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.

This book and the previous two are part of a handful of my dad's books I grabbed when I left for college to fill my room. Four years later, I'm reading them. Five generations ago I was an Irish Catholic immigrant, which is to say, I'm not. But when I set this book down after two days of reading it just about every spare moment I had, I felt I had lived an extra life. Maybe two.

On the back cover of the book, a reviewer says,

"A story so immediate that you want to thank God young Frankie McCourt survived it, in part so that he could write the book."

I thought that was a stupid review before I read the book, and I still do, but at least I know now what he was talking about.

Frank McCourt could write about paint drying and I would 100% read it. He’s just brilliant.

ni približno inspirirana kao njena prethodnica, "angelin prah".. ali teško da bi i mogla biti, s obzirom na egzotiku i pitoresknost odrastanja u irskom limericku, u krajnjoj bijedi, na rubu preživljavanja.
tamo gdje "angelin prah" završava, s frankovim ukrcajem na brod za obećanu zemlju, ameriku, "irac u new yorku" se nastavlja - pratimo ga dok pokušava pronaći svoje mjesto pod kapom nebeskom, radi i studira, zaljubljuje se i, napokon, dobiva posao kao srednjoškolski profesor (što će biti njegovo životno zvanje). iako i dalje vješt na peru i proniciv, ovaj dio njegovog života jednostavno više nema ni emocija ni šarma koje su imale život u sirotinjskoj limeričkoj uličici.

All a bit sad.

What happens when your dreams come true and you're still not happy?

After the shocking story of "Angelas's Ashes", any sequel was likely to suffer and unfortunately this one does too.

This is the often told tale of a young man arriving in the big city and the adventures that befall him.

Frank McCourt arrives in New York aged 19, joins the US army and eventually becomes a teacher. It's everything he wanted or dreamed about as a child in Limerick. But he's still not happy.

Like his father, he has problems with alcohol, and it causes him problems with jobs and relationships.

There is a lot of grown up introspection from Frank, no longer the ignorant kid from the lanes. He sees a lot of racism in America, not just black and white, but anti-Irish, whites against Puerto Ricans, Italians looking down on everyone and so on.

Of course there are still lots of very funny lines and sequences as you'd expect from McCourt. Everyone of Irish descent that he meets, tells him where their mother and father came from in Ireland.

Frank tells stories about lots of amazing characters, and these are so many that he must have amalgamated his own and other stories. Frank is a master storyteller and I suspect teller of tall tales, but that doesn't make them any the less entertaining.

The sadness continues when his father who swears he has given up the drink arrives from Ireland, he is taken off the boat in restraints, blind drunk.

His mother, Angela, is lonely in America, and she irritates Frank, even though he knows how much he owes her.

His brothers are falling prey to drink, and the cycle of alcoholism continues.

I suppose it's the story all families go through: kids grow up, parents become a burden: kids have kids and it begins again.

At the end of Bob Geldof's autobiography, he is standing outside Wembley late at night after the Live Aid concert, when a man says to him "Is that it?"

And as Frank McCourt would say "'Tis."

I will read the final volume of memoirs "Teaching Man" but I expect it to be more of the same. Entertaining but nothing more than that.

3,5 stars
I adore “Angela’s Ashes”. So it would be not an exaggeration to say I was frightened of go on with trilogy - it seems unlikely that such powerful book as “Angela’s Ashes” can be repeated. And yes, “‘Tis” is a not bad book, in parts is brilliant even. But sweet irony, kindness and sharpness of the first book turn here into sad bitterness, anger and frustration. Young and then middle aged Frank became a person who not easy to love as Frank the kid. This bitterness is quite understandable due all he had to struggle with in his childhood. Nevertheless a scrappy structure of the book, tediousness of the same writing techniques which were so good in “Angela’s Ashes” but here simply don’t work anymore, a lot of unimportant characters which take the time from the main ones, make a sequel just a shadow of its brilliant predecessor.

Do I Detect an Irish Brogue? ;)

I listened to this book as read by the Author. I recommend that, as I read Angela's Ashes and enjoyed it a lot as well, but there is something special about the reading by the author that adds a diminsion to the work that you can't quite catch reading it.

Up front, many are uncomfortable with this work and Angela's Ashes because of the language, which is quite blue in places. I don't find it the most endearing quality myself, but as a memoir it captures the language of the army, the loading dock, the teachers lounge and the bar. Be warned up front, if you are not comfortable hearing swearing, then this is NOT the book for you.

That having been said, listening to McCourt read, I caught the poetic, lyrical, stream of consciousness attributes that I knew were present in Angela's Ashes, but hearing the cadence, the lilting roll and flow of the language; there are parts of this book that come close to poetry. It is an amazing and endearing quality that is rarely achieved in most modern literature.

McCourt has a rare transparency with his insecurity, his dysfunctional relationships, his family dynamics, his romance with his first wife and his transition to teaching and moving toward writing is very revealing and almost has a therapeutic value as you listen and can recognize the human condition in general.

My one criticism, is that, perhaps, this book stretches a little long for the material he includes. The actual narrative events can be condensed to a very short story line. It is the embellishment, the thinking out loud and the dancing around in what becomes a farily discernible pattern by the end of the book to where, it "almost" becomes a little tedious, although this is faint criticism when weighed against the overall impact of the book.

