"Cuando recuerdo mi infancia me pregunto cómo pude sobrevivir siquiera... La infancia desgraciada irlandesa es peor que la infancia desgraciada común, y la infancia desgraciada irlandesa católica es peor todavía".

Autobiografía del escritor y profesor Frank McCourt, que narra los convulsos y dolorosos primeros años de su vida. Historia de una familia sumida en la pobreza que a causa de la Gran Depresión deciden dejar Nueva York para regresar a la ciudad de la madre en Irlanda, Limerick, sin saber que les espera un peor destino que en Estados Unidos.

Libro que genera dolor en cada una de sus páginas. Es inevitable sentir frustración ante la historia del padre alcohólico que nunca tiene empleo y se gasta el dinero del seguro de desempleo en los pubs, y la madre "piadosa y derrotada que gime contra el fuego" que debe pedir comida a la asistencia pública para dar de comer a sus hijos.

A pesar de todo, el libro contiene cierta belleza e inocencia gracias a la relación entre el narrador y sus hermanos menores. Gran libro de memorias.

Nu am crezut că în istoria Irlandei a putut fi o asemenea sărăcie. Cartea te răscolește, te întristează dar îți dă și speranță. Este scrisă cu mult umor, din perspectiva unui copil (autorul), care încearcă să înțeleagă lumea în care trăiește și mai presus de toate să se descurce într-o familie ingenunchiata de greutăți.
Citind cartea, m-am dus mereu cu gândul la un tablou de artă naivă, tablou care zugrăvește promiscuitatea în care s-a putut trăi în anii 30-40 în Irlanda divizată între catolici și protestanți. Cel puțin toată scriitura îmi sugerează asta. 5 ✨✨✨✨✨ în mod deosebit pentru sinceritatea debordantă a autorului și subiectul destul de greu de abordat al cărții.

This book is everything a tragicomedy should be: laugh out loud funny and so sad it seeps down into the cracks and crevices. I wanted the story to go on forever, and I’ll be reading it again – and again, and again – soon.



This book is reviewed on my Rory Gilmore Reading Challenge site: https://rorygilmorereadingchallenge.w...

This is one of the most depressing and heartbreaking true-life novels I've ever read so be forewarned, this Pulitzer Prize winner is pretty tough to take.

In the beginning, Francis (Frank) McCourt's family story starts out so desperate, you think it can't get any worse, BUT....IT....DOES!

Frankie had a very short and dreadful childhood in Limerick, Ireland. Even at age four with only the clothes (rags) on his back, he had adult responsibilities caring for his twin baby brothers, changing and washing dirty diapers by hand (with no coal to heat the water), taking them to the park (ordered to keep them away until dark) and trying desperately to entertain them so they will stop crying.......of starvation! With no sheets or blankets on the lice and flea-ridden mattress plus the sewage that often overflowed into the kitchen, it is a wonder that any of Angela's six? (I lost count) children survived. (some sadly did not) I think if I would have had to read one more episode about daddy picking up his dole money at the Labor Exchange on Friday and proceeding to drink it ALL away AGAIN I truly would have thrown this book across the room!!! (and I dearly love my books), but thankfully this non-fiction nightmare came to an end...at least for me.

Frank McCourt lived until the age of 78 and does have a sequel to this novel, "TIS", that continues his life story in America for those interested. (The significance of the title "Angela's Ashes" was not what I thought it would be)

A GR's friend mentioned this book. I 'have' read it. (huge impact on me). I must have read it before I joined GR's.

There are already many wonderful reviews written here ---but for those who have not read it yet - I highly recommend it!

Frances McCourt grows up in NYC and quickly his family gets kicked back to Ireland, back to their family after his mother Angela loses a few babies and his dad can't find a job.

In Limerick, Frank grows up in the top half of their dilapidated home, fondly referred to as Italy. So many heartbreaking moments, his family so poor they didn't have two coins to rub together. I appreciated the bits of humor, my heart broke for how accurate a portrayal of this family was, and how SOMEHOW they managed to find bits of joy to cling to.

