The author begins his memoir with the voice of a narrator: describing people, events, etc. But, from the first chapter he slowly transitions into a man remembering & than goes back to when he was a boy. The slideshow of imagery & the depth of details made this a great read, despite the often brutal sadness of the story.

The innocence of a young boy of say 8or9 is experienced here like in no other book I have read. The young boy finds himself talking with "the angel of the seventh step," & wishing to hear stories of his mythical hero "Cuchulain." When the boy learns something for the first time, so does the reader. While he ages, his vocabulary grows as does his views of the world around him which starts to make more sense to him, no matter how unsettling.

The reader feels Frankie's angst when his alcoholic father comes home drunk after drinking his paycheck away. The descriptions of the strict Catholic school alone where he was not allowed to even ask a question in class made it seem more like a prison than a place to seek "knowledge & comfort." The living conditions in the Limerick of the 1930's-40's Ireland were truly on a third world level. Their home would flood in Winter, & the many family homes they lived in when they could not afford their rent are gut wrenchingly vivid.

The most poignant emotions are from Frankie's mother Angela.
The reader can feel her desperation & frustration with her useless husband, who often failed to keep a job because of his boozing.
Her anguish that she could not clothe or feed her sons, & her other children who were "dead & gone," & her feelings of shame that she had to borrow & beg in order to keep her family alive leap off the pages.
The dialogue & story captures the imagination, one can feel the chill of damp air & the sickness it brings. This book has it all, the sorrow, heartache, want, humor, & slivers of hope.

"When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I managed to survive at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood."

So begins ANGELA'S ASHES, Frank McCourt's amazing memoir of growing up in the direst poverty in Limerick, Ireland. The book opens in Brooklyn in 1935 when Frank, the eldest child, is only four. Frank's father, Malachy, has decided life in his native Ireland, hard as it may be, would be easier than life in Brooklyn. So, with his wife, Angela and their four surviving children - Frank, Malachy, and twins, Oliver and Eugene, (baby sister, Margaret has already died) - in tow, the McCourt family returns to Malachy's native Belfast.

One might think the return of a family member who's been gone for years would be an occasion for rejoicing. But this is Belfast and war is brewing, and as the reader soon realizes, Malachy's family is far worse off than the citizens of Brooklyn. After spending only one night in his family's small home, Malachy, Angela, and their children are sent packing - to Limerick, the town where Angela grew up.

Angela's family proves to be almost as unwelcoming as Malachy's, but the family does manage to find lodgings in "the lanes," a euphemism for the town's slums. And slums they are, make no mistake about that. There's no sanitary system to speak of, so the McCourt family finds summers and the almost unbearable stench almost as bad as winters when there's no coal to light the fire. The seemingly ever-present rain floods the McCourt's downstairs, forcing them to flee to the upstairs rooms, and the dampness of the River Shannon kills two more McCourt children and sends Frank to the hospital for months. Although heartbroken, the McCourt's accept their losses as simply their lot in a very, very difficult life.

The Protestant Malachy is shunned in Catholic Ireland and his northern accent makes it almost impossible for him to find work. When he does, he "drinks" his wages in the form of pints at the local pub before even going home, leaving his younger children with nothing but sugar water and the older ones lucky to get a potato for their dinner. Christmases consisted of a sheep's head, which Angela obtained from local charities.

ANGELA'S ASHES is a horrific, but beautifully written book, an episodic memoir rather than a traditionally plotted novel. This episodic quality however, takes nothing away from its ability to mesmerize and pull us into the world of pre-war Limerick. We sympathize with Frank as he endures a series of abusive teachers - until he finally encounters one who recognizes his intelligence. We empathize with him as he finds - then tragically loses - his first love. We chuckle (yes, chuckle, for ANGELA'S ASHES, grim as it is, contains humor aplenty) at his misplaced attempts to spread Catholicism, one of which provides quite possibly the book's funniest set piece.

Young Frank, during one of his first jobs must deliver a telegram to a Mr. Harrington, an Englishman who's understandably distraught over the death of his wife, Ann. When Frank knocks on the Harrington's door, Harrington is already drunk and asks Frank to watch over Ann's body while he makes a quick trip to the local pub for reinforcements.

Frank has obviously listened to his strict Catholic schoolmasters and he obviously cares about his fellow man. In a hilarious scene, Frank, not wanting Ann to suffer in hell because of her Protestantism, baptizes her a Catholic with sherry in place of holy water. Naturally, just as he's doing so, Harrington returns.

While ANGELA'S ASHES is filled with tragedy, harrowing events, and the direst of poverty, it's also filled with dignity, compassion, and genuine wit. This wit is, I think, what raises the book from a superbly written memoir to a genuine masterpiece and classic. But even though the book sometimes elicits a chuckle, more often than not, it brings a tear. One of the most harrowing images, for me, at least, was that of an always-hungry Frank voraciously licking the newspaper that had held his Uncle Pat's fish and chips.

Just as McCourt does a fine balancing act regarding humor and despair, he also balances his characterizations so our view of the persons who inhabit ANGELA'S ASHES is never one-sided. This is particularly true regarding Frank's father, Malachy. In the hands of a lesser author, Malachy could have become nothing more than exasperating and ineffectual, which, of course, he is. But McCourt also shows us his father's charming side as well. As irresponsible as Malachy is, he obviously loves his children, and it was their father, more often than not, who comforted his sons. It was Malachy who nurtured Frank's appetite for stories, giving him the tale of Cuchulain, Ireland's great savior, and the Angel on the Seventh Step, the being who brought two new babies, Michael and Alphonsus, to Angela. Perhaps, because of Malachy, Frank somehow finds the strength to endure and nurture his own dreams. ANGELA'S ASHES is, in many ways, a Cinderella story, a story of triumph, although at first glance, it would seem to be anything but. More than anything, though, ANGELA'S ASHES is a perfectly written, deeply moving book. Although filled with tragedy and despair, in the end, it's a glorious book, one that becomes a part of the reader and continues to grow within him years after the last page is turned.

Frank McCourt has a way with words! His memoir of growing up poor in Ireland, with a drunk for a father and lazy, shiftless mother is written without malice. He and his brothers are left to their own devices to keep themselves fed, warm and clothed when Frank, the oldest is not even four years old. They live in a house where the main floor floods every year and they have to wade through the sewage to live in the remaining room upstairs until the water recedes. They grow so cold that they resort to tearing the walls apart for firewood. And yet his mother needs her cigarettes and his father needs his drink.

