que Prichard lleva la batuta de esta historia es que esa brutalidad va empapándonos lentamente, pero lo hace con tenazas de hierro. Y eso hace del viaje que es este libro algo oscuramente inolvidable.
Como he dicho antes, “Una Noche de Luna” tiene mucho de sátira y de crítica hacia una empobrecida sociedad rural de un Gales marcado por el trabajo en la cantera o la mina, el hambre, las desigualdades sociales, la pobreza y la red de apoyos que se crean entre familiares y vecinos, gente humilde pero digna y fuerte de una manera humana y resilente. Un microcosmos en la que la religiosidad extrema, los cotilleos, las relaciones entre sus participantes, las creencias, los prejuicios y las duras condiciones de vida también marcan de una manera extenuante los tiempos y los hechos que se narran. En el esclarecedor epílogo que acompaña esta edición, escrito por una periodista, escritora e historiadora llamada Jan Morris, se nos habla de que esta historia bebe mucho de la propia biografía de su autor, dándonos muchos datos y pistas que conectan a la criatura y al creador, y que explica muchas de las cosas que encontramos entre sus páginas. En un momento determinado, la autora habla de hasta qué punto es necesario que una obra se sustente en su propio creador, y comenta que ella es partidaria de que ambos vayan por caminos diferentes. Personalmente yo no estoy de acuerdo con eso, me gusta ver hasta qué punto las vivencias personales y las creencias de un autor sirven para dar forma sus historias, me parece algo fascinante y queda mucha vivacidad a una trama, la convierte en algo que se mueve y que respira y que tiene vida propia. Para mí, que un autor sepa componer una historia que esté bien escrita con algo más que íntimo marca mucho la diferencia. Es un ejercicio alquímico que si sale bien puede ser espectacular. Y creo que este es uno de estos casos que no abundan tanto como a los lectores nos gustaría. Saber que el pueblo en el que tienen lugar los acontecimientos de la novela se basa sin ningún pudor en el Bethseda natal de Prichard no solo aporta mucho interés a la lectura. Y te da una pista de hasta qué punto esta es, en realidad, la historia de una madre y su hijo, pese a la multitud de episodios y personajes que sazonan todo el libro y que pueden hacerte perder el norte. La voz de ese niño que corretea por la noche entre las montañas es la de un autor que nunca pudo dejarle ir, marcado permanentemente por los acontecimientos que en el libro son el penúltimo (o decimocuarto) capítulo. Sin duda alguna la parte más triste y descorazonadora de todo el conjunto y su autentico motor, la que se siente como si una mano te retorciera el corazón mientras la lees. Ese capítulo es de tal fuerza que uno nota instintivamente hasta qué punto es real, está plasmado con tanta tristeza y abandono que hace que esas líneas y por ende todo el libro acaben convirtiéndose en algo inolvidable y descorazonador.
La obra está articulada en 15 capítulos que siguen una estructura similar. El protagonista va caminando de noche mientras recuerda una jornada concreta, y dentro del mismo capítulo se dan diferentes saltos de tiempo que sirven para conectar distintas historias o acontecimientos entre sí. La prosa de Prichard en un principio parece muy directa y parca en recursos literarios o estilísticos, incluso árida y brusca a ratos. Quizás, al lector hispanohablante al principio le parezca muy lioso que los personajes sean mencionados con sus nombres seguidos por largos epítetos, que hacen referencia a su trabajo, al de sus padres o al lugar donde viven. Ese, creo, fue uno de los motivos por los que me costó un poco conectar al principio con la historia. Pero una vez que te acostumbras, esta característica tan común de la cultura galesa te ayuda mucho ubicar a cada personaje dentro de la historia y del organigrama general del pueblo. El autor va desarrollando con precisión y eficacia cómo es la vida en el pueblo minero del protagonista y nos va presentando a sus habitantes más significativos, señalándonos sus curiosidades y haciéndoles perfectamente reconocibles. Pero poco a poco vas descubriendo que no todo es tan sencillo y directo en la forma de escribir el autor. Hay mucho simbolismo en una novela tan llena de silencios y de sutilezas, por lo que hay que tener el ojo avizor para captar lo que esconde cada detalle o hecho. En varias ocasiones, además, aparece una voz de corte más poético que descoloca totalmente mientras lees, ya que no sabes muy bien que es lo que quiere decirle al lector y que pinta en todo el conjunto, ya que lo que aporta al mismo no tiene mucho sentido. Dicha voz parece retrotraernos a tiempos más antiguos que el mundo, al folklore y poesía galesa; tiene un matiz vibrante y melancólico, y un carácter un tanto profético, uno siente que es la voz de la naturaleza que nos adelanta que bajo la tenue luz de la luna hechos oscuros van a tener lugar, de una forma tan lorquiana como entroncada en la lírica de los antiguos bardos galeses. Y que va cobrando sentido justo al final. En el último capítulo hay un giro de guion que da a toda la historia un aura más trágica y oscura, que realmente es muy abrupto que no podías esperarte ni en sueños. En otra obra no me habría gustado. Pero en este caso lo compro totalmente. Me ha parecido que le daba a todo un aire diferente y que era el devenir natural de el arco evolutivo de un niño que pasa a la adultez en las peores condiciones posibles, que paulativamente va quedándose solo y desamparado. Uno casi puede sentir, pese a todo, su grito subterráneo en las tinieblas, llamando desesperado a su madre y llorando por todo lo que ha perdido.
“Una Noche de Luna” no es una mera crónica rural y de crecimiento. Es un viaje de locura y muerte, una nana que se toca bajo la luz de la luna, tan realista como lírica, tan dulce y amable como cruel y amargo. Es una obra que compromete al lector con su crudeza y con la amabilidad de la voz de su protagonista que forman un todo insoldable. Hay tristeza y melancolía en cada una de sus líneas, y estas solo impactan en ti justo al final. Sin duda ha sido un libro inolvidable que ha sobrepasado todos mis esquemas. No ha resultado nada de lo que esperaba. Y, desde luego, se va a mi lista de mejores lecturas de este 2024.
