Frank McCourt is one of my favorite writers. On my desk at work I keep a little Saint Francis statue in Frank’s honor. The childhood memoir I’m currently working on is modeled after Angela’s Ashes. I like how he doesn’t try to intellectualize about his relationship with his father. I like how he isn’t afraid to let the story speak for itself. He never pontificates beyond the glib message that the miserable Irish Catholic childhood is possibly the worst of all childhoods. And then he goes on to show you that this may very well be an understatement. You have to appreciate a story teller so talented.
But Frank McCourt is no performer.
Present Tense 