Grrrr followup question

And now I’m curious about memoirs and eager to read someone with more insight and honesty than Frank McCourt. Any suggestions?

I haven’t read many autobiographies. Bette Davis, Benvenuto Cellini, that’s about it (how’s that for a pair?) I think I can sling the memoirist BS fairly well, but I’m sure I have a lot to learn from the masters.

So . . . who are the masters?

D.

Grrrrr

I enjoyed Angela’s Ashes so much that I bought the sequel, ‘Tis, as fast as I could. ‘Tis is the second book of Frank McCourt’s memoirs, and it’s as compelling as Angela’s Ashes — or at least it is in the first half. But as the ending approaches, I find myself getting tremendously pissed off at McCourt.

Spoiler alert.

Folks familiar with the story (either the book or the movie) know that McCourt’s father, a good man when sober, was rarely sober. When his children were young, he left his family to live a drunkard’s life in London.

I don’t mind so much that Frank McCourt falls into much the same trap; what I do mind is his lack of honesty. Or, rather, the inconsistency of his honesty. Sometimes, he’s so unflinchingly honest you want to kick his teeth in, he’s been such a heel. But when he talks about the breakdown of his first marriage and how he left his wife and young daughter (a week before her eighth birthday), I see a man who refuses to take full responsibility, choosing instead such meaningless lies as

The old Irish had told me, and my mother had warned me, Stick with your own. Marry your own. The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t know.

. . . the bullshit a man tells himself when he’s trying to come up with excuses. Earlier, referring to his wife, Alberta,

She’d want to go antiquing along Atlantic Avenue and I’d want to chat with Sam Colton in his Montague Street bookshop or have a beer at the Blarney Rose with Yonk Kling.

By this time in ‘Tis, McCourt has given us many examples of his alcoholic binges. He spends his Friday evenings drinking with his teacher friends, standing up Alberta for their dinner dates, at first calling her drunk, later not calling her at all; so we’re left to imagine, at this point, precisely how often McCourt has indulged in beers at the Blarney Rose. We’re left to imagine it because this is one of the few times where McCourt doesn’t confess to the full truth.

I gather McCourt has made peace with his daughter, since he dedicates the book to her, but Alberta is conspicuously absent from the dedication and acknowledgments. Am I imagining hostility? I don’t think so. It saddens me to see this man whom I have come to admire through his writing turn out to be such an utter shit to his family and not even have the courage to fully accept his roll in the debacle. When the moment finally comes, he separates himself from his actions as much as one can with the written word:

Around her eighth year she announced, Look, Dad, I want to go to school with my friends. Of course, she was pulling away, going independent, saving herself. She must have known her family was disintegrating, that her father would soon leave forever as his father had long ago and I left for good a week before her eighth birthday.

If he makes good, I don’t see it in the few pages which follow.

I bought McCourt’s most recent memoir, Teacher Man, but I presume it focuses on his experiences in education. I’m not sure what I’m looking for here. Honesty? Penance?

Grrrr.

D.