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640 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1942
She was everywhere around him. He felt her ways in the smooth, tightly-tucked linen sheets, in the fresh starched curtains at the windows; he saw her pride in his family and their home, in the shining brasses of the gaslights and doorknobs. If there was always a small pot of flowers on the marble-topped whatnot beside his morris chair in the bay window, he had not noticed it, he thought, until now. If the silver cups that he had won at Yale for rowing had ever gleamed so brilliantly before, he had been oblivious of that too. He twisted his head uneasily on his pillow, pressing his knuckles above his eyes. He had a deep desire for rest, and a premonition that his desire would not be realized.
Suddenly, as he rolled over with a groan, he had a vivid picture of her upstairs in her room; wide-awake like himself; perhaps weeping; perhaps trying to find the answer through prayer.
"My God," he muttered, reaching up to turn out the gas. "Oh, my God."
I really think that the great difficulty in bringing "The Valley of Decision" into final shape is the old one of not being able to see the forest for the trees. There are such a great number of trees. We must somehow bring the underlying scheme or pattern of the book into emphasis, so that the reader will be able to see the forest in spite of the many trees.
We immediately accepted her first book, "Mozart," even though not a very great deal of it was written. One could tell from what we saw of the manuscript that she had skill, and from what we saw of her that she was unconquerable and would do what she undertook.
“You see?” Paul said. He put his hand on her shoulder and his blue eyes stared deep into hers. “Anybody else might think me a sentimental fool, ” he said softly. “But you know me. You really know me. I tell you,” he said, “any time this country gets in a scrap, it’s my scrap and this mill’s scrap. Highspeed saws and fancy springs are all right in their place – but this mill makes death for anyone that bothers the U.S.A.”
“Oh, Paul. I-I love to hear you talk that way.” Her eyes were wet and shining.
Constance, in a black velvet dinner gown and great pearls, sat at the head of the table critically attentive and judicious as perfect soles followed perfect turtle soup, a garnished filet of buttery red beef followed the soles, artichokes from the South of France followed that, a huge pâté en croute appeared with the salad, and a frozen bombe masked in golden spun sugar brought – Mary hoped – the formidable meal to a close. But no, there was the savoury to cope with, peppery devilled mushrooms on thrones of toast. There was sherry with the soup, Meursault with the fish, Richebourg with the beef, and Mary actually shuddered when Constance, helping herself to the sweet, said, “Champagne, Radford. The Cordon Rouge.”
* In my review of the movie (which I adored), I suggested that if the movie had been made today “it would be an ongoing series that would wear itself out with increasingly dramatic cliffhangers and tiring, convoluted plot developments.” Well, at times, that’s how I felt about the book.
* Why so many mentions of Paul’s blonde mustache? I understand that his physical appearance in the book is not that of the tall, dark and handsome Gregory Peck that brings him to life on the screen, and I understand that mustaches were popular around the turn of the century, but do you have to mention it every 10 pages?
* Is that really how floods work? I had trouble picturing it, and videos on YouTube only help so much.
* Did anyone else feel bad for Louise? At least a little?