Frank's tenacity and humor in the midst of such misery is his salvation. And it is what makes this memoir so poignant. His own parents and grandparents, neighbors and the Catholic church leave Frank and his brothers to their own devices for survival. And they survive! And go to America. And it's a true story.

Frank McCourt chronicles the story of his life in the streets of Ireland, his family living a life of poverty and hard luck. Somehow, he is able to make what should be a bleak story uplifting with his wit, humor and straight-forward approach to telling a story. Sometimes he gives you TOO much of the story, things you would rather not have heard--but I guess this is because it is a memoir. There is a certain amount of haphazardness to his writings...there are many times where you have no clue where this is going. But, at other times, there is an effort to be sentimental about the few things he has in life, or the hope of better days ahead.

An interesting style McCourt uses to write the book, where he virtually uses no punctuation during the many dialogue scenes. He also has many, many run-on, wordy, and obtuse sentences that would probably have one of his master's in school up in arms. It took me awhile to get used to this "rambling" kind of style, and, as an English major, it almost had ME up in arms, but actually, after reading the book, the pace of book quickens because of this style. There was enough of a compelling and engaging story to care too much about punctuation, or lack thereof.

As far as content itself, McCourt's story was highly entertaining and somewhat touching. While the young Frank is at school, he meets one strict school master after another, and he deals with the peer pressure from some of his classmates. The young Frank tries to keep all of the disappointments and failures and embarrassments behind him by reminding himself that one day things will change for him in America. There are times when Frank goes to the library to escape the world, knowing that he can escape into a story: "It's lovely to know that the world can't interfere with the inside of your head." Frank also experiences some time in the hospital with fever and eye problems, and in his first visit he meets Patricia, a girl who teaches him poetry. When he gets separated from her for talking to her, it is one of Frank's saddest moments: "Nurses and nuns never think you know what they're talking about...You can't ask questions. You can't show you understand what the nurse said about Patricia Madigan, that she's going to die, and you can't show you want to cry over this girl who taught you a lovely poem which the nun says is bad." Frank also deals with the trials of being in a family with an alcoholic father who rarely comes up, spends up the family's earnings, and some other dysfunctional relatives. He keeps hope that one day things will change for the better.

While the story is highly engaging, one thing that irked me was the abruptness of the ending. Without giving too much away, the memoir just seemingly ends without any deep moment or thought. The incident with Frank and the woman--- is that suppose to be some momentous or life-changing event? It seemed kind of stupid to end the book right there. It also made the book seem a little uneven; after all, here is Frank preaching about how he wants to help his family in the future, and then what does he go and do in the book's conclusion?

Criticism aside, this is an enjoyable read, which I honestly didn't think would be possible based on what I had heard about the story. McCourt is able to intertwine humor and heart-break in a way I've never seen done before.

Was a gift for my daughter who rarely reads and she loves it. Read it through in a couple of days.

I was required to read this book for a school projet, and I took my teachers advice and came to the book with an open mind and high expectations based upon his praise. The first chapters are interesting and fun, as you feel for the character and his life struggles. But as time trudges on, I began to realise that this book was written by either a mentally challanged person or someone who is just plain dumb. While the lack of conventional grammar and punctuation is sometimes regarded as 'genious' I found it annoying and childish. I heard in his other book he became an English teacher? I hope not. That's embarrasing to be an English teacher and write like that.
Call me what you will for insulting one of the 'best written books of our century', as my English professor called it, but I found it childish, immature, and highly unbelievable from the point of a allegeded memior.

It takes a masterful storyteller to make readers laugh while detailing a story of oppressive poverty, chronic illness, despicable alcohol abuse and the death of three siblings. But that's exactly what Frank McCourt does. With straightforward, non-judgmental prose, the author weaves a tale of survival at the most elemental level, detailing the life of the McCourt family, an Irish Catholic clan struggling to make it in poverty-stricken Limerick, Ireland, in the 1930s. To describe the McCourts' life as 'miserable' doesn't do it justice. Yet somehow, through the misery, this amazing author is able to find laughter, joy, irony and hope. Don't let the depressing setting fool you. This might be the most uplifting memoir I've ever read--and one of the best. Salmon Run

One of my favorite books. A walk in the life of Frank McCourt's deprived and poverty stricken family. Wonderfully written a real page turner.

This book already has a ton of reviews that give the gist of the storyline, so I won't repeat that here. I do, however, feel compelled to share that this memoir is extremely well-written and I found myself teary-eyed several times. When I was about 3/4 of the way through the book, I found myself busting out my checkbook to get donations out to charities that I've been putting off for awhile. It has opened my eyes to the struggles that so many go through that I have no concept of here in my middle-class suburban world. Angela's Ashes is not only a great read with emotional pull, it likely will change the way you look at the world and the place you have in it. Happy reading!

Angela's Ashes is a lovely book that presents growing up in Ireland during the 1940's. The book comes from a child's perspective of innocence in a world that is neither fare nor kind. There are rays of light in the child's life that will make you smile, maybe even laugh out loud, and maybe see a piece of yourself.

This is a life of an individual and family that is so difficult that it is hard for anyone to comprehend. I watched an interview with the author on C-span 2 which decided me to buy the book. I have thoroughly enjoyed it and marveled that he survived.

I love stories that have the rare ability to make you laugh and cry in the same sentence. This book has it. McCourt is so funny and quirky and at the same he has no problems revealing his heart-wrenching vulnerabilities... in all their sorrow. It really is a beautiful story and remains in my top ten list even today.