March 10, 2020
“No other country but Wales could spawn the mind that could create such a work.” -- Niall GriffithsOne Moonlit Night (Un Nos Ola Leuad), Caradog Prichard’s melodious Welsh-language novel, written entirely in local dialect, was first published in 1961. It is a haunting portrayal of life in Bethesda, a small North Wales town on the edge of Snowdonia and offers a bleak but beautiful child’s-eye depiction of rural existence during the First World War.
This extraordinary – some might say ‘odd’ – book, which in many ways recalls Under Milk Wood, was translated into English by Philip Mitchell in 1995. Chris Ross in The Guardian described it as “miraculously [conveying] the incantatory biblical and Celtic cadences of the original”, and indeed, his rendering brought this little-known contemporary classic to a far wider readership.
It is a slim volume containing fifteen tales, all of which are set in and around “the Village”, and within whose pages you will encounter insanity, suicide, sadism, death, domestic violence, fornication and epilepsy, to name but a smidgen of its contents. If it were published today, one suspects it would present the unwitting book critic with a hazardous minefield of trigger warnings.
In chapter I, we meet the unnamed narrator, a naïve, curious, and at times uncannily perceptive boy who lives with his widowed Mam (mother), to whom he is utterly devoted. He speaks in broad North Walian vernacular – which remains perceptible to some extent in the English-language version. Thus, you will still find untranslated Welsh words in the text, especially the frequently uttered “Dew” (pronounced du or dyu), an exclamation of exasperation or annoyance. A Welshism, if you like – defined by some modern-day wags as Wenglish.
Over this and the following chapters, we follow the boy as he wanders the dim streets of his home town, sometimes with his best friend Huw, recalling the events of his life with a poetic tenderness. He comes across characters like Grace Ellen Shoe Shop, Frank Bee Hive, Little Will Policeman, Will Starch Collar, Price the School and a multitude of people named after their occupation, idiosyncrasy or some other befitting moniker. Common practice, even today, in parts of Wales.
In her 2009 afterword, the eminent Welsh historian, author and travel writer, Jan Morris, describes One Moonlit Night as “beyond rational analysis” and like “a sort of dream.” I’ve heard the book described as “Bethesda bildungsroman”, but it is also a full-flavoured confection of mental illness, religious zealotry and small-town parochialism – all shot through with plaintive lyricism.
The novel contains a great many biographical details, especially in relation to Prichard’s family and the seemingly hard-working, devout, politically aware rural folk of his childhood. In these esoteric musings, delivered as he makes his way to Pen Llyn Du, he ponders his troubled boyhood and recounts in a glorious prose-stream his memories of the people, events and slate-fields of his childhood. Recollections of a long-vanished way of life.
“Dew, I heard the sound of Bob Cuenant’s fist like a Salvation Army Band drum hitting Owen Llan in the chest.”You can read more of my reviews and other literary features at Book Jotter.
March 21, 2021
I thought for a long time that Wales was a county in England (and that is why Charles is called the Prince of Wales) and everyone in Wales spoke in English. There was even a county cricket team from Wales called Glamorgan and I admired many cricketers who played for that team. (Even the great Viv Richards played for Glamorgan towards the end of his career.) So I was surprised when I discovered that everything I knew about Wales was wrong, and Wales had its own language, literature, history and culture. March is a special time of celebrations in Wales. I decided to participate this year and read Caradog Prichard's classic novel 'One Moonlit Night'.
The narrator of 'One Moonlit Night' is a boy who is around ten years old. He lives in a small village with his mother, who raises him on her own. Most people in the village are poor. The story happens at around the time of the First World War. Our unnamed narrator describes his life in the village, the adventures he has with his best friends Huw and Moi, the poverty that people experience everyday, how people are still happy and show kindness to each other inspite of being poor, the role of the church in village life, how the war impacts the life of the people and the tragedy and occasional glory it brings, how a child's life can suddenly change and be turned upside down because of things that grownups do – these and other things are explored in the book. Our ten year old narrator's voice is beautiful and charming and his friendship with his besties Huw and Moi is beautifully depicted. The narrator even falls in love with a girl who is older than him and it is beautiful and sad at the same time. I love the way the narrator's voice takes us into the mind of a ten year old boy and makes us see the world through his eyes. It is brilliant. Caradog Prichard manages to capture that time so beautifully and there are many scenes which made me smile with pleasure and there are also some scenes that made me cry.
This passage made me smile.
"Thanks very much, I said, taking the big piece of buttered bread and the big glass of milk and going to sit on the slate seat under the window. I’ll be fit to walk miles after this. Then while I was busy drinking, who should come zooming round the end of the house but the dog who I’d heard barking in the back. Leave the little boy alone, Toss, said someone from the kitchen and Toss stopped dead when he saw me sitting on the slate seat. He was a big sheepdog with eyes the same colour as glass eyes. He growled a little bit to start with and I was frightened that he was going to bite me. So I made a sort of kissing sound with my mouth. Come on then, Toss, I said, and when he heard me say his name he wagged his tail and opened his mouth and let his tongue dangle out the way dogs do when they’re laughing. Come on then, Toss, I said again, and broke off a piece of my bread and put it beside me on the slate seat. Then he came up very slowly, wagging his tail and took the piece of bread from the seat. When I broke off another bit for him, he took that from my hand and then put his front feet on my knees and began licking my face. We were great friends in no time and after we’d finished eating the bread and butter, we played throw the stone in the field for a while. Then I took the empty glass back to the house and knocked at the door, and Toss ran inside to the kitchen. There you are, said the rosy-cheeked lady as she took the glass. You look a bit better now, my boy. Go straight home now or your Mam will start to worry about you. I’m going. Thanks a lot. How old is Toss? Fourteen. Lor, he’s older than me. Good afternoon."
This passage made me cry. It has spoilers and so if you are planning to read the book, please don't read this passage.
