I think I read Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt initially when the book was first published. In high school at the time, my mother and I shared books. I was introduced to all of her favorite authors that way and most of these authors I still read now. One author who was new to both of us at the time was New York school teacher Frank McCourt who published a memoir of his life growing up in Brooklyn and Limerick, Ireland. As with most books from that era, I had vague recollections because I spent the next twenty years finishing high school and college and raising a family. Books I read in high school were not at the forefront of my mind. Since my youngest daughter transitioned to a full school day three years ago, I have gone back and read all of those forgotten to me books from high school through adult eyes. The experience has been for the most part positive with only a few books that stand out as disliking. With my ongoing lifetime Pulitzer challenge focusing on nonfiction winners this year, I decided to finally turn my attention back to Angela’s Ashes and found it a worthy book indeed.

Angela Sheehan immigrated to America from Limerick, Ireland at the onset of the Depression. Life in the slums of Limerick was unbearable even for a champion ballroom dancer like Angela. Immediately after stepping off the boat, Angela meets Malachy McCourt and becomes pregnant by him. Being good Catholics, the couple gets married. Five months later, Frank is born, followed in close succession by Malachy, twins Oliver and Eugène, and Margaret. Malachy (the father) is a chronic drunk and spends all of his wages on drinks in local pubs. The children have no food, Margaret dies from SIDS, the twins wear rags for diapers, and Angela is inconsolable. At the urging of cousins, the family emigrates back to Limerick because as destitute as life is there, the McCourts will be among family who can support them in their desperate hour.

Ireland and its green land of the River Shannon and Cuchulain the hero who died for the country do not solve Malachy’s drinking problem. He can barely hold a job and Angela and the children still have barely any food to eat. The children still wear rags for diapers and the family shares two beds in flea and lice infested apartments where an entire building shares one bathroom. The twins succumb to illness and all is too much for Angela to handle. Her mother and sister have no sympathy for her situation and the family is relegated to going on the dole and asking for handouts at St Vincent of the Destitute. The McCourts eventually move to a home at the top of Roden Lane. It is as decrepit as their other homes but at least no one died there despite having one lavatory for the entire street that is right outside of their home. Although a chronic drunk, Malachy makes the best of the situation naming the downstairs portion of their home Ireland and the upstairs Italy. The children rarely have food but at least they have each other and stories told of old Ireland by the fireplace each morning.

Frank and Malachy and eventually surviving brothers Michael and Alphonsus attend the Leamy National School for the poor. Run by priests, it is a quality education despite the fact that most of the boys rarely eat, wear dilapidated shoes, and have parents who survive on the dole or handouts. The River Shannon and its environs sickens the air and Frank can name many friends and acquaintances who have died over the years of consumption. Yet, despite the horrendous upbringing that Frank McCourt knew, Angela’s Ashes had me laughing over the course of the book as he used humor to get through the darkest of situations of his life. His uncle Pa Keating was quite the character and interactions with him had me in stitches. Frank’s fear of confession to the priests and then his time in confession was also laced with comedy, as were most every other episode in the memoir, including dance lessons and mooching off school to run in an apple orchard with friends. If the situation was not so dire, perhaps comedy would not have been needed, yet Frank McCourt had a gift with words even as a kid. It was this gift that had his mother and other relatives telling him that he would go far in life in spite of the environs of Limerick during the darkest days of both the Depression and World War II.

With a drunk father and destitute mother, Frank desired to go to America as soon as he had the means to do so. By age nineteen, he sailed on a reverse trip back to New York and Frank was in America to stay. Eventually Malachy would follow and they would develop a comedic act for two about growing up poor in Ireland. Angela’s Ashes, despite the impoverished environment that it describes, is one of the most inspiring books I have read. How could anyone have an attitude other than positive and expect to rise from the slums of Limerick and make something of one’s life. Frank McCourt could find humor in any situation, even one that saw his parents bury three children and live for nearly twenty years on public assistance. Angela’s Ashes brings to light this horrendous situation and has me realize that even though the United States was also hit by depression, it is still the land of opportunity for people around the globe, the McCourts included. Thankfully, Frank McCourt reached New York and eventually told his story to the world, offering a beacon of light in even the darkest of times.

5 stars

Quite different from other memoirs I read--especially the brand of memoir that's been coming out in the last few years--Frank McCourt's Angela's Ashes tells of the author's poverty-stricken childhood in Ireland in the early 20th century. It's told from the first person present perspective, which doesn't allow for as much mature reflection, but it does create a very immediate & immersive atmosphere. And speaking of atmosphere, McCourt writes so descriptively and which such skill that you can really picture everything he's talking about. It's incredibly well written, with a Joycean stream of consciousness that again contributes to the immersive quality of the story. I'd recommend taking your time with this one, not only because it's depressive nature is a bit too much to bear in large quantities, but also because there's so much to savor and appreciate about McCourt's story and writing. I see why this is a modern classic.

