What do you think?
Rate this book
Лунната долина
„Лунната долина“ разказва историята на млада двойка, тръгнала да търси щастието си извън големия град. Саксън и Били са убедени, че градът покварява и огрубява душата и единственият шанс да спасят връзката си е да се върнат сред природата и да живеят така, както са го правили първите заселници. В търсене на своето място под слънцето, Саксън и Били срещат различни хора и научават важни неща не само за земята, но и за живота и човешките отношения. За да открият в края на пътя своята Лунна долина – мястото, където мечтите се сбъдват.
495 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1913
355 people are currently reading
1837 people want to read
About the author
Jack London
7,711 books7,711 followersJohn Griffith Chaney, better known as Jack London, was an American novelist, journalist and activist. A pioneer of commercial fiction and American magazines, he was one of the first American authors to become an international celebrity and earn a large fortune from writing. He was also an innovator in the genre that would later become known as science fiction.
London was part of the radical literary group "The Crowd" in San Francisco and a passionate advocate of animal rights, workers’ rights and socialism. London wrote several works dealing with these topics, such as his dystopian novel The Iron Heel, his non-fiction exposé The People of the Abyss, War of the Classes, and Before Adam.
His most famous works include The Call of the Wild and White Fang, both set in Alaska and the Yukon during the Klondike Gold Rush, as well as the short stories "To Build a Fire", "An Odyssey of the North", and "Love of Life". He also wrote about the South Pacific in stories such as "The Pearls of Parlay" and "The Heathen".
London was part of the radical literary group "The Crowd" in San Francisco and a passionate advocate of animal rights, workers’ rights and socialism. London wrote several works dealing with these topics, such as his dystopian novel The Iron Heel, his non-fiction exposé The People of the Abyss, War of the Classes, and Before Adam.
His most famous works include The Call of the Wild and White Fang, both set in Alaska and the Yukon during the Klondike Gold Rush, as well as the short stories "To Build a Fire", "An Odyssey of the North", and "Love of Life". He also wrote about the South Pacific in stories such as "The Pearls of Parlay" and "The Heathen".
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 180 reviews
August 10, 2007
If you were to read any book by Jack London, this is the one. Especially if you are twenty something and live in the San Francisco East Bay Area. The book may have been written almost one hundred years ago, but all the issues are still very real and very applicable. It is a moving story and very refreshing.
May 28, 2019
Едно обикновено, но упорито момче среща красиво и умно момиче. В големия град, където всеки от двамата се слива ежедневно с още стотици и хиляди безименни жители. На пръв поглед много различни един от друг, те са различни и от вече униформените жители на големия град. И в двамата все още е жив зовът на природата с нейната красота, покой и хармония, както и с нейните бури и предизвикателства. И в двамата бушува духът на старите пионери, преодолявали огромни разстояния и трудности, за да достигнат своето кътче обетована земя. Обетована земя обаче в града с неговите спарени фабрики, кръчми и гета, липсва. И тук започва тяхната история. Те ще изстрадат големия град с всяко едно от грозноте му лица и с цялата му несправедливост, преди истински и неразривно да открият първо себе си, после другия и накрая любовта и свободата.
Зората на 20-ти век е предвестник на онази безжалостна урбанизация и индустриализация, която ще промени и атомизира безвъзвратно цели генерации и общества.
Зората на 20-ти век е предвестник на онази безжалостна урбанизация и индустриализация, която ще промени и атомизира безвъзвратно цели генерации и общества.
January 17, 2015
Here now is my Sock Puppet Theater script for this book:
Saxon: Hello.
Billy: Hello. I enjoy talking about my ancestors, and how white they were, and what good stock they were, and how much they suffered.
Saxon: I enjoy talking about how they came here before these other dirty immigrants, and are therefore way more awesome. Also how my form and figure reflect the old stock.
Billy: We should get married, and talk about this all the time.
Saxon: Yay!
Saxon's Sister: BITCH YOU HAVE MORE THAN ONE PAIR OF SHOES GIVE ME SHOES I DESERVE SHOES YOUR BROTHER IS A WORTHLESS SHOE PROVIDER. *faints*
Billy: I will now give you uncomfortable compliments about the way your teeth glisten.
Saxon: You're so manly and romantic!
Billy: Uh oh. There's a strike coming.
Saxon: I'll get a job!
Billy: Never! I would rather take in boarders and borrow money and see my wife wander the town trying to capture stray seafood than bear the shame of my woman working!
*Billy beats some scabs*
*Some scabs beat Billy*
*Saxon miscarries*
*All their friends die and/or become prostitutes*
Saxon: Let's leave the city and go camping forever.
Billy: Yay!
*intermission to sing quite delightful songs about abalone*
Saxon: I'm glad we're not in the city any more. It isn't crowded, yet we have visited about 45 people.
Billy: Slangedy slang racism slang.
*They talk for an hour about sustainable agriculture*
Billy: Look! A farm we can farm!
Saxon: I will hire some convicts, which freaks me out even though my husband has been to jail too.
Billy: We've saved America from efficient immigrants! High five!
Saxon: You're the best. Like our ancestors. Except the part where they wrecked the farmland.
The End
Seriously, just read the songs about abalone. They're pretty funny. The rest I have given you here.
Saxon: Hello.
Billy: Hello. I enjoy talking about my ancestors, and how white they were, and what good stock they were, and how much they suffered.
Saxon: I enjoy talking about how they came here before these other dirty immigrants, and are therefore way more awesome. Also how my form and figure reflect the old stock.
Billy: We should get married, and talk about this all the time.
Saxon: Yay!
Saxon's Sister: BITCH YOU HAVE MORE THAN ONE PAIR OF SHOES GIVE ME SHOES I DESERVE SHOES YOUR BROTHER IS A WORTHLESS SHOE PROVIDER. *faints*
Billy: I will now give you uncomfortable compliments about the way your teeth glisten.
Saxon: You're so manly and romantic!
Billy: Uh oh. There's a strike coming.
Saxon: I'll get a job!
Billy: Never! I would rather take in boarders and borrow money and see my wife wander the town trying to capture stray seafood than bear the shame of my woman working!
*Billy beats some scabs*
*Some scabs beat Billy*
*Saxon miscarries*
*All their friends die and/or become prostitutes*
Saxon: Let's leave the city and go camping forever.
Billy: Yay!
*intermission to sing quite delightful songs about abalone*
Saxon: I'm glad we're not in the city any more. It isn't crowded, yet we have visited about 45 people.
Billy: Slangedy slang racism slang.
*They talk for an hour about sustainable agriculture*
Billy: Look! A farm we can farm!
Saxon: I will hire some convicts, which freaks me out even though my husband has been to jail too.
Billy: We've saved America from efficient immigrants! High five!
Saxon: You're the best. Like our ancestors. Except the part where they wrecked the farmland.
The End
Seriously, just read the songs about abalone. They're pretty funny. The rest I have given you here.
August 14, 2020
” «Quel che ci occorre, a noi, è la Valle della Luna, senza troppo lavoro e con abbastanza divertimenti. E continueremo a cercarla finché non la troveremo. E se non la trovassimo, poco importa: continueremo a divertirci come ci siamo divertiti finora, da quando abbiamo lasciato Oakland. E soprattutto, Billy… non ci alieneremo mai a furia di lavorare, vero?»
«Piuttosto moriremo» affermò Billy con decisione.”
Romanzo del 1913 costituito da tre parti corrispondenti a tre vite, tre esistenze:
quella in città, quella in viaggio, quella in campagna.
Siamo ad Oakland, California.
Dal momento in cui Saxon e Billy s’incontrano diventano inseparabili.
Colpo di fulmine: lei operaia in una stireria, lui ex pugile ed ora carrettiere.
Entrambi condividono l’orgoglio della stirpe di pionieri da cui provengono e ben presto si sposano.
La loro vita comincia con tutti presupposti per essere quella di una coppia felice: lei lascia il lavoro (perché deve essere l’uomo che deve portare a casa la pagnotta) e passa il suo tempo a studiare il mondo per renderlo felice e soddisfatto del matrimonio.
Difatti, felici, lo sono: una coppia perfetta finché in città si avvia un’ondata di scioperi che, dai ferrovieri, nel giro di poco, coinvolgerà molti settori di produzione.
La necessità di ottenere i propri diritti è guidata dalla disperazione di un sistema di lavoro dove vige lo sfruttamento e lo sciopero diventa uno strumento a cui affidarsi anche se occorre calcare la mano. Ben presto, infatti, scatta la violenza contro i crumiri e Billy si farà coinvolgere nell’ondata di violenza.
”Ma il vortice della pazzia collettiva li aveva divisi: il cambiamento del marito era stato così radicale che in quella casa sembrava veramente un intruso. E spiritualmente lo era davvero. Era solo un altro che aveva negli occhi un velo di odio violento, refrattario al bene, un male diffuso in tutto l’universo che aveva intaccato anche lui. Anziché condannare Bert, ora parlava di dinamite, di sabotaggio e di rivoluzione.”
London fa di Saxon un pilastro di questa storia: colei che cambierà le sorti della loro esistenza con una semplice decisione, ossia quella di lasciare la città:
” Una sua frase molto significativa le aveva rapita la fantasia: Oakland non è che un punto di partenza. Non aveva mai considerato la città sotto quest’aspetto. L’aveva sempre considerata come un luogo fatto apposta per trascorrervi la vita. Un punto di partenza? Perché no? Una specie di stazione ferroviaria, uno scalo del ferry-boat.”
Comincia così un cammino che li porterà di stato in stato inseguendo un sogno: la valle della luna.
La parte del viaggio è coinvolgente nella misura in cui S. e B. scoprono un altro modo di vivere. Assaggiano la libertà nell'essersi affrancati dal giogo del lavoro fisso.
Viaggiano e osservano un mondo che non riescono ad accettare per il loro attaccamento al vecchio ceppo, quello dei pionieri, quello della razza bianca.
Moltitudini di stranieri che invadono il paese sono paragonati ad un’invasione di cavallette.
Se all'inizio è un fastidio, il richiamo alla “vecchia razza”, alla supremazia dei bianchi pionieri quando diventa un ritornello che si ripete ad ogni paragrafo diventa veramente faticoso da digerire:
”Decisero di proseguire verso ovest, verso la Valle della Russian River, che sboccava a Healdsburg. Indugiarono tra vasti campi di luppolo, ma Billy si rifiutò di collaborare alla «Non ci resisterei un’ora senza rompere loro il muso - spiegò a Saxon - D’altra parte, questo Russian River è troppo bello. Accampiamoci e facciamo una bella nuotata.» “
C’è, a mio avviso, molta ingenuità nell’impianto ideologico di questo libro.
Un’idea di socialismo confusa che se da un lato è in grado di analizzare e confezionare immagini adeguate a descrivere ciò che significa sfruttamento del lavoro e necessità dell’unione dei lavoratori, dall’altro il risultato che London ottiene in questa storia è quello sicuramente di reiterate stereotipi come quella (ad esempio) dell’anarchico bombarolo oppure degli scioperi che trasformano gli uomini in bestie affamate di sangue.
C’è ingenuità nella visione, quella chimera utopica che noi sognatori di un mondo migliore da sempre consideriamo fattibile e cerchiamo di realizzare nel nostro quotidiano ma sapendo che i piedi devono stare per terra perché le piccole cose possano concretizzarsi.
Qui il sogno di London si realizza in un mondo che ha quasi del fantastico.
Romanzo che ho letto con grande interesse anche se mi ha deluso con quel suo essere un proclama della razza bianca, con i suoi risvolti ingenui ed anche nella parte finale...
Però, però…non riesco a dare meno di tre stelle a London.
I miei pregiudizi letterari hanno anche questo risvolto.
«Piuttosto moriremo» affermò Billy con decisione.”
Romanzo del 1913 costituito da tre parti corrispondenti a tre vite, tre esistenze:
quella in città, quella in viaggio, quella in campagna.
Siamo ad Oakland, California.
Dal momento in cui Saxon e Billy s’incontrano diventano inseparabili.
Colpo di fulmine: lei operaia in una stireria, lui ex pugile ed ora carrettiere.
Entrambi condividono l’orgoglio della stirpe di pionieri da cui provengono e ben presto si sposano.
La loro vita comincia con tutti presupposti per essere quella di una coppia felice: lei lascia il lavoro (perché deve essere l’uomo che deve portare a casa la pagnotta) e passa il suo tempo a studiare il mondo per renderlo felice e soddisfatto del matrimonio.
Difatti, felici, lo sono: una coppia perfetta finché in città si avvia un’ondata di scioperi che, dai ferrovieri, nel giro di poco, coinvolgerà molti settori di produzione.