"Jesus, the people in the South talk funny, don’t they? said Moi when we went to see him the following day. Pass me that pot again. And there was poor Moi, still in bed and still spitting blood. And that was the last time we saw old Moi. The following Sunday night, Huw called round and his face was like chalk. Have you heard? he said at the door without coming in. Heard what? said Mam. Come in from the door, Huw, I said. What’s up? Moi’s dead, he said quietly. Moi? No, you’re telling lies, Huw. But I knew by his face that Huw was telling the truth. I just needed to say something, just like ages ago when I used to whistle as I went along Post Lane after dark, pretending that I wasn’t frightened of bogeymen. And we were talking to him on Monday night, I said, as though I still didn’t believe it. He was spitting a lot of blood that night, said Huw. That bloomin’ TB, said Mam. It takes young and old alike. Then I started to cry like a baby. I couldn’t stop for the life of me, though I tried my very best to stop cos I was embarrassed with Huw and Mam watching me. Moi and him were close friends, Huw said to Mam. But, of course, Huw was making excuses for me crying cos he was as close to Moi as I was. You never saw Huw crying like I did. But Huw cried, too, at the funeral though nobody saw him that time except me. It was only one little tear that rolled down his cheek and even I wouldn’t have seen that if he hadn’t wiped his eye with the sleeve of his surplice, as we both stood with the Choir at the graveside singing: My friends are homeward going Before me one by one And I am left an orphan A pilgrim all alone That’s what we sang at Griffith Evans Braich’s funeral, and Canon’s and all the others, too, but we were just singing cos we got tuppence for singing at those. It was different at Moi’s funeral cos he was our friend and the words were true. I couldn’t see anything when Hughes the Parson threw a handful of soil onto Moi’s coffin after they’d lowered it into the grave with a rope cos my eyes were just like two windows after it’s been raining."
This passage made me cry even more. I can't tell you why he is crying. You have to read the book to find out.
"And then I started crying. Not crying like I used to years ago whenever I fell down and hurt myself; and not crying like I used to at some funerals either; and not crying like when Mam went home and left me in Guto’s bed at Bwlch Farm ages ago. But crying just like being sick. Crying without caring who was looking at me. Crying as though it was the end of the world. Crying and screaming the place down, not caring who was listening. And glad to be crying, the same way some people are glad when they’re singing, and others are glad when they’re laughing. Dew, I’d never cried like that before, and I’ve never cried like that since, either. I’d love to be able to cry like that again, just once more."
I loved 'One Moonlit Night'. It is the first novel written in Welsh that I've ever read (this book was translated into English by Philip Mitchell) and I feel that I am breaking new ground today as a reader, reading my first novel in a new language. It is an exceptional book and it is one of the great stories about childhood, one of the great coming-of-age novels. It made me think of my favourite coming-of-age stories – Marlen Haushofer's 'Nowhere Ending Sky', the film 'Stand By Me' which was based on Stephen King's story, and the Tamil film 'Azhiyadha Kolangal'. I am glad I read it. It is the only novel that Caradog Prichard wrote and I feel sad when I think about that.
Have you read 'One Moonlit Night'? What do you think about it? Have you read any novel which was originally written in Welsh?
The narrator of 'One Moonlit Night' is a boy who is around ten years old. He lives in a small village with his mother, who raises him on her own. Most people in the village are poor. The story happens at around the time of the First World War. Our unnamed narrator describes his life in the village, the adventures he has with his best friends Huw and Moi, the poverty that people experience everyday, how people are still happy and show kindness to each other inspite of being poor, the role of the church in village life, how the war impacts the life of the people and the tragedy and occasional glory it brings, how a child's life can suddenly change and be turned upside down because of things that grownups do – these and other things are explored in the book. Our ten year old narrator's voice is beautiful and charming and his friendship with his besties Huw and Moi is beautifully depicted. The narrator even falls in love with a girl who is older than him and it is beautiful and sad at the same time. I love the way the narrator's voice takes us into the mind of a ten year old boy and makes us see the world through his eyes. It is brilliant. Caradog Prichard manages to capture that time so beautifully and there are many scenes which made me smile with pleasure and there are also some scenes that made me cry.
This passage made me smile.
"Thanks very much, I said, taking the big piece of buttered bread and the big glass of milk and going to sit on the slate seat under the window. I’ll be fit to walk miles after this. Then while I was busy drinking, who should come zooming round the end of the house but the dog who I’d heard barking in the back. Leave the little boy alone, Toss, said someone from the kitchen and Toss stopped dead when he saw me sitting on the slate seat. He was a big sheepdog with eyes the same colour as glass eyes. He growled a little bit to start with and I was frightened that he was going to bite me. So I made a sort of kissing sound with my mouth. Come on then, Toss, I said, and when he heard me say his name he wagged his tail and opened his mouth and let his tongue dangle out the way dogs do when they’re laughing. Come on then, Toss, I said again, and broke off a piece of my bread and put it beside me on the slate seat. Then he came up very slowly, wagging his tail and took the piece of bread from the seat. When I broke off another bit for him, he took that from my hand and then put his front feet on my knees and began licking my face. We were great friends in no time and after we’d finished eating the bread and butter, we played throw the stone in the field for a while. Then I took the empty glass back to the house and knocked at the door, and Toss ran inside to the kitchen. There you are, said the rosy-cheeked lady as she took the glass. You look a bit better now, my boy. Go straight home now or your Mam will start to worry about you. I’m going. Thanks a lot. How old is Toss? Fourteen. Lor, he’s older than me. Good afternoon."
This passage made me cry. It has spoilers and so if you are planning to read the book, please don't read this passage.
"Jesus, the people in the South talk funny, don’t they? said Moi when we went to see him the following day. Pass me that pot again. And there was poor Moi, still in bed and still spitting blood. And that was the last time we saw old Moi. The following Sunday night, Huw called round and his face was like chalk. Have you heard? he said at the door without coming in. Heard what? said Mam. Come in from the door, Huw, I said. What’s up? Moi’s dead, he said quietly. Moi? No, you’re telling lies, Huw. But I knew by his face that Huw was telling the truth. I just needed to say something, just like ages ago when I used to whistle as I went along Post Lane after dark, pretending that I wasn’t frightened of bogeymen. And we were talking to him on Monday night, I said, as though I still didn’t believe it. He was spitting a lot of blood that night, said Huw. That bloomin’ TB, said Mam. It takes young and old alike. Then I started to cry like a baby. I couldn’t stop for the life of me, though I tried my very best to stop cos I was embarrassed with Huw and Mam watching me. Moi and him were close friends, Huw said to Mam. But, of course, Huw was making excuses for me crying cos he was as close to Moi as I was. You never saw Huw crying like I did. But Huw cried, too, at the funeral though nobody saw him that time except me. It was only one little tear that rolled down his cheek and even I wouldn’t have seen that if he hadn’t wiped his eye with the sleeve of his surplice, as we both stood with the Choir at the graveside singing: My friends are homeward going Before me one by one And I am left an orphan A pilgrim all alone That’s what we sang at Griffith Evans Braich’s funeral, and Canon’s and all the others, too, but we were just singing cos we got tuppence for singing at those. It was different at Moi’s funeral cos he was our friend and the words were true. I couldn’t see anything when Hughes the Parson threw a handful of soil onto Moi’s coffin after they’d lowered it into the grave with a rope cos my eyes were just like two windows after it’s been raining."