Kratak sadržaj na poleđini knjige, u kojem imamo pitanja koja muče našeg pripovjedača, bio mi je presimpa i radovala sam se doznati s čime on to još ima problema, a i zanimali su me odgovori koje je zaključio teškim životom u siromaštvu.

„Kako izgleda anđeo sa sedme stepenice? U kakvoj je vezi Katolička crkva s vremenskim prilikama u Irskoj? Kako uopće netko može ostati živ ako treba dati život za vjeru, ali istovremeno i za Irsku?“

Cijeli osvrt pronađite ovdje: https://knjige-u-svom-filmu.webador.c...

One of my favourite books of all time! It made me laugh, cry, get angry ... without depressing me! Frank McCourt is a wonderful story teller!

Is this one of the all-time great memoirs?

‘Tis.

--

For a while now, I’ve been trying to teach my students about personal writing, about finding a narrative. So, I had the idea of reading first-person stories and memoirs as a way of teaching “voice-finding.” I’d went and looked up the best memoirs on some random website, and this came up every time. For some reason, I thought I’d read it, but within a chapter or two, I realized I hadn’t.

It’s an awful tale, a story of a dreadful childhood. The man is born at the very onset of the Depression, made worse by his father’s terrible drinking habits. They return to Ireland, his parents’ homeland, for some form of security, but find none of it. Death and illness surround Frankie, such that it’s a near miracle for him to be alive. My heart broke multiple times.

And yes: it’s a wonderful, down-to-earth, clear voice. I can imagine him writing this, going on and on within one sentence, just allowing the words to flow. Long sentences can drive me crazy, especially when the grammar goes out the window. But for some reason I was really drawn. He tells the tale in such a heartfelt and kind way, just the way an adolescent might think. Tragic and sad at times, but genuine and wise.

There’s one section involving Confession that made me laugh out loud. In fact, it was kind of like Charlie Brown: the adults seemed to speak a different language. The priests, teachers, aunts and uncles were just hilarious (maybe not in the case of Laman, of course), seemingly at odds with everything Frank was trying to do.

But the whole thing reminded me that I’ve been derelict in my duty to my ancestors. It’s been on my bucket list to see where my grandmother grew up, and for whatever reason I’ve never done it. I have family there, too: distant family, sure, but I’d like to meet them. I’ve heard such wonderful things from everyone who’s visited, such great hospitality, wonderful views, amazing history. Shame on me for not doing it sooner. One day, I promise.

A must-read for anyone interested in memoirs. I might take a break before 'Tis but I’ll get to it in 2023.

I can't put this down! I'm getting such a dark kick out of Frank McCourt's childhood. Favorite line that had me laughing out loud: "Oy, you Irish. You'll live forever but you'll never say challah like a Chew." I'm devastated this book is ending; it's been the most pleasurable part of my days over the past week. It's of course depressing, I mean, like he says in opening "Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhoood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood." I find myself adjusted to the constant string of tragedy after tragedy, the constant cruelty of the adults around him, and the constant poverty of his neighborhood simply because it's constant. He adjusts and so does the reader. Also, he obviously lives to tell the tale, so I think I may take subconscious comfort in this.

“If you had the luck of the Irish
You’d be sorry and wish you was dead
If you had the luck of the Irish
Then you’d wish you was English instead”

How can ONE book be so WONDERFUL and so HORRIBLE at the same time? I have no idea. But this book is both. Big time.

It’s difficult to imagine anything worse than a childhood crushed under the oppressive conditions of abject poverty, relentless filth and unmitigated suffering. The childhood described in this book is the worst I’ve ever encountered. The “lucky” children suffer injuries or illnesses that (due to poverty) go untreated and result in death. The rest suffer miserable existences. Actually, “suffer” and “miserable” are not adequate to describe the experience. The children in “Angela’s Ashes” would have traded their lives for a life of merely suffering a miserable childhood in a heartbeat.

And yet, somehow, Frank McCourt achieves a brilliant feat in this book. He tells a horrific story that caused me to cringe, grind my teeth, cry and loose sleep worrying. This book affected me physically. It was beyond upsetting. But McCourt wrote it in a way that kept me reading. As depressing as it was I could not put it down. McCourt’s writing is mesmerizing.

A ver se faço vídeo de opinião, porque esta leitura merece-o!

Aqui está o vídeo prometido:
https://youtu.be/yHXls0FsGtI

n  n    This review may contain what some may consider as spoilers. On the whole, I don't think reading this will take away your enjoyment of the book, however, I just had to put the warning here.n  n

This review has now been shifted to my n  BLOGn.

