Caradog Prichard

[Liam]

Caradog Prichard (1904-1980) was a modernist writer who wrote almost exclusively in Welsh. A journalist, a poet, and a novelist, Prichard spent his childhood years in his hometown of Bethesda (in north-west Wales), before moving to Caernarfon, Cardiff, and then London. He was awarded the Crown of the National Eisteddfod of Wales three times in a row.

Some of his books include the following:


Canu Cynnar (1937; poetry)
Terfysgoedd Daear (1939; poetry)
Tantalus (1957; poetry)
Un Nos Ola Leuad (One Moonlit Night; 1961; novel)
Llef Un in Llefain (1963; poetry)
Y Genod yn Ein Bywyd (The Girls in Our Life; 1964; short-stories)
Afal Drwg Adda (Adam's Rotten Apple; 1973; autobiography)


[Most of Prichard's poetry was reprinted a year before his death under the title Cerddi Caradog Prichard.]


One Moonlit Night, Prichard's most famous work, was first translated (albeit partially) into English in 1973 by Menna Gallie; Philip Mitchell's acclaimed full-text translation was released in 1995:



Set in a Welsh slate-quarrying village during the First World War against a background of appalling deprivation, Caradog Prichard's autobiographical masterpiece centres around a young boy and his relationship with his widowed, grief-stricken and isolated mother. As the boy's fragile world disintegrates, his natural exuberance gives way to feelings of loss and dispossession, with devastating results.

With its dark undercurrent of madness, sexual perversion and violence, alternating with deep humour, and continual undermining of our sense of time, Un Nos Ola Leuad/One Moonlit Night is a novel that can be read on several levels.


After its initial release, the book drew immediate comparisons with D. H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers and Dylan Thomas's Under Milk Wood. Narrated almost entirely by an adolescent boy with an unbalanced mind, the novel nevertheless contains two mysterious chapters that apparently constitute astonishing and unanticipated digressions. Written from the point of view of a certain Beloved, these passages, as suggested by Baines, "belong to the narrator's imagination or subconscious, suggesting some kind of archetypal mother, but incorporating elements that can be recognized as belonging to the real mother, notably her suffering and loneliness."

I will quote the first of the two passages at length below, for those of you interested enough to read through it. The overall style and language of this particular digression reminded me strongly of The Song of Solomon (a. k. a. Song of Songs) in the Bible.

The English text is by Philip Mitchell, pp. 159-165 in the Penguin Edition.

[Liam]

Is this the Voice, I wonder? Or is it just the wind blowing through Adwy'r Nant?

I am the Queen of Snowdon, the Bride of the Beautiful One. I lie upon the bed of my ascension, eternally expectant, forever great with child and awaiting the hour of his delivery.

My thighs embrace the swirling mists and my breasts caress the low-lying clouds; they in their precocity explore the secret places of my nakedness, luxuriate amid the wonders of the deep, then rise again in guilty satisfaction to the Heavens.

Thou hast enslaved me. Thou hast enslaved me, my Beloved; and I submit myself unto thy will; with my every living breath do I desire thee.

I would raise my arms in supplication to the Heavens to implore thee my Beautiful One; were it not their fate to be confined to the earth and to remain creations of the clay.

I would lift up my hands begging to the firmament to pray for his munificence; but it is ordained that they should clutch only the dew about my resting place.

I would awake, if my Beloved willed it, to dazzle him with the lustful radiance of my eyes; but there is nothing that will raise my eyelids from their relentless sleep to gaze upon his glory or to drink in the magnificence of his form.

I would walk to meet him upon the steps of the wind; but feet do not stir which have inherited the shackles of the rock.

The hurricanes roar above my paralysis, and the rain saturates without cleansing; but is there not mercy in the sun, and pity in the spring breezes?

They amuse me with their petty vows, their empty promises grate upon my ears; the odour of their feeble begging fills my nostrils.

She, the moon of my night-day, disturbs my sleep with her shrill laughter; and, in the jealousy of her impotence, shines her fury upon the fruitfulness of my womb.

Come again, my Beautiful One, come again and take me, before the sun rises from his resting place, before we are disturbed by the bleating of the lamb; fully possess your chosen one before the withering of the moon's candle; prepare before me the joy of my afternoon.

And I shall again offer thee my sacrifice; and my sweet incense shall ascend to thy abode.

The early light breathes o'er the darkness of my eyes and I am filled with bliss; for in the afternoon shall come my firstborn.

My arms shall not embrace him neither shall my feet instruct him in his early promenades; yet my breasts shall nourish him and his kiss shall be warm upon my cheek.

I shall show to him the freedom of the high and low expanses; and shall make him expert in the captive methods of the earth.

I shall plant my longing in his bowels; and shall build towers of hope within the city of his skull.

I shall fill the corners of his eyes from the secret wells of my tears; and shall take from the sun and moon his share of laughter.

His form shall be fairer than the unseen day; stronger than the whirlwind shall be the strength of his loins.

I shall push his youth from my womb as a conqueror and demand that he proceed to conquer the world.

The virtue of my breasts shall be for him a light upon his pathway; the wisdom of my clay shall guide him to the ends of the earth.

Kings and princes shall bow in his presence; and the multitudes shall raise their voices in his praise.

Lands and kingdoms shall be his by right; and great will be the pleasure in his palaces.

His enemies shall grovel for his mercy; pure white virgins shall beg for his lips.

His name shall flit from mouth to mouth; his deeds shall radiate from the writings of the bards.

I shall rejoice in his conquests; I shall call upon the low clouds to celebrate his feast.

The afternoon has come; and the spring breezes send their tender waves to caress my bless'd burden.

They whisper their tiny dreams into my ears and nostrils; but they bear no tidings of my firstborn.

The sun plaits its silence around the ropes of my hair; its sweat weeps silently upon my brow.

But again the pain of childbirth does not come to make me happy; no pangs of relief gladden my bowels.

I thirst. But I thirst only for the repentance of the rain shower.

The earth rejoices; but the hour of my own rejoicing is not yet at hand.

The lambs leap upon the slope of my shame; bleating and begging for their birthright.

Their music amuses the foothills of the low clouds; but it stirs not, neither does it speak, the lamb of my happiness.

How long? How long till my appointed time? How long shall the firmament divert from me the verdure of its mercy?

How long shall the mountains shake their heads; and the hills laugh their scorn upon the childless?

How long shall I wander upon the barren plains of my womb; and the horizon hide the palmtrees of my promise?

In vain shall I call upon my comforter; deaf is the earth and deaf are its gods. And dumb are the love-messengers of the Beautiful One.

I lie upon the bed of my humiliation; and beg to be alone in the solitude of the night.

Night's watchfulness is long; and my solitude escapes not the fury of the moon.

Her laughter beats upon my blind eyelids; her scorn penetrates the depths of my captivity.

But hope shall not die; for the sun is not deflected and nought delays the warm progress of the dawn.

But does the Beautiful One not return like a thief in the night to console me? Do I not hear the measured sound of his walking on the floor of the valley?

He shall come, he shall come; and the moon shall hide her jealousy behind the low clouds.

And when he doth return, I shall receive him with the firm breasts of my virginity; I shall know his lips though he comes in the guise of my lost firstborn.

His Wife shall be to him a Mother; and the son shall take unto himself his birthright.

The fires of the moon shall retreat from my heavy eyelids; darkness shall lie upon darkness; and from this night of my confinement to my solitude shall come light.

[Liam]

It seems that Prichard's novel is going to be republished early next year by Canongate Books:

Amazon.co.uk: One Moonlit Night: Caradog Prichard, Jan Morris, Niall Griffiths: Books (http://www.amazon.co.uk/One-Moonlit-Night-Caradog-Prichard/dp/1847671071/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1228695898&sr=1-6)

I have to thank Stewart for drawing my attention to this.

[titania7]

Liam,
Thanks for starting this thread. I agree that the passages you quote from Prichard's One Moonlit Night resemble some of those in The Song of Solomon. They are beautifully written and very sensual.

I especially find this sentence memorable:

"And when he doth return, I shall receive him with the firm breasts of my virginity..."

Potent stuff indeed ;).

I'll be very interested in procuring a copy of this book when it's re-published by Canongate. I'm not familiar with Dylan Thomas's Under Milk Wood, but I do find the fact that One Moonlit Night has been compared to Sons and Lovers fascinating. From the passages you quote, I don't particularly see any resemblance, though the fact it's narrated by an adolescent boy might explain the comparison.

Regards,
Alexis.

[pbmitchell]

Hi Liam and Titania,

I came across this forum while Googling reviews for the 2009 reprint of One Moonlit Night.

People have compared the book to various others but the truth is it's unique. It's the only book I've ever read that will make you laugh out loud and, at another time, cry floods of tears.

Once read, it enters your soul and never leaves.

When I began translating it from the Welsh, way back in 1993, it was just something I felt compelled to do. I had no idea I would bring Prichard's masterpiece to the attention of readers as far away as New York City and Atlanta.

Many thanks for your kind remarks.

[Eric]

It's encouraging that the whole of the novel has now been translated, and that the translator himself has joined our select company.

Canongate appears to be one of the more enterprising British publishing houses. It does not surprise me at all that they are based in Edinburgh. I've always wondered whether the small-country status of Scotland, with its language input from both Scandinavia and the Gaelic world, has not made Scots scholars and publishers more receptive to translation as a whole than those south of the border.

Is the poem Liam's own translation? And are any collections of Prichard's poetry, or his short-stories, due to appear in English translation?

[titania7]

Philip,
I'm delighted that you discovered us. We are indeed fortunate to have you as a member of our incomparable forum.


It's the only book I've ever read that will make you laugh out loud and, at another time, cry floods of tears.


Ah...who can resist a book like that? ;) You've convinced me that it will become one of my favorites, Philip.


When I began translating it from the Welsh, way back in 1993, it was just something I felt compelled to do. I had no idea I would bring Prichard's masterpiece to the attention of readers as far away as New York City and Atlanta.

No one can even begin to conjecture how great an impact a book or an author might have! Actually, I have Liam to thank for drawing my attention to Prichard. Once I read the beauty of his prose, I was hooked. I knew I must get a copy of One Moonlit Night as soon as it became available.


Many thanks for your kind remarks.

It was our pleasure. And please do stick around, Philip!

Best wishes,
Titania

[Liam]

Dear Philip:

Welcome, indeed, to the forum!


When I began translating it from the Welsh, way back in 1993, it was just something I felt compelled to do. I had no idea I would bring Prichard's masterpiece to the attention of readers as far away as New York City and Atlanta.

Ah, you'd be surprised! I do own a lot of books on Welsh and Irish literature(s), but as you say, I haven't ever come across ANYTHING as mysterious and unique as One Moonlit Night.

Thank YOU, rather, for making this text available to the rest of us in such a flowing and energetic translation.

[byd]

I love Un Nos Ola Leuad and its English translation. How can a book which is so sad be so full of grace? It is devastating but uplifting.