This passage made me cry even more. I can't tell you why he is crying. You have to read the book to find out.
"And then I started crying. Not crying like I used to years ago whenever I fell down and hurt myself; and not crying like I used to at some funerals either; and not crying like when Mam went home and left me in Guto’s bed at Bwlch Farm ages ago. But crying just like being sick. Crying without caring who was looking at me. Crying as though it was the end of the world. Crying and screaming the place down, not caring who was listening. And glad to be crying, the same way some people are glad when they’re singing, and others are glad when they’re laughing. Dew, I’d never cried like that before, and I’ve never cried like that since, either. I’d love to be able to cry like that again, just once more."
I loved 'One Moonlit Night'. It is the first novel written in Welsh that I've ever read (this book was translated into English by Philip Mitchell) and I feel that I am breaking new ground today as a reader, reading my first novel in a new language. It is an exceptional book and it is one of the great stories about childhood, one of the great coming-of-age novels. It made me think of my favourite coming-of-age stories – Marlen Haushofer's 'Nowhere Ending Sky', the film 'Stand By Me' which was based on Stephen King's story, and the Tamil film 'Azhiyadha Kolangal'. I am glad I read it. It is the only novel that Caradog Prichard wrote and I feel sad when I think about that.
Have you read 'One Moonlit Night'? What do you think about it? Have you read any novel which was originally written in Welsh?
August 18, 2023
Dew, I just read this book. Dew, I really enjoyed it. Dew, it was really quite charming. Dew, I liked the way he described people as Price the School, Owen the Coal, or Bob Milk Cart.
A young (nameless) boy (around ten) narrates his experiences of the many moonlit nights he experiences in a small village in Wales during and after the first world war. This is very clearly based on Caradog Prichard's own life. He hangs about with his pals Huw and Moi, dreams of the lovely Ceri (roughly ten years older than him), and loves listening to the men in the choir. He helps his mam as she irons and cooks and goes shopping; he watches as she gradually descends into mental illness.
There is something very romantic about the book. It deals with childhood memory very effectively but also with the tribulations of small village life. And it is, of course, very Welsh (having been translated from the Welsh to English). Sometimes the book is charming and light (the chapter with the football match which evoked a real sense of community and nostalgia) and sometimes it is profoundly sad and introspective (his best friend Moi's illness). At other times it simply details life as it was then, drinking, mining, quarries, funerals, boxing, bread and butter, the war. It was a nice window into another time and place. It is a small story with a melancholy heart.
There are moments of genuine beauty in the writing, almost a touch of magical realism, and the occasional flourish of such lyrical fluidity that it feels close to being stream-of-consciousness when, in reality, it is anything but. And never has Christianity or the bible seemed more beautiful than in the hands of Prichard. The book must be even more wonderful in the original Welsh.
And who doesn't love a book with a character called Mary Plums?
A young (nameless) boy (around ten) narrates his experiences of the many moonlit nights he experiences in a small village in Wales during and after the first world war. This is very clearly based on Caradog Prichard's own life. He hangs about with his pals Huw and Moi, dreams of the lovely Ceri (roughly ten years older than him), and loves listening to the men in the choir. He helps his mam as she irons and cooks and goes shopping; he watches as she gradually descends into mental illness.
There is something very romantic about the book. It deals with childhood memory very effectively but also with the tribulations of small village life. And it is, of course, very Welsh (having been translated from the Welsh to English). Sometimes the book is charming and light (the chapter with the football match which evoked a real sense of community and nostalgia) and sometimes it is profoundly sad and introspective (his best friend Moi's illness). At other times it simply details life as it was then, drinking, mining, quarries, funerals, boxing, bread and butter, the war. It was a nice window into another time and place. It is a small story with a melancholy heart.
There are moments of genuine beauty in the writing, almost a touch of magical realism, and the occasional flourish of such lyrical fluidity that it feels close to being stream-of-consciousness when, in reality, it is anything but. And never has Christianity or the bible seemed more beautiful than in the hands of Prichard. The book must be even more wonderful in the original Welsh.
And who doesn't love a book with a character called Mary Plums?
May 7, 2018
Piękna, wzruszająca, perfekcyjnie smutna historia dorastania w przemysłowym miasteczku na północy Walii, w czasach I Wojny Światowej. Swoiste katharsis autora, uporanie się z trudną relacją z matką w poetycki, subtelny sposób. Hipnotyzująca.
September 5, 2024
¿Qué es lo mejor que te puede pasar de niño cuando llegas a tu casa con un zapato menos, una raja de campeonato en el pantalón, el pelo lleno de telarañas y una gallina debajo del brazo? Pues que tu madre, en vez de soltarte un sopapo de buenas a primeras te pregunte calmadamente qué es lo que ha pasado para que llegues así. Mi madre fue más de la opción de sopapos, pero si hubiera preguntado aquella vez, tal vez le hubiera dicho que esa tarde fui a casa de la abuela a por un bocadillo de chorizo, pero justo cuando estaba llegando al huerto de la parte delantera de la casa de los abuelos capté la presencia de una gallina forastera picoteando las lechugas. Después de planificar concienzudamente una maniobra evasiva en mi mente opté por la opción más sencilla, pero a la vez más efectiva: salí corriendo como alma que lleva el diablo detrás del ave gritando TORTILLAAAA (vete tú a saber por qué) con tan mala suerte que metí el pie entre las habichuelas recién regadas. Probablemente ahí perdí el zapato.