Angela's Ashes, is a compelling memoir written by Frank McCourt, that tells the story of what it is like to grow up in the "miserable Irish Catholic childhood," and the adversities one faces on a daily basis. Born in Brooklyn, New York in 1930, Frank's family soon moves back to Limerick, Ireland where the McCourt's are plagued with even more hardships, such as the realities of poverty and the cruelties of dealing with an alcoholic father.
Frank describes his childhood as a time of great deprivation; however, he still manages to find time for adventure and humor as he copes with his troubles at home. Malachy, Frank's father, is usually the cause of his mother, Angela's, unhappiness as he shatters her dreams of raising a healthy family with a supportive husband by drinking away the families' money for food and clothing. Frank observes the sorrow that lingers through his home as another week goes by without support from Malachy: "Mam turns toward the dead ashes in the fire and sucks at the last bit of goodness in the Woodbine butt caught between the brown thumb and the burnt middle finger. Michael wants to know if we're having fish and chips tonight because he's hungry. Mam says, Next week, love, and he goes back out to play in the lane." Although Malachy's alcoholism is one of the most prominent setbacks for the McCourt family and their futures, Frank is still able to love his father as his exciting stories and folktales about Irish heroes not only entertain Frank, but give him a dream and hope for a better life. Because Malachy is unemployed and drinks away any money that he earns, the McCourt's are left with nothing and nowhere to turn but to public assistance and welfare, which Frank is deeply ashamed of. He explains that he would rather steal then beg to survive. This is because being able to pay for one's food brings Frank pride and self-respect as he states that, "There's nothing worse in the world than to owe and be beholden to someone." Frank's concerns for his family are also sparked by the other kids at school who tease and laugh at him for having odd-looking shoes as his have been repaired using rubber tires because his family could not afford to buy new ones. In addition to the financial problems, the impoverished neighborhoods of Limerick are home to many fatal diseases and when three McCourt children die, Angela is overwhelmed with agony and stress and she immediately falls into a state of depression, which affects the rest of the family as well, especially Frank. Within time and the onset World War II approaching, Frank begins working for a series of men in order to support his family when his father fails to do so. Frank's new sense of responsibility gives him the pride and confidence he needs to start a new life in a different world, breaking the cycle of his mother, father, and relatives in Ireland.
Angela's Ashes is the true recollection of a boy who starts out with nothing, but through sacrifice, determination, and a never-ending dream, is able to thrive, putting the past behind to make room for a new beginning. The lessons and realizations that are found throughout the story remain with you long after you close the book. I have come to appreciate all the little things in life that before I had always taken for granted. There are parts where Frank will make you laugh out loud through his wit and humor, however, there are also times where the struggles and accounts are so painfully devastating that the novel can sometimes become very difficult to read. Without Frank's way of finding humor in even the most tragic of times, I truthfully think I may have put the book down, but I'm glad I didn't. Frank's writing is vivid, impressionable, and certainly everlasting.

This is a unique memoir that harkens back to the privations and hardships previously described in the novels of Charles Dickens. The author Frank McCourt began his reflections while preparing to return his mother's cremains to her native Ireland for burial. Hence, the title "Angela's Ashes." The loss of his mother resulted in this award winning book.

Although McCourt was a native of New York, during the early years of the Great Depression his Irish immigrant parents made the fateful decision to leave the United States in the mistaken belief that their prospects would be better if they returned to Ireland. As McCourt wrote, they should never have left America. The grinding poverty that they experienced upon their return to Limerick proved to be far worse than the hard times that the impoverished family had known in New York. Ireland lacked the ability to provide any of the relief measures available to America's poor. Relations between the Irish Free State and Great Britain were bad throughout the period of McCourt's childhood and the economic sanctions imposed by the British on Irish exports made bad matters worse.

The entire family had to live in a tiny council home, which was little more than a hovel, opposite the communal lavatory which served the residents of an entire street. Every occupant of the block had to empty their slop buckets into the same filthy commode. Whenever the plumbing failed or heavy rains flooded their residence, the filthy sewage would back up into the McCourt's living quarters.

McCourt's alcoholic father was originally from Ulster. His in laws never fully accepted him nor did they stop criticizing his wife for having married a Northerner. He struggled to support his family, but he was an unreliable drunkard in a time when the most reliable men were hard pressed to remain employed. The family frequently tried to subsist on the minimal dole available from the Dublin government and forced to beg for charity from the St. Vincent DePaul Society. In order to obtain this meager assistance, applicants were subjected to humiliating inquiries.
The McCourts were oftentimes without the basic necessities of life and constantly poorly fed and clothed. Eventually, McCourt's father deserted his wife and children. Then things got appreciably worse. Frank McCourt counted himself lucky if he had a meal of potatoes. His mother's sole luxury was borrowing or finding a penny with which to buy a Woodbine cigarette.

There is much to recommend in this autobiography, but it is not easy to read. McCourt does not follow conventional rules of punctuation. He never uses quotation marks, so it is confusing for the reader to understand what words were spoken and what words represent internal thoughts. There is a good deal of repressed anger in the book. Under the political leadership of Eamon De Valera, the role of the Catholic Church was emphasized in Ireland's political and cultural institutions. McCourt was naturally embittered by his impoverished childhood and his residual resentment for the Church is obvious.

Ultimately, this book is a testament to the survival of the human spirit. McCourt is able to escape from Limerick and return to New York and begin a new life. There is some humor to be found amongst the buckets of salty tears, vomit, feces and spilt pints of Guinness, but this book is devoid of the Irish travel brochure romance that is so familiar to Irish-Americans. McCourt and his family (his brother is character actor Malachy McCourt) are to be admired and respected for their indominatable spirits. Lesser persons would have been broken and destroyed by such trials.

"When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I managed to survive at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood." And so the story begins. Taking place during the Great Depression and WW II, Frank McCourt does a remarkable job of reflecting on the harsh times he and his family experienced in his memoir, Angela's Ashes. Born in Brooklyn, New York, Frank was introduced to a life filled with trouble and doubt; anger and tragedy. When he was just four years old, Frank's parents, Angela and Malachy, move back to Ireland, ultimately ending up in Limerick. Hoping to get a fresh start in Ireland, Angela is then disappointed when Malachy consistently drinks away the dole money, leaving her to beg at local charities and organizations. Things only get worse when Frank recalls seeing his baby sister die in his mother's arms, and not soon after his younger brother, Oliver, dies of a cold and Angela goes through stages of depression. Frank and his mother clearly see their father's flaws; his selfishness and arrogance, though they are forgiving and eventually always offer him more chances. The McCourt's begin to grow weary; poverty has stricken their family and much of Ireland. When the McCourt's have decided they no longer can live in their tiny apartment with one lavatory for many families next to their doorway, they unanimously decide it is time for Malachy to travel to England for the more apparent opportunities that do not exist in Ireland. Anxiously planning how they will spend the money their father sends home the first week, the McCourt children are thwarted when the telegram boy has nothing for them; and does not for the next few weeks. When the times get tougher, Frank and his family are forced to move in with their cousin, who they soon learn is abusive. When Frank learns that his cousin and his mother are having sex, he finds it hard to look at his mother the same way, so he decides to run away. Ultimately, Frank fulfills his dream at the end of the text, and he opens a new chapter of his life with an optimistic view.
Though this astounding memoir focuses on terrible times the McCourt family lived through, McCourt writes with humor and sarcasm to lighten the reading. He portrays the disappointment, tragedy, and special bond this family shares exceptionally through the text. McCourt adds dole and ironic humor to his devastating past, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been a minute since my last confession." He characterizes each family member and acquaintance through aggressive dialogue and unique mannerisms.
McCourt hits a home run with this book in every way, as he reflects on the tragic past of his childhood. You will shut this book with knowledge of a difficult time in history for Ireland, and empathy and appreciation for those who struggled greatly. Ultimately, it is truly a page turner that leaves you thirsting for more.

