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Showing posts from January, 2014

I miss McCourt...

Sometimes, you come across a book that just explodes in your head, like crazy fireworks on a  July evening.  Such was Angela's Ashes for me.  The Dickensian dimension, the unbearable decrepitude of Irish life in that period!  The father coming home drunk, waking up his children, aligning them by the side of the bed and forcing them to sing along patriotic songs...  How I know all that although I have never been to Ireland and those things  never happened to me.  But... thinking more about it... those exact particular things never happened to me, but similar, tangential, or maybe just barely comparable things DID...and my mind was so hungry to listen to them, so avid to listen to McCourt story because, somehow, in small subtitles, in small metaphors or sometimes as loud as a gun pulverizing human life without scope or justification, his story was also the story of children who lived in poverty - material or spiritual - and in fear.  In an interview   on Academy of Achievement Mc…