ASHES ONLY ASHES

REVIEW: McCourt, Frank. Angela’s Ashes. 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. There is no other way to describe 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. There must be a masochistic element in the readership of the book. 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. There is such guilt in our society because of our materialism and hedonism that the book performs a catharsis in its readers. (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.) 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 part of that milieu, culturally perverted, the “dumbed-down” of every value and decency. Even though the author may not have intended such an effect, once the book was published it became part of it.

The book is not a triumph of the human spirit. Rather, it is the ravings of a simple ego seeking to survive as does any dog, though a literate one in this case. It plumbs the depths of our dysfunctional society, and resonates there in our psychic malaise. I will demonstrate how the author accomplished it, whether by craft or chance and in his understated manner. 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? The bad childhood is thus the standard for life and art. It casts us immediately into a hopeless existence. 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. 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. It is made of the Damp, the Drink and the Dump, otherwise known as the Church. 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. The world does nothing except interfere with the inside of your head. That’s what the Damp, the Drink and the Dump do. It is the everlasting struggle for your mind, a battle you must fight tenaciously and without rest forever. The author furthers this point (on page 247) by having the young boy think: “It’s a mystery. 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. The novel culminates with the wisdom distilled from his life that Mr. 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. Nothing could be more dysfunctional, and thus a reflection (writ small) of our times. The popularity of the book is the indicator of our malaise.

The book made me feel unclean and violated in mind and in emotion. The grossness of the father sucking the snot out of his infant son’s nostrils unfortunately will stay with me forever. It is an ugly book despite the superficial charm of its language. The relentlessness of that language deceives its readers about its repellant nature. It is thus evil, and profoundly depressing. It is a memoir of identity with a vengeance. The book is a symbol of the catastrophe of our civilization, or even of our species. 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. And in America (on page 363) there is the statement, “…a great country altogether?” Hummmmm.

(TRC 03-05-01)
(TRC Final Revision 08-17-09)