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3.99 AVERAGE
3.99 AVERAGE
This book ricochets between the grimmest of dark humor and something like sentimentality. I found it exhausting.
3 stars not because it isn't an excellent book, but because I personally wasn't wowed by it. It's an interesting story that I continued to follow, but at the same time it felt like it could be any story that I'd pick up and read - nothing exceptional. Maybe part of the problem was the fact that this book may not be entirely accurate and for some reason that lessens the beauty of it. I also, by the end, was a little annoyed at how much we got to learn about his sexual activities. Like... live your life and all, but why do I need to know about how often you felt yourself up? It's to be accurate, blah blah. It's not my thing. So a solid read, but nothing that stood out to me.
Brilliant autobiography set in Ireland. An enthralling read - if somewhat uncomfortable in places.
A sad but interesting memoir. I liked the style of storytelling, but the version I read made it hard to get engrossed in the book (it had a lot of printing errors).
Just because a book is about true bad experiences doesn't make it a good book. Yes, suffering is a bad thing, but so is bad writing.
The writing is dry and boring, the experiences and lessons learned pointless and trivial. The only greater purpose that is served by this book is that it causes you to recognize how much more fortunate of a place you started than the author. I liked none of the people, there were no higher lessons.
If I want to be reminded how good I have it I can read a book like The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, or A Lesson Before Dying. They are less wordy, better written, and actually have a message worth learning.
The writing is dry and boring, the experiences and lessons learned pointless and trivial. The only greater purpose that is served by this book is that it causes you to recognize how much more fortunate of a place you started than the author. I liked none of the people, there were no higher lessons.
If I want to be reminded how good I have it I can read a book like The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, or A Lesson Before Dying. They are less wordy, better written, and actually have a message worth learning.
Last year before the annual Patsy's dinner I was carrying McCourt's "'Tis" under my arm in the elevator and Ken noticed. He asked what book I had and when I told him he asked if I knew an excerpt of that book had been included in the latest issue of the New Yorker, it was an archive issue, and that excerpt was from a 2000 issue of the magazine. I said I did know and I'd read that issue and it was so good it convinced me to buy my own copy of the full text and if memory serves Ken was a bit put out by that. He wanted to teach and that's Tian's biggest complaint about men. Especially older men. They're always looking to teach and if you already know something, what good are you to them?
This one -- Angela's Ashes -- got turned into a movie and so is more popular. Peter noticed it on my desk and I asked if he'd read it and he said no, I asked if he'd watched the film and he said he'd tried but it was too depressing so he turned it off. Based on the contents of the book I can't blame him. There's suffering and humiliation and discrimination and the usual woes of adolescence made ten times worse by a truly Catholic nation. As depressing as the read was though it put the ache for Ireland in my bones, the same ache I felt after the same book, the same ache I told to the Irish bartender who took a shift at the Keep and he said, "Och" -- I swear, he actually said that, he said, "Och, it doesn't matter if you didn't grow up Irish." (I'd told him my family didn't practice Irish culture.) "It's in the blood." Then he said I look Irish, which is the same thing people've been telling Poppop for years, except with him they say it with more poetry. For his whole life he's been hearing: "You've the map of Ireland on your face."
I read *Angela's Ashes* on the subway and a bit in bed but all of this was before coronavirus came in strong and shut down the city. Which means I was able to start, read, and finish it before the fuzziness came into my head from the unending days at home. Young Frankie McCourt climbing silos to masturbate over all of Ireland or inching his uncle's chamber pot off the loft or listening to poems by the dying the girl in the cot across from his in the hospital came to when I was still sharp. Hungover and lacking in sleep as usual but sharp in a way I can only dream about getting now.
I've always liked McCourt's bespoke use of commas 'cause it reminds me of Hemingway except with a brogue. Since reading this book I've been using "Och" more in texts, which combined with Jason's use of West Virginia lexicon has devolved my language into something a bit natural and I suppose a bit bespoke.
This one -- Angela's Ashes -- got turned into a movie and so is more popular. Peter noticed it on my desk and I asked if he'd read it and he said no, I asked if he'd watched the film and he said he'd tried but it was too depressing so he turned it off. Based on the contents of the book I can't blame him. There's suffering and humiliation and discrimination and the usual woes of adolescence made ten times worse by a truly Catholic nation. As depressing as the read was though it put the ache for Ireland in my bones, the same ache I felt after the same book, the same ache I told to the Irish bartender who took a shift at the Keep and he said, "Och" -- I swear, he actually said that, he said, "Och, it doesn't matter if you didn't grow up Irish." (I'd told him my family didn't practice Irish culture.) "It's in the blood." Then he said I look Irish, which is the same thing people've been telling Poppop for years, except with him they say it with more poetry. For his whole life he's been hearing: "You've the map of Ireland on your face."
I read *Angela's Ashes* on the subway and a bit in bed but all of this was before coronavirus came in strong and shut down the city. Which means I was able to start, read, and finish it before the fuzziness came into my head from the unending days at home. Young Frankie McCourt climbing silos to masturbate over all of Ireland or inching his uncle's chamber pot off the loft or listening to poems by the dying the girl in the cot across from his in the hospital came to when I was still sharp. Hungover and lacking in sleep as usual but sharp in a way I can only dream about getting now.
I've always liked McCourt's bespoke use of commas 'cause it reminds me of Hemingway except with a brogue. Since reading this book I've been using "Och" more in texts, which combined with Jason's use of West Virginia lexicon has devolved my language into something a bit natural and I suppose a bit bespoke.
Since the overall accuracy of this memoir had been challenged, I read it more as a piece of literature in lines with Yates or Joyce. It follows the same themes and sad depiction of Ireland with a quick and sometimes funny tone.