Nina Demmerle
Greenwich, Connecticut

"Worse than the miserable childhood is the miserable, Irish childhood. Worse yet is the miserable Irish, Catholic childhood."
Imagine living in a one room apartment with what is left of your family: your alcoholic father who has drunk your family into the squalor of poverty, your exhausted mother, and your three siblings, as the three others have already died. Now imagine being only a child, going days on end without food or warmth, unable to understand your situation and unable to change it. As difficult as it is to imagine, these are the daily trials and the desolate lifestyle Frank McCourt depicts in his compelling memoir Angela's Ashes.
Frank McCourt was born in Brooklyn in 1930 to Angela and Malachy McCourt, recent immigrants from Ireland, hoping for new opportunities in America. However, when prospects remain bleak, their family is forced to return to Limerick, Ireland, where Frankie lives out the rest of his childhood. Once in Ireland, their family's hardships remain unchanged. Malachy McCourt remains a chronically unemployed alcoholic, drinking away the McCourt's small income. As both Frankie and his younger brother, Malachy, are too young too find work, the McCourts grapple to deal with the day-to-day trials of hunger and disease. Begging soon becomes their only means of survival, and even Frank and his siblings are often forced to search the streets for scraps of bread and leftover lemonade to quell their constant hunger. However, Frank McCourt persists in his attempts to improve the destitute lifestyle his mother, father, and relatives have grown to accept. It is not an easy quest, as Frank is constantly held back by his weakened eyesight and shabby appearance; but he maintains his determination, clinging on to the hope of a new beginning.
Frank McCourt writes, "When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived it all." He proceeds to depict so many situations of overwhelming poverty and utter hopelessness that I was tempted to put the book aside in pure despair after only the first few chapters. His depictions are vivid and the emotions are real. The style is observant and memorable; he captures his feelings of confusion, loneliness, anger, and his wavering hope within the pages. Furthermore, his experiences are told from the point of view of his childhood self, an innocent boy struggling to overcome his desolate situation. For this reason, it was a difficult book to read because of the harsh realities of the author's life, and I often found it extremely depressing.
At the same time, I was struck by Frankie's determination in the face of his family's hardships. I could not help but wonder how he would overcome each trial and soon became enthralled in his family's struggles. At first, I found Frankie's point of view slightly confusing, but the further I read, his voice became a dialogue in my head. Seeing the story through the eyes of naïve child brought hope and laughter to the saddest of parts. Even in the most desperate of situations Frankie's constant wonderings made me smile, "Affliction," he writes, "I'd like to know what that word means. I know that big people don't like questions from children. They can ask all the questions they like, How's school? Are you a good boy? Did you say your prayers? but if you ask them did they day their prayers you might be hit on the head" (102). Frankie's comic relief saved the book for me! He frequently includes lively vignettes of his childhood that lighten the subject matter. I constantly found myself laughing at times when I might have been crying. I would truly recommend this book, but not to just anyone. It is a compelling, eye opening, and well-written memoir, but overall, it is incredibly haunting, and sad.

After hearing so many positive things about the book and putting off reading it, I decided to read it several years after its publication and subsequent movie release. Not having seen the movie yet, I was particularly curious about the book.

I was miserable but nonetheless captivated for the first third of the book. The details and imagery were very poignant even though the style of prose (e.g. very little use of punctuation or dialogue indicators) was a bit difficult to get used to. There were several moments when I was moved quite nearly to tears with sympathy.

However, shortly thereafter, I began to get weary of the story and noticed that it did not seem to be going anywhere. Furthermore, the older he got, the more I found myself disliking the narrator. By the end, his endless ramblings about masturbation marathons and worse finally convinced me that I may finish the book but I certainly wasn't going to like it.

I would not recommend this book.

I'm not an avid reader, and it takes a truly great work to keep me interested. This book made me laugh out loud and other times almost cry. What a difficult life this young man had growing up with a deadbeat father who drank the family into the squalor of poverty. Even more moving was his determination to break the cycle of his father, mother, relatives and seek a new beginning in a different world. Experiencing the story through the eyes of young Frankie was refreshing. Maintaining hope through all of situations that he was forced into was quite an eye-opener for me.