La necessità di ottenere i propri diritti è guidata dalla disperazione di un sistema di lavoro dove vige lo sfruttamento e lo sciopero diventa uno strumento a cui affidarsi anche se occorre calcare la mano. Ben presto, infatti, scatta la violenza contro i crumiri e Billy si farà coinvolgere nell’ondata di violenza.
”Ma il vortice della pazzia collettiva li aveva divisi: il cambiamento del marito era stato così radicale che in quella casa sembrava veramente un intruso. E spiritualmente lo era davvero. Era solo un altro che aveva negli occhi un velo di odio violento, refrattario al bene, un male diffuso in tutto l’universo che aveva intaccato anche lui. Anziché condannare Bert, ora parlava di dinamite, di sabotaggio e di rivoluzione.”
London fa di Saxon un pilastro di questa storia: colei che cambierà le sorti della loro esistenza con una semplice decisione, ossia quella di lasciare la città:
” Una sua frase molto significativa le aveva rapita la fantasia: Oakland non è che un punto di partenza. Non aveva mai considerato la città sotto quest’aspetto. L’aveva sempre considerata come un luogo fatto apposta per trascorrervi la vita. Un punto di partenza? Perché no? Una specie di stazione ferroviaria, uno scalo del ferry-boat.”
Comincia così un cammino che li porterà di stato in stato inseguendo un sogno: la valle della luna.
La parte del viaggio è coinvolgente nella misura in cui S. e B. scoprono un altro modo di vivere. Assaggiano la libertà nell'essersi affrancati dal giogo del lavoro fisso.
Viaggiano e osservano un mondo che non riescono ad accettare per il loro attaccamento al vecchio ceppo, quello dei pionieri, quello della razza bianca.
Moltitudini di stranieri che invadono il paese sono paragonati ad un’invasione di cavallette.
Se all'inizio è un fastidio, il richiamo alla “vecchia razza”, alla supremazia dei bianchi pionieri quando diventa un ritornello che si ripete ad ogni paragrafo diventa veramente faticoso da digerire:
”Decisero di proseguire verso ovest, verso la Valle della Russian River, che sboccava a Healdsburg. Indugiarono tra vasti campi di luppolo, ma Billy si rifiutò di collaborare alla «Non ci resisterei un’ora senza rompere loro il muso - spiegò a Saxon - D’altra parte, questo Russian River è troppo bello. Accampiamoci e facciamo una bella nuotata.» “
C’è, a mio avviso, molta ingenuità nell’impianto ideologico di questo libro.
Un’idea di socialismo confusa che se da un lato è in grado di analizzare e confezionare immagini adeguate a descrivere ciò che significa sfruttamento del lavoro e necessità dell’unione dei lavoratori, dall’altro il risultato che London ottiene in questa storia è quello sicuramente di reiterate stereotipi come quella (ad esempio) dell’anarchico bombarolo oppure degli scioperi che trasformano gli uomini in bestie affamate di sangue.
C’è ingenuità nella visione, quella chimera utopica che noi sognatori di un mondo migliore da sempre consideriamo fattibile e cerchiamo di realizzare nel nostro quotidiano ma sapendo che i piedi devono stare per terra perché le piccole cose possano concretizzarsi.
Qui il sogno di London si realizza in un mondo che ha quasi del fantastico.
Romanzo che ho letto con grande interesse anche se mi ha deluso con quel suo essere un proclama della razza bianca, con i suoi risvolti ingenui ed anche nella parte finale...
Però, però…non riesco a dare meno di tre stelle a London.
I miei pregiudizi letterari hanno anche questo risvolto.
May 22, 2020
While relying on fiction for historical information is a risky business, good contemporaneous fiction can preserve the substance of its characters at the time of their existence. I would consider The Valley of the Moon to be such a book in that the nature of its two main characters, Saxon and Billy, are honestly preserved. For the last hundred years, they have been frozen in time, coming to life in the eyes of the reader every so often.
And the reason why I think this book’s characters are important is because of who they are. They are the result of a limited education that has been structured with a form of white-pride patriotism that's been shaded favorably towards capitalism. It left the winners of capitalism multiple hand-holds with which to manipulate masses of people with feelings of pride and honor while working away their lives for subsistence wages. It shut out the idea that capitalism may owe something to the society that allows it to flourish. And it blamed other cultures for problems that such a limited education brings upon itself.
Sound familiar? When London wrote this book, he was immersed in an American culture that accepted these human characteristics as the norm. That is where the value lies in The Valley of the Moon. We can compare London's norm with the present-day. When we do, we can see that we have come a long way in realizing the benefits of cross-cultural interactions and the advancements that an education based in science and reason, rather than one filled with emotional hand-holds for others to manipulate, can achieve. But The Valley of the Moon and our present-day political climate in America also shows that America still has a long way to go to leave London’s norm behind.
Given this window into the past that still illuminates our present, The Valley of the Moon holds its relevance. It is indeed a bit drawn out in later chapters and the solution to the plot's main problem seems to be served up on a silver platter. But until America can put the Saxons and Billies behind us, The Valley of the Moon is an honest look at the worst that America (Americans) can be, which makes it an interesting book for the foreseeable future.
And the reason why I think this book’s characters are important is because of who they are. They are the result of a limited education that has been structured with a form of white-pride patriotism that's been shaded favorably towards capitalism. It left the winners of capitalism multiple hand-holds with which to manipulate masses of people with feelings of pride and honor while working away their lives for subsistence wages. It shut out the idea that capitalism may owe something to the society that allows it to flourish. And it blamed other cultures for problems that such a limited education brings upon itself.
Sound familiar? When London wrote this book, he was immersed in an American culture that accepted these human characteristics as the norm. That is where the value lies in The Valley of the Moon. We can compare London's norm with the present-day. When we do, we can see that we have come a long way in realizing the benefits of cross-cultural interactions and the advancements that an education based in science and reason, rather than one filled with emotional hand-holds for others to manipulate, can achieve. But The Valley of the Moon and our present-day political climate in America also shows that America still has a long way to go to leave London’s norm behind.
Given this window into the past that still illuminates our present, The Valley of the Moon holds its relevance. It is indeed a bit drawn out in later chapters and the solution to the plot's main problem seems to be served up on a silver platter. But until America can put the Saxons and Billies behind us, The Valley of the Moon is an honest look at the worst that America (Americans) can be, which makes it an interesting book for the foreseeable future.
December 22, 2017
E' una rilettura, forse la settima.
La prima volta avevo 15 anni, un'edizione di La Valle della Luna del 1930, traduzione Ettore Benzi datata ma buona, qua e là sforbiciata soprattutto nei dialoghi (in effetti un po' prolissi in originale).
Fu amore a prima lettura. Di Jack avevo letto diversi libri in edizioni per ragazzi - Il figlio del sole, La figlia delle nevi, etc. (edizioni Pocket Sonzogno – quelle sì pesantemente sforbiciate) – ma leggere LVdL fu fulminante, seguito a ruota da Martin Eden (altra edizione anni '30). E dalla scoperta di Hemingway.
[La lettura parallela peraltro produsse nella mia mente un cortocircuito sull'attività di scrittura: prima non conoscevo la paranoia da foglio bianca, da crisi creativa, da non aver niente da scrivere. Dopo, per tantissimo tempo, ho avuto il terrore che mi potesse capitare. Anche se non succedeva. Ma forse per questo ho scelto di scrivere per soldi e non per "piacere". Per allontanare per sempre QUEL momento, che secondo entrambi prima o poi sarebbe arrivato. Per non correre il rischio di scrivere libri mediocri. Se ci si mette anche la lettura di Francis S. Fitzgerald ….].
Mi rendo conto oggi, con la lettura dell'originale e con tutte quello che poi ho letto di JL, di quanto le prime letture fossero inconsapevoli. In TVotM c'è tutto il pensiero e la vita di Jack.
La trama, ricca di azione e riflessione, è riassumibile in poche righe: Saxon e Billy – due sassoni, autentici americani del "vecchio stampo" - si incontrano in una Oakland che sta per essere dilaniata dalle lotte sindacali, e attraverso ordalie varie, scelgono la Strada alla ricerca della loro Valle della Luna.
Un luogo dove poter essere di nuovo "americani" e vivere lo spirito di frontiera.
JL riesce a tenere insieme, in un universo narrativo meravigliosamente descritto, le lotte sindacali e i combattimenti di boxe fino alla dipendenza da John Barleycorn, la condizione operaia e quella femminile, la sua amatissima versione di superuomo con la poetica del tramp, fino a qualche puntata in barca e in libreria!
Riesce a ricreare tanti piccoli Jack in ogni personaggio di contorno, lasciando a Saxon il pensiero alto sulla loro personalissima quest.
Un libro con parentesi attualissime ancora oggi, la descrizione dei partiti di sinistra (una vocazione alla frammentazione mai persa), il confronto con gli immigrati, la dinamica del lavoro salariale. E' passato un secolo invano….
E tutte le volte mi reinnamoro di Jack.
La prima volta avevo 15 anni, un'edizione di La Valle della Luna del 1930, traduzione Ettore Benzi datata ma buona, qua e là sforbiciata soprattutto nei dialoghi (in effetti un po' prolissi in originale).
Fu amore a prima lettura. Di Jack avevo letto diversi libri in edizioni per ragazzi - Il figlio del sole, La figlia delle nevi, etc. (edizioni Pocket Sonzogno – quelle sì pesantemente sforbiciate) – ma leggere LVdL fu fulminante, seguito a ruota da Martin Eden (altra edizione anni '30). E dalla scoperta di Hemingway.
[La lettura parallela peraltro produsse nella mia mente un cortocircuito sull'attività di scrittura: prima non conoscevo la paranoia da foglio bianca, da crisi creativa, da non aver niente da scrivere. Dopo, per tantissimo tempo, ho avuto il terrore che mi potesse capitare. Anche se non succedeva. Ma forse per questo ho scelto di scrivere per soldi e non per "piacere". Per allontanare per sempre QUEL momento, che secondo entrambi prima o poi sarebbe arrivato. Per non correre il rischio di scrivere libri mediocri. Se ci si mette anche la lettura di Francis S. Fitzgerald ….].
Mi rendo conto oggi, con la lettura dell'originale e con tutte quello che poi ho letto di JL, di quanto le prime letture fossero inconsapevoli. In TVotM c'è tutto il pensiero e la vita di Jack.
La trama, ricca di azione e riflessione, è riassumibile in poche righe: Saxon e Billy – due sassoni, autentici americani del "vecchio stampo" - si incontrano in una Oakland che sta per essere dilaniata dalle lotte sindacali, e attraverso ordalie varie, scelgono la Strada alla ricerca della loro Valle della Luna.
Un luogo dove poter essere di nuovo "americani" e vivere lo spirito di frontiera.
JL riesce a tenere insieme, in un universo narrativo meravigliosamente descritto, le lotte sindacali e i combattimenti di boxe fino alla dipendenza da John Barleycorn, la condizione operaia e quella femminile, la sua amatissima versione di superuomo con la poetica del tramp, fino a qualche puntata in barca e in libreria!
Riesce a ricreare tanti piccoli Jack in ogni personaggio di contorno, lasciando a Saxon il pensiero alto sulla loro personalissima quest.
Un libro con parentesi attualissime ancora oggi, la descrizione dei partiti di sinistra (una vocazione alla frammentazione mai persa), il confronto con gli immigrati, la dinamica del lavoro salariale. E' passato un secolo invano….
E tutte le volte mi reinnamoro di Jack.
Read
March 17, 2018Джек Лондон - "Лунната долина", изд. "Хермес" 2015 г., прев. Валентина Борисова Рашева-Джейвънс
Тази вечер си тръгнах от Лунната долина.
А не исках, толкова не исках да си отивам оттам. Може би звучи банално и клиширано, но има книги, които те отвеждат в отдавна изгубени светове. В едни времена на може би наивна вяра в по-доброто бъдеще, в едни времена, когато чувството, че всичко тепърва предстои не е просто лъжливо усещане, с което залъгваме себе си, когато по някаква причина нещата не вървят.
Мислех си, че може би времето, когато е трябвало да прочета тази книга, е вече отминало, и че сега тя ще ми се стори наивна, романтична, може би дори на моменти сладникава. Опасенията ми не се оправдаха - и е толкова хубаво да установиш, че си се излъгал точно за такова нещо.
Със смущение установих, че не знам точно кога е писана книгата и кога се развива действието. Ясно ми беше обаче, че най-важните, "изграждащите" периоди от създаването и установяването на заселниците в Щатите са вече отминали. Минала е и Гражданската война... минали са всички важни периоди и с тях - и онова златно време, когато всеки е можел да получи държавна земя.
