Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt
Ireland!
Summary!
“When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I managed to survive 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.”
So begins the luminous memoir of Frank McCourt, born in Depression-era Brooklyn to recent Irish immigrants and raised in the slums of Limerick, Ireland. Frank’s mother, Angela, has no money to feed the children since Frank’s father, Malachy, rarely works, and when he does he drinks his wages. Yet Malachy—exasperating, irresponsible, and beguiling—does nurture in Frank an appetite for the one thing he can provide: a story. Frank lives for his father’s tales of Cuchulain, who saved Ireland, and of the Angel on the Seventh Step, who brings his mother babies.
Perhaps it is story that accounts for Frank’s survival. Wearing rags for diapers, begging a pig’s head for Christmas dinner and gathering coal from the roadside to light a fire, Frank endures poverty, near-starvation and the casual cruelty of relatives and neighbors—yet lives to tell his tale with eloquence, exuberance, and remarkable forgiveness.
Angela’s Ashes, imbued on every page with Frank McCourt’s astounding humor and compassion, is a glorious book that bears all the marks of a classic.
So begins the luminous memoir of Frank McCourt, born in Depression-era Brooklyn to recent Irish immigrants and raised in the slums of Limerick, Ireland. Frank’s mother, Angela, has no money to feed the children since Frank’s father, Malachy, rarely works, and when he does he drinks his wages. Yet Malachy—exasperating, irresponsible, and beguiling—does nurture in Frank an appetite for the one thing he can provide: a story. Frank lives for his father’s tales of Cuchulain, who saved Ireland, and of the Angel on the Seventh Step, who brings his mother babies.
Perhaps it is story that accounts for Frank’s survival. Wearing rags for diapers, begging a pig’s head for Christmas dinner and gathering coal from the roadside to light a fire, Frank endures poverty, near-starvation and the casual cruelty of relatives and neighbors—yet lives to tell his tale with eloquence, exuberance, and remarkable forgiveness.
Angela’s Ashes, imbued on every page with Frank McCourt’s astounding humor and compassion, is a glorious book that bears all the marks of a classic.
And we're back! I know, this book is kind of basic, but I'd somehow never read it. Plus it's apparently on the ever growing chopping block for banned books (cough FLORIDA cough) and you know I'm reading all of those I can get my hands on. Without further ado, let's get into it.
Overall I really liked it (shocking, as it's a very popular, awarded, classic book haha). It really felt like it was just a kid telling me about his days; complete with abruptly switching topics, new topics miles from the previous, run on sentences, super random thoughts, and misinterpretations of adult stuff. Of course there were many, many sad parts, but they don't seem quite as sad from a child's perspective, especially all the grief.
I did accidentally read a review (I was mostly just trying to find out if it was a true story and he was actually Irish) that brought into question the accuracy of the story, which did color my reading a little bit. But it turns out it's mostly just that a lot of people didn't like the portrayal, and it may be exaggerated...but isn't that also how life works for kids? It's one perspective and it's usually a lot more drastic than the reality. So, whatever. And now it's time for some quotes.
These ones have the kid perspective:
"Malachy doesn't know what I'm laughing at. He won't know anything till he's four going on five." I mean, that's adorable.
"Dad says I'll understand when I grow up. He tells me that all the time now and I want to be big like him so that I can understand everything. It must be lovely to wake up in the morning and understand everything." Why yes, that would be lovely.
"He can't read, he can't write, but he knows where to hide the jam." Please, how are these things related?!
These ones have great insults:
"Don't cross me, she says, for if you do it'll be a sorry day in your mother's house."
"Minnie says, Don't frown, Frankie. It makes your face dark and God knows it's dark enough." Poor guy just had RBF, leave him alone!
"Go back to your seat, you omadhaun, you poltroon, you thing from the far dark corner of a bog." I have no freaking clue what the first two mean, but I would like to start calling people a thing from the far dark corner of a bog. It's just loaded with imagery.
"He looks like an ordinary Catholic and you'd never imagine a Protestant would be shoveling lime." ...I have so many questions.
"Get away from my door or I'll come out ad give every one o' ye a good fong in the hole of yeer arse." I also don't know what a fong is. Thumb maybe? If so, that's an interesting threat.
These have a tone of religion (some with a bit of a stretch):
"That dog is a right Hindu, so she is, and that's where I found her mother wandering around Bangalore. If ever you're getting a dog, Francis, make sure it's a Buddhist. Good-natured dogs, the Buddhists. Never, never get a Mahommedan. They'll eat you sleeping. Never a Catholic dog. They'll eat you every day including Fridays." Sooo how do I find out what religion my puppy is? He does want to nibble on everything...
"Mam says, Alphie is enough. I'm worn out. That's the end of it. No more children. Dad says, The good Catholic woman must perform her wifely duties and submit to her husband or face eternal damnation. Mam says, As long as there are no more children eternal damnation sounds attractive enough to me." Lol.
"My favorite is St. Christina the Astonishing who takes ages to die. The judge says, Cut off her breast, and when they do she throws it at him and he goes deaf dumb and blind." I never had a favorite saint but I do now!
(Unfortunately I did try to look this up and couldn't find anything about it. Truly a bummer.)
"I like St. Moling, an Irish bishop. He didn't live in a palace like the bishop of Limerick. He lived in a tree and when other saints visited him for dinner they would sit around on branches like birds having a grand time with their water and dry bread." Part of me wants to look this up too, but after the St. Christina letdown I think I'll just go with it.
And here are just some I liked:
"It's lovely to know the world can't interfere with the inside of your head." There are so many things I'd like to comment on this one, but I won't. I shall let you, dear reader, make your own quips.
"Rest your eyes and then read till they fall out of your head." Amen
"Pneumonia, says Malachy. Well, now, that's better than oldmonia." My dad did in fact approve of this joke.
"Shakespeare is like mashed potatoes, you can never get enough of him."
"Now here's what I want to tell you. Lean over here so I can whisper in your ear. What I want to tell you is, Never smoke another man's pipe." Again, so many questions.
"I want to get pictures of Limerick stuck in my head in case I never come back."
I FELT this one deeply. We had one summer left in Alaska when we found out we were moving, and I tried to permanently etch that landscape on my brain. We were so ready to leave but I knew it was a magical place that I needed to remember. When we went back last summer, it was like seeing a friend again.
The cherry on top was the last chapter, which had one word: Tis. Which happens to be the name of the sequel. Bravo.