Imagine being crammed into a one bedroom home with two siblings, an alcoholic father, an exhausted mother, a flooded downstairs, and the constant threat of tuberculosis, or even worse, death knocking at your door. On top of it all, imagine being so poor that going days without food is normal and an egg can be considered a delicacy. No matter how difficult that is to imagine, it was nevertheless the life of young Frank McCourt.
Frankie grows up in the slums of Ireland where begging is commonplace and children must find jobs at the age of 14 in order to support their entire family. Frankie struggles to overcome his destitute life, the death of three siblings, and a father who drinks away all of the money needed in order for the rest of the family to survive. This is the world that you experience as you begin reading Angela's Ashes, a true-life memoir of Frank McCourt.
Angela's Ashes takes place during the Great Depression where poverty runs rampant through the streets and even the most proud of families is reduced to begging in order to get a simple lump of coal. However, Frankie has the seemingly unrealistic dream of eventually travelling to America and starting his life anew. Throughout the course of the novel you are left wondering how Frankie can gain the physical or mental power to accomplish his goal.
One aspect of the novel which I found very intriguing is Frank's use of "comic relief" in order to keep his otherwise depressing life hopeful and at least somewhat upbeat. Mikey Molloy, a cross-eyed friend of Frank who suffers from "fits" (seizures), is one such example of this sporadic humor. Frank even recounts one time when Mikey fakes one of his fits in order to sneak into the movie theater. "...I'll pretend to have the fit and the ticket man will be out of his mind and you can slip in when I let out the big scream...That's what I do to get my brothers in all the time." Scenes like this really kept me smiling throughout the sadness in Angela's Ashes.
McCourt's writing style also provides a relieving mixture of both comedy and sorrow. At one point, Frankie contracts typhoid fever and describes his experience with the doctor in charge. "It's dark and Dr. Campbell's sitting by my bed...He tilts over on the chair and farts and smiles to himself and I know now I'm going to get better because a doctor would never fart in the presence of a dying boy." Through the innocence and naivety of Frank's voice, I felt as though I could really understand and feel what the author was feeling while recounting his life.
Despite all of the comedy throughout this novel, the author never loses sight of the main aspect of the story: the sorrow. Frank basically has to support his entire family by himself at a very young age because his dad is always at the bar drinking away every penny he earns. From the age of three to nineteen, Frankie moves from one house to the next, and each time the conditions get worse and worse to the point where Frank and his family have to live next to an outhouse which is shared by the entire street they live on. Not only that, but Frank's mother, Angela, has to spend all day scrounging the streets for whatever scraps she can find to help her family survive.
Angela's Ashes has become one of my favorite books. Although I would suggest it to a more mature audience due to some of its scenes, I would still recommend this book to anyone who wants to learn more about Frank McCourt's struggle growing up in Ireland. I would easily give this book an "A." I never lost interest in the plot no matter how depressing it was and the characters always kept me compelled to learn more about their plight and hardship. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and most importantly this book will make you appreciate what you have and realize that we have it pretty good here in America.

This is one of those rare instances when listening to a book being read is better than reading it yourself. I bought this copy of the book for my daughter, who chose it as her summer reading assignment. Yet the version I treasure is the audiobook, read by the author himself. My daughter would not have read the book if I hadn't played the audiobook in the car. Your imagination can't do justice to that Limerick accent and wry delivery; you are hooked in the first two minutes. A warning: if you listen to it with a young child present, you are likely to have to answer a lot of embarrassing questions.

Of course it's a wonderful book: funny, poignant, heartwrenching... you can keep loading on the adjectives. It has its own music and rhythm as it moves from one small incident to the next, painting a picture of a childhood defined by unimaginable poverty. The narrative moves from a child's acceptance of his circumstances to the adolescent's ruthless determination to find a way out, while never abandoning the family that mean so much to him. And the author manages to accomplish this without a trace of sentimentality, and with plenty of deadpan humor. I would recommend this book - or audiobook - to anyone old enough to cope with its unrestrained language.

McCourt was funny, witty and descriptive in every regard throughout this book. His first person account of being raised in a poor Irish Catholic community makes you glad to be raised in modern times in America. Read the book for an interesting insight into Europe over fifty years ago.

I listened to the Recorded Books Unabridged version of this on tape--narrated by the author. What a treat! I'm sure it must have been better than reading it myself. I cried and sometimes I giggled and belly laughed. Many have reviewed the book and most were riveted to it as I was. How I wished I could have scooped up those kids and given them a good life.

I've meant to read this book for years. Now, however, was the just-right time for it. I cried, despaired, railed in my head, laughed myself silly... In a voice of unflinching honesty and innocence, Frank McCourt details his life as the son of an alcoholic yet sometimes caring father from Northern Ireland and the woman he fell for fresh off the boat from Ireland, Angela Sheehan from Limerick in the south. McCourt takes the reader on a journey from death, poverty and pain in New York City to more of the same in Ireland and back again. Settled simply between the aching hunger, hacking coughs and continual dampness are many universal questions about life, both on earth and after. I am breathless having finished it.

I wonder about the reliability of his memoirs. The Irish are great storytellers--my dad once told me that Ireland produces the best storytellers. However, this memoir is nothing but a revisitation of the same themes: Religion, Drinking, Sex, Poverty and then the kid grows up. I felt like I had already read this book while reading it. I don't believe it deserves a place on the classics of Memoirs. Read a Tree Grows in Brooklyn ahead of this.

THIS IS A WONDERFUL BOOK WHICH ALSO CAN BECOME TRYING WITH SUCH SEVERE POVERTY. IT JUST DEPENDS ON ONE'S ABILITY TO COPE WITH THE "NO HOPE" DEALT WITH IN THIS BOOK. I ENJOYED THE MOVIE MORE THAN THE BOOK, HOWEVER, THE WRITING IS EXQUISITE!

I read this book a several years ago and didn't want to finish it, it was so good. So imagine my delight listening to the author, "Frankie," telling the story, singing the songs, changing his voice to suit the character and not saying, "Chapter Three . . . etc."!!! The CDs just continue, one into the next, and it's almost like having access to a controlled substance! Wonderful stuff!!!

I really can't say much more - it was just an outstanding story in every way. The sadness of McCourt's childhood losses, deprivation and poverty took me to the depths of sympathetic grief, but then his perseverence and triumphs provided great inspiration.

I was given a audio copy of this book, I wasn't sure if it was something I would enjoy but I ended up loving the story. I love that the story was narrated by Frank McCourt himself with his Irish accent. The fact that you can feel his feelings as he reads his own story it makes it so real. I could almost see him at times on the lane he lived on. I felt for him and everything he want through but I love his perseverance to make it even after his near death experiences. He still went on to make something of himself. I am looking forward to "Tis"

...even if you have read the book, it's a wonderful experience to hear Frank McCourt tell the story himself. Unless you really don't have the time or inclination, do yourself a favor and buy (or borrow) the unabridged version (12 CDs). It really is a delight and privilege to listen to McCourt telling HIS story. One gets so much more insight into the mood of each event whether it be heartbreaking, frustrating or funny. I cannot speak highly enough of the book, and even more highly of the audio book. Some books are just worth hearing - this is one of them.

Angela's Ashes is an excellent autobiography that describes the life of Frank McCourt, the author, and how he survived his Irish Catholic childhood in Limerick, Ireland. The author's perspective of his life of is very depressing, especially for the reader. The story is very deep in description, which brings the reader into the mind of the author. This also allows the reader to be continuously interested.
As being the winner of the Pulitzer Prize award, I would certainly recommend Angela's Ashes to anyone who is interested in learning about the lives of many Irish Catholic people during the 1930s.

