Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Stop complainin’
I’ve wanted to read Frank McCourt’s memoir, Angela’s Ashes, ever since I saw him on The Colbert Report. He was promoting his new book, Teacher Man, the third volume of his memoir. The man impressed me with his wit and kindness; if I remember correctly, Stephen Colbert didn’t even try to give him a hard time, but instead kicked back and enjoyed the moment. Unfortunately, YouTube doesn’t have the interview.
I have to admit to some shallowness, though. The title, Angela’s Ashes, sounded like chick lit. And then, when I found out it was a memoir of his early childhood, I figured the title referred to the death of his mother or grandmother (it doesn’t), and that put me off. While in Orlando, I decided to stop procrastinating and buy the book, and . . . wow.
I’m the sort who likes to revel in his awful childhood, so I’m impressed when someone out-awfuls me. Not only does McCourt out-awful me, I may never complain again. (Or at least I’ll stop complaining until I feel like complaining, and then I’ll undoubtedly hear McCourt’s voice in the back of my mind telling me to grow a spine already.)
During the Great Depression, Frank McCourt and his brother Malachy are born in New York City to two Irish immigrants. The death of Angela McCourt’s daughter pushes her into a deep depression, and her relatives decide the thing for her is to move children and husband back to Ireland. Trouble is, Ireland is in even worse straits than America. What follows is an eye-opening tale of survival in the face of crushing poverty, a story that would have been depressing were it not for McCourt’s clear, strong voice.
McCourt has been compared to Joyce, but I found his journalistic spareness and lack of sentimentality more reminiscent of Hemingway (minus the machisimo). Angela’s Ashes seems uncompromisingly honest. McCourt reports the facts, even — especially — when they reflect poorly on him.
I was struck by this comment from the publisher:
Wearing shoes repaired with tires, begging a pig’s head for Christmas dinner, and searching the pubs for his father, 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.
Forgiveness? Really? For me, the most fascinating part of McCourt’s story is his relationship with his mother. Perhaps there will be a rapprochement in McCourt’s second book, ‘Tis, but Angela’s Ashes ended on an unsettled if not hostile note. And for the father who abandons his wife and children, McCourt shows no inclination to forgive.
I think I’ll have my son read this as part of his schoolwork (the joys of homeschooling — we set the curriculum). Then, whenever he kvetches, I’ll tell him, “Stop complainin’. You coulda grown up with nothin’ to eat but bread and tea.”
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I’m outa here. See you next Saturday for live blogging 😉
D.
PS: There’s a movie (I haven’t seen it), a documentary, and a memoir by Frank McCourt’s brother, Malachy.
Good choice, Doug. I’ve read this one about four times. And I’ve read the two sequels (I won’t tell you what happens…)
I think the Irish are simply born knowing how to tell a story.
Hi Maureen!
Must say, I had to get ‘Tis. I’m dying to know if he ever tracks down his father, and I want to see if and when he brings his mother over, and I want to know about his courtship with his wife . . .
Yeah, he’s one helluva storyteller.
oh, angelas ashes. how i loathe thee. the problem with english classes in public schools is that they normally ruin amazing books for you. so the memories i have of angelas ashes are pretty bad ones. the movie’s pretty good though, if i remember correctly.
It would take real talent for a teacher to ruin that book. I can’t even begin to imagine . . .
I’m surprised, though, that they taught it in public school. There’s a lot of sex in Angela’s Ashes — usually, one parent or another will gripe to high heaven over sexual content.
oh, they definately do. some of my friends had to read it sophomore and junior year, if they were in honors soph and AE(middle-level) junior year.
maybe i just didnt like the book, and having to analyze it made me like it less. i’ve kinda blocked out most of the things we learned in english junior year…dunno about the sex. i guess my school just rocks.
I saw the film the year it comes out. Bad enough that Emily Watson always makes me cry, but she plays the mom. So I balled. Robert Carlyle does a fantastic job as the dad, offering just enough hope and entertainment and love to string the whole family along. Damn depressing stint at the movies.
Yes, I could see that being a real tear-jerker. The book had it’s teary moments, of course, but overall, I didn’t find it depressing. It would be a piece of cake for the filmmaker to focus on the weepy stuff and miss the whole point — which, for me, is the inner strength, character, whatever, which enables McCourt to survive.
Thanks for the review…it’ll go on my summer reading list for sure.
Make sure you eventually read Nature Girl…Honey Santana will strike a chord, and you’ll laugh your ass off.
I hear this stuff a couple of times a week with my refugees. At least Frank had a real roof, knew where he would go every day. assumed he’d live through the night and didn’t actually see people shot/starved to death, brutally raped . .
Hey, why am I suddenly reminded of that old Saturday Night top this routine “Don’t you just hate it when___” ??