Such a wonderfully written book that effectively continues
to find ways to make the reader feel horrible. This nonfiction account of
McCourt’s childhood in an impoverished family living through depression era conditions
in Limerick, Ireland. The story makes you angry as his father drinks away his
wages time and time again, ultimately never keeping a job long, before abandoning
the family. Heartbroken for a mother battling depression after losing at least
four children, having an alcoholic husband and four remaining children to feed
and clothe. To empathy for Frank, who is staving off starvation and typhoid,
interpreting Irish Catholic mores, and dealing with the average issues young people
face while growing up. As things get worse and worse, it’s difficult to keep
reading, but it is worth it. America becomes the symbol of freedom, prosperity,
and hope for McCourt. When he reaches America, he does with a heart already missing
Ireland, but embracing the wild hope of the future. It’s a reminder of why for the
last few hundred years people from all over the world have traveled here to
start new. It’s a reminder of the place we’ve held in this world. It’s a
reminder of the symbol America once was, but unfortunately we no longer strive
for the values we set when this country was formed.
Up next: Runaway Jury by John Grisham
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