I liked this book because it was real and didn't hold back on the reality even though it was too harsh to believe. It is hard to believe people actually lived this way.
The way this family dealt with what they were given goes to show people that you can get through anything if you just keep going. People aren't always going to give you something when you ask for it. Sometimes you just have to take what you need in order to survive. Frankie wasn't afraid to assume the role of father when his father left. He may have been scared, but he did what he had to do because otherwise his family wouldn't have survived. Even though his eye infection was bad, he kept working because his family needed the money.
The times when he was forced to the brink of anger and hatred for certain people and he couldn't hold it in because he couldn't bare to see his family treated like that, he still went to confession after because he still wanted to be a good boy, he just had to make some tough decisions.
The fact that he never truly lost his dignity, but still wasn't so hard-headed as to be too stuck-up as to put his family in danger made him mature faster than any boy his age.
He didn't just not care about the bad things he did and he didn't make excuses that his life was hard and that was why he did those things, but he still felt guilt and that his life wasn't so bad to the point that he couldn't still try to be respectful of the world and people around him.
Despite the fact that life only seemed to hand them poverty and nothing went well for them in the end, they still tried to be something. Frankie never gave up on his dream of going to America even though they were extremely poor. They made their own good fortune and luck.
Sara, Sandia Prep

I thought this was an amazing memoir that really shows the reader that there are so many things in our present day lives that we take for granted, while there are so many people all around us that barely have enough to survive. Frank McCourt tells the reader about his own very scarce childhood in Ireland. He retells how he lived as a little child and eventually grew up into a man by making sure that his family was provided for as best he could provide as a teenager. As he grows into a man he begins to realize how important his contributions are to his starving family.

In this very personal recollection Frank McCourt shows the reader true pain and suffering. He really brings you into the situation and makes you feel the cold and the damp. Although this is such a heart-wrenching story this is by far one of the best books I have read recently.

I first heard of this book while on a tour of Ireland. We drove past the street in Limerick where most of the story takes place. This sad story makes the horrors of extreme poverty real for the reader. Hard to believe that Frank Mccourt was able to survive his childhood. The story will stay with you for a very long time.

I first heard of this book while on a tour of Ireland. We drove past the street in Limerick where most of the story takes place. This sad story makes the horrors of extreme poverty real for the reader. Hard to believe that Frank Mccourt was able to survive his childhood. The story will stay with you for a very long time.

McCourt's childhood memoirs make for a superb read. A number of people are greatly saddened by the abhorrent conditions in which McCourt, his family, and many, many others had to suvive. Obviously that plays a huge part of the book but I find dwelling on that aspect diminishes the greater story of the strength of humanity while in the face of adversity. And this is where McCourt delivers...even in the most desparate of situations (atleast in the west - don't forget people are facing these conditions, and much worse, even today)...but through it all there is the ability to draw from the well of humour, companionship, and pure bloody mindedness. There is much in McCourts story with which I can personally relate to and it's McCourts use of humour that brings it home.
If you are shocked, stunned, depressed by what MCCourt relates then I'd recommend you go and visit some of the Third World countries - McCourts story is their reality.
A wonderfully written book. Is it all true? Probably not - hence it being labelled memoirs. Does that detract from it being a good read? No. Pay heed to the circumstances of poverty and squalor that the book relates but most importantly take a leaf from McCourt and laugh.
A superb book.

The first one - hundred pages of this memoir tell of Frank McCourt's first years in New York. They tell of his two tough aunts forcing his less than responsible - father to marry their mother. The sainted Irish mother Angela suffers through the incredible failure of her husband to provide for her and the children. McCourt is a master of retelling situations in the language of the time and people . On Clausen Street in Brooklyn in their cold-water flat his mother struggles to raise him, his younger brothers Malachy, and younger twin-brothers and little sister- Margeret. The deaths of the little girl in America send the dismayed father and family back to Ireland . But his own parents have no room for him.
And the saga of misery continues in wet and cold Limerick. There the twins die, and two more children are born. And the story of the irresponsible father preaching Irish Nationalism, singing and dreaming to his sons but providing nothing for the table of the family, continues.
This is a hard- knocks story and is told with a hard- edged authenticity.
The book has been a tremendously popular one. I think I understand why because the sense of hardship and the sound of the language seem real. But in truth the tale of misery and suffering was for me a gloomy one, and the book thus a far less enjoyable read than I thought it would be.

Angela's Ashes gives you a deep and haunting look into the author as a child and shows how he perceived his habitus. It is a story in which it seems the only medicine for the suffering is to be found in the giving and taking of lashings of wit. The wit seems be the coping mechanism. Angela's Ashes may give you a glimpse into an Irish soul. If you are Irish and are of the same generation as the author it could possibly make you feel young again. The past is ever present in this fantastic book.

I found this book to be captivating with much detail of life in Ireland. McCourt has a knack for drawing you into the way of life. A good read that gets you hooked.

This book was great. McCourt really takes you to Limerick as good as anyone could. Some Pulitzer winning books are a bit stuffy but this one great all the way through.

I had heard so many good things about this book that I was actually reluctant to read it. I thought that it could not measure up to the reviews- but it did. McCourt's prose reads like poetry. I encourage the reader to first listen to the CD of McCourt reading Angela's Ashes with his Irish tongue. Also, the movie is NOT a disappointment, and is a "must see" for those who loved the book.

McCourt gives away the struggles he and his family went through for decades, but through it all the book remains full of love, wonder, trimuph of spirit and will, exuberance and faith. A five star book, sometimes too painful to get through, but written with a spirit like no other I have ever read.

Brilliant. I have to keep the book out of site so i dont over read it. Frank McCourt deserves all the praise he's gotten.


Nevadamistermom wouldnt know a good book if it sailed in from Limerick and slapped her across the face. I mean seriously. Mistermom? Obvious confusion there. Ive never seen a more delusional name in all my life. Not to mention review.

An in-life look into the harsh years for a child growing up Irland. A wonderful read! I havn't enjoyed a book like this in years.

I realize I'm in the minority here by not breathlessly extolling the virtues of this book, and I'm quite aware it has been both critically and popularly acclaimed. In fact, that is the only reason I read this book: I wanted to see for myself what all the fuss was about.

