Books

Angela’s Ashes

Frank McCourt tells the story of growing up in a poor, dysfunctional family in Brooklyn and Limerick. 

The author’s grace, humor, and empathy elevate this book above the standard crop of poverty porn memoirs, even those that share its S tier writing and storytelling. 

It’s mystifying to me how someone could so effectively convey that much pathos, despite having clearly matured and recovered so completely. 

But somehow he manages to, and the result for the reader is that you feel McCourt’s pain deeply, but without the emotional hangover that often accompanies this type of book. 

I think part of it is that the Irish as a culture are especially well equipped to process sadness and misery. But there’s something singular about McCourt, even in that cultural context. 

Your heart breaks as you see Frank coming to understand his dad’s “odd manner,” but you don’t feel like offing yourself after. 

The audiobook is read by McCourt, strongly recommended.

Five stars, a masterpiece.

The Inimitable Jeeves

PG Wodehouse stitches a bunch of inane short stories into an insufferable novel. 

Quoting from my contemporaneous review:

“Just the worst. If you’re the type of person who laughs by turning down the corners of your mouth, lifting your chin, and pushing small chuckles from deep in your throat out of your nose, you might find something to like here. No likable or interesting characters, no development, no unifying story. Just more or less detached episodes of obnoxious people getting into silly, boring situations. The writing is nowhere near as good as its reputation suggests.”

I stand by that. I will add as additional flavor that this was the end of my run of mining Paul Graham’s book recommendations. 

Not good, not funny, not worth reading.

I tried fren I tried to get into him a few times and it was… insufferable.
The lesson: some books are just not for me (or you, or anyone else).