Но Били и Саксън не знаят това. И мисля, че това, което породи симпатията и топлотата ми към тях, беше именно тази тяхна чистота и невинност, да не кажа "наивност". Знаех, че това, което си представят, няма как да стане точно по мечтания от тях начин. И хем ми беше мъчно, че самите те сякаш не го знаят, хем ми беше мило, че дори тогава все още има такива невинни души. И се чувствах съпричастна с тях, сякаш вървях с тях по прашните пътища, сякаш изживявах всяка тяхна малка радост, всеки неуспех и разочарование.
А тяхната мечта за Лунната долина беше едно от най-красивите неща, които съм чела. Сигурно всеки има един такъв свой блян за място, където би се чувствал безкрайно щастлив, една такава своя "обетована земя" или "благословена страна", която живее само в мечтите му - и само понякога някои щастливци я намират. А аз исках Били и Саксън да намерят своята Лунна долина. И когато това стана, ме обзе леко и радостно чувство - все едно самата аз бях пристигнала на мечтано, сънувано, бленувано място.
"Лунната долина" имаше и своите горчиви моменти - онези по пътя към постигането на мечтата. Сигурно някога, някъде преди години в часовете по американска история съм чувала за всички тези работнически бунтове и стачки. Само че и аз като Били и Саксън виждах и търсех най-хубавото дори в историческите факти и от тези уроци не беше останало много в паметта ми. Сега прочетеното едва ли ще се изтрие - то така е вплетено в останалата част от сюжета, че е трудно да се забрави.
И друго ме впечатли - отношенията между хората. И то не онези отношения в града, където "всеки гледа за себе си". А онези, другите, в провинциалните селски райони, където всеки е готов да помогне на онези, които имат нужда от съвет и помощ.
А краят... краят ме разтопи. Случи се най-после това, което очаквах през цялата книга. И дори не зная дали трябва да го наричам наистина "край", защото всъщност загатва за ново начало. Ново и щастливо начало в Лунната долина.
За книги като "Лунната долина" няма възраст. Те са истински, човешки книги. От онези, към които посягаме, когато се уморим от всички нови книги и автори, от "модерния" си уж по-лесен, а всъщност понякога излишно усложняван живот. И тогава за малко, съвсем за малко, отиваме да съберем сили и вяра там - в Лунната долина
Тази вечер си тръгнах от Лунната долина.
А не исках, толкова не исках да си отивам оттам. Може би звучи банално и клиширано, но има книги, които те отвеждат в отдавна изгубени светове. В едни времена на може би наивна вяра в по-доброто бъдеще, в едни времена, когато чувството, че всичко тепърва предстои не е просто лъжливо усещане, с което залъгваме себе си, когато по някаква причина нещата не вървят.
Мислех си, че може би времето, когато е трябвало да прочета тази книга, е вече отминало, и че сега тя ще ми се стори наивна, романтична, може би дори на моменти сладникава. Опасенията ми не се оправдаха - и е толкова хубаво да установиш, че си се излъгал точно за такова нещо.
Със смущение установих, че не знам точно кога е писана книгата и кога се развива действието. Ясно ми беше обаче, че най-важните, "изграждащите" периоди от създаването и установяването на заселниците в Щатите са вече отминали. Минала е и Гражданската война... минали са всички важни периоди и с тях - и онова златно време, когато всеки е можел да получи държавна земя.
Но Били и Саксън не знаят това. И мисля, че това, което породи симпатията и топлотата ми към тях, беше именно тази тяхна чистота и невинност, да не кажа "наивност". Знаех, че това, което си представят, няма как да стане точно по мечтания от тях начин. И хем ми беше мъчно, че самите те сякаш не го знаят, хем ми беше мило, че дори тогава все още има такива невинни души. И се чувствах съпричастна с тях, сякаш вървях с тях по прашните пътища, сякаш изживявах всяка тяхна малка радост, всеки неуспех и разочарование.
А тяхната мечта за Лунната долина беше едно от най-красивите неща, които съм чела. Сигурно всеки има един такъв свой блян за място, където би се чувствал безкрайно щастлив, една такава своя "обетована земя" или "благословена страна", която живее само в мечтите му - и само понякога някои щастливци я намират. А аз исках Били и Саксън да намерят своята Лунна долина. И когато това стана, ме обзе леко и радостно чувство - все едно самата аз бях пристигнала на мечтано, сънувано, бленувано място.
"Лунната долина" имаше и своите горчиви моменти - онези по пътя към постигането на мечтата. Сигурно някога, някъде преди години в часовете по американска история съм чувала за всички тези работнически бунтове и стачки. Само че и аз като Били и Саксън виждах и търсех най-хубавото дори в историческите факти и от тези уроци не беше останало много в паметта ми. Сега прочетеното едва ли ще се изтрие - то така е вплетено в останалата част от сюжета, че е трудно да се забрави.
И друго ме впечатли - отношенията между хората. И то не онези отношения в града, където "всеки гледа за себе си". А онези, другите, в провинциалните селски райони, където всеки е готов да помогне на онези, които имат нужда от съвет и помощ.
А краят... краят ме разтопи. Случи се най-после това, което очаквах през цялата книга. И дори не зная дали трябва да го наричам наистина "край", защото всъщност загатва за ново начало. Ново и щастливо начало в Лунната долина.
За книги като "Лунната долина" няма възраст. Те са истински, човешки книги. От онези, към които посягаме, когато се уморим от всички нови книги и автори, от "модерния" си уж по-лесен, а всъщност понякога излишно усложняван живот. И тогава за малко, съвсем за малко, отиваме да съберем сили и вяра там - в Лунната долина
December 16, 2024
The Valley of the Moon is a novel by American writer Jack London written in 1913. The valley where it is set is located north of the San Francisco Bay Area in Sonoma County, California where Jack London was a resident. When I think of Jack London I don't think of books like The Valley of the Moon, I think of books like The Call of the Wild and White Fang. Neither of which I've read, but both I've heard of often. But he wrote much more than those two novels, novels such as his dystopian novel The Iron Heel, his non-fiction exposé The People of the Abyss, War of the Classes, and Before Adam. He wrote more than twenty novels all together, and there's no way I'm counting all the short stories he wrote. Then there are the plays, poetry, and non-fiction. He certainly kept himself busy.
This novel The Valley of the Moon is a story of a working-class couple, Billy and Saxon Roberts, struggling laborers in Oakland at the Turn-of-the-Century, who leave city life behind and search Central and Northern California for suitable farmland to own. It begins in a laundry where there are lots and lots of tables with lots and lots of irons on them with piles and piles of clothing being ironed by lots of women. I hate ironing. I could have stopped reading then. It doesn't matter what I iron, the heat setting, the material, steam, no steam, it all ends up after the clothing cools looking almost as wrinkled as when I started. This just reminded me of four shirts and a blanket I was planning to iron...someday. Saxon has to work at this place every single day, then she has to go home where she lives with her brother and his awful wife. No wonder she wants to get away.
Then there is Billy Roberts, he is a prizefighter, okay he was a prizefighter, now he is a teamster. But just him once being a prizefighter is exciting, I have no idea why. And then Saxon and Billy meet at a dance:
She slightly moved her hand in his and felt the harsh contact of his teamster callouses. The sensation was exquisite. He, too, moved his hand, to accommodate the shift of hers, and she waited fearfully. She did not want him to prove like other men, and she could have hated him had he dared to take advantage of that slight movement of her fingers and put his arm around her. He did not, and she flamed toward him. There was fineness in him. He was neither rattle-brained, like Bert, nor coarse like other men she had encountered. For she had had experiences, not nice, and she had been made to suffer by the lack of what was termed chivalry, though she, in turn, lacked that word to describe what she divined and desired.
And he was a prizefighter. The thought of it almost made her gasp. Yet he answered not at all to her conception of a prizefighter. But, then, he wasn't a prizefighter. He had said he was not. She resolved to ask him about it some time if... if he took her out again. Yet there was little doubt of that, for when a man danced with one girl a whole day he did not drop her immediately. Almost she hoped that he was a prizefighter. There was a delicious tickle of wickedness about it. Prizefighters were such terrible and mysterious men. In so far as they were out of the ordinary and were not mere common workingmen such as carpenters and laundrymen, they represented romance. Power also they represented. They did not work for bosses, but spectacularly and magnificently, with their own might, grappled with the great world and wrung splendid living from its reluctant hands. Some of them even owned automobiles and traveled with a retinue of trainers and servants. Perhaps it had been only Billy's modesty that made him say he had quit fighting. And yet, there were the callouses on his hands. That showed he had quit.
She certainly cares more about the prizefighting than I ever would. And I want them to get married so much, I want Saxon to move away, far away, from that sister-in-law of hers so I don't have to listen to this anymore:
“Oh, yes, he has,” Tom urged genially. “Blamed little he'd work in that shop, or any other shop in Oakland, if he didn't keep in good standing with the Blacksmiths. You don't understand labor conditions, Sarah. The unions have got to stick, if the men aren't to starve to death.”
“Oh, of course not,” Sarah sniffed. “I don't understand anything. I ain't got a mind. I'm a fool, an' you tell me so right before the children.” She turned savagely on her eldest, who startled and shrank away. “Willie, your mother is a fool. Do you get that? Your father says she's a fool—says it right before her face and yourn. She's just a plain fool. Next he'll be sayin' she's crazy an' puttin' her away in the asylum. An' how will you like that, Willie? How will you like to see your mother in a straitjacket an' a padded cell, shut out from the light of the sun an' beaten like a nigger before the war, Willie, beaten an' clubbed like a regular black nigger? That's the kind of a father you've got, Willie. Think of it, Willie, in a padded cell, the mother that bore you, with the lunatics screechin' an' screamin' all around, an' the quick-lime eatin' into the dead bodies of them that's beaten to death by the cruel wardens—”
“Seein' you love your sister so much better than your wife, why did you want to marry me, that's borne your children for you, an' slaved for you, an' toiled for you, an' worked her fingernails off for you, with no thanks, an 'insultin' me before the children, an' sayin' I'm crazy to their faces. An' what have you ever did for me? That's what I want to know—me, that's cooked for you, an' washed your stinkin' clothes, and fixed your socks, an' sat up nights with your brats when they was ailin'. Look at that!”
She thrust out a shapeless, swollen foot, encased in a monstrous, untended shoe, the dry, raw leather of which showed white on the edges of bulging cracks.
“Look at that! That's what I say. Look at that!” Her voice was persistently rising and at the same time growing throaty. “The only shoes I got. Me. Your wife. Ain't you ashamed? Where are my three pairs? Look at that stockin'.”
I couldn't live with this woman five minutes. It takes them to chapter twelve, but Billy and Saxon do get married and leave Saxon's poor brother alone with his wife. They rent a cottage of four rooms for ten dollars a month. I liked this part, it made me laugh:
By three in the afternoon the strain of the piece-workers in the humid, heated room grew tense. Elderly women gasped and sighed; the color went out of the cheeks of the young women, their faces became drawn and dark circles formed under their eyes; but all held on with weary, unabated speed. The tireless, vigilant forewoman kept a sharp lookout for incipient hysteria, and once led a narrow-chested, stoop-shouldered young thing out of the place in time to prevent a collapse.
Saxon was startled by the wildest scream of terror she had ever heard. The tense thread of human resolution snapped; wills and nerves broke down, and a hundred women suspended their irons or dropped them. It was Mary who had screamed so terribly, and Saxon saw a strange black animal flapping great claw-like wings and nestling on Mary's shoulder. With the scream, Mary crouched down, and the strange creature, darting into the air, fluttered full into the startled face of a woman at the next board. This woman promptly screamed and fainted. Into the air again, the flying thing darted hither and thither, while the shrieking, shrinking women threw up their arms, tried to run away along the aisles, or cowered under their ironing boards.
“It's only a bat!” the forewoman shouted. She was furious. “Ain't you ever seen a bat? It won't eat you!”
But they were ghetto people, and were not to be quieted. Some woman who could not see the cause of the uproar, out of her overwrought apprehension raised the cry of fire and precipitated the panic rush for the doors. All of them were screaming the stupid, soul-sickening high note of terror, drowning the forewoman's voice. Saxon had been merely startled at first, but the screaming panic broke her grip on herself and swept her away. Though she did not scream, she fled with the rest. When this horde of crazed women debouched on the next department, those who worked there joined in the stampede to escape from they knew not what danger. In ten minutes the laundry was deserted, save for a few men wandering about with hand grenades in futile search for the cause of the disturbance.
The forewoman was stout, but indomitable. Swept along half the length of an aisle by the terror-stricken women, she had broken her way back through the rout and quickly caught the light-blinded visitant in a clothes basket.
“Maybe I don't know what God looks like, but take it from me I've seen a tintype of the devil,” Mary gurgled, emotionally fluttering back and forth between laughter and tears.
