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There is such guilt in our society because of our materialism and hedonism that the book performs a catharsis in its readers. That's what the Damp, the Drink and the Dump do. The members of this society seek to punish themselves, as evidenced elsewhere by the horrible, frightful and vulgar behavior in our entertainment media and our personal relations. The book is not a triumph of the human spirit. It is an ugly book despite the superficial charm of its language.
The book is part of that milieu, culturally perverted, the "dumbed-down" of every value and decency. I will demonstrate how the author accomplished it, whether by craft or chance and in his understated manner. That's what the priests and the masters tell you, everything is a mystery and you have to believe what you're told." Thus life is stupidity compounded with the refusal to use the rationality that the universe endowed you with. (A corollary of this perception is that white folk like to hear about other white folk in extremity, as it relieves them about the misery they may be inflicting on those who are not white). It casts us immediately into a hopeless existence. It is thus evil, and profoundly depressing.
It plumbs the depths of our dysfunctional society, and resonates there in our psychic malaise. The world does nothing except interfere with the inside of your head. There is no other way to describe it. ASHES ONLY ASHESREVIEW: McCourt, Frank. There must be a masochistic element in the readership of the book. The bad childhood is thus the standard for life and art. Sliney (on page 353) imparts to the young Frank: "What I want to tell you is, Never smoke another man's pipe." That's what the entire miserable life of the boy is: smoking another man's pipe.So there you have it: miserable hopelessness, hell, messy inside of your head, life as mystery, and smoking someone else's pipe. The author furthers this point (on page 247) by having the young boy think: "It's a mystery.
It is the everlasting struggle for your mind, a battle you must fight tenaciously and without rest forever. The book is a symbol of the catastrophe of our civilization, or even of our species. Even though the author may not have intended such an effect, once the book was published it became part of it. No other response is possible when a reader is presented with such anguish, and repressed anguish, emotionless anguish.I am uncertain why readers are interested in a story of such unredeeming misery.
The author goes on to claim (on page 202): "It's lovely to know that the world can't interfere with the inside of your head." Oh, no, this is disingenuous. New York: Scribner, 1996.Angela's Ashes is the recitation of a life of poverty suffered by an Irish boy in the middle decades of the 20th century.The book is repellant. The novel culminates with the wisdom distilled from his life that Mr. Rather, it is the ravings of a simple ego seeking to survive as does any dog, though a literate one in this case.
Then (on page 145), the author's mother tells us that she is in hell (as are all of us who read the book): "Bridey laughs. The grossness of the father sucking the snot out of his infant son's nostrils unfortunately will stay with me forever. Angela's Ashes. The popularity of the book is the indicator of our malaise.The book made me feel unclean and violated in mind and in emotion. Nothing could be more dysfunctional, and thus a reflection (writ small) of our times. And in America (on page 363) there is the statement, ".a great country altogether." Hummmmm. The ashes are those of Angela's poor, hopeless fire, and those dead, sour, caked and soggy ashes encrusted on another man's pipe.I am happy the author survived his childhood, if indeed he has, and made as an artist a minor masterpiece of a major misery. It is made of the Damp, the Drink and the Dump, otherwise known as the Church.
Or, there must remain in our society many persons of repressive Catholic background who remember their miserable Catholicism while coming of age.But then I do know the interest the story elicits. It is a memoir of identity with a vengeance. Immediately at the beginning (page 11), the author writes: "It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while." Do you understand how perverted is this statement. Oh, Angela, you could go to hell for that, and Mam says, aren't I there already, Bridey." It is hell, a special hell created just for the Irish because they believe in it so fervently. The relentlessness of that language deceives its readers about its repellant nature. (TRC 03-05-01) (TRC Final Revision 08-17-09)
The book arrived on time and I was very pleased. It was in good condition and the purchase was problem-free. Very pleased.
Book was interesting. I know it won a Pulitizer Prize but I was expecting much more.
Am still amazed that he encouraged me to enter a citywide essay contest on New York City's waterfront, and would, more than a year later, in my senior yearbook acknowledge my second prize award by thanking me for winning him money (His was also, not surprisingly, the most eloquent set of comments I had inscribed in my yearbook from teachers). Without a doubt, he was the most inspirational, most compelling, and the funniest, teacher I ever had.
Its author, Frank McCourt, my beloved Stuyvesant High School creative writing teacher, would be hailed as the foremost memoirist of our time. Many, many years ago I knew Frank's heart-rendering stories of his dismal Irish childhood were the potential stuff of legend.
In a time when memoirs became the finest expressions of high literary art, "Angela's Ashes" ascended with alacrity to become the most exalted of them. And that I believe is why "Angela's Ashes" has won its well-deserved legions of fans, not only here in North America, but elsewhere, around the globe.Elsewhere online I posted this tribute to my favorite high school teacher, and I think it is worth noting here: I've been fortunate to have had many fine teachers in high school, college and graduate school, but there was no one like Frank McCourt.
But not once could I ever imagine the worldwide popular and crticial acclaim which greeted the original publication of "Angela's Ashes" nearly thirteen years ago. While I still mourn Frank's passing, I do take great comfort knowing that he touched the lives of so many around the world with both his lyrical prose and spellbinding gift of storytelling.If you haven't read "Angela's Ashes" before, then I strongly encourage you to do so, for Frank's tale is ultimately a universal tale that is a most memorable meditation on the human spirt, chronicling one man's successful escape from the stark, quite bleak, poverty of his childhood.
I am still grateful to him for instilling in me a life-long love of literature and a keen interest in writing prose. He is gone now, but I am sure that for me, and for many of my fellow alumni of his Stuyvesant High School classes, he will live in our hearts and minds for the rest of our lives.
The book arrived as expected, perfect condition. I especially liked the little note from sellar.
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