For me, this was just too long and too meandering. I cannot fault this story or this author's experience since it is his to tell, I just found myself outside of the story at times.

In every lane there’s someone not talking to someone or everyone not talking to someone or someone not talking to everyone. You can always tell when people are not talking by the way they pass each other. The women hoist their noses, tighten their mouths and turn their faces away. (PG 133)

Okay… there are some seriously depressing moments and disgusting memories but this guy is (was) hilarious. He is (was) a witty wizard. I appreciate his honesty and the style of writing. I don’t know what it is about these Irish writers with their self-deprecating selves but the English have nothing on these people in style and witticism. (No offense just being honest)

One of the best memoirs I’ve read, in my teeny weeny life. Gave me goosebumps, laughter, turned my stomach and made me sad. This had it all.

This is one I never wanted to end. How effed up people lived/live like this.

It's been ten years since I've read this book. Like everyone else I was floored by it when it first came out. But time and age have made me wiser.

I don't think it's stood the test of time and the more I think of it... my grandmother is right. It's a one-sided, depressing view of life in Ireland.

"Woah is me..." is the book in a nutshell. This book simply has you marinate in negativity. Maybe I've read too much Phillip Roth in the meantime and compared to his characters this book seems too whiny and annoying.

I read masterieces like the Grapes of Wrath or As I Lay Dying and they still ring true. This? Not so much.

You want to know about Ireland:

read the series of books starting with The Year of the French by Thomas Flanagan.

"In 1798, Irish patriots, committed to freeing their country from England, landed with a company of French troops in County Mayo, in westernmost Ireland. They were supposed to be an advance guard, followed by other French ships with the leader of the rebellion, Wolfe Tone. Briefly they triumphed, raising hopes among the impoverished local peasantry (our ancestors) and gathering a group of supporters (wouldn't be suprised if one of them fought...) But before long the insurgency collapsed in the face of a brutal English counterattack.

Very few books succeed in registering the sudden terrible impact of historical events; Thomas Flanagan's is one. Subtly conceived, masterfully paced, with a wide and memorable cast of characters, The Year of the French brings to life peasants and landlords, Protestants and Catholics, along with old and abiding questions of secular and religious commitments, empire, occupation, and rebellion. It is quite simply a great historical novel."

or James Joyce's The Dubliners or Ulysses...

or Sean O'Casey The Plough & the Stars

or William Inge's Playboy of the Western World

What, did NO one find this book funny except me??? I must be really perverse.
Although the account of Frank's bad eyes was almost physically painful to read, the rest of the story didn't seem too odd or sad or overdone to me. My dad's family were immigrants; his father died young of cirrhosis of the liver, leaving my grandmother to raise her six living children (of a total of 13) on a cleaning woman's pay. So? Life was hard. They weren't Irish and they lived in New York, but when you hear that your dad occasionally trapped pigeons and roasted them to eat, you develop a certain, er, resistance to tales of woe. They worked hard and did the best they could. And in between, life could be really, really funny. That's how I saw this book. After reading some of the reviews here, I'm beginning to think I read a different book. Or that I'm completely odd, which is much more likely.

Dei servizi igenici.

Ma ci pensate a quanto siamo fortunati ad avere l' acqua corrente che ci permette di sbarazzarci della sporcizia premendo un semplice pulsante?
Ogni volta che caracollavo verso il bagno con il libro in mano (perchè non mentiamoci conoscete un posto più intellettualmente stimolante del bagno? A partire dalla tazza del wc fino ad arrivare alla doccia o alla vasca da bagno) mi veniva in mente il povero Frank che si trascinava su e giù il vaso da notte di Laman Griffin per potersi garantire il diritto di avere un tetto sopra la testa e a quanto sia costato al poveretto dopo tutte le umiliazioni che stava già subendo.