La gallina corría lo suyo, no te creas. Saltó la alambrada que cercaba el huerto sin perder ni una pluma. Yo también la salté, pero con tan mala suerte que el pantalón se enganchó en la alambrada. De ahí lo de la raja, claro.
Pero eso no me detuvo. Observé como la gallina me sonreía retándome (o algo así interpreté yo, lo juro) mientras se metía en el granero, y yo allá que fui como una bala detrás de ella. Después de tres cabezazos contra sabe Dios qué en la oscuridad de la habitación la agarré bien fuerte de una pata a riesgo de ser herido de muerte de un picotazo en la mano y la lleve como prueba de mi victoriosa misión como salvador de las lechugas del huerto. Puñetas, ojalá se lo hubiera podido explicar a mi madre antes del mamporro. O por lo menos me podría haber dejado cambiarme de ropa antes de tener que ir a devolvérsela a Manolo el de tejar, el dueño legítimo del bicharraco.
Así es el universo de los niños y así nos cuenta también sus andanzas el protagonista de Una noche de luna mientras juega con sus amigos y nos va contando como viven los habitantes de un pequeño pueblo galés a través de sus ojos. ¡Dios mío, en ese pueblo sí que hay mamporros, y peleas, y la gente pasa mucha hambre, y hay hombres que hacen cosas muy extrañas con mujeres, y gente que se muere y otras que se van y nunca vuelven. Y está la mina en la que trabajan muchos en el pueblo. Y también está el lago negro. Y hay muchos como Will Cuello de Almidón dicen que han oído una voz muy extraña cerca del lago. Creo que madre sabe algo sobre eso, pero lo mejor de todo es que leas el libro y así podrás saber todo lo que pasa en el pueblo, y conocerás a Huw, y a Moi, y a Frank el Colmenas, y a Will el porteador, y a Mary Ciruelas y a todos los demás.
Porque claro, aunque Juanjo y yo os contemos las cosas que pasan por aquí todos sabemos que la luz de la luna altera la forma y la percepción de todo lo que nos rodea cuando la noche es cerrada y como gran parte de esta historia ocurre de noche no queremos que te pierdas nada, no vaya a ser que luego las cosas no sean lo que parecen… o sí. Quien sabe. Si esta noche hay luna llena tal vez podamos encontrarnos y entonces nos cuentas qué te parece este libro.
#cosasdelectores
#lalibreriaambulante
Una noche de luna
Caradog Prichard
#Muñecainfinita
https://www.lalibreriaambulante.es/es...
La gallina corría lo suyo, no te creas. Saltó la alambrada que cercaba el huerto sin perder ni una pluma. Yo también la salté, pero con tan mala suerte que el pantalón se enganchó en la alambrada. De ahí lo de la raja, claro.
Pero eso no me detuvo. Observé como la gallina me sonreía retándome (o algo así interpreté yo, lo juro) mientras se metía en el granero, y yo allá que fui como una bala detrás de ella. Después de tres cabezazos contra sabe Dios qué en la oscuridad de la habitación la agarré bien fuerte de una pata a riesgo de ser herido de muerte de un picotazo en la mano y la lleve como prueba de mi victoriosa misión como salvador de las lechugas del huerto. Puñetas, ojalá se lo hubiera podido explicar a mi madre antes del mamporro. O por lo menos me podría haber dejado cambiarme de ropa antes de tener que ir a devolvérsela a Manolo el de tejar, el dueño legítimo del bicharraco.
Así es el universo de los niños y así nos cuenta también sus andanzas el protagonista de Una noche de luna mientras juega con sus amigos y nos va contando como viven los habitantes de un pequeño pueblo galés a través de sus ojos. ¡Dios mío, en ese pueblo sí que hay mamporros, y peleas, y la gente pasa mucha hambre, y hay hombres que hacen cosas muy extrañas con mujeres, y gente que se muere y otras que se van y nunca vuelven. Y está la mina en la que trabajan muchos en el pueblo. Y también está el lago negro. Y hay muchos como Will Cuello de Almidón dicen que han oído una voz muy extraña cerca del lago. Creo que madre sabe algo sobre eso, pero lo mejor de todo es que leas el libro y así podrás saber todo lo que pasa en el pueblo, y conocerás a Huw, y a Moi, y a Frank el Colmenas, y a Will el porteador, y a Mary Ciruelas y a todos los demás.
Porque claro, aunque Juanjo y yo os contemos las cosas que pasan por aquí todos sabemos que la luz de la luna altera la forma y la percepción de todo lo que nos rodea cuando la noche es cerrada y como gran parte de esta historia ocurre de noche no queremos que te pierdas nada, no vaya a ser que luego las cosas no sean lo que parecen… o sí. Quien sabe. Si esta noche hay luna llena tal vez podamos encontrarnos y entonces nos cuentas qué te parece este libro.
#cosasdelectores
#lalibreriaambulante
Una noche de luna
Caradog Prichard
#Muñecainfinita
https://www.lalibreriaambulante.es/es...
July 17, 2019
Probably the best book you’ve never heard of. The story and the tragedies of a Welsh town told through the eyes of a 10 year old boy trying to make sense of the world that surrounds him, and the grief and hurt that comes with growing up in the days of the Great War.
March 23, 2020
Fantastic novel. Read it for the 2020 Wales Readathon. Wrote about it on my blog — https://chriswolak.com/2020/03/22/one...
February 24, 2025
El Macondo de Gal·les?
Poble miner durant i després de la 1a Guerra Mundial.
En qualsevol cas queda clar que a la pàgina 10 ja t’estimes al nen/noi (alter ego de Prichard) que t’explica la seva història amb una barreja d’innocència i entremaliadures infantils per una banda i d’una maduresa i seny per l’atra que fa que el llibre sigui únic. Supervivència, mort, amor, religió, bogeria… Un llibre més dur del que sembla però a la vegada divertit, entranyable i emotiu.
Poble miner durant i després de la 1a Guerra Mundial.
En qualsevol cas queda clar que a la pàgina 10 ja t’estimes al nen/noi (alter ego de Prichard) que t’explica la seva història amb una barreja d’innocència i entremaliadures infantils per una banda i d’una maduresa i seny per l’atra que fa que el llibre sigui únic. Supervivència, mort, amor, religió, bogeria… Un llibre més dur del que sembla però a la vegada divertit, entranyable i emotiu.