But the worst offender of the last twenty years has to be the uniquely meretricious drivel that constitutes "Angela's Ashes". Dishonest at every level, slimeball McCourt managed to parlay his mawkish maunderings to commercial success, presumably because the particular assortment of rainsodden cliches hawked in the book not only dovetails beautifully with the stereotypes lodged in the brain of every American of Irish descent, but also panders to the lummoxes collective need to feel superior because they have managed to transcend their primitive, bog-soaked origins, escaping the grinding poverty imagined in the book, to achieve - what? Spiritual fulfilment in the split-level comfort of a Long Island ranch home? And Frankie the pimp misses not a beat, tailoring his mendacity to warp the portrayal of reality in just the way his audience likes.

No native Irish reader, myself included, has anything but the deepest contempt for this particular exercise in literary prostitution and the cynical weasel responsible for it.

{my apologies to the fine people of Long Island, for the unnecessary vehemence of the implied slur in the above review: clearly it is not meant to be all-encompassing}

Overpraised and insubstantive, the first installment in Frank McCourt's memoir cycle, Angela's Ashes, is mostly based around such an obvious cycle that its mind-numbing: "Times were tough and we were on the dole. Me father drank and came home late at night waking us up and making us swear we'd die for Ireland. Me mother and me father fought and he shaped up. Got a job, but nobody liked him because he was from the dirty north. So he drank his first Friday's paycheck, was late to work on Saturday, and the boss fired him. So we was back on the dole. Times were tough." Seriously, 300-odd pages of this, on loop. The more gripping sequences are in the beginning, when the McCourts first arrive in Ireland and are so sickly that it seems like at least two children die per chapter. You almost had to wonder why they don't, I dunno, just STOP REPRODUCING, but I guess I'm not that Catholic and thus can't understand. Anyways, it's harrowing and heavy, and most important, hasn't become a pattern yet. I was able to hang with this part. But once the last child dies, about 70 pages in, and the story shifts moods from ultra-depressing to whimsical for a while ("me neighbor wanted me to dance for a few pence, but I was so poor I only had one shoe, so I could not dance properly. Och, it was a jolly spectacle!"), and it's just the above sequence on repeat, I simply had a struggle understanding why the bloody hell this book won a Pulitzer. I suppose it presents a brutal picture of poverty in Ireland in the early 20th century, the prejudices and sufferings that result from it. And it subtly comments on the senseless bitterness of the IRE / UK divide. But, really, I've read Frank McCourt derivatives (Damian McNichol, for example) who are more poignant and less didactic than this novel. Worst was the conclusion; young adult Frank arrives back in the U.S., and sleeps with the neglected wife of a WWII vet on his first night in the country. "Isn't it great, this America?" his travel companion asks. "'Tis." Frank responds. What the hell?

Non-fiction memoir about Frank McCourt’s family from his birth in 1930 to 1949. After being born in Brooklyn in 1930, Frank’s father, Malachy, has troubles with alcohol and with finding work, and, during the Great Depression, decides to return to Ireland. The alcohol and work issues continue in Ireland, and the growing family lives in poverty.

The titular Angela is Frank’s long-suffering mother. She endures a seemingly never-ending series of hardships, including her husband’s alcoholism, abandonment, and the deaths of multiple children. McCourt gives us an idea of her character: “You never know when you might come home and find Mam sitting by the fire chatting with a woman and a child, strangers. Always a woman and child. Mam finds them wandering the streets and if they ask, Could you spare a few pennies, miss? her heart breaks. She never has money so she invites them home for tea and a bit of fried bread and if it’s a bad night she’ll let them sleep by the fire on a pile of rags in the corner. The bread she gives them always means less for us and if we complain she says there are always people worse off and we can surely spare a little from what we have.”

While the misery is vividly portrayed, McCourt offsets it with subtle humor. For example, his father would drunkenly awaken his children during the night, singing patriotic songs and making them pledge to die for Ireland, leading Frank to observe: “The master says it’s a glorious thing to die for the Faith and Dad says it’s a glorious thing to die for Ireland and I wonder if there’s anyone in the world who would like us to live.” At one point, his mother wants him to learn to dance, leading to: how I can die for Ireland if I have to sing and dance for Ireland, too. I wonder why they never say, You can eat sweets and stay home from school and go swimming for Ireland.”

It is written from a child’s perspective in present tense. Much of the narrative is extremely detailed, and it may be too much description of misery for some people. I found it poignant, filled with both tragedy and humor. I particularly enjoyed all references to books and storytelling McCourt encountered in his youth, as it would be very easy for people living under dire conditions to never be exposed to literature.