In my opinion? Nothing.

It brings to mind that wheatgrass juice they sold in the organic section of my grocery store. People raved about it, but when I drank it, my senses were filled with nothing more than the green liquid that emerges when I rinse the underside of my lawnmower. In the same way, I can't help but think that people like this book because they are "supposed" to like it, not because it was in any way enjoyable or stimulating to read. So, I'll have to go on record as being a literary Philistine when it comes to praise for McCourt's style and Pulitzer Prize-winning story: Didn't like it. Didn't get it.

In "Angela's Ashes," Frank McCourt gives us his memoirs, from toddler to young man, providing a gritty look at what it was to be a child of the Depression. McCourt paints a picture not of America as a land of dreams, but as a land of broken dreams, where his immigrant parents eventually give up and return from New York to their native Ireland when McCourt is just a small boy. McCourt then proceeds to give us a recounting of a place even more depressing than the slums of New York: Limerick, Ireland in the 1930s. Poor, Irish, Catholic, and with completely disfunctional parents, McCourt feels compelled to pour forth every bitterness of his soul from a seemingly bottomless well. The story closes with McCourt returning to America as a young man, not as an attempt to find the American dream that had eluded his parents, but simply to escape.

The more astute among us will ask some very reasonable questions while reading this book: How exactly can the author recall with such vivid clarity the events of his life as a 2- and 3-year-old? Shouldn't one's memoirs have some purpose...some destination they wish to take the reader rather than just aimless meanderings? Why are none of the individuals who seemingly played such a huge role in McCourt's life developed more fully and instead portrayed as 1-dimensional Irish stereotypes? Could it be that in McCourt's universe, nobody else was as interesting or deep as himself? And, why do so many Irish people despise this book rather than regard McCourt as a local Limerick boy who made good?

What I emerged with is the story of an individual who lived an admittedly difficult childhood, but then again so did millions of others from the Depression. One does not get the sense he is speaking for all of them; with McCourt, we get the very distinct impression that he is speaking only for himself, and that we had better well feel sorry for him.

If you don't require any purpose or well-developed characters in your reading, then perhaps this is the book for you. If you find it redeeming to read about a childhood that was not only bitter, but as told by someone who is bitter about it, then perhaps this is the book for you. I can simply say that it wasn't the book for me.

I have some rather simple criteria for judging a book: Did I enjoy it? Was I a better person for having read it? To which I must answer quite honestly: No. In fact, I found this one to be pure drudgery with nothing to offer in the way of education or redeeming content. McCourt simply plods from heartbreak to heartbreak with mediocre writing and a story that appears to have no real purpose. Just a sort of "life's hard and then you die." And it is my understanding that although he purports to give us "true" memoirs, at least some of what he presents here is embellished, if not outright fiction. There was a whiny, "poor me" timbre to this book that I found particularly distasteful.

Sure, it had a few upbeat moments, but all in all I felt like I'd been given a mouthful of ashes. I refuse to succumb to the "madness of crowds" and award this book 5 stars. I didn't like it, I didn't think it was well written, and what could have come across as a gritty but redeeming ride on what it was to be a child of the Depression came across as simply a collection of mostly bitter recollections.

Finally, the book doesn't finish, it just ends. It was as though McCourt had finally reached the end of his endless repository of depressing memories...or his pen simply ran out of ink. I realize he published two sequels that perhaps provide more closure to his own life and those of the people who influenced him. But those books will have to be read by those who actually liked this one.

And that would not be me.

I realize I'm in the minority here by not breathlessly extolling the virtues of this book, and I'm quite aware it has been both critically and popularly acclaimed. In fact, that is the only reason I read this book: I wanted to see for myself what all the fuss was about.

In my opinion? Nothing.

It brings to mind that wheatgrass juice they sold in the organic section of my grocery store. People raved about it, but when I drank it, my senses were filled with nothing more than the green liquid that emerges when I rinse the underside of my lawnmower. In the same way, I can't help but think that people like this book because they are "supposed" to like it, not because it was in any way enjoyable or stimulating to read. So, I'll have to go on record as being a literary Philistine when it comes to praise for McCourt's style and Pulitzer Prize-winning story: Didn't like it. Didn't get it.

In "Angela's Ashes," Frank McCourt gives us his memoirs, from toddler to young man, providing a gritty look at what it was to be a child of the Depression. McCourt paints a picture not of America as a land of dreams, but as a land of broken dreams, where his immigrant parents eventually give up and return from New York to their native Ireland when McCourt is just a small boy. McCourt then proceeds to give us a recounting of a place even more depressing than the slums of New York: Limerick, Ireland in the 1930s. Poor, Irish, Catholic, and with completely disfunctional parents, McCourt feels compelled to pour forth every bitterness of his soul from a seemingly bottomless well. The story closes with McCourt returning to America as a young man, not as an attempt to find the American dream that had eluded his parents, but simply to escape.

The more astute among us will ask some very reasonable questions while reading this book: How exactly can the author recall with such vivid clarity the events of his life as a 2- and 3-year-old? Shouldn't one's memoirs have some purpose...some destination they wish to take the reader rather than just aimless meanderings? Why are none of the individuals who seemingly played such a huge role in McCourt's life developed more fully and instead portrayed as 1-dimensional Irish stereotypes? Could it be that in McCourt's universe, nobody else was as interesting or deep as himself? And, why do so many Irish people despise this book rather than regard McCourt as a local Limerick boy who made good?

What I emerged with is the story of an individual who lived an admittedly difficult childhood, but then again so did millions of others from the Depression. One does not get the sense he is speaking for all of them; with McCourt, we get the very distinct impression that he is speaking only for himself, and that we had better well feel sorry for him.

If you don't require any purpose or well-developed characters in your reading, then perhaps this is the book for you. If you find it redeeming to read about a childhood that was not only bitter, but as told by someone who is bitter about it, then perhaps this is the book for you. I can simply say that it wasn't the book for me.

I have some rather simple criteria for judging a book: Did I enjoy it? Was I a better person for having read it? To which I must answer quite honestly: No. In fact, I found this one to be pure drudgery with nothing to offer in the way of education or redeeming content. McCourt simply plods from heartbreak to heartbreak with mediocre writing and a story that appears to have no real purpose. Just a sort of "life's hard and then you die." And it is my understanding that although he purports to give us "true" memoirs, at least some of what he presents here is embellished, if not outright fiction. There was a whiny, "poor me" timbre to this book that I found particularly distasteful.

