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lewismillholland 's review for:
Angela's Ashes
by Frank McCourt
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.