Tis: A Memoir [Englisch] [Taschenbuch]

Dieser Titel ist in englischer Sprache.
Der Nachfolgeroman zu den Erinnerungen Frank McCourts an seine irisch-katholische Kindheit, Die Asche meiner Mutter, nimmt den Faden der Geschichte im Oktober 1949, bei seiner Ankunft in Amerika, wieder auf. Obwohl er in New York geboren wurde, war die Familie wegen schlechter Perspektiven in Amerika nach Irland zurückgekehrt. Wieder auf amerikanischem Boden, hat dieser 19-jährige mit seinem pickeligem Gesicht, entzündeten Augen und schlechten Zähnen wenig mit den kerngesunden, selbstbewußten College-Studenten gemeinsam, die er täglich in der U-Bahn sieht. Er träumt davon, es ihnen gleichzutun und zu studieren.

Seine anfänglichen Erfahrungen in Amerika sind genauso grauenhaft wie seine Jugend in völlig verarmten Verhältnissen in Irland; sie schließen zwei der trostlosesten Weihnachten mit ein, die je in der Literatur beschrieben worden sind. Charakteristisch schon für den vorhergehenden Roman, schaut McCourt mit scharfen Augen und schwarzem Humor auf die Vereinigten Staaten; Rassenvorurteile, alltägliche Grausamkeit und aussichtslose Jobs liegen schwer auf seinem Gemüt, während er nach einen Ausweg sucht. Ein Hoffnungsschimmer kommt von der Armee, wo er einige Fähigkeiten als Büroangestellter sammeln kann sowie von der New York University, die ihn trotz fehlendem Schulabschluß aufnimmt. Aber der Weg bis zu seiner Position als Lehrbeauftragter für Kreatives Schreiben an der Stuyvesant High School ist weder kurz noch einfach. Glücklicherweise ist McCourts Offenheit zur Bandbreite menschlicher Emotionen und Sehnsüchte außergewöhnlich; sogar die am meisten zerstörten, schwierigsten Menschen, die er trifft, sind Individuen mit innerer Größe, und der Leser kann sich nicht entziehen, mit ihnen eine beklemmende Seelen-Verwandtschaft zu empfinden. Die magische Prosa mit ihrer singenden irischen Sprachmelodie bringt selbst in die traurigsten Ereignisse Erhabenheit und Schönheit, einschließlich der letzten Szene, in der Angelas Asche auf einem Friedhof in Limerick verstreut wird. --Wendy Smith -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Gebundene Ausgabe .

The sequel to Frank McCourt's memoir of his Irish Catholic boyhood, Angela's Ashes, picks up the story in October 1949 upon his arrival in America. Though he was born in New York, the family had returned to Ireland due to poor prospects in the United States. Now back on American soil, this awkward 19-year-old, with his "pimply face, sore eyes, and bad teeth," has little in common with the healthy, self-assured college students he sees on the subway and dreams of joining in the classroom. Initially, his American experience is as harrowing as his impoverished youth in Ireland, including two of the grimmest Christmases ever described in literature. McCourt views the U.S. through the same sharp eye and dark humour that distinguished his first memoir; race prejudice, casual cruelty and dead-end jobs weigh on his spirits as he searches for a way out. A glimpse of hope comes from the army, where he acquires some white-collar skills, and from New York University, which admits him without a high school diploma. But the journey toward his position teaching creative writing at Stuyvesant High School is neither quick nor easy. Fortunately, McCourt's openness to every variety of human emotion and longing remains exceptional; even the most damaged, difficult people he encounters are richly rendered individuals with whom the reader can't help but feel uncomfortable kinship. The magical prose, with its singing Irish cadences, brings grandeur and beauty to the most sorrowful events, including the final scene, in which Angela's ashes are scattered over a Limerick graveyard. --Wendy Smith -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine vergriffene oder nicht verfügbare Ausgabe dieses Titels.

The sequel to Frank McCourt's memoir of his Irish Catholic boyhood, Angela's Ashes, picks up the story in October 1949, upon his arrival in America. Though he was born in New York, the family had returned to Ireland due to poor prospects in the United States. Now back on American soil, this awkward 19-year-old, with his "pimply face, sore eyes, and bad teeth," has little in common with the healthy, self-assured college students he sees on the subway and dreams of joining in the classroom. Initially, his American experience is as harrowing as his impoverished youth in Ireland, including two of the grimmest Christmases ever described in literature. McCourt views the U.S. through the same sharp eye and with the same dark humor that distinguished his first memoir: race prejudice, casual cruelty, and dead-end jobs weigh on his spirits as he searches for a way out. A glimpse of hope comes from the army, where he acquires some white-collar skills, and from New York University, which admits him without a high school diploma. But the journey toward his position teaching creative writing at Stuyvesant High School is neither quick nor easy. Fortunately, McCourt's openness to every variety of human emotion and longing remains exceptional; even the most damaged, difficult people he encounters are richly rendered individuals with whom the reader can't help but feel uncomfortable kinship. The magical prose, with its singing Irish cadences, brings grandeur and beauty to the most sorrowful events, including the final scene, set in a Limerick graveyard. --Wendy Smith -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Gebundene Ausgabe .

