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3.99 AVERAGE
3.99 AVERAGE
Re-read, was happy to discover not only hilarious humor and heartbreaking stories, but more complex themes and disturbing questions.
What is the role of religion as faith and as an institution? How can one break existing patterns? What's the price of climbing up to a higher social level? Where is the border between what's acceptable and not?
Amazing reading experience, 5+ stars
What is the role of religion as faith and as an institution? How can one break existing patterns? What's the price of climbing up to a higher social level? Where is the border between what's acceptable and not?
Amazing reading experience, 5+ stars
When i first started reading this book, I became incredibly depressed. this is honestly one of the saddest books that I have ever read. but i found myself oddly drawn to it, much like The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. In the end I found myself incredibly interested in this mans life and now I want to read the the following book.
dark
emotional
sad
medium-paced
Whether the stories are fact or fiction doesn't matter to me as an Irish person. If it's to emote the sheer depression of the situation then it did exactly that and although we're dragged through the downs we can rejoice in the wins of this story just as much! Beautifully written, I could hear McCourt in my head through every word and line.
This book was surprisingly funny, considering the harrowing childhood it describes. It's one of those books that everyone should read. I loved the experience every chapter of the way, but man, what an absolutely perfect ending.
McCourt paints a vivid picture of poverty in Ireland and what it can do to families, but there are often times when it feels almost like tragedy porn. The writing flows well, the characters are interesting, and I can definitely picture in my mind all the places he creates for us, but there's just this feeling in the back of my mind that the things McCourt writes about are exaggerated for the sake of good reviews and a poverty-curious audience. In reading up on it afterwards, it seems he did manufacture a fair number of things in the book, and while that's not necessarily deception, it felt a bit awkward given how incredibly depressing it is.
I've never read something so heartbreaking and humorous at the same time.
Tragic and funny and beautiful. I'll probably read it again in the future, but I'll also be tempted to listen to the author's reading as well. It will take a bit longer but still be worth every minute.
⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️
Personal Score: B+
Critical Score: A-
Well, I finally finally finally finished this book. I’m not sure I’ve ever paused and resumed and paused and resumed for so long a time with any book ever before.
I began this odyssey of anecdotes and tears and slanted laughter while flying to Dublin with my parents for my first trip to Ireland in the early July of 2019.
Then the memoir spent months and months in a box while we moved houses here in The States, and I came back and read some more, then left it on my shelf a while and came back a while later and took a break and read some more and on and on until this past week I read a little each day to cross the finish line.
I’m not sure why it’s taken this long. The book delighted me greatly, and the talent left me astounded. It didn’t take a long time because of the quality or because of my enjoyment. In a way, I was savoring the experience. Or that’s the simplest way to explain it, at least.
Of course everything is complicated now. The book very gradually got weaker as it went. And thirty pages from the end, I discovered the controversy of McCourt’s alleged dishonesty. And tonight I read a bit of what native Irish people think of this book (though I’m hardly claiming to have researched).
I’m a few generations removed from Ireland, so it’s not really my place to make a judgment on the integrity of this book, on Frank’s experience, on Limerick City and it’s people in the 1930s and 40s. I feel in part rooted to the experience of this book and in part obligated to state my distance from it too.
As a memoir, this is an ethical mud puddle. I’m saddened to have learned about the controversy in the first place, but here we are. I may not have started this book had I known what I’d be getting into.
As a work of literature, I can’t deny McCourt’s skills. For a long time, I thought I’d award this book five stars, for that’s how terrific the writing is, how moving the story is, how affecting the humor and sadness, and how realized the characters.
But who knows what to make of all this?
So my scores must account for the likelihood of McCourt’s exaggerations, which are in my opinion exploitative.
I think the last point I’ll make is how clearly this book is, in the end, meant to please an American audience. The very last lines make this concrete in a rather horrific way for me, who generally feels deeply conflicted on America, leaning toward hatred. The last thing I want this book to be is fuel for the American Dream, because I *can* claim the identity necessary to speak on how severe an illusion that Dream is for non-Americans to take up. Not to say I live in a shit hole and everywhere else is better, because I know how great a privilege it is to live in America as a white dude. Im just saying I hate how generations of immigrants have been cheated into the smoke and mirrors of this flawed country. And I am deeply uncomfortable with how this book perpetuates that illusion.
I worry too about the feelings of native Irish people, because this could be a book that unfairly hurts their image.
There’s much to leave unsaid on Angela’s Ashes, despite the months I’ve had to think.
Regardless of whether the book is good, or how much I liked it along the way, I can say it has been with me for many journeys of my own—this past year and a half has been quite eventful, and worthy of a misery memoir itself, though one few people would care to read, myself not among them.
For being here that long, and having opened me up to many conflicted feelings, I can place a lot of heart and more into this book, to lock up inside the pages for safekeeping. As much heart and worse as it’s given me.
Personal Score: B+
Critical Score: A-
Well, I finally finally finally finished this book. I’m not sure I’ve ever paused and resumed and paused and resumed for so long a time with any book ever before.
I began this odyssey of anecdotes and tears and slanted laughter while flying to Dublin with my parents for my first trip to Ireland in the early July of 2019.
Then the memoir spent months and months in a box while we moved houses here in The States, and I came back and read some more, then left it on my shelf a while and came back a while later and took a break and read some more and on and on until this past week I read a little each day to cross the finish line.
I’m not sure why it’s taken this long. The book delighted me greatly, and the talent left me astounded. It didn’t take a long time because of the quality or because of my enjoyment. In a way, I was savoring the experience. Or that’s the simplest way to explain it, at least.
Of course everything is complicated now. The book very gradually got weaker as it went. And thirty pages from the end, I discovered the controversy of McCourt’s alleged dishonesty. And tonight I read a bit of what native Irish people think of this book (though I’m hardly claiming to have researched).
I’m a few generations removed from Ireland, so it’s not really my place to make a judgment on the integrity of this book, on Frank’s experience, on Limerick City and it’s people in the 1930s and 40s. I feel in part rooted to the experience of this book and in part obligated to state my distance from it too.
As a memoir, this is an ethical mud puddle. I’m saddened to have learned about the controversy in the first place, but here we are. I may not have started this book had I known what I’d be getting into.
As a work of literature, I can’t deny McCourt’s skills. For a long time, I thought I’d award this book five stars, for that’s how terrific the writing is, how moving the story is, how affecting the humor and sadness, and how realized the characters.
But who knows what to make of all this?
So my scores must account for the likelihood of McCourt’s exaggerations, which are in my opinion exploitative.
I think the last point I’ll make is how clearly this book is, in the end, meant to please an American audience. The very last lines make this concrete in a rather horrific way for me, who generally feels deeply conflicted on America, leaning toward hatred. The last thing I want this book to be is fuel for the American Dream, because I *can* claim the identity necessary to speak on how severe an illusion that Dream is for non-Americans to take up. Not to say I live in a shit hole and everywhere else is better, because I know how great a privilege it is to live in America as a white dude. Im just saying I hate how generations of immigrants have been cheated into the smoke and mirrors of this flawed country. And I am deeply uncomfortable with how this book perpetuates that illusion.
I worry too about the feelings of native Irish people, because this could be a book that unfairly hurts their image.
There’s much to leave unsaid on Angela’s Ashes, despite the months I’ve had to think.
Regardless of whether the book is good, or how much I liked it along the way, I can say it has been with me for many journeys of my own—this past year and a half has been quite eventful, and worthy of a misery memoir itself, though one few people would care to read, myself not among them.
For being here that long, and having opened me up to many conflicted feelings, I can place a lot of heart and more into this book, to lock up inside the pages for safekeeping. As much heart and worse as it’s given me.
A beautifully written book, for craft, style, and story. It was lovely to read and easy to lose time while reading it.