March 28, 2025
Un llibre únic, et commou la narració d’el nen-narrador amb tota la seva inocencia, pero veus la duressa de la vida a Gal·les, pobressa, bogeria, gana, desesparació. Ja als primers capituls, si hagues tingut davant al nen l’abraçaria amb tot el carinyo. Et commou tambe la responsabilitat del nen en front de la mare, com la respecte i cuida. Un llibre dramatic i al mateix temps poetic i commovador. A l’epilag, Jon Morris, ja explica que el llibre te molt d’autobiografic.
November 1, 2016
This is a book that is considered a Welsh classic. It's not a great book, but it's close to be one. The things I was expecting to find in The Life of Rebecca Jones were here.
While in Rebecca, excepting two pages or three, things described could have happened anywhere in a rural setting in the western world, One Moonlit Night is completely Welsh. Everything - geography, language, people, religion - is as Welsh as it can get. I have traveled to the region were the story is set (and Rebecca is set, too), and I can easily relate to it.
The story is a first-person narrative, the life in the village told by the eyes of a boy around 10 years old (the books is not very chronological, but it seems to span about three, four years of time). His father is dead and he lives with his mother. As he tells his story, he sees everything with the eyes of a child (the author is very successful in this), the good and the bad - he tells us about a game of football, then a suicide, then he getting lost in the valleys, the chase of a rapist, etc. His feelings and reactions are very well done.
From the very first pages I was confident One Moonlit Night was going to be at least good. It keeps going in a good pace, without many ups and downs, in fact without any really dramatic change to the story. Sometimes you could take, let's say, the tenth chapter and change it with the fourth and it won't make that much difference, until the last chapters.
I won't spoil anything, but in the chapter before the last there is an incident that is basically the description of something that really happened to the author. It's very credible. But, unfortunately, in the last chapter there is a situation that doesn't seem credible - a conclusion that doesn't seem to fit with the character. Maybe some people will like it, but for me it was like another person writing the ending, or as if Prichard had no idea how to end - maybe he didn't want to tell what really happened to him, going to London to work, maybe he thought it was too banal - and decided to create something a bit exagerated. But this something is not satisfactory imho.
Even so, I think the book is essential to anyone that enjoys or want to know about Wales and Welsh literature. But it's not universal - if you don't care about Wales, I couldn't say the book is a necessary reading (even tough it can be fully enjoyed).
Four stars - for the strenght of the narrative, the minutiae of rural life, a good rythm that never gets boring, even though the ending seems to follow Chandler's advice - "When in Doubt Have a Man Come Through a Door with a Gun in His Hand".
While in Rebecca, excepting two pages or three, things described could have happened anywhere in a rural setting in the western world, One Moonlit Night is completely Welsh. Everything - geography, language, people, religion - is as Welsh as it can get. I have traveled to the region were the story is set (and Rebecca is set, too), and I can easily relate to it.
The story is a first-person narrative, the life in the village told by the eyes of a boy around 10 years old (the books is not very chronological, but it seems to span about three, four years of time). His father is dead and he lives with his mother. As he tells his story, he sees everything with the eyes of a child (the author is very successful in this), the good and the bad - he tells us about a game of football, then a suicide, then he getting lost in the valleys, the chase of a rapist, etc. His feelings and reactions are very well done.
From the very first pages I was confident One Moonlit Night was going to be at least good. It keeps going in a good pace, without many ups and downs, in fact without any really dramatic change to the story. Sometimes you could take, let's say, the tenth chapter and change it with the fourth and it won't make that much difference, until the last chapters.
I won't spoil anything, but in the chapter before the last there is an incident that is basically the description of something that really happened to the author. It's very credible. But, unfortunately, in the last chapter there is a situation that doesn't seem credible - a conclusion that doesn't seem to fit with the character. Maybe some people will like it, but for me it was like another person writing the ending, or as if Prichard had no idea how to end - maybe he didn't want to tell what really happened to him, going to London to work, maybe he thought it was too banal - and decided to create something a bit exagerated. But this something is not satisfactory imho.
Even so, I think the book is essential to anyone that enjoys or want to know about Wales and Welsh literature. But it's not universal - if you don't care about Wales, I couldn't say the book is a necessary reading (even tough it can be fully enjoyed).
Four stars - for the strenght of the narrative, the minutiae of rural life, a good rythm that never gets boring, even though the ending seems to follow Chandler's advice - "When in Doubt Have a Man Come Through a Door with a Gun in His Hand".
November 19, 2025
I don’t have praise high enough for this book, and I can’t quite think of the right words to explain why it is so completely compelling.
There is something dream-like but totally real about the narrative. Told simultaneously from the open-hearted, simple perceptive of a young boy growing up in a small quarrying village in Wales, but with the experience and foresight of a grown man. It is full of sorrow and loss, but you will spend a lot of the book smiling to yourself, and feeling like you know it’s sweet-natured, curious, downtrodden speaker. The inclination towards kindness and community is enrapturing.
Read the damn thing. I beg you.
There is something dream-like but totally real about the narrative. Told simultaneously from the open-hearted, simple perceptive of a young boy growing up in a small quarrying village in Wales, but with the experience and foresight of a grown man. It is full of sorrow and loss, but you will spend a lot of the book smiling to yourself, and feeling like you know it’s sweet-natured, curious, downtrodden speaker. The inclination towards kindness and community is enrapturing.
Read the damn thing. I beg you.