Sure, it had a few upbeat moments, but all in all I felt like I'd been given a mouthful of ashes. I refuse to succumb to the "madness of crowds" and award this book 5 stars. I didn't like it, I didn't think it was well written, and what could have come across as a gritty but redeeming ride on what it was to be a child of the Depression came across as simply a collection of mostly bitter recollections.

Finally, the book doesn't finish, it just ends. It was as though McCourt had finally reached the end of his endless repository of depressing memories...or his pen simply ran out of ink. I realize he published two sequels that perhaps provide more closure to his own life and those of the people who influenced him. But those books will have to be read by those who actually liked this one.

And that would not be me.

Footnote: If you'd like to read about an Irish childhood by a truly fine writer, I suggest "Portrait of the Author as a Young Man" by James Joyce.

I realize I'm in the minority here by not gushing over this book, and I'm quite aware it has been both critically and popularly acclaimed. In fact, that is the only reason I read this book: because I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

In my opinion? Nothing.

It reminds me of that wheatgrass juice they sold in the organic section of my grocery store. People raved about it, but when I drank it, all I could envision and taste was the stuff that comes out when I rinse my lawnmower. Praise it for its health benefits if you will, but please don't insult me by gushing about it's marvellous taste. In the same way, I can't help but think that people like this book because they are "supposed" to like it, not because it was in any way enjoyable or stimulating to read. Yes, it won a Pulitzer Prize. But I'll just have to go on record as being a literary Philistine when it comes to praise for McCourt's style and story.

In "Angela's Ashes," Frank McCourt gives us his memoirs, from toddler to young man, providing a gritty look at what it was to be a child of the Depression. McCourt paints a picture not of America as a land of dreams, but as a land of broken dreams, where his immigrant parents eventually give up and return from New York to their native Ireland when McCourt is just a small boy. McCourt then proceeds to give us a recounting of what it was to be poor almost beyond comprehension, Irish, and Catholic, with completely disfunctional parents. The story closes with McCourt returning to America as a young man, not as an attempt to find the American dream that had eluded his parents, but simply to escape. I didn't get the sense he was running to something, as much as running away from something, and I doubt the author would contradict me in that statement.

The more astute among us will ask some very reasonable questions while reading this book: How exactly can the author recall with such vivid clarity the events of his life as a 2- and 3-year-old? Shouldn't one's memoirs have some purpose...some destination they wish to take the reader rather than just aimless meanderings? Why are none of the individuals who seemingly played such a huge role in McCourt's life developed more fully and instead portrayed as 1-dimensional Irish stereotypes? Could it be that in McCourt's universe, nobody else was as interesting or deep as himself?

What I emerged with is the story of an individual who lived an admittedly difficult childhood, but so did millions of others from the Depression. One does not get the sense he is speaking for all of them; with McCourt, we get the very distinct impression that he is speaking only for himself, and that we had better well feel sorry for him.

If you don't require any purpose or well-developed characters in your reading, then perhaps this is the book for you. If you find it redeeming to read about a childhood that was not only bitter, but as told by someone who is bitter about it, then perhaps this is the book for you. I can simply say that it wasn't the book for me.

I have a rather simple criteria for judging a book: Did I enjoy it? To which I must answer quite honestly: No. In fact, I found this one to be pure drudgery. McCourt simply plods from heartbreak to heartbreak with mediocre writing and a story that appears to have no real purpose. Just a sort of "life's hard and then you die." And it is my understanding that although he purports to give us "true" memoirs, at least some of what he presents here is embellished, if not outright fiction. There was a whiny, "poor me" timbre in this book that I found particularly distasteful.

Sure, it had a few upbeat moments, but all in all I felt like I'd been given a mouthful of ashes. I refuse to succumb to the "madness of crowds" and award this book 5 stars. I didn't like it, I didn't think it was well written, and it felt more like voyeurism to me than a gritty but redeeming ride on what it was to be a child of the Depression.

Finally, the book doesn't finish, it just ends. It was as though McCourt had finally reached the end of his endless repository of depressing memories...or his pen simply ran out of ink. Yes, he later published two sequels, but that evidently wasn't the plan when he published this book, and it comes across as such.

So, without apologies: Only one star is it worth, and only one star does it get.

I realize I'm in the minority here by not gushing over this book, and I'm quite aware it has been both critically and popularly acclaimed. In fact, that is the only reason I read this book: because I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

In my opinion? Nothing.

One other reviewer summed it up for me quite well: a pet rock. Frankly, I can't help but think that people like this book because they are "supposed" to like it...and that to admit anything else is to be pedestrian and bourgeois. But I'll admit it nonetheless and go on record as being a literary Philistine when it comes to praise for McCourt's style and story.

It isn't so much that I need every story to have a happy ending. I enjoyed several of Steinbeck's novels and they are far from upbeat in their portrayal of life. But Steinbeck also knew how to write. McCourt just takes us from heartbreak to heartbreak with mediocre writing and a story that appears to have no real purpose. Just a sort of "life's hard and then you die." And it is my understanding that although he purports to give us "true" memoirs, much of this book is actually fiction. There was a whiny, "poor me" timbre to this book that I found particularly distasteful.

Sure, it had a few upbeat moments, but all in all I felt like I'd been given a mouthful of ashes. I refuse to succumb to the "madness of crowds" and award this book 5 stars. I didn't like it, I didn't think it was well written, and it felt more like voyeurism to me rather than a gritty but redeeming ride on what it was to be a child of the Depression.

Finally, the book doesn't finish, it just ends. It was as though McCourt had finally reached the end of his endless repository of depressing anecdotes...or his pen simply ran out of ink.

So, without apologies: Only one star is it worth, and only one star does it get.

This CD was a gift; the recipients listened to it on a 18 hour trip, delighted in McCourt's reading as it made the miles fly and stopped for a pint of Ireland's finest at a local pub when they arrived home! Nothing compares to this unabridged reading by the author.

I finished this book in less than 3 days. I enjoyed reading it, kept me coming for more. I gave it a 4 instead of a 5 because it left a lot of loose ends, I was left with quite a few, "but what happened to.....". Felt like a movie that has a part 2.

You know how som