A very entertaining listen and read! It is hard to follow-up on a Pulitzer Prize. The goal is lofty and the expectations overwhelming. My opinion is this book does not surpass its progenitor, but it certainly comes close and provides more of the same type of reading and entertainment.

I look forward to reading, and hopefully hearing the next installment.

I seem to be somewhat in the minority here, but I enjoyed 'Tis more than Angela's Ashes. Perhaps because I was already so invested in Frank's life, so intrigued to see where he went next. Or maybe because he had control over his life now he is an adult. While he is still deeply affected by his circumstances, he is now in a position to attempt to change them, so it was a little less depressing to read.

I love his way with language, how he can describe something that is both horrifying and humorous. I don't want to spoil anything, so I'll just say I loved finding out where he goes and how he got there.

Looking forward to reading the final volume soon!

Couple of points here:

McCourt's story is mesmerizing. From what he came from to what he become is beyond inspiring and thought provoking; however, I have some qualms with McCourt.

Knowing what he knows about the dangers and pitfalls of alcohol, why the hell does he touch the stuff? It goes on to ruin several of his relationships and opportunities and yet he never comments on this. He never touches on the point of alcoholism in families and how his father's drinking did or did not directly affect him. Furthermore, how the hell does his brothers open a bar once they both arrive in New York? What about the devastation of drinking did these guys not get?

I regret that his order is off kilter and much of the time the reader has no idea McCourt's age or at least the year. At one point he was 29 and graduating from college. The next, he's having a kid at 38.

McCourt constantly harps on random people in his life complaining about mundane things. Then, a girl breaks up with him and he's about to commit suicide. Or he complains about high school kids being obnoxious and unruly.

And who the hell has sex with a prostitute after entering the incinerator rooms of Dachau? McCourt's pretty screwed up, or so it shows in his memoirs.

A memoir of Frank McCourt. Growing up,finding jobs, going to college and was overwhelmed when a teacher made Frank read his essay “ The Bed” in class. The teacher said”you should be a writer”. Frank was greatly encouraged.
He did become an English teacher. He was promoted to Stuyvesant HighSchool, the best in the city. Later he taught creative writing.

Frank McCourt burst on the literary scene with his memoir n  Angela’s Ashesn, which outlined his childhood lived in abject poverty in Limerick Ireland. This book picks up where that one left off. He begins by recounting some of the overseas voyage, befriended by a priest who encourages him to talk to the “wealthy Protestants from Kentucky,” and who is dismayed when McCourt’s embarrassment over his teeth, his eyes, his clothing, keeps him from asserting himself. But although nothing is as he expected and he feels more ignorant each day, the 19-year-old Frank pursues his dreams of the American life. It’s slow going and the reader begins to wonder if he’ll ever get out of the slums and get his eyes and teeth fixed (though we obviously know he will, because he wrote these books, after all).

Despite the obvious roadblocks in his path, Frank’s ingrained desire to better himself is further inspired by watching the office workers on the bus, overhearing them talk about their children or grandchildren going to college. A stint in the Army makes him eligible for the GI bill, and he begins to take courses at NYU. And the love of a classic American blonde beauty makes his dream of a clean job, a clean wife, a clean house and clean children seem finally within his grasp.

McCourt has a way with language. His direct, present-tense style has immediacy to it that just keeps me reading. He doesn’t shy away from that which is painful, embarrassing, or downright depressing. I was anxious to see him succeed, but I was frustrated with his apparent inability to get on with it. In relating the story of the young Frank McCourt he comes across as painfully lacking in self-esteem – a born “loser.” His first book ended on such a high note of hope and opportunity; I was expecting more of the same, and this one didn’t quite deliver.

I must admit that my first reaction to this book was to be offended...here was this American-born Irishman returned to America to fulfill his dreams and all he could do was complain. I kept reminding myself how hard it would be at 19 yrs to ride the "learning curve" of customs, language, job & adult responsibilities while being mixed into the melting pot of NYC in the 1940's. He was frustrated, disenchanted, tired, confused. I continued reading - I wanted to see how this guy redeemed himself. Frank, like so many of us, tries on many different "suits" until he finds the one that fits - education. He steadily works his way through college and aspires to teach literature to high schoolers. Once this becomes reality for him, he's still at unrest (mainly b/c the students don't have interest in what he wishes to teach). I was hoping to read accounts of students who came back professing what a difference he had made in their lives. Maybe he was too humble to include this in the book, or maybe he was too overwhelmed and disappointed being a teacher to have made a difference at all?

In my opinion...
The constant theme: Individuals are always fluctuating between feeling "better than" and "not good enough". And, sometimes life is nothing but hard work.
The most endearing part of the book: Frank's vantage point of his adult students when he teaches community college, and those same students gratitude towards him
Would have gladly read more about: all the crazy "characters" he comes into contact with (i.e.-the elderly Italian with the loud tie collection and rare book who wills money to Frank & with which Frank buys his first house)
Overall: This book is more disjointed than Angela's Ashes & I was expecting to see Frank GROW, yet sadly did not...in some ways, he's repeating the life of his alcoholic, dead-beat dad in this sequel. Mistakes are a foundation for learning - Frank does plenty of "book learning" but little "real learning"...