Angela's Ashes
by Frank McCourt
My father and mother should have stayed in New York where they met and married and where I was born. Instead, they returned to Ireland when I was four, my brother, Malachy, three, the twins, Oliver, and Eugene, barely one, and my sister, Margaret, dead and gone.
When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.
Right from the start, Frank McCourt lets you know what to expect from his gritty, more than depressing memoir. As if the title and cover with the shoe-less little boy didn’t give you a big enough hint.
His warning proves to be absolutely correct: McCourt’s childhood is one of the most miserable ever written about. The level of poverty is mind-boggling, and it truly is a miracle he survived. In contrast to the horrible events he writes about, McCourt uses a charming, conversational tone in his writing, one that soothes the readers as they experience his sorrowful tale.
As sad as Angela’s Ashes is, it’s not the most depressing book I’ve ever read, because McCourt is obviously alive and well after surviving his extremely sad childhood. That is the drop of hope readers can cling to while reading; they can take comfort that no matter what happens, the little boy in the story lives to tell his tale.
I’ve never seen the movie—although I’m probably one of the only readers out there who hasn’t—so I can’t offer any comparison. If you like reading memoirs or sorrowful tales, add this modern classic to your bookshelf. It really is remarkable.
When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.
Right from the start, Frank McCourt lets you know what to expect from his gritty, more than depressing memoir. As if the title and cover with the shoe-less little boy didn’t give you a big enough hint.
His warning proves to be absolutely correct: McCourt’s childhood is one of the most miserable ever written about. The level of poverty is mind-boggling, and it truly is a miracle he survived. In contrast to the horrible events he writes about, McCourt uses a charming, conversational tone in his writing, one that soothes the readers as they experience his sorrowful tale.
As sad as Angela’s Ashes is, it’s not the most depressing book I’ve ever read, because McCourt is obviously alive and well after surviving his extremely sad childhood. That is the drop of hope readers can cling to while reading; they can take comfort that no matter what happens, the little boy in the story lives to tell his tale.
I’ve never seen the movie—although I’m probably one of the only readers out there who hasn’t—so I can’t offer any comparison. If you like reading memoirs or sorrowful tales, add this modern classic to your bookshelf. It really is remarkable.