Angela's Ashes is a memoir about a young man growing up
during the great depression. In the beginning of this book the characters are frequently changing
in every way imaginable. Death and relocation are unavoidable consequences that cause this to
happen.
The main character, Frank, is an extremely dynamic person. He starts out mild
and meek but as the book progresses he becomes a more independent person. He begins to do more
things as a child, than most people ever do as adults. As he grows and develops his independent he
becomes a leader to his siblings. He felt he no choice but to take on this role.
We have
not read a book with as much deep and profound meaning as this in a long time. The detail that the
author goes into is incredible in some areas. The way that he is able to make you feel what is
going on is inexplicable. He does this even without using useless words, which bore the reader.

The overall plot of the book is lacking in our opinion. Frank grows up and life sucks,
that basically sums up the book. One of Frank McCourt's writing traits, which we don't like, is how
he starts something and then, just like that, he will end it. We might have been a little more
interested and focused on the book if he would have elaborated on a few more of his memories.

As a suggestion, from a group of students whom have read Angela's Ashes, do not read this book
unless you feel like you can understand what is happening when you receive very little information.
The book has its moments, just like every other book, yet there are more bad moments than good. We
would not specifically suggest that you don't read this book; rather we suggest that you look for
another memoir that would fit with your personal interests.

"When I look back on my childhood, I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a
miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while."

If this sounds attractive,
by all means read on but be warned: when he says miserable, he *means* it.

Before confronting
misery, though, I must comment on an aspect of this best-seller I've not yet seen discussed in any
great detail: that this "memoir" must be largely a fake. I simply refuse to believe that Mr. McCourt
can remember childhood details (like word-for-word parental conversations on important subjects) at
the tender ages -- not to mention conditions -- that he claims. Ask yourself if you can remember
exact accounts of when you were three or four-much less whole adult conversations-and you'll see my
point. Simply put, a lot of this probably didn't happen -- at least as meticulously written.

And
so what? One could easily claim he got the gist of it right, and aren't the Irish a bit prone to, as
they say, a bit of embellishment anyway? Well, sure, but a memoir is a memoir and you can't have it
both ways. Make no mistake, however--in the area of Irish license Frank McCourt is dead on. Having
had an Irish Catholic upbringing meself (though not the tooth and claw version practiced in the home
country), I can verify many of his details personally. In describing everything from eccentric
relatives to the bewilderingly complex nature of Catholic sacraments, the author betrays a sure
hand. While this doesn't quite excuse passing his book off as an autobiography, McCourt still
engages and entertains.

The author's means of bringing details to the surface deserve particular
attention. The book's rambling, conversational, stream-of-consciousness style seems custom-made for
his subject:

"If you're the good boy for that day and you answer the questions he gives it to you
and lets you eat it there at your desk so that you can eat it in peace with no one to bother you the
way they would if you took it into the yard. Then they'd torment you, Gimme a piece, gimme a piece,
and you'd be lucky to have an inch left for yourself."

While occasionally hard to read, this
self-evoking grammar ultimately can't be divorced from McCourt's story and certainly brought his
characters to life for me far better than stiff formal dialogue.

Between these exchanges, McCourt
also has the opportunity to exercise his considerable descriptive powers. While I accuse the author
of some creative forgery, in an evocative capacity he's nearly redeemed; I heard and especially
*smelled* what he describes. A world of smoky, sticky pubs and homes in squalid lanes lacking
indoor plumbing comes pungently alive.

With style as his strong suit, Mr. McCourt also brings
considerable power to his substance. The substance, however, is so bleak it borders on suicidal.
This is a very dark, naturalistic, and occasionally horrifying book. Nearly everyone--save the
children--is devoid of simple human values. Adults are portrayed as maniacally depressed or angry
and hardly shy about attempting to destroy the psyches of everyone within earshot--especially the
children. His parents don't escape notice; Dad is the very definition of alcoholic (to the point of
drinking away money for his family's basis subsistence), Mam a desperate nebbish ultimately reduced
to begging and prostituting herself--and it's far from clear that she's doing this exclusively for
the family's benefit. I certainly share the author's astonishment at his survival; if you can stand
over 400 funereal pages of this, then by all means dive in.

And maybe survival is the point here,
but it's surely a bleak one; every triumph (Dad get a job, the author finds a soulmate) is swiftly
crushed within a few pages. Even so, McCourt ends on a high note and rather obviously sets up a
sequel. And though I've not read the follow-up ("'Tis"), if I ever did it would be with some
trepidation. Having endured a childhood littered with demonic authority figures, the author leaves
us on the cusp of his own adulthood. I shudder to think of who he might become -- but of course we
already know, since this continuing "memoir" can only come from the same gifted writer before us.