But Saxon was angry with herself, for she had been as frightened as the rest in that wild flight for out-of-doors.
“We're a lot of fools,” she said. “It was only a bat. I've heard about them. They live in the country. They wouldn't hurt a fly. They can't see in the daytime. That was what was the matter with this one. It was only a bat.”
“Huh, you can't string me,” Mary replied. “It was the devil.” She sobbed a moment, and then laughed hysterically again. “Did you see Mrs. Bergstrom faint? And it only touched her in the face. Why, it was on my shoulder and touching my bare neck like the hand of a corpse. And I didn't faint.” She laughed again. “I guess, maybe, I was too scared to faint.”
“Come on back,” Saxon urged. “We've lost half an hour.”
“Not me. I'm goin' home after that, if they fire me. I couldn't iron for sour apples now, I'm that shaky.”
One woman had broken a leg, another an arm, and a number nursed milder bruises and bruises. No bullying nor entreating of the forewoman could persuade the women to return to work. They were too upset and nervous, and only here and there could one be found brave enough to re-enter the building for the hats and lunch baskets of the others. Saxon was one of the handful that returned and worked till six o'clock.
When I was a little girl, we would be playing out in the yard and I can still hear my mother calling out the kitchen door for me to put my hands over my head and hide my hair, it was getting dark and the bats were coming out, and bats always fly for your hair. It never made sense to me. It still doesn't. But everything can't remain happy at the four room cottage. Prices go up, wages go down, men go on strike, hard times were in the neighborhood we're told. There were no more trips to the moving picture shows, scrap meat was harder to get from the butcher, there was no longer fresh fish for Friday. We are told that everywhere was a pinching and scraping, a tightening and shortening down of expenditure. Everywhere was more irritation, everyone became angered with one another, with the children, with your best friends, and your family. There are now scabs, and the scabs are being beaten up by the strikers. Why was it, they wondered, people have to live in cities? (I have no idea). A farmer's life must be fine. At least that's what Saxon thought. Me too. Then came this:
It began quietly, as the fateful unexpected so often begins. Children, of all ages and sizes, were playing in the street, and Saxon, by the open front window, was watching them and dreaming day dreams of her child soon to be. One of the children pointed up Pine Street toward Seventh. All the children ceased playing, and stared and pointed. Saxon, leaning out, saw a dozen scabs, conveyed by as many special police and Pinkertons, coming down the sidewalk on her side of the street. They came compactly, as if with discipline, while behind, disorderly, yelling confusedly, stooping to pick up rocks, were seventy-five or a hundred of the striking shopmen. In the hands of the special police were clubs. The Pinkertons carried no visible weapons. The strikers, urging on from behind, seemed content with yelling their rage and threats, and it remained for the children to precipitate the conflict. From across the street came a shower of stones. Most of these fell short, though one struck a scab on the head. The man was no more than twenty feet away from Saxon. He reeled toward her front picket fence, drawing a revolver. With one hand he brushed the blood from his eyes and with the other he discharged the revolver. A Pinkerton seized his arm to prevent a second shot, and dragged him along. The scabs and their protectors made a stand, drawing revolvers. From their hard, determined faces—fighting men by profession—Saxon could augur nothing but bloodshed and death.... Possibly a second, or, at most, two seconds, she gazed at this, when she was aroused by Bert's voice. He was running along the sidewalk, in front of her house, and behind him charged several more strikers, while he shouted: “Come on, you Mohegans! We got 'em nailed to the cross!”
In his left hand he carried a pick-handle, in his right a revolver, already empty, for he clicked the cylinder vainly around as he ran. With an abrupt stop, dropping the pick-handle, he whirled half about, facing Saxon's gate. He was sinking down, when he straightened himself to throw the revolver into the face of a scab who was jumping toward him. Then he began swaying, at the same time sagging at the knees and waist. Slowly, with infinite effort, he caught a gate picket in his right hand, and, still slowly, as if lowering himself, sank down, while past him leaped the crowd of strikers he had led.
It was battle without quarter—a massacre. The scabs and their protectors, surrounded, backed against Saxon's fence, fought like cornered rats, but could not withstand the rush of a hundred men. Clubs and pick-handles were swinging, revolvers were exploding, and cobblestones were flung with crushing effect at arm's distance. Saxon saw young Frank Davis, a friend of Bert's and a father of several months' standing, press the muzzle of his revolver against a scab's stomach and fire. There were curses and snarls of rage, wild cries of terror and pain. Mercedes was right. These things were not men. They were beasts, fighting over bones, destroying one another for bones.
She saw Pinkertons, special police, and strikers go down. One scab, terribly wounded, on his knees and begging for mercy, was kicked in the face. Anything could happen now. Quite without surprise, she saw the strikers leaping the fence, trampling her few little geraniums and pansies into the earth as they fled between Mercedes' house and hers. Up Pine street, from the railroad yards, was coming a rush of railroad police and Pinkertons, firing as they ran. While down Pine street, gongs clanging, horses at a gallop, came three patrol wagons packed with police. The strikers were in a trap. The only way out was between the houses and over the back yard fences. The jam in the narrow alley prevented them all from escaping. A dozen were cornered in the angle between the front of her house and the steps. And as they had done, so were they done by. No effort was made to arrest. They were clubbed down and shot down to the last man by the guardians of the peace who were infuriated by what had been wreaked on their brethren.
So now those men who aren't dead or in prison are still out of work, and that includes our Billy. And because he isn't working he does what people often do in that case, I don't know why, he starts drinking. And because he is drinking, he starts fighting, and because he beats up the wrong person he ends up in jail. And because he is in jail Saxon is all alone, and what does she do? She plans their escape from Oakland, she plans their finding their own farm, their own valley of the moon, and Billy agrees to go. So one day after he is released from prison we have this:
Salinger's wagon was at the house, taking out the furniture, the morning they left. The landlord, standing at the gate, received the keys, shook hands with them, and wished them luck. “You're goin' at it right,” he congratulated them. “Sure an' wasn't it under me roll of blankets I tramped into Oakland meself forty year ago! Buy land, like me, when it's cheap. It'll keep you from the poorhouse in your old age. There's plenty of new towns springin' up. Get in on the ground floor. The work of your hands'll keep you in food an' under a roof, an' the land 'll make you well to do. An' you know me address. When you can spare send me along that small bit of rent. An' good luck. An' don't mind what people think. 'Tis them that looks that finds.”
Curious neighbors peeped from behind the blinds as Billy and Saxon strode up the street, while the children gazed at them in gaping astonishment. On Billy's back, inside a painted canvas tarpaulin, was slung the roll of bedding. Inside the roll were changes of underclothing and odds and ends of necessaries. Outside, from the lashings, depended a frying pan and cooking pail. In his hand he carried the coffee pot. Saxon carried a small telescope basket protected by black oilcloth, and across her back was the tiny ukulele case.
“We must look like holy frights,” Billy grumbled, shrinking from every gaze that was bent upon him.
“It'd be all right, if we were going camping,” Saxon consoled. “Only we're not.”
“But they don't know that,” she continued. “It's only you know that, and what you think they're thinking isn't what they're thinking at all. Most probably they think we're going camping. And the best of it is we are going camping. We are! We are!”
At this Billy cheered up, though he muttered his firm intention to knock the block off of any guy that got fresh. He stole a glance at Saxon. Her cheeks were red, her eyes glowing.
“Say,” he said suddenly. “I seen an opera once, where fellows wandered over the country with guitars slung on their backs just like you with that strummy-strum. You made me think of them. They was always singin' songs.”
“That's what I brought it along for,” Saxon answered.
“And when we go down country roads we'll sing as we go along, and we'll sing by the campfires, too. We're going camping, that's all. Taking a vacation and seeing the country. So why shouldn't we have a good time? Why, we don't even know where we're going to sleep to-night, or any night. Think of the fun!”
And now they are off to find their farm, their "Valley of the Moon". I'm not telling you if they find it.
This novel The Valley of the Moon is a story of a working-class couple, Billy and Saxon Roberts, struggling laborers in Oakland at the Turn-of-the-Century, who leave city life behind and search Central and Northern California for suitable farmland to own. It begins in a laundry where there are lots and lots of tables with lots and lots of irons on them with piles and piles of clothing being ironed by lots of women. I hate ironing. I could have stopped reading then. It doesn't matter what I iron, the heat setting, the material, steam, no steam, it all ends up after the clothing cools looking almost as wrinkled as when I started. This just reminded me of four shirts and a blanket I was planning to iron...someday. Saxon has to work at this place every single day, then she has to go home where she lives with her brother and his awful wife. No wonder she wants to get away.
Then there is Billy Roberts, he is a prizefighter, okay he was a prizefighter, now he is a teamster. But just him once being a prizefighter is exciting, I have no idea why. And then Saxon and Billy meet at a dance:
She slightly moved her hand in his and felt the harsh contact of his teamster callouses. The sensation was exquisite. He, too, moved his hand, to accommodate the shift of hers, and she waited fearfully. She did not want him to prove like other men, and she could have hated him had he dared to take advantage of that slight movement of her fingers and put his arm around her. He did not, and she flamed toward him. There was fineness in him. He was neither rattle-brained, like Bert, nor coarse like other men she had encountered. For she had had experiences, not nice, and she had been made to suffer by the lack of what was termed chivalry, though she, in turn, lacked that word to describe what she divined and desired.
And he was a prizefighter. The thought of it almost made her gasp. Yet he answered not at all to her conception of a prizefighter. But, then, he wasn't a prizefighter. He had said he was not. She resolved to ask him about it some time if... if he took her out again. Yet there was little doubt of that, for when a man danced with one girl a whole day he did not drop her immediately. Almost she hoped that he was a prizefighter. There was a delicious tickle of wickedness about it. Prizefighters were such terrible and mysterious men. In so far as they were out of the ordinary and were not mere common workingmen such as carpenters and laundrymen, they represented romance. Power also they represented. They did not work for bosses, but spectacularly and magnificently, with their own might, grappled with the great world and wrung splendid living from its reluctant hands. Some of them even owned automobiles and traveled with a retinue of trainers and servants. Perhaps it had been only Billy's modesty that made him say he had quit fighting. And yet, there were the callouses on his hands. That showed he had quit.
She certainly cares more about the prizefighting than I ever would. And I want them to get married so much, I want Saxon to move away, far away, from that sister-in-law of hers so I don't have to listen to this anymore:
“Oh, yes, he has,” Tom urged genially. “Blamed little he'd work in that shop, or any other shop in Oakland, if he didn't keep in good standing with the Blacksmiths. You don't understand labor conditions, Sarah. The unions have got to stick, if the men aren't to starve to death.”
“Oh, of course not,” Sarah sniffed. “I don't understand anything. I ain't got a mind. I'm a fool, an' you tell me so right before the children.” She turned savagely on her eldest, who startled and shrank away. “Willie, your mother is a fool. Do you get that? Your father says she's a fool—says it right before her face and yourn. She's just a plain fool. Next he'll be sayin' she's crazy an' puttin' her away in the asylum. An' how will you like that, Willie? How will you like to see your mother in a straitjacket an' a padded cell, shut out from the light of the sun an' beaten like a nigger before the war, Willie, beaten an' clubbed like a regular black nigger? That's the kind of a father you've got, Willie. Think of it, Willie, in a padded cell, the mother that bore you, with the lunatics screechin' an' screamin' all around, an' the quick-lime eatin' into the dead bodies of them that's beaten to death by the cruel wardens—”
“Seein' you love your sister so much better than your wife, why did you want to marry me, that's borne your children for you, an' slaved for you, an' toiled for you, an' worked her fingernails off for you, with no thanks, an 'insultin' me before the children, an' sayin' I'm crazy to their faces. An' what have you ever did for me? That's what I want to know—me, that's cooked for you, an' washed your stinkin' clothes, and fixed your socks, an' sat up nights with your brats when they was ailin'. Look at that!”
She thrust out a shapeless, swollen foot, encased in a monstrous, untended shoe, the dry, raw leather of which showed white on the edges of bulging cracks.
“Look at that! That's what I say. Look at that!” Her voice was persistently rising and at the same time growing throaty. “The only shoes I got. Me. Your wife. Ain't you ashamed? Where are my three pairs? Look at that stockin'.”
I couldn't live with this woman five minutes. It takes them to chapter twelve, but Billy and Saxon do get married and leave Saxon's poor brother alone with his wife. They rent a cottage of four rooms for ten dollars a month. I liked this part, it made me laugh:
By three in the afternoon the strain of the piece-workers in the humid, heated room grew tense. Elderly women gasped and sighed; the color went out of the cheeks of the young women, their faces became drawn and dark circles formed under their eyes; but all held on with weary, unabated speed. The tireless, vigilant forewoman kept a sharp lookout for incipient hysteria, and once led a narrow-chested, stoop-shouldered young thing out of the place in time to prevent a collapse.
Saxon was startled by the wildest scream of terror she had ever heard. The tense thread of human resolution snapped; wills and nerves broke down, and a hundred women suspended their irons or dropped them. It was Mary who had screamed so terribly, and Saxon saw a strange black animal flapping great claw-like wings and nestling on Mary's shoulder. With the scream, Mary crouched down, and the strange creature, darting into the air, fluttered full into the startled face of a woman at the next board. This woman promptly screamed and fainted. Into the air again, the flying thing darted hither and thither, while the shrieking, shrinking women threw up their arms, tried to run away along the aisles, or cowered under their ironing boards.
“It's only a bat!” the forewoman shouted. She was furious. “Ain't you ever seen a bat? It won't eat you!”
But they were ghetto people, and were not to be quieted. Some woman who could not see the cause of the uproar, out of her overwrought apprehension raised the cry of fire and precipitated the panic rush for the doors. All of them were screaming the stupid, soul-sickening high note of terror, drowning the forewoman's voice. Saxon had been merely startled at first, but the screaming panic broke her grip on herself and swept her away. Though she did not scream, she fled with the rest. When this horde of crazed women debouched on the next department, those who worked there joined in the stampede to escape from they knew not what danger. In ten minutes the laundry was deserted, save for a few men wandering about with hand grenades in futile search for the cause of the disturbance.
The forewoman was stout, but indomitable. Swept along half the length of an aisle by the terror-stricken women, she had broken her way back through the rout and quickly caught the light-blinded visitant in a clothes basket.
“Maybe I don't know what God looks like, but take it from me I've seen a tintype of the devil,” Mary gurgled, emotionally fluttering back and forth between laughter and tears.
But Saxon was angry with herself, for she had been as frightened as the rest in that wild flight for out-of-doors.
“We're a lot of fools,” she said. “It was only a bat. I've heard about them. They live in the country. They wouldn't hurt a fly. They can't see in the daytime. That was what was the matter with this one. It was only a bat.”
“Huh, you can't string me,” Mary replied. “It was the devil.” She sobbed a moment, and then laughed hysterically again. “Did you see Mrs. Bergstrom faint? And it only touched her in the face. Why, it was on my shoulder and touching my bare neck like the hand of a corpse. And I didn't faint.” She laughed again. “I guess, maybe, I was too scared to faint.”
“Come on back,” Saxon urged. “We've lost half an hour.”
“Not me. I'm goin' home after that, if they fire me. I couldn't iron for sour apples now, I'm that shaky.”
One woman had broken a leg, another an arm, and a number nursed milder bruises and bruises. No bullying nor entreating of the forewoman could persuade the women to return to work. They were too upset and nervous, and only here and there could one be found brave enough to re-enter the building for the hats and lunch baskets of the others. Saxon was one of the handful that returned and worked till six o'clock.
When I was a little girl, we would be playing out in the yard and I can still hear my mother calling out the kitchen door for me to put my hands over my head and hide my hair, it was getting dark and the bats were coming out, and bats always fly for your hair. It never made sense to me. It still doesn't. But everything can't remain happy at the four room cottage. Prices go up, wages go down, men go on strike, hard times were in the neighborhood we're told. There were no more trips to the moving picture shows, scrap meat was harder to get from the butcher, there was no longer fresh fish for Friday. We are told that everywhere was a pinching and scraping, a tightening and shortening down of expenditure. Everywhere was more irritation, everyone became angered with one another, with the children, with your best friends, and your family. There are now scabs, and the scabs are being beaten up by the strikers. Why was it, they wondered, people have to live in cities? (I have no idea). A farmer's life must be fine. At least that's what Saxon thought. Me too. Then came this:
It began quietly, as the fateful unexpected so often begins. Children, of all ages and sizes, were playing in the street, and Saxon, by the open front window, was watching them and dreaming day dreams of her child soon to be. One of the children pointed up Pine Street toward Seventh. All the children ceased playing, and stared and pointed. Saxon, leaning out, saw a dozen scabs, conveyed by as many special police and Pinkertons, coming down the sidewalk on her side of the street. They came compactly, as if with discipline, while behind, disorderly, yelling confusedly, stooping to pick up rocks, were seventy-five or a hundred of the striking shopmen. In the hands of the special police were clubs. The Pinkertons carried no visible weapons. The strikers, urging on from behind, seemed content with yelling their rage and threats, and it remained for the children to precipitate the conflict. From across the street came a shower of stones. Most of these fell short, though one struck a scab on the head. The man was no more than twenty feet away from Saxon. He reeled toward her front picket fence, drawing a revolver. With one hand he brushed the blood from his eyes and with the other he discharged the revolver. A Pinkerton seized his arm to prevent a second shot, and dragged him along. The scabs and their protectors made a stand, drawing revolvers. From their hard, determined faces—fighting men by profession—Saxon could augur nothing but bloodshed and death.... Possibly a second, or, at most, two seconds, she gazed at this, when she was aroused by Bert's voice. He was running along the sidewalk, in front of her house, and behind him charged several more strikers, while he shouted: “Come on, you Mohegans! We got 'em nailed to the cross!”
In his left hand he carried a pick-handle, in his right a revolver, already empty, for he clicked the cylinder vainly around as he ran. With an abrupt stop, dropping the pick-handle, he whirled half about, facing Saxon's gate. He was sinking down, when he straightened himself to throw the revolver into the face of a scab who was jumping toward him. Then he began swaying, at the same time sagging at the knees and waist. Slowly, with infinite effort, he caught a gate picket in his right hand, and, still slowly, as if lowering himself, sank down, while past him leaped the crowd of strikers he had led.
It was battle without quarter—a massacre. The scabs and their protectors, surrounded, backed against Saxon's fence, fought like cornered rats, but could not withstand the rush of a hundred men. Clubs and pick-handles were swinging, revolvers were exploding, and cobblestones were flung with crushing effect at arm's distance. Saxon saw young Frank Davis, a friend of Bert's and a father of several months' standing, press the muzzle of his revolver against a scab's stomach and fire. There were curses and snarls of rage, wild cries of terror and pain. Mercedes was right. These things were not men. They were beasts, fighting over bones, destroying one another for bones.
She saw Pinkertons, special police, and strikers go down. One scab, terribly wounded, on his knees and begging for mercy, was kicked in the face. Anything could happen now. Quite without surprise, she saw the strikers leaping the fence, trampling her few little geraniums and pansies into the earth as they fled between Mercedes' house and hers. Up Pine street, from the railroad yards, was coming a rush of railroad police and Pinkertons, firing as they ran. While down Pine street, gongs clanging, horses at a gallop, came three patrol wagons packed with police. The strikers were in a trap. The only way out was between the houses and over the back yard fences. The jam in the narrow alley prevented them all from escaping. A dozen were cornered in the angle between the front of her house and the steps. And as they had done, so were they done by. No effort was made to arrest. They were clubbed down and shot down to the last man by the guardians of the peace who were infuriated by what had been wreaked on their brethren.
So now those men who aren't dead or in prison are still out of work, and that includes our Billy. And because he isn't working he does what people often do in that case, I don't know why, he starts drinking. And because he is drinking, he starts fighting, and because he beats up the wrong person he ends up in jail. And because he is in jail Saxon is all alone, and what does she do? She plans their escape from Oakland, she plans their finding their own farm, their own valley of the moon, and Billy agrees to go. So one day after he is released from prison we have this:
Salinger's wagon was at the house, taking out the furniture, the morning they left. The landlord, standing at the gate, received the keys, shook hands with them, and wished them luck. “You're goin' at it right,” he congratulated them. “Sure an' wasn't it under me roll of blankets I tramped into Oakland meself forty year ago! Buy land, like me, when it's cheap. It'll keep you from the poorhouse in your old age. There's plenty of new towns springin' up. Get in on the ground floor. The work of your hands'll keep you in food an' under a roof, an' the land 'll make you well to do. An' you know me address. When you can spare send me along that small bit of rent. An' good luck. An' don't mind what people think. 'Tis them that looks that finds.”
Curious neighbors peeped from behind the blinds as Billy and Saxon strode up the street, while the children gazed at them in gaping astonishment. On Billy's back, inside a painted canvas tarpaulin, was slung the roll of bedding. Inside the roll were changes of underclothing and odds and ends of necessaries. Outside, from the lashings, depended a frying pan and cooking pail. In his hand he carried the coffee pot. Saxon carried a small telescope basket protected by black oilcloth, and across her back was the tiny ukulele case.
“We must look like holy frights,” Billy grumbled, shrinking from every gaze that was bent upon him.
“It'd be all right, if we were going camping,” Saxon consoled. “Only we're not.”
“But they don't know that,” she continued. “It's only you know that, and what you think they're thinking isn't what they're thinking at all. Most probably they think we're going camping. And the best of it is we are going camping. We are! We are!”
At this Billy cheered up, though he muttered his firm intention to knock the block off of any guy that got fresh. He stole a glance at Saxon. Her cheeks were red, her eyes glowing.
“Say,” he said suddenly. “I seen an opera once, where fellows wandered over the country with guitars slung on their backs just like you with that strummy-strum. You made me think of them. They was always singin' songs.”
“That's what I brought it along for,” Saxon answered.
“And when we go down country roads we'll sing as we go along, and we'll sing by the campfires, too. We're going camping, that's all. Taking a vacation and seeing the country. So why shouldn't we have a good time? Why, we don't even know where we're going to sleep to-night, or any night. Think of the fun!”
And now they are off to find their farm, their "Valley of the Moon". I'm not telling you if they find it.
March 23, 2015
So many people associate Jack London with Call of the Wild, The Sea Wolf, White Fang, and of course the short story “To Build a Fire.” Most do not realize that he wrote some 50 books and hundreds of short stories and essays. The Valley of the Moon was written in 1913, three years before he died at the age of 40.
The first part of the book takes place in Oakland during troubled economic times and labor strikes playing havoc on many people’s lives. Billy and Saxon are the main characters who are newly married and who struggle to keep afloat in rough times. Billy is a teamster and is also a popular amateur boxer when Saxon meets him, but he explains he has given it up because of the low life crowds who come to see the fights—they want a blood bath and not a sport. Saxon works in a laundry and is ready to quit her job as soon as they marry, and she does. Billy ends up in prison and Saxon does everything she can to stay alive. Halfway through the book, just before Billy is released from prison, she comes to realize that they do not have to stay in Oakland, but they can start an adventure and leave. “Oakland’s just a place to start from.” After going through strikes and fights, and starvation, and losing a baby, Saxon decides that they CAN leave and they will go an adventure and find the perfect place to live; she called it her valley of the moon.
The second part of the book is the story of their adventure, their pilgrimage. Even though they nothing about farming, they decide they will find the perfect place to farm. They meet many people along the way and learn things like how to plow, how to finance horse trading, how to draw customers to the market, and many other simple things like cooking a steak and washing woolens. All things they never would have known about living in the city. When they finally find the perfect place to settle—their valley in “a golden land of small hills and valleys,” you know that things are going to work out for them. And it does!
The book is more complicated than this review. It deals with racial consciousness, socialism, feminism, immigration and westward expansion—each a topic worth exploring separately. Native Californians can really appreciate this book, as can those who are interested in the history of California at this time. I liked the second part of the book much better than the first part. There was so much description and so many fights and so many setbacks, that I just got tired of it all. Knowing Sonoma Valley (it’s breathtaking) and knowing where Jack London did settle in the last years of his life and did farm, made the book all that much more meaningful. What’s even more delightful is that Jack London Historic Park in Sonoma Valley is a beautiful place to visit and enjoy.
The first part of the book takes place in Oakland during troubled economic times and labor strikes playing havoc on many people’s lives. Billy and Saxon are the main characters who are newly married and who struggle to keep afloat in rough times. Billy is a teamster and is also a popular amateur boxer when Saxon meets him, but he explains he has given it up because of the low life crowds who come to see the fights—they want a blood bath and not a sport. Saxon works in a laundry and is ready to quit her job as soon as they marry, and she does. Billy ends up in prison and Saxon does everything she can to stay alive. Halfway through the book, just before Billy is released from prison, she comes to realize that they do not have to stay in Oakland, but they can start an adventure and leave. “Oakland’s just a place to start from.” After going through strikes and fights, and starvation, and losing a baby, Saxon decides that they CAN leave and they will go an adventure and find the perfect place to live; she called it her valley of the moon.
The second part of the book is the story of their adventure, their pilgrimage. Even though they nothing about farming, they decide they will find the perfect place to farm. They meet many people along the way and learn things like how to plow, how to finance horse trading, how to draw customers to the market, and many other simple things like cooking a steak and washing woolens. All things they never would have known about living in the city. When they finally find the perfect place to settle—their valley in “a golden land of small hills and valleys,” you know that things are going to work out for them. And it does!
The book is more complicated than this review. It deals with racial consciousness, socialism, feminism, immigration and westward expansion—each a topic worth exploring separately. Native Californians can really appreciate this book, as can those who are interested in the history of California at this time. I liked the second part of the book much better than the first part. There was so much description and so many fights and so many setbacks, that I just got tired of it all. Knowing Sonoma Valley (it’s breathtaking) and knowing where Jack London did settle in the last years of his life and did farm, made the book all that much more meaningful. What’s even more delightful is that Jack London Historic Park in Sonoma Valley is a beautiful place to visit and enjoy.
March 26, 2013
Jack London never fired blanks. There isn’t a book of his that I’ve read where he isn’t trying to mortally wound a lazy convention, a notion taken for granted, or what often passes for common sense. London’s exhortation is always, in my words, “Think! Act! Live to the fullest!” He believes in the power of the will and body, and despises those who fear their own breath fogging the mirror. One of my favorite lines from his works, “I'd rather sing one wild song and burst my heart with it, than live a thousand years watching my digestion and being afraid of the wet.” Pretty much sums him up.
That being said, Valley Of the Moon definitely was London-esque, but it wasn’t my favorite for a few reasons. There weren’t as many good one-liners. He took too long telling the story. The plot became too swollen with needless details about how his characters were outsmarting everybody else. Of course, to be fair, it was written as a kind of manual for people in his time to know how to escape their situation. But I’m not them. They can write their own reviews and give him 5 stars if they want to. Oh wait, they’re dead.
So, the protagonists in this story were Californian urbanites, mired in hand-to-mouth living, and finally having their financial Achilles-heel snipped by a union strike that embroils them in riots, incarceration, and an widening distance from each other in their marriage. The beginning of the book is heavily steeped in mawkish romance between the characters: “I love you more! No, I love you more!” It starts feeling like the story is about to end 100 pages in. Everything is so perfect. Sickeningly so. Come on, London! Send a plague or something! If I’m going to read 400 more pages of this, I need a plague or some severed limbs…something!
So, half-way through the book it gets really interesting. Everything’s calculated to dump old-timey religion, antiquated values, and dumb sense halfway through the book. It’s a Jack London signature move: skinning the weak and boring, and re-fleshing them with something more, well, readable. The heroine, Saxon, finally hits rock-bottom (thank you Jack), starts wading out into the San Francisco bay to collect mussels to eat so she doesn’t starve. Her man is incarcerated for nearly crushing a man’s skull. Their neighbors are afraid, and people are getting stalked and killed over the scarcity of employment. Then suddenly, struck with a new vision of freedom, Saxon and Billy let go of their choked, wheezing pittance of the city-life, and go on the road with just their backpacks and a little bit of cash. Bravo!
To be sure, initially there appears to be some white-supremacy overtones in the story, but this actually turns into high praise for Hispanics and Asians who are smart, hard workers and have progressed further than whites because of their ingenuity and courage…two qualities London extols above all others. So, was he really a supremacist, or merely calling for whites to catch up to their hardworking brothers-from-other-mothers? I’ll bet that London was probably most in love with his own self and his hard body, and tended to dwell on people and ancestry that resembled his narcissistic self. Even Saxon’s name referred to past Anglo honor and grit up to the early days of pioneering. But I have to hand it to this heroine; she was a boss! A master of herself and others. She drew on her inner reserves, and “she rebelled…fluttered and beat her soul against the hard face of things as did the linnet against the bars of wire…She did not belong in the trap. She would fight her way out of the trap… It was the stupid that remained and bowed their heads to fate.” She was independent and emanated love and concern for others, but she had a commanding aspect to her that enabled her to take the reins from her husband when he became abusive and began to neglect himself and his family. She singlehandedly created a life-strategy during a period of want, led her family out of Oakland with the marvelous slogan, “Oakland’s just a place to start from”, slept on the ground, went without food, humbled herself to demeaning roles to survive financially, and ultimately guided others around her to live out their strengths and make a better life together with her. Such a powerful example of a proud and noble woman.
Of course, the characters are WAY too lucky, and it doesn’t help matters that even the title of the book signifies a utopian ideal that is impossible to realize. But I’ll be darned if our heroes don’t actually find a spot in California that fits their dream and is actually called The Valley Of the Moon (Sonoma Valley)! Seriously? Whatever happened to the line from the book, “I don’t want to dream…I want things real!” I’ll tell you what happened. London went out playing with the butterflies again instead of writing us a book that helps the rest of us who haven’t yet found the greener grass, and may never. Geez, thanks Mr. “just-giving-you-the-hardcore-truth-so-you-can-learn-to-live-better-and-smarter-and-not-in-a-fairy-tale-land-that-will-ultimately-leave-you-bleeding-in-a-hole-somewhere”!! Yeah, thanks Jack…for a friggin’ lot of JACK SQUAT!!
But I still love him. Overall a good story, good points; just took too long.
That being said, Valley Of the Moon definitely was London-esque, but it wasn’t my favorite for a few reasons. There weren’t as many good one-liners. He took too long telling the story. The plot became too swollen with needless details about how his characters were outsmarting everybody else. Of course, to be fair, it was written as a kind of manual for people in his time to know how to escape their situation. But I’m not them. They can write their own reviews and give him 5 stars if they want to. Oh wait, they’re dead.
So, the protagonists in this story were Californian urbanites, mired in hand-to-mouth living, and finally having their financial Achilles-heel snipped by a union strike that embroils them in riots, incarceration, and an widening distance from each other in their marriage. The beginning of the book is heavily steeped in mawkish romance between the characters: “I love you more! No, I love you more!” It starts feeling like the story is about to end 100 pages in. Everything is so perfect. Sickeningly so. Come on, London! Send a plague or something! If I’m going to read 400 more pages of this, I need a plague or some severed limbs…something!
So, half-way through the book it gets really interesting. Everything’s calculated to dump old-timey religion, antiquated values, and dumb sense halfway through the book. It’s a Jack London signature move: skinning the weak and boring, and re-fleshing them with something more, well, readable. The heroine, Saxon, finally hits rock-bottom (thank you Jack), starts wading out into the San Francisco bay to collect mussels to eat so she doesn’t starve. Her man is incarcerated for nearly crushing a man’s skull. Their neighbors are afraid, and people are getting stalked and killed over the scarcity of employment. Then suddenly, struck with a new vision of freedom, Saxon and Billy let go of their choked, wheezing pittance of the city-life, and go on the road with just their backpacks and a little bit of cash. Bravo!
To be sure, initially there appears to be some white-supremacy overtones in the story, but this actually turns into high praise for Hispanics and Asians who are smart, hard workers and have progressed further than whites because of their ingenuity and courage…two qualities London extols above all others. So, was he really a supremacist, or merely calling for whites to catch up to their hardworking brothers-from-other-mothers? I’ll bet that London was probably most in love with his own self and his hard body, and tended to dwell on people and ancestry that resembled his narcissistic self. Even Saxon’s name referred to past Anglo honor and grit up to the early days of pioneering. But I have to hand it to this heroine; she was a boss! A master of herself and others. She drew on her inner reserves, and “she rebelled…fluttered and beat her soul against the hard face of things as did the linnet against the bars of wire…She did not belong in the trap. She would fight her way out of the trap… It was the stupid that remained and bowed their heads to fate.” She was independent and emanated love and concern for others, but she had a commanding aspect to her that enabled her to take the reins from her husband when he became abusive and began to neglect himself and his family. She singlehandedly created a life-strategy during a period of want, led her family out of Oakland with the marvelous slogan, “Oakland’s just a place to start from”, slept on the ground, went without food, humbled herself to demeaning roles to survive financially, and ultimately guided others around her to live out their strengths and make a better life together with her. Such a powerful example of a proud and noble woman.
Of course, the characters are WAY too lucky, and it doesn’t help matters that even the title of the book signifies a utopian ideal that is impossible to realize. But I’ll be darned if our heroes don’t actually find a spot in California that fits their dream and is actually called The Valley Of the Moon (Sonoma Valley)! Seriously? Whatever happened to the line from the book, “I don’t want to dream…I want things real!” I’ll tell you what happened. London went out playing with the butterflies again instead of writing us a book that helps the rest of us who haven’t yet found the greener grass, and may never. Geez, thanks Mr. “just-giving-you-the-hardcore-truth-so-you-can-learn-to-live-better-and-smarter-and-not-in-a-fairy-tale-land-that-will-ultimately-leave-you-bleeding-in-a-hole-somewhere”!! Yeah, thanks Jack…for a friggin’ lot of JACK SQUAT!!
But I still love him. Overall a good story, good points; just took too long.
April 12, 2014
Достаточно наивная и, на первый взгляд, непритязательная история молодой пары, ищущей своего немудрёного счастья, на глазах превращается в жизненную драму, где каждый персонаж настоящ от кончиков волос до кончиков пальцев, где нет ни одного лишнего слова и ни одного лишнего действия. Лондон настолько точен в своих описаниях и настолько филигранен в обращении с придуманными событиями, что возникает ощущение, будто смотришь фильм, снятый высококлассным режиссёром. Каждый эпизод на своём месте, а описания внутреннего и внешнего мира героев настолько гармоничны, что чувствуешь каждый вздох и видишь каждый жест. Особенно меня впечатлили мини-сценки, играющие ключевую роль в поворотах сюжета в новые русла, вроде того момента, когда Саксон, чуть помедлив, бросает пятидолларовую монетку (огромная для неё сумма!) в сток раковины, потому что не может принять деньги, заработанные её бывшей подругой, ставшей проституткой. Эти эпизоды написаны так точно, что внутренняя борьба душевных противоречий не может не вызывать эмоций, как и образ главной героини, превращающейся из наивной девчонки в умудрённую опытом, но не потерявшую надежды молодую женщину,
Ну и, кроме того, Лондон приятно удивил отсутствием каких-либо иллюзий относительно человека в общем и американского народа в частности. В книге много злой иронии, даже обиды на ленивых и трусливых соотечественников, заботящихся лишь о том, чтобы потуже и побыстрее набить собственный карман, а там – хоть потоп. Чувствуется безграничная любовь автора к своей стране, но не современной Америке капиталистов, а светлая грусть по романтике путешествий пионеров, по тем могиканам, изошедшим эту землю вдоль и поперёк. Вряд ли Лондон смог бы так ёмко и образно описать тоску Саксон по былым временам, если бы сам не чувствовал чего-то похожего, но вымышленные герои хороши тем, что для них всегда можно написать счастливый финал. Но несмотря на то, что примерно с середины романа становится очевидно, что поиски Билла и Саксон всё же увенчаются успехом, интерес не пропадает. Наоборот, с каждой новой прочитанной страницей всё сильнее хочется, чтобы книга не кончалась, ведь вместе с ней могут закончиться и тот широкий простор, и та романтика безрассудных путешествий к своей мечте, которые подарил своим читателям Джек Лондон.
Ну и, кроме того, Лондон приятно удивил отсутствием каких-либо иллюзий относительно человека в общем и американского народа в частности. В книге много злой иронии, даже обиды на ленивых и трусливых соотечественников, заботящихся лишь о том, чтобы потуже и побыстрее набить собственный карман, а там – хоть потоп. Чувствуется безграничная любовь автора к своей стране, но не современной Америке капиталистов, а светлая грусть по романтике путешествий пионеров, по тем могиканам, изошедшим эту землю вдоль и поперёк. Вряд ли Лондон смог бы так ёмко и образно описать тоску Саксон по былым временам, если бы сам не чувствовал чего-то похожего, но вымышленные герои хороши тем, что для них всегда можно написать счастливый финал. Но несмотря на то, что примерно с середины романа становится очевидно, что поиски Билла и Саксон всё же увенчаются успехом, интерес не пропадает. Наоборот, с каждой новой прочитанной страницей всё сильнее хочется, чтобы книга не кончалась, ведь вместе с ней могут закончиться и тот широкий простор, и та романтика безрассудных путешествий к своей мечте, которые подарил своим читателям Джек Лондон.
March 30, 2013
I bought the book on a camping trip to see Jack London's home in Sonoma county. I'm just reading it now, and am about halfway through. I'm impressed with how well London writes from a female perspective, though there is a certain lack of depth. That said, it is fascinating to read a book set in Oakland in the early 1900s, reading about familiar places and streets is great for the imagination. Jack London's opinion of the world comes through clearly in each character, and you can recognize his ability to see multiple sides of an issue. Of course, the main characters wanting to quit city life and have a farm in the country speaks to me particularly...
did-not-finish
November 18, 2017Kütüphaneden aldığım, 94 yılına ait bir baskı. Şu sıralar gözümdeki ağrıyla sararmış sayfaları okumak hiç çekilir dert değil hele hele konusu hiç ilgimi çekmemişken. İşçi sınıfı hareketini anlatan bu kitabı başka bir bahara erteliyorum bu yüzden.
July 29, 2025
4.5 stars rounded up.
This is a story told in 3 parts. Part 1 is a love story. Part 2 is a story of hardship. Part 3 is a story of opportunity and searching for sonething more.
I lived Billy and Saxon as protagonists and loved cheering for them every step of the way
This is a story told in 3 parts. Part 1 is a love story. Part 2 is a story of hardship. Part 3 is a story of opportunity and searching for sonething more.
I lived Billy and Saxon as protagonists and loved cheering for them every step of the way
November 4, 2017
Working class, proto-Beat Generation epic, fifty years before Kerouac and company, set in Oakland during the first years of the 20th century.
Saxon Brown, who works in a laundry sweatbox, and Billy Roberts, a teamster and occasional prizefighter, have a whirlwind romance then struggle to get by against a backdrop of the tensions between capital and labor, which result in strikes and hardships.
But through all the hard times, plucky Saxon, who is proud of the image her name conjures up and of the memory of her mother, who came West across the Plains as a girl, 'buckled on the armor again for the hardest fight in the world's arena - the woman's fight.'
Billy is the thick of the scabs and picketers, but this is Saxon's story; her pride in her 'man-boy', her private grief at the loss of a child, her bewilderment at the wrongness of the world and despairing rejection of the God her mother told her about.
She meets some interesting and well drawn characters along the way, such as her crafty and possibly crazy neighbour in Oakland, Mercedes Higgins; an organised and helpful female farmer in San José, Mrs. Mortimor; and a colony of bohemian artists in Carmel, based on London's own crowd.
They all teach Saxon and Billy some valuable lessons about life. And farming. For the second half of the novel, where their metaphorical quest to find the Valley of the Moon begins in earnest, is both a lament and call to arms aimed at American farmers, who London berates for ruining the land and losing it to immigrants, who make better use of it.
As a result, the story of Saxon and Billy loses some momentum amongst all the didacticism, and grows a little too slushy as their fortunes improve, but this doesn't ruin the book. The characters are just too likeable for that, I really felt like I knew them by then,and wanted to keep knowing them until the end.
A large book, but a little known one amongst London's classics, it's also very different to the likes of The Sea Wolf or Call of the Wild.
I am still yet to read a Jack London book that I didn't like.
Saxon Brown, who works in a laundry sweatbox, and Billy Roberts, a teamster and occasional prizefighter, have a whirlwind romance then struggle to get by against a backdrop of the tensions between capital and labor, which result in strikes and hardships.
But through all the hard times, plucky Saxon, who is proud of the image her name conjures up and of the memory of her mother, who came West across the Plains as a girl, 'buckled on the armor again for the hardest fight in the world's arena - the woman's fight.'
Billy is the thick of the scabs and picketers, but this is Saxon's story; her pride in her 'man-boy', her private grief at the loss of a child, her bewilderment at the wrongness of the world and despairing rejection of the God her mother told her about.
She meets some interesting and well drawn characters along the way, such as her crafty and possibly crazy neighbour in Oakland, Mercedes Higgins; an organised and helpful female farmer in San José, Mrs. Mortimor; and a colony of bohemian artists in Carmel, based on London's own crowd.
They all teach Saxon and Billy some valuable lessons about life. And farming. For the second half of the novel, where their metaphorical quest to find the Valley of the Moon begins in earnest, is both a lament and call to arms aimed at American farmers, who London berates for ruining the land and losing it to immigrants, who make better use of it.
As a result, the story of Saxon and Billy loses some momentum amongst all the didacticism, and grows a little too slushy as their fortunes improve, but this doesn't ruin the book. The characters are just too likeable for that, I really felt like I knew them by then,and wanted to keep knowing them until the end.
A large book, but a little known one amongst London's classics, it's also very different to the likes of The Sea Wolf or Call of the Wild.
I am still yet to read a Jack London book that I didn't like.
September 26, 2023
Jack London can write. His characters are nuanced, his descriptions gorgeous. I don't think I've read anything of his since I read his Yukon books when I was a kid, so I approached this one out of curiosity for the sake of research. There's a lot I liked. His two lead characters, Saxon and Billy, are interesting. Billy in particular evolves through the course of the book. One thing that doesn't change throughout, however, is the white supremacist racism that is a theme throughout. It seriously is a theme, too, not a one-off use of racist slang.
It comes up repeatedly that Saxon and Billy, being the stock of original white pioneers who suffered mightily on their treks to California, deserve to live good lives. They are repeatedly indignant that new immigrants from Portugal, China, Dalmatia, and other places have money and land, even as it is acknowledged that entire families have worked hard to earn that. This "unfairness" isn't addressed in subtext. It is blatant throughout.
A quote: "An' him a Chink," Billy mourned disconsolately. He turned to Saxon. "They ought to be some new country for us white folks to go to. Gosh!"
Jack London and his wife even have cameos in the book, and he gets to join in on the complaining. It's almost impressive how much of the book dwells on this subject, and for all that it does add period "color," it really isn't even necessary to the overall plot. The book would be more streamlined without it, in truth.
Beyond that, it's an interesting portrayal of life in the very early 20th century in California. Saxon is a compelling lead, a woman who works hard and strives to save her husband, Billy, as he falls into drunken despair when his union goes on strike. That episode is artfully done, as pro-union London shows the devastation of strikes and the horrible things endured by scabs who are just trying to survive. Lots of nuance there. Without going into spoilers, Saxon and Billy end of exploring a lot of northern California and Oregon, and that part is especially intriguing and helped my research.
It comes up repeatedly that Saxon and Billy, being the stock of original white pioneers who suffered mightily on their treks to California, deserve to live good lives. They are repeatedly indignant that new immigrants from Portugal, China, Dalmatia, and other places have money and land, even as it is acknowledged that entire families have worked hard to earn that. This "unfairness" isn't addressed in subtext. It is blatant throughout.
A quote: "An' him a Chink," Billy mourned disconsolately. He turned to Saxon. "They ought to be some new country for us white folks to go to. Gosh!"
Jack London and his wife even have cameos in the book, and he gets to join in on the complaining. It's almost impressive how much of the book dwells on this subject, and for all that it does add period "color," it really isn't even necessary to the overall plot. The book would be more streamlined without it, in truth.
Beyond that, it's an interesting portrayal of life in the very early 20th century in California. Saxon is a compelling lead, a woman who works hard and strives to save her husband, Billy, as he falls into drunken despair when his union goes on strike. That episode is artfully done, as pro-union London shows the devastation of strikes and the horrible things endured by scabs who are just trying to survive. Lots of nuance there. Without going into spoilers, Saxon and Billy end of exploring a lot of northern California and Oregon, and that part is especially intriguing and helped my research.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
February 21, 2025
От време на време се сещам за някоя любима книга и се налага веднага да си я препрочета. А тази ми е една от най-любимите му. Вълшебни описания, просто ти се приисква да си там. Толкова увлекателно пише Джек Лондон, че не можеш да се отлепиш , докато не стигнеш края. А колко много мъдрост има в книгите му. За съжаление, откривам , че нищо не се е променило. Струва ми се, че света се върти в един омагьосан кръг.
"— Като си помисли човек какви огромни възможности имаше тази страна — каза той. — Нова страна, оградена от океани, прекрасен климат, с най-плодородната почва и с най-богатите естествени източници на суровини, от която и да е страна в света! При това тая страна се засели с хора, скъсали с всички предразсъдъци на Стария свят и готови да създадат демокрация. И само едно нещо им попречи да създадат истинска демокрация — алчността."
"— Като си помисли човек какви огромни възможности имаше тази страна — каза той. — Нова страна, оградена от океани, прекрасен климат, с най-плодородната почва и с най-богатите естествени източници на суровини, от която и да е страна в света! При това тая страна се засели с хора, скъсали с всички предразсъдъци на Стария свят и готови да създадат демокрация. И само едно нещо им попречи да създадат истинска демокрация — алчността."
May 6, 2013
I read this book in highschool and absolutely fell in love with it. Definetly a good read!
Re-read in 2013. Loved it as much this time around as the first time around! The characters and their journey really spoke to me!
Re-read in 2013. Loved it as much this time around as the first time around! The characters and their journey really spoke to me!
January 3, 2019
My favorite of Jack London's novels-- an autobiographical depiction of Jack and his wife Charmian leaving working on the Oakland docks to live in idyllic Sonoma Valley.
January 28, 2021
I found this book, which I bought when visiting Jack London State Park in 2019, to be a mixed bag. I have mixed feelings about the style, but if I could simply say "this book is 105 years old", I could go with it and enjoy it as a novel.
It's the story of a young couple in Oakland, how they met, how they married. Bill is a respected semi-pro boxer who works as a teamster (drives horses) for a day job. When his union goes on strike there is a lot of violence, which on one level he relishes because he enjoys hitting people. But he goes downhill, due to his pride and his despair at not being able to provide for his wife.
After a month in jail ends, his wife says they must leave Oakland and find a way to prosper in the countryside. They travel on foot as far south as Carmel, as far north as the Rogue River Valley in Oregon (having somewhat improbable adventures), and then make their way to the Valley of the Moon, just north of Sonoma, CA. They reach it on page 450! I was hoping to read about the history or early days of the area, and finally in the last 50 pages I do. They have learned a lot from people they met on their travels, and parley that into success. I'm dying to go back to that valley and trace the route they took from Santa Rosa to reach Glen Ellen--described in detail.
I hardly know what to make of the attitudes in this novel, other than that it frequently made me uneasy. London was a socialist, at least part of his life, and that shows in the novel, but his darling couple end it by figuring out how to gouge money out of others who need their services, and are making plans to sell water to the town of Glen Ellen. Then, their conversation about people of various ethnicities whom they encounter, uses every rough term available. And Bill soon joins his wife, whose first name is Saxon, in feeling inordinately proud of their Angle-Saxon and wagon-train stock. However, most of what London says about the various people, such as Portuguese growing fruit around Antioch, Dalmatians farming in the Paharo Valley, Chinese workers they hire for their farm in VofM, is highly respectful of their enterprise, highly-developed skills in farming, and their intelligent ways of obtaining land. His characters moan a couple of times, "There won't be anything left for us!" But my final conclusion is that London genuinely respected all these people, or at least had me respecting them. And the underlying ethos is that everyone should have a chance, which London shows the competitiveness of capitalism makes unlikely, at best.
It's the story of a young couple in Oakland, how they met, how they married. Bill is a respected semi-pro boxer who works as a teamster (drives horses) for a day job. When his union goes on strike there is a lot of violence, which on one level he relishes because he enjoys hitting people. But he goes downhill, due to his pride and his despair at not being able to provide for his wife.
After a month in jail ends, his wife says they must leave Oakland and find a way to prosper in the countryside. They travel on foot as far south as Carmel, as far north as the Rogue River Valley in Oregon (having somewhat improbable adventures), and then make their way to the Valley of the Moon, just north of Sonoma, CA. They reach it on page 450! I was hoping to read about the history or early days of the area, and finally in the last 50 pages I do. They have learned a lot from people they met on their travels, and parley that into success. I'm dying to go back to that valley and trace the route they took from Santa Rosa to reach Glen Ellen--described in detail.
I hardly know what to make of the attitudes in this novel, other than that it frequently made me uneasy. London was a socialist, at least part of his life, and that shows in the novel, but his darling couple end it by figuring out how to gouge money out of others who need their services, and are making plans to sell water to the town of Glen Ellen. Then, their conversation about people of various ethnicities whom they encounter, uses every rough term available. And Bill soon joins his wife, whose first name is Saxon, in feeling inordinately proud of their Angle-Saxon and wagon-train stock. However, most of what London says about the various people, such as Portuguese growing fruit around Antioch, Dalmatians farming in the Paharo Valley, Chinese workers they hire for their farm in VofM, is highly respectful of their enterprise, highly-developed skills in farming, and their intelligent ways of obtaining land. His characters moan a couple of times, "There won't be anything left for us!" But my final conclusion is that London genuinely respected all these people, or at least had me respecting them. And the underlying ethos is that everyone should have a chance, which London shows the competitiveness of capitalism makes unlikely, at best.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
January 5, 2024
Solid 4 stars through 75%. I was contemplating 3.5 stars by the end.
December 3, 2013
I can't believe I tortured myself through 500 and some odd pages! Boring and sappy. How I hate wasting this much investment in a story thinking surely it'll get better but it just gets worse. I stuck with it because the time period's union strife might've been educational but it wasn't other than some realism regarding the brutality, and I thought it'd be fun to read about the SF Bay area back then, but even that lacked in depth. Nothing but a cheesy, too drawn out story about two naive married people. It was a bit more interesting while they lived in Oakland but once they began to travel it just got too cheesy. The main characters lacked depth and acted, thought, and spoke like children. Finally, enough was enough. Just cannot do yet another 200 pages of this drivel. I'll give it a 2 just for some historical merit.
January 18, 2018
3,5 estrellas.
La primera parte del libro que es cuando Billy y Saxon se conocieron y la segunda, que es cuando se casan y todo el conflicto obrero me ha gustado más que la tercera, que es el viaje y la llegada al valle de la luna.
Es un libro vastante entretenido, fácil de leer.
La primera parte del libro que es cuando Billy y Saxon se conocieron y la segunda, que es cuando se casan y todo el conflicto obrero me ha gustado más que la tercera, que es el viaje y la llegada al valle de la luna.
Es un libro vastante entretenido, fácil de leer.
Currently reading
February 25, 2010After spending a long weekend in 'the valley of the moon', I felt compelled to read this book. I'm only a few pages in, but I like it already.
September 26, 2019
The first fall of my teens idols. I adored this book so much when I was a teenager that I still can remember the whole passages of its translated version I have been rereading again and again. Finally I decided to reread a book in English. The first two parts gave exactly the same feelings I had before. I liked the Oakland strike section even more. The idea of adult who actually starts growing up is appealing to me a lot these days. I do love how London managed it. But I must admit that his harsh supremacist views not once made me flinch. Old nostalgia hold on until the final part where these endless racist remarks became unbearable. How had I never seen it before? All charm of this road adventure to happiness was spoiled ruthlessly to me. O my.
January 17, 2023
I liked it. I was looking for books, other than Steinbeck, that take place in Northern California. It was good to be able to see the countryside in my mind as the images were fresh from a recent trip there. It was quaint and sweet, but had unfortunately some of the typical racism of the times. Interesting politically to see how anti-union things were over one hundred years ago. Spoiler: Sonoma means Valley of the Moon.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
February 8, 2024
I haven't written a review of a book in a long time.
After finishing this one (at long last) I felt I had to say something, because it was a surprising read. When it was recommended to me I thought, "oh, a novel inspired by the early 19th-century unionbusting massacres written by a famously socialist author," and that sounded right up my alley. And another thought: "oh, it continues into a road novel of a family looking for a new settlement," which, since I had read John Ehle's The Land Breakers last year and enjoyed it, another account of the hardships of starting a homestead made me excited to start.
I wish I hadn't. When I start a book, I finish it. It's a personal flaw. Maybe it gets exciting, or poignant, or I will learn something on the next page! Or the page after that! And so on.
Well. Here is what I learned:
1. This novel is racist. I don't mean this lightly, in that there are a few off-hand comments throughout that you might expect from an early 20th-century book (still racist). I mean it is profoundly and continuously racist. That racism is a fundamental part of the narrative. That the main character is ham-fistedly named "Saxon" and is raised on a pedestal from the first chapter as though she is a model of what an American should be. That the phrase "old stock" is repeated over and over throughout the book as a determiner of worth. That any character of foreign birth is introduced by their race and every race is described as a one-dimensional and faceless cabal of like-minded invaders (such as: "those Xs are industrious", "those Ys are devious," "those Zs live to work and have no joy"). That a non-white "invasion" is a perpetual fear of the two protagonists! That the vehement imperialist Kipling's "An American" is a guiding light for every "old stock" character, with a constant refrain of his lament that white Americans are "camped on the stoop" while the house is overtaken...you see where this goes. I could continue, but there's no point. Had the book begun to make references to skull shape and eugenics I would not have been surprised.
2. These characters are not characters. They are shallow constructions. Each one has a single viewpoint and represents that single viewpoint without any nuance or conflict. The protagonists are nearly perfect in every way. What flaws they do have are admired: Billy's anger issues make him a perfect protector for Saxon; Saxon's brief descent into depression (the only interesting part of the novel) only bolsters her already perfect resolve. Otherwise, they face few hardships that aren't the result of their situations, no inner conflicts, only outer conflicts. When they attempt something new, they learn to do it almost immediately and with more expertise than people who have been doing it for years. When they meet a suitable "old stock" character they are instantly friends. Their love story is perfect, and it lasts a full third of the book (!) that a reader must get through even to get to anything interesting.
3. This novel is didactic. Narrative is secondary. London's characters serve as mouthpieces for the author himself, either to teach the protagonists about building a ranch and where to find land, or to comment on the perils of the labour market at the time, or to discuss the plight of the "old stock" American. It is lazy writing, and it crumbles any remaining realism for his poorly constructed characters.
4. This novel is repetitive. It is around 400 pages and could have been half that. Much of the time, it is the protagonists learning over and over the truths of the same racial stereotypes or ensuring that any lessons on building a ranch are made clear to the reader. It comes across more as a how-to handbook than a story.
5. This novel is self-aggrandizing. Jack London built a ranch with his wife as a way to escape the politics of the city, and he obviously thinks this was the crowning achievement of his life. In fact, he writes himself into the novel as another perfect character who encourages the protagonists to do what he has done. Never mind that by the time he built his ranch he was one of the wealthiest authors in the United States. The ease with which the protagonists build their new life comes across as facile and naïve from the perspective of someone who could hire labourers and work as little as possible (and "never having to sacrifice play for work" is another major and silly theme of the novel).
6. But overall, this novel is simply boring. If it were just boring, I wouldn't mind; I have enjoyed boring books in the past because they taught me something. I learned nothing here except the kind of man Jack London had become by the time of its writing.
So yes, this was a disappointing and surprising read. It's not a popular book by Jack London, nor should it be, and herein lies the rub: in this novel is a prototypical "tradlife" narrative. It fulfills everything those numbskulls believe. If they read at all, I would not be shocked if they adopted it.
And that would be a tragedy, because it belongs in obscurity.
I'm giving it two stars only because I didn't find any spelling mistakes.
After finishing this one (at long last) I felt I had to say something, because it was a surprising read. When it was recommended to me I thought, "oh, a novel inspired by the early 19th-century unionbusting massacres written by a famously socialist author," and that sounded right up my alley. And another thought: "oh, it continues into a road novel of a family looking for a new settlement," which, since I had read John Ehle's The Land Breakers last year and enjoyed it, another account of the hardships of starting a homestead made me excited to start.
I wish I hadn't. When I start a book, I finish it. It's a personal flaw. Maybe it gets exciting, or poignant, or I will learn something on the next page! Or the page after that! And so on.
Well. Here is what I learned:
1. This novel is racist. I don't mean this lightly, in that there are a few off-hand comments throughout that you might expect from an early 20th-century book (still racist). I mean it is profoundly and continuously racist. That racism is a fundamental part of the narrative. That the main character is ham-fistedly named "Saxon" and is raised on a pedestal from the first chapter as though she is a model of what an American should be. That the phrase "old stock" is repeated over and over throughout the book as a determiner of worth. That any character of foreign birth is introduced by their race and every race is described as a one-dimensional and faceless cabal of like-minded invaders (such as: "those Xs are industrious", "those Ys are devious," "those Zs live to work and have no joy"). That a non-white "invasion" is a perpetual fear of the two protagonists! That the vehement imperialist Kipling's "An American" is a guiding light for every "old stock" character, with a constant refrain of his lament that white Americans are "camped on the stoop" while the house is overtaken...you see where this goes. I could continue, but there's no point. Had the book begun to make references to skull shape and eugenics I would not have been surprised.
2. These characters are not characters. They are shallow constructions. Each one has a single viewpoint and represents that single viewpoint without any nuance or conflict. The protagonists are nearly perfect in every way. What flaws they do have are admired: Billy's anger issues make him a perfect protector for Saxon; Saxon's brief descent into depression (the only interesting part of the novel) only bolsters her already perfect resolve. Otherwise, they face few hardships that aren't the result of their situations, no inner conflicts, only outer conflicts. When they attempt something new, they learn to do it almost immediately and with more expertise than people who have been doing it for years. When they meet a suitable "old stock" character they are instantly friends. Their love story is perfect, and it lasts a full third of the book (!) that a reader must get through even to get to anything interesting.
3. This novel is didactic. Narrative is secondary. London's characters serve as mouthpieces for the author himself, either to teach the protagonists about building a ranch and where to find land, or to comment on the perils of the labour market at the time, or to discuss the plight of the "old stock" American. It is lazy writing, and it crumbles any remaining realism for his poorly constructed characters.
4. This novel is repetitive. It is around 400 pages and could have been half that. Much of the time, it is the protagonists learning over and over the truths of the same racial stereotypes or ensuring that any lessons on building a ranch are made clear to the reader. It comes across more as a how-to handbook than a story.
5. This novel is self-aggrandizing. Jack London built a ranch with his wife as a way to escape the politics of the city, and he obviously thinks this was the crowning achievement of his life. In fact, he writes himself into the novel as another perfect character who encourages the protagonists to do what he has done. Never mind that by the time he built his ranch he was one of the wealthiest authors in the United States. The ease with which the protagonists build their new life comes across as facile and naïve from the perspective of someone who could hire labourers and work as little as possible (and "never having to sacrifice play for work" is another major and silly theme of the novel).
6. But overall, this novel is simply boring. If it were just boring, I wouldn't mind; I have enjoyed boring books in the past because they taught me something. I learned nothing here except the kind of man Jack London had become by the time of its writing.
So yes, this was a disappointing and surprising read. It's not a popular book by Jack London, nor should it be, and herein lies the rub: in this novel is a prototypical "tradlife" narrative. It fulfills everything those numbskulls believe. If they read at all, I would not be shocked if they adopted it.
And that would be a tragedy, because it belongs in obscurity.
I'm giving it two stars only because I didn't find any spelling mistakes.
March 1, 2020
Билл, Саксон гэх залуу хосуудын амьдрал саран хөндийг хайх аялалын тухай өгүүлнэ.
September 26, 2023
I loved the call of the wild which I read while still at school many years ago. This one however I found very tedious.
February 22, 2016
После "Маленькой хозяйки Большого дома" поняла, что Лондон - родственная душа и стала читать всё, что попадало в руки и всё, что сумела раздобыть, написанное им. "Лунная долина" стала прекрасным открытием, которое я сделала для себя в январе этого года. Понравилось краткое описание романа и я решила отправиться за этой книгой в библиотеку, где мне смогли найт�� этот роман с большим трудом. Книга оказалась ветхой, её никто не брал в течение многих лет. Любой книгоман поймёт, что такой расклад моментально добавляет +100 к настроению.
Теперь о главном. Роман захватывает с первой главы. Эмоции, характеры, общая атмосфера настолько живы и понятны, что вплетаются в саму жизнь читателя, их аромат неизменно сопровождает, когда книгу приходится отложить и заняться насущными делами.
Роман делится на три части. Каждая оставляет в уме свой след, каждая вызывает разные эмоции. Не могу позволить себе спойлеры ни на грамм; вы, кто захочет прочесть книгу, сами должны исследовать каждый поворот сюжета, абсолютно не зная, что там. Скажу лишь то, что эта книга понравится особенно тем, кто взахлёб и с упоением перечитывал в "Маленькой хозяйке Большого дома" описания того, как Дик вёл дела.
Кто-то называет роман утопией. Грустное слово для ТАКОЙ книги.. Это, скорее, тот роман из немногих, который оставит вас счастливыми после последнего предложения последней главы. Для меня эта книга была мотивирующей. Она помогает поверить в свои мечты и цели, бороться за них.
Теперь о главном. Роман захватывает с первой главы. Эмоции, характеры, общая атмосфера настолько живы и понятны, что вплетаются в саму жизнь читателя, их аромат неизменно сопровождает, когда книгу приходится отложить и заняться насущными делами.
Роман делится на три части. Каждая оставляет в уме свой след, каждая вызывает разные эмоции. Не могу позволить себе спойлеры ни на грамм; вы, кто захочет прочесть книгу, сами должны исследовать каждый поворот сюжета, абсолютно не зная, что там. Скажу лишь то, что эта книга понравится особенно тем, кто взахлёб и с упоением перечитывал в "Маленькой хозяйке Большого дома" описания того, как Дик вёл дела.
Кто-то называет роман утопией. Грустное слово для ТАКОЙ книги.. Это, скорее, тот роман из немногих, который оставит вас счастливыми после последнего предложения последней главы. Для меня эта книга была мотивирующей. Она помогает поверить в свои мечты и цели, бороться за них.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 180 reviews