The pile of memoirs on my desk is, lately, the most pleasant sight. This year started well for my reading life, especially that I got all three of Frank McCourt’s works and The Trip to Echo Spring: On Writers and Drinking by Olivia Laing, mostly through my cousin’s help (Ate Flor, my book angel).
I’m currently on Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes (the first of his three), which I read after devouring Teacher Man (the third of his three). Thomas Larson was right when he said that McCourt’s writing style was novel, the only one in the world. He wrote Angela’s Ashes in longhand, and those sheets were printed into a book – raw. His dialogues didn’t need quotation marks. His humor was effortless. His wisdom came from his rich life experiences. And his Pulitzer Prize winner stories? They told nothing but rock-hard reality.
Being a memoirist myself (and yourself), I (we) should know that Frankie’s one of the best — indeed, a perfect memoirist at 65 y/o.