The second installment in McCourt's fluent and bewitchingly candid memoir will be eagerly embraced by a reading public madly in love with the first, the award-winning and best-selling Angela's Ashes (1996). Here McCourt, still simultaneously voluble and precise, chronicles his return to New York, the city of his birth. A high-school dropout with a thick brogue, terrible teeth and skin, and red and infected eyes, he is easy pickings for a priest who helps him get settled, then attempts to molest him. This distressing introduction to the perversity of life in America kicks off an almost unbelievable series of humiliations and hardships as McCourt works soul-crushingly menial jobs for pittance and is confronted both with vicious anti-Irish prejudice and tedious Irish pride--nearly everyone he meets recounts their Irish genealogy and tells him to stick to his own kind. McCourt stubbornly dreams of becoming a teacher and writer but often retreats from the demands of college and work into the comforting haze of alcohol, the bane of his family. Finally, after a stint in the army and years of being mocked for his bookish ways, he succeeds in becoming a teacher, and his riveting accounts of his crazy classroom experiences in a Staten Island vocational high school at the height of McCarthyism are not to be missed. His family is present, too, of course. His mother, Angela, remains depressed even under her sons' solicitous care. His father is impossible right up to the day he dies, and McCourt's brothers, Malachy (who has also written a memoir) and Mike, live "bright carefree" lives, while he does everything the hard way, the only way he knows how, and, frankly, the only approach to life he fully respects. Donna Seaman -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Gebundene Ausgabe .

Lg. Prt. 0-684-86449-5 While not as tightly structured as his Pulitzer Prizewinning Angela's Ashes (1996), the irrepressible McCourt's follow-up memoir has the same driving rhythm, charm, and infectious humor that so captivated readers of the earlier installment. The story picks up in 1949 as McCourt, aged 19, sails to America to seek his fortune. Befriended by a priest who helps him settle in New York City, he's shocked when the man makes a drunken pass at him. His life in New York becomes one of seedy boarding houses, menial labor on the docks and warehouses, and, always, heavy drinking, often with his brothers Malachy and Michael. Conditionally admitted to New York University (he had no high school diploma), he's thrilled to show off his textbooks on the subway but bored with the class work. He'd rather read Sean O'Casey, ``the first Irish writer I ever read who writes about rags, dirt, hunger, babies dying. . . . '' He falls in love with and eventually marries Alberta ``Mike'' Small, a beautiful Episcopalian from New England. It's a marriage that will ``become a sustained squabble.'' His early years as a high school teacher, first at a vocational school on Staten Island, later at the prestigious Stuyvesant High School, are humorously and revealingly retold. His first words as a teacher? ``Stop throwing sandwiches.'' McCourt occasionally interrupts his chronological narrative with lengthy, if funny, portraits of characters he's met along the way. Angela, who has moved back to New York to be near her sons, has become a difficult, sickly woman upon whose death McCourt would write: ``I thought I'd know the grief of the grown man. . . . I didn't know I'd feel like a child cheated.'' Those whose hearts went out to the little boy who suffered so in Limerick might be put off by the hard-drinking, carousing grownup. But there's no denying McCourt's engaging wit. Is it as rewarding as Angela's Ashes? `Tis. (First serial to the New Yorker; Literary Guild main selection; author tour) -- Copyright ©1999, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved. -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Gebundene Ausgabe .

So what happened after McCourt arrived in America? He was saved by a wayward priest, joined the Democratic party, got accepted by New York University though he had no high school diploma, ended up as a schoolteacher, and finally wrote one of the biggest nonfiction best sellers of all time.
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc. -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Taschenbuch .

Peter Collier Los Angeles Times Book Review 'Tis has those elements that made Angela's Ashes such a success -- the narrative brio, the fierce sympathy for human tie and torment, the intuitive feel for character and above all the love of language.

Malcolm Jones Newsweek 'Tis is the story of a man finding two great vocations -- teaching and storytelling...a hard-nosed but lyrical conclusion to the story begun in Angela's Ashes.

Nach dem Erfolgstitel "Die Asche meiner Mutter", in dem er seine Kindheit in Irland beschreibt, legt Frank McCourt nun die Fortsetzung seiner Lebenserinnerungen vor. Sie beginnt dort, wo der erste Teil endet, auf einem irischen Schiff vor der Skyline von New York. McCourt schildert, wie er als Neunzehnjähriger nach Amerika auswandert, mit nichts als der Hoffnung auf eine bessere Zukunft. Er beschreibt, wie es ihm trotz aller Widrigkeiten gelingt, sich im Land der Schönen und Reichen zu behaupten. -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Taschenbuch .

Continues the sometimes harrowing tale of the author's youth as he immigrates from Ireland to the United States, joins the Army, goes to college, and begins building a life.

Frank McCourt, 1930 geboren, hat bis zu seiner Pensionierung als Englischlehrer an New Yorker High Schools gearbeitet. Danach schrieb er die Erinnerungen an seine irische Kindheit auf, ein Buch, das er sein ganzes Leben lang schreiben wollte. "Die Asche meiner Mutter" wurde weltweit zum Bestseller, und Frank McCourt bekam dafür, u.a. den Pulitzerpreis verliehen. Frank McