I enjoyed this second memoir / story collection by Frank McCourt.

I listened to this on audiobook and having it told with the appropriate accent brings the stories to life.

McCourt's books are better listened to when narrated by the author than physically read. (I listened to the 1st one on audio, and was so eager for the follow up that I grabbed the paper copy for a physical read). While always rooting for McCourt as life's ultimate underdog, his written word comes across as one long run on sentence - however there are some treasures within: "I visited him regularly because an hour with him was better than movies, television, and most books".
Indeed there are these treasured people in our lives, and we should spend more hours with them. I am certain McCourt would agree.

4.5 stars. I am going backwards in time through Frank McCourt’s memoirs having read Teacher Man a few years ago. That book was given to me as a gift as I started teaching and something about it always stuck with me. I’ve been reading this book over the course of a year and lots of it during a big personal change. The thing I like most about his writing is the humour in his voice. That’s what stuck with me long after reading Teacher Man. He doesn’t put on or affect some great wisdom/teaching. But through his eyes and from all the strange people he meets along the way you can’t help but glean comfort and/or wisdom.

Love love love. McCourt’s unique writing style only adds to the artistry of the storytelling.

Meh. Angela's Ashes was wonderful, lots of history mixed in with the memoir, and so emotionally engaging. This one was a lot more memoir and not so much history, and far too much detail about his sex life and frequent masturbation (though he does, amusingly, refer to the latter as "interfering with himself"). The beautiful Irish voice still comes through, so it's pleasant to read even when the subject matter becomes pedestrian, and there are a few brilliant moments: my favorite is when, as a first-time teacher struggling to teach English to a class of uninterested teens, he finds an old stash of essays the previous teacher had left in a closet. When these essays turn out to have been written by the kids' parents, uncles, cousins, etc., McCourt sets them to copying the decaying pages so they won't be lost--and connects the project to them by pointing out that their children might someday want to read about their lives. Based on this, I think McCourt's other book Teacher Man might be more my thing.

I liked Angela's Ashes and since the book ended with his making it to America, I was curious about how he ended up becoming a teacher in the states. But uck... 'Tis was just terrible. In Angela's Ashes, Frank was no saint while growing up in Ireland, but it was all forgivable considering the poverty and his being a child and all. But in 'Tis the context is different and so was my reaction. As I read the book I hoped that Frank would finally show some subtle hints of maturity and begin to display some redeemable qualities, but other than his providing money for his mother, I hoped in vain. I got tired of hearing about all the inappropriate places he masturbated, and the woman he violated. I felt like I needed a bath after listening to the unending vulgar comments and the profanity saturated dialogs with other unlikable people throughout the book. Unlike in Angela's Ashes, in 'Tis he really doesn't have a story worth sharing, and there is nothing to endear us to him or caused one to sympathize or give a fiddlers fart about his life. He got through life by lying, and does little but complain. Often he is a selfish and inconsiderate drunk (all too eager to imitate his father in this respect). He was a terrible boyfriend (what was the girl thinking to have anything to do with this creep?), only to become her husband (the poor girl) until he divorced her because she liked antiques and other stupid stuff he wasn't interested in. McCourt, after becoming a teacher, has to let us know things like how he wished that he could go and eff the mothers of students when their husbands were not around. I was actually surprised he didn't share about having sex with his high school students in the janitor's closet, such activity would have seemed consistent with his character.

One thing I did like was some of what he wrote about his first year of teaching. Some of the things his students would say, brought back memories of the kinds of comments and questions one student would pester me with in my first year of teaching.

After reading Angela's Ashes I was glad to know author Frank McCourt had also written a sequel. I felt after reading Ashes, I needed closure. I wanted to know how Frank fared as a young adult when he arrived in New York as an Irish immigrant in 1949 and if the rest of the McCourt family followed in his footsteps. 'Tis had all the answers I was seeking with such an amazing writing style of "aching sadness and desperate humor." 5 Stars !

I appreciated Frank McCourt's candor about his own shortcomings. He does not sugarcoat any of his experiences and his life was clearly difficult when he first arrived in New York City with no high school education. However, he never feels sorry for himself; there is a lightheartedness and a sense of humour to his descriptions of hardship, much like in Angela Ashes.

My one criticism is McCourt's habit of constantly repeating things that he wrote earlier in the book. While I understand that this is a stylistic theme, I think it should have been used much more sparingly.

'Tis is nowhere as good as Angela's Ashes, but it has its merits and is definitely worth reading.

The narration of Frank McCourt's life continues in this volume, in which he faces the adversities of life in America.

It is quite easy to understand till the beginning that this version of Frank McCourt is an older, more mature one, that, during the narration, becomes more and more aware of the hypocrisies and incoherences of the society, in a country where theoretically everyone should have the opportunity to make his own fortune but where practically it's harder than ever to make it happen.

Frank is fully conscious of his "inferiority" and often rant about it and about his jealousy towards the university students. I really liked this part of the book, because I could totally feel what F. McCourt was saying: it was a mighty, spontaneous desire to gain all the possible knowledge. And I appreciated the importance he gave to teaching, too, however, in particular in the last part of the book, I started to disagree more and more with his tendency passivity, his inability to impose his opinions and himself over others, a behavior that made me remember of his father.

The last part of the book, then, was utterly sad. While in Angela's Ashes there was hope, in this one there was just sadness, that type that comes from disillusionment and old age, partially.

Anyhow, his writing style is still the same, even more acute I may say in stressing the inconsistencies of life.

Sometimes while reading this I thought McCourt was telling a story or anecdote that wasn't worthy of a book, it was just a regular everyday thing about his life, I thought it was just him feeling compelled to tell someone something. I often think that when reading memoir. And then that story or anecdote transformed into something extraordinary. This is my favorite example of that from "'Tis":

I can’t go to lunch until I walk around and look at this place I’ve been seeing in newspapers and newsreels since I grew up in Limerick. There are tablets with inscriptions in Hebrew and German and I’m wondering if they’re over mass graves.

There are ovens with the doors open and I know what went in there. I saw the pictures in magazines and books and pictures are pictures but these are the ovens and I could touch them if I wanted to. I don’t know if I want to touch them but if I went away and never came back to this place with the laundry I’d say to myself, You could have touched the ovens at Dachau and you didn’t and what will you say to your children and grandchildren? I could say nothing but what good would that do me when I’m alone and saying to myself, Why didn’t you touch the ovens at Dachau?

So I step past the tablets and touch the ovens and wonder if it’s proper to say a Catholic prayer in the presence of the Jewish dead. If I were killed by the English would I mind if the likes of Rappaport touched my tombstone and prayed in Hebrew? No, I wouldn’t mind after priests telling us that all prayers that are unselfish and not for ourselves reach God’s ears.

Still, I can’t say the usual three Hail Marys since Jesus is mentioned and He wasn’t any way helpful to the Jews in recent times. I don’t know if it’s proper to say the Our Father touching the door of an oven but it seems harmless enough and it’s what I say hoping the Jewish dead will understand my ignorance.

Weber is calling to me from the door of the mess hall, McCourt, McCourt, they’re closing down here. You want lunch you get your ass in here.

I take my tray with the bowl of Hungarian goulash and bread to the table by the window where Buck and Weber are sitting but when I look out there are the ovens and I’m not much in the mood for Hungarian goulash anymore and this is the first time in my life I ever pushed food away. If they could see me in Limerick now pushing away the food they’d say I was gone mad entirely but how can you sit there eating Hungarian goulash with open ovens staring at you and thoughts of the people burned there especially the babies. Whenever newspapers show pictures of mothers and babies dying together they show how the baby is laid on the mother’s bosom in the coffin and they’re together for eternity and there’s comfort in that. But they never showed that in the pictures of Dachau or the other camps. The pictures would show babies thrown over to the side like dogs and you could see if they were buried at all it was far from their mothers’ bosoms and into eternity alone and I know sitting here that if anyone ever offers me Hungarian goulash in civilian life I’ll think of the ovens in Dachau and say, No, thanks.

I'm not sure I'll read McCourt's other works, maybe maybe not. He wrote all of them after he turned 60, says The New York Times in its obituary of Frank (https://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/20/bo... "Mr. McCourt, who taught in the city’s school system for nearly 30 years, had always told his writing students that they were their own best material. In his mid-60s, he decided to take his own advice, sitting down to commit his childhood memories to paper and producing what he described as 'a modest book, modestly written.'”

I find it shocking and uplifting that someone can rise from his upbringing, remain a high school teacher for decades, and then write his first book, a Pulitzer-winner, in his twilight years. What a life. This, from that obituary: "Speaking to students at Bay Shore High School on Long Island in 1997, he said, 'I learned the significance of my own insignificant life.'"

Destijds was ik erg onder de indruk van het boek Angela's Ashes van Frank McCourt. Toen ik zijn boek 'De nieuwe wereld' (helaas wel een Nederlandse vertaling, maar die is wel goed gedaan) in handen kreeg was ik dan ook erg nieuwsgierig en enthousiast. En in het begin was het ook goed, en ik heb zelfs stukken over zijn eerste indrukken als leerkracht voorgelezen aan mijn man, zo grappig vond ik die. Maar op een gegeven moment weet je het wel met zijn sneuheid omdat hij Ier is en in de groep Ieren wordt getrokken. En het feit dat hij doet alsof hij het ook allemaal niet kan helpen dat hij zoveel drinkt en zijn huwelijk om zeep helpt. En op een gegeven moment lijkt het of hij eigenlijk niet veel meer te melden heeft, dus hobbelt hij van het ene gebeuren naar het andere gebeuren en wacht je steeds maar op het geweldige bijzondere einde dat toch wel zal komen... en dus niet komt. Het boek dooft als een nachtkaars uit. En toen ik daarna de reviews ging lezen op internet dacht ik... mmm als ik die eerst had gelezen weet ik niet of ik überhaupt aan het boek was begonnen. Twee sterren voor de moeite en het aardige begin.

Ciao Frank!
Non sono una recensitrice, non ho idea di cosa si scrive dietro una quarta di copertina per far sì che un libro - quantunque penoso - venga venduto a orde di lettori entusiasti, e il commento che seguito a scrivere è animato solo dal fatto che io non solo ho letto le tue parole, ma le ho fatte mie e le ho rese il mio insegnamento principale di vita.
Ho letto 'Le ceneri di Angela' nel 2010, durante il mio secondo viaggio a Francoforte, una delle città che amo più al mondo, e all'inizio ti detestavo per quel modo così volgare e popolano che avevi di scrivere, poi ho capito, e non solo ho capito, ma ho anche divorato. Così, il 15 di Aprile, emozionatissima, ho acquistato 'Che paese, l'America' e 'Ehi, prof!', sperando di ritrovarti sincero, timido e maldestro come ti avevo lasciato quando ti sei imbarcato su la Quercia d'Irlanda che ti avrebbe portato a New York, la città dei tuoi sogni; ti ho lasciato che speravi di arrivare in America ed iniziare una nuova vita per dimenticare la merda dei bassifondi di Limerick, per dimenticare la tua infelice infanzia cattolica e irlandese con un padre che spendeva la paga in bevute, e una madre disperata che doveva far l'elemosina per crescere te e i tuoi tre fratelli.
L'America, il paese della possibilità, dove chiunque può inventarsi un lavoro e reinventarsi, il paese che ti guardava male perché eri un americano, certo, fornito di visto e tutto il resto che la burocrazia ti imponeva, ma eri un irlandese trattino americano. L'Irlanda non la volevi più, l'America sembrava non volerti e così t'ha messo a fare i lavori più bassi, quelli riservati a chi ha smesso di sperare, che è venuto al mondo con due soldi e muore senza nemmeno uno, insomma quelli come te. Ma tu eri diverso, tu ti eri emozionato a leggere Shakespeare quando avevi il tifo, anche se non capivi quello che ti voleva dire, tu andavi a lavorare per riscattare una madre straziata da un marito, tuo padre, che pure non riuscivi a rifiutare, che lasciava i figli senza una briciola di pane pur di bere. Tu volevi studiare, volevi l'istruzione. E invece sei finito nell'esercito, perché dovevi combattere i 'musi gialli', dovevi combattere il comunismo di un paese capitalista, capitalismo di cui ti raccoglievi la cenere negli alberghi di lusso per avvocati, imprenditori, figli d'avvocati e imprenditori che potevano andare all'Università, magari un ateneo dell'Ivy League; ma anche in guerra non ti arrendevi, e non contro il nemico, ma contro il futuro, leggevi e sognavi di tornare a New York con i libri dell'università. E all'Università, ci sei entrato, anche senza il diploma, perché la tua forza di volontà era più forte della forza di un destino che sembrava volerti stroncare le gambe ad ogni passo in più che facevi. Subivi il razzismo, lo vedevi mentre veniva indirizzato agli altri, ti indignavi, ma rimanevi fermo sul tuo posto, ti sentivi tagliato fuori da un mondo in cui parlavano di esistenzialismo mentre tu per pagarti la retta e mantenere madri e fratelli rimasti a Limerick lavoravi ai magazzini, e ti spezzavi la schiena pur di ottenere quello che per te è il tesoro più grande, l'istruzione. L'istruzione, quella stessa istruzione che oggi i ragazzini si scocciano di raggiungere, ragazzini che a casa hanno tutto, e che pure non hanno voglia di istruirsi, di studiare, di spaccarsi il culo come hai fatto tu. Perché a loro l'istruzione la danno addirittura gratuita, e non se la prendono. Tu la volevi, anche a costo di pagarla cara. E sei arrivato ad insegnare, partendo dall'istituto tecnico per arrivare al liceo. Tu non facevi differenza, per te i tuoi alunni erano tutti importanti, che fossero ricchi o poveri, perché come ti diceva sempre il tuo maestro 'potrete anche essere poveri e avere le scarpe, ma la vostra mente sarà sempre un palazzo'. Così hai sopportato di tutto. A scuola, fuori dalla scuola. Ma non ti sei mai fermato. Sei partito dai bassifondi di Limerick con il sogno di fare l'insegnante e, anziché rinunciare, la moglie che voleva che tu facessi un altro lavoro per avere più soldi e comprare mobili Queen Ann l'hai mollata, hai continuato ad insegnare.
Ed io, quando non ho più voglia, quando mi adagio, quando mi sento sfiduciata e mi dico che sto facendo tanto per niente, penso a te; che da piccolo dormivi in un letto pieno di pulci, hai visto tua madre scopare con suo cugino pur di farvi avere un tetto sopra la testa, hai rinunciato a tutto, leggevi in biblioteca, di nascosto, leggevi Dostoevskij e portavi le lettere, raccoglievi frutti di nascosto per mangiare, facevi lo scaricatore, il lavapiatti, qualsiasi cosa, pur di arrivare. Pur di insegnare, che era il tuo obiettivo. E quando penso che non ho voglia di studiare, penso che, così come tu ti sentivi in colpa nei confronti di Horace, il negro che sfidava il razzismo e lavorava in mezzo alle offese dei bianchi pur di mandare il figlio dell'università, io mi sentirei in colpa nei tuoi confronti. Che quelli come me, con i denti bianchi, il pasto pronto e le copertine belle dei libri, li invidiavi.
Io ti ringrazio per aver messo nero su bianco le tue memorie, perché solo così ho aperto gli occhi; perché con te ho capito che se hai un obbiettivo, ci arrivi, anche se vivi in un appartamento di New York senza l'acqua e senza la corrente.
Grazie, Frank.