Sostanzialmente il declino delle condizioni della famiglia di Frank in questo romanzo è strettamente collegato al grado di degenerazione dei servizi igenici.
Partiamo dall' america dove abbiamo, sì ,servizi comuni per tutto il pianerottolo (che le condizioni comunque non sono mai state rosee), però con l' acqua corrente ; fino ad arrivare in Irlanda con il punto dove si svuotano i vasi da notte (perchè acqua corrente la si può solo sognare) praticamente davanti casa.
Capirete un po quel sottile senso di colpa che mi attanagliava quando potevo tranquillamente tirare lo sciacquone e sparire quando il poveretto era costretto a sopportare olezzi nauseabondi.

Finito di vagheggiare sui servizi igenici posso solo dire che questo libro è bellissimo. Del resto ,a parte poche eccezioni, quand'è che un premio Pulitzer non lo è?
Frank McCourt è in grado di farsi amare e di suscitare grande simpatia, facendoci vedere che anche se non se l'è vista mica bella, anche sulle cose più tragiche bisogna essere in grado di spendere un sorriso.
Curiosa come una bertuccia ,come è il mio solito, sono andata a curiosare su Youtube e ho trovato una bella intervista in cui questo signore parla della sua infanzia leggendone appunto proprio da questo libro e parlandone in una maniera che me lo ha reso ancora più simpatico:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gTyPRn...

Non vedo l' ora di leggere gli altri due romanzi della trilogia.

“Dovete studiare e imparare per farvi un’opinione vostra sulla storia e su tutto, se la mente è vuota le opinioni uno non se le può fare. Riempitevi la mente, riempitevi la mente. La mente è il vostro tesoro e nessuno al mondo può ficcarci il naso. Se uno di voi vincesse la lotteria d’Irlanda e si comprasse una casa in cui servissero i mobili secondo voi ci metterebbe tutta robaccia? La mente è la vostra casa e se la riempite di robaccia sentita e vista al cinema la manderete in malora. Potete anche essere poveri e avere le scarpe rotte, ma la vostra mente sarà sempre un palazzo.”

Este livro tem tudo para ser assustadoramente triste e deprimente - pobreza, fome, doenças, alcoolismo, morte, miséria e mais miséria. Mas não é.

Frank McCourt é filho de emigrantes irlandeses nos EUA, que na época da Grande Depressão se vêem obrigados a regressar ao país de origem. A Irlanda vive ainda sob o espectro da guerra da Independência com a Inglaterra, e dominada por um forte conservadorismo católico. Com um pai alcoólico que não arranja trabalho e gasta o dinheiro da assistência na bebida, a família vive na mais atroz das misérias. Através da sua perspectiva de criança e depois de adolescente, McCourt dá-nos a conhecer o período da sua vida entre os quatro e os dezanove anos, sempre em luta pela sobrevivência e acalentando o sonho de um dia voltar à América. É com grande habilidade narrativa que McCourt transforma a sua história de tragédia e miséria num relato sereno, marcado por um forte lirismo e bastante humor - a vida percepcionada pela candura e ingenuidade da infância e a irreverência da juventude. Emotivo, intenso e brilhante.

(E por falar em miséria, tenho de referir esta edição na qual desde "cozer" a roupa a vários erros gramaticais encontrei um pouco de tudo o que me põe os cabelos em pé.)

One of my most favorite books and authors of all time. I can't get enough of Frank's stories. I also listened to him tell it on an audio recording, and it's even more awesome listening to his Irish accent. The most compelling characteristic of his writing is the ability to write about a subject as dire and despairing as poverty and neglect, and make it so blisteringly funny, I'm in tears. Then in another chapter, I'm crying with grief over the loss of his siblings and the humiliations of his mother. But as awful as his childhood was, he tells it in such a way - GOD, it's funny. I will re-read this many times. It's that good.