July 24, 2022
Sometimes you resist the thrall of something being described as a classic, mainly out of pigheadedness but also because you feel it’s somehow your choice to make not a pundit or academic. But no, I fully suspect One Moonlit Night might well be the greatest Welsh novel of all time. It’s a tricky, elusive thing that weaves and darts from Bildungsroman to psychological drama to something headier and stranger, all of which darts around our narrator. And our narrator himself is a slippery thing all on his own, slipping from childhood to adulthood without warning, from good hearted wonderment to something approximating mental collapse, from innocence to experience… you’re never quite sure where you are with him but he’s also always, always eminently likeable
There’s a definite vague similarity with Under Milk Wood, but Prichard’s Bethesda is a far darker and stranger and scarier place. But as Jan Morris states in her afterword, it’s essentially a kindhearted and warm book that is afflicted by terrible things. Our narrator desperately wants to cling to innocence, but events and people (and more) just constantly pull him away from that. It’s a tremendously subtle book in as much as the evidence for his own mental decline is appropriately buried by his adult sense of shame or refusal to accept that part of his life. So there’s a real complexity here trying to shake the truth out of the last forty odd pages. It’s not so much that the real story is buried, more that our narrator resists confronting it and that this truth is just jostling constantly against his psyche, causing it inevitable damage
And how much of it is even literal by the time we get to the end? We’re talking about a book that is taken over by a mysterious, poetic force of nature of some kind and whose relationship to the narrator is never made explicit. There are secrets here, but some harder to identify than others. An extraordinary book, a rich and emotionally complex novel that juggles hope and sadness, joy and pain, warmth and tangible and very real despair. It truly is a masterpiece
There’s a definite vague similarity with Under Milk Wood, but Prichard’s Bethesda is a far darker and stranger and scarier place. But as Jan Morris states in her afterword, it’s essentially a kindhearted and warm book that is afflicted by terrible things. Our narrator desperately wants to cling to innocence, but events and people (and more) just constantly pull him away from that. It’s a tremendously subtle book in as much as the evidence for his own mental decline is appropriately buried by his adult sense of shame or refusal to accept that part of his life. So there’s a real complexity here trying to shake the truth out of the last forty odd pages. It’s not so much that the real story is buried, more that our narrator resists confronting it and that this truth is just jostling constantly against his psyche, causing it inevitable damage
And how much of it is even literal by the time we get to the end? We’re talking about a book that is taken over by a mysterious, poetic force of nature of some kind and whose relationship to the narrator is never made explicit. There are secrets here, but some harder to identify than others. An extraordinary book, a rich and emotionally complex novel that juggles hope and sadness, joy and pain, warmth and tangible and very real despair. It truly is a masterpiece
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
March 9, 2018
"There’s a full moon tonight. Why won’t you let Huw come out to play, O Queen of the Black Lake?"
Half-fictional memories of a long-gone childhood are commonplace enough – but not when they are so hauntingly rooted in landscape, language, and incipient madness as they are in One Moonlit Night.
It is an astonishing book. A dreamscape that inextricably melds together the pignut-hunting, hymn-singing, game-playing, bread-and-butter-eating memories of a boy in a Welsh slate-mining village in the time of the Great War with the suicides, adulteries, perversions, violence, and deaths that accompany them. The recurring phrase “It was a moonlit night just like tonight” only emphasizes the dreamlike quality of the novel – wonderfully translated from the Welsh by Philip Mitchell.
Much of it is actually very funny, though often in a dark sort of way. The old Welsh fondness for identifying people by their trade, residence, and family connexion rather than by their surnames leads to one of the narrator’s childhood schoolfriends being called Little Will Policeman, the policeman himself being called Little Will Policeman’s Dad – though this is not quite so long-winded as Emyr, Little Owen the Coal’s Big Brother, one of the book’s more disturbing characters. And then there’s the narrator’s Mam, destined for the asylum – and the mad dichotomy between Brenhines y Llyn Du, the Queen of the Black Lake, and Brenhines yr Wyddfa, the Queen of Snowdon. Are all the villagers creatures of the Black Lake called up one moonlit night? Dew, it’s an odd book this one. Enigmatic, engrossing, and unsettling.
Half-fictional memories of a long-gone childhood are commonplace enough – but not when they are so hauntingly rooted in landscape, language, and incipient madness as they are in One Moonlit Night.
It is an astonishing book. A dreamscape that inextricably melds together the pignut-hunting, hymn-singing, game-playing, bread-and-butter-eating memories of a boy in a Welsh slate-mining village in the time of the Great War with the suicides, adulteries, perversions, violence, and deaths that accompany them. The recurring phrase “It was a moonlit night just like tonight” only emphasizes the dreamlike quality of the novel – wonderfully translated from the Welsh by Philip Mitchell.
Much of it is actually very funny, though often in a dark sort of way. The old Welsh fondness for identifying people by their trade, residence, and family connexion rather than by their surnames leads to one of the narrator’s childhood schoolfriends being called Little Will Policeman, the policeman himself being called Little Will Policeman’s Dad – though this is not quite so long-winded as Emyr, Little Owen the Coal’s Big Brother, one of the book’s more disturbing characters. And then there’s the narrator’s Mam, destined for the asylum – and the mad dichotomy between Brenhines y Llyn Du, the Queen of the Black Lake, and Brenhines yr Wyddfa, the Queen of Snowdon. Are all the villagers creatures of the Black Lake called up one moonlit night? Dew, it’s an odd book this one. Enigmatic, engrossing, and unsettling.
June 7, 2019
I got this book from this site as a freebie and I am so grateful. It is a masterpiece, to rank alongside Heart of Darkness. Its precision, lucidity, characterisation, evocation of place and time, narrative drive, and entrancing sense of mystery place it amongst the best books I have ever read. I surprised myself in my enjoyment as, as a foreigner in Wales, I sometimes feel ostracised, and avoid any heightening of that sense. This book however, embraced me as a reader, and a lover of Wales, despite my status as an alien.
August 14, 2024
Un 8 . Un libro precioso que habla sobre un niño de un pueblo de Gales durante la primera Guerra Mundial. Quizás esperaba que se le diera algo más de importancia a la situación durante la Guerra o al mundo interno de los personajes (sobre todo al de la madre) pero aún así lo recomiendo mucho.
October 2, 2024
One of the great joys of a well-stocked library is the opportunity it affords for serendipitous discoveries. I doubt I would have come across this translation of a 1962 fever dream of a novel originally published in Welsh by a highly respected Daily Telegraph journalist anywhere else. Set over the course of a day and a night (with frequent jumps back and forth in time), and in Prichard’s childhood village of Bethesda, one of the blackened slate mining villages of North Wales, at heart it’s the story of a boy and his mother. But it’s also a story that touches on madness, suicide, violent death, sexual and physical abuse, religion and extreme insularity. The author himself described it as ‘an unreal picture, seen in the twilight and in the light of the moon’ and it’s unlike anything I have ever read.
June 20, 2018
Review to follow.
May 15, 2017
Książka jako rozliczenie z dzieciństwem i chorobą psychiczną matki.
Więcej: http://www.czytambolubie.com/jedna-ks...
Więcej: http://www.czytambolubie.com/jedna-ks...
November 21, 2025
Esta historia relata de una forma muy lírica, casi (o sin el casi) onírica la infancia de un niño del Gales rural de principios del siglo XX.
Cuenta con todos los ingredientes para gustarme, una bildungsroman sobre una vida pobre y religiosa pero feliz, la miseria de una comunidad minera vista a través de los ojos inocentes de un niño, las peculiaridades, líos e historias de los vecinos y encima escrito de en galés en su versión original… la receta perfecta para mí.
Además el estilo del narrador, te imbuye en la novela casi al instante, a pesar de que choca al principio y no es nada que hay visto previamente, pero si decides fluir con él, no te arrepientes ni un instante.
Y aunque cumple con casi todo lo que promete, no me he quedado con la sensación de novela de 5 estrellas.
Me explico, hay un par de capítulos que la voz del narrador cambia completamente y no entiendo para nada su objetivo ni el significado tan crípitico de esas palabras, además que hay un capitulo que se me hizo bastante largo, en el cual la mitad del texto son canciones de un coro.
Mi feeling es que me faltan conocimientos del estilo y el contexto del autor para terminar de entenderlo y sí que tengo la certeza que estudiar este libro en un contexto académico me hubiera ayudado a que me terminara de encantar.
También he de admitir que el final me ha parecido muy abrupto y me ha dejado muy descolocada e incluso enfandada, lo que también le ha perjudicado bastante.
Cuenta con todos los ingredientes para gustarme, una bildungsroman sobre una vida pobre y religiosa pero feliz, la miseria de una comunidad minera vista a través de los ojos inocentes de un niño, las peculiaridades, líos e historias de los vecinos y encima escrito de en galés en su versión original… la receta perfecta para mí.
Además el estilo del narrador, te imbuye en la novela casi al instante, a pesar de que choca al principio y no es nada que hay visto previamente, pero si decides fluir con él, no te arrepientes ni un instante.
Y aunque cumple con casi todo lo que promete, no me he quedado con la sensación de novela de 5 estrellas.
Me explico, hay un par de capítulos que la voz del narrador cambia completamente y no entiendo para nada su objetivo ni el significado tan crípitico de esas palabras, además que hay un capitulo que se me hizo bastante largo, en el cual la mitad del texto son canciones de un coro.
Mi feeling es que me faltan conocimientos del estilo y el contexto del autor para terminar de entenderlo y sí que tengo la certeza que estudiar este libro en un contexto académico me hubiera ayudado a que me terminara de encantar.
También he de admitir que el final me ha parecido muy abrupto y me ha dejado muy descolocada e incluso enfandada, lo que también le ha perjudicado bastante.
March 25, 2022
Dark, sometimes funny, often tender story of a Welsh village childhood. Beautifully written and a rare example of a successful child narrator.
January 19, 2023
Evocative and dark book about a lad growing up in North Wales. Fantastic cadence and rhythm in the way this has been written, even in the translation from Welsh.
July 21, 2025
one day I will read a book set in Wales that doesn't leave me gutted by the end. Today is not that day 5/5
February 25, 2024
Je sens que ce livre est un peu mystique et je me sens pas légitime de le reviewer (verbe inventé). Je pense que c’est le premier livre appartenant à la tradition littéraire Galloise que je lis et je suis très heureuse d’avoir commencé par ici.
March 12, 2022
Almost 4.5 🌟
Once passed the first few pages of the book, where the format, the names and Welsh words, it does start to become rather curious to read.
As told through an unnamed child’s voice/perspective, it does remind me of How to kill a Mockingbird, but it is a lot more sadder and crazier, so many tragedies that is a like normality in the little Welsh country village.
Once passed the first few pages of the book, where the format, the names and Welsh words, it does start to become rather curious to read.
As told through an unnamed child’s voice/perspective, it does remind me of How to kill a Mockingbird, but it is a lot more sadder and crazier, so many tragedies that is a like normality in the little Welsh country village.
August 17, 2021
Oh my ! This novel is waiting to rip your heart out . A man returns to his childhood village to walk the streets one moonlit night. He recalls moments of his childhood in the tight-knit quarry community where he lived in poverty with his vulnerable but loving mother . Witnessing suicide , abuse , violence , mental breakdown and death he threads together tales of mischief , adventure and friendship with Huw and Moi , his best friends . We hear of the everyday kindnesses and suffering of life during WW1 and the memories are woven with humour and tenderness as he navigates the boundaries of the industrial village and the mountains, church and chapel and his childhood and adolescence .
The joy of the book is in its rhythm, the easygoing manner of the story telling , the sing song names of the characters and the real sense of the village and the North Wales landscape . But we also gain a sense the inchoate depth of his suffering articulated in the mythic women of the mountain and the lake whose sexual and nihilistic pull acts as a lure beyond religion, education and the anchor of family .
Our narrator is highly observant and emotionally sensitive but i began to realise that the harsh everyday of life in the village has no room either for reflection or explanation . Silence, a good feed or the solace of religion are offered as the only options for making sense of or to numb the chronic trauma of a community in freefall. He learns early on how to suppress pain, anger, hurt and lust which eventually leads to the books bewildering and tragic climax.
Deserves all the praise . Stunning .
The joy of the book is in its rhythm, the easygoing manner of the story telling , the sing song names of the characters and the real sense of the village and the North Wales landscape . But we also gain a sense the inchoate depth of his suffering articulated in the mythic women of the mountain and the lake whose sexual and nihilistic pull acts as a lure beyond religion, education and the anchor of family .
Our narrator is highly observant and emotionally sensitive but i began to realise that the harsh everyday of life in the village has no room either for reflection or explanation . Silence, a good feed or the solace of religion are offered as the only options for making sense of or to numb the chronic trauma of a community in freefall. He learns early on how to suppress pain, anger, hurt and lust which eventually leads to the books bewildering and tragic climax.
Deserves all the praise . Stunning .
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