So long, Frank McCourt

I know there are millions of people who love this guy, so this little post doesn't say anything new or profound. Just that I like this writer because his beautiful book Angela's Ashes put him in the spotlight at age 66, after he retired, and then we got to discover his other gift of teaching, and his humor, and his gentle nature, and the edgy side of a man who bloomed late in life.

Good literature validates the smallest corner of the reader's soul, and McCourt's writing found many of those corners and hung a little lamp there. He seemed brave and kind, and somehow comforting like a stormy summer afternoon. His writing on poverty/alcoholism when he was a child felt like a big quilt being pulled over the terrible resilience, fierceness, and open-ness of childhood. Readers felt safe in his hands, even when he was describing horrible things. At least that's the way I see it.

I have a book in which I write out in longhand favorite passages from books I read. I assure you there are several passages of Frank McCourt's.


I'm going back and re-reading some of his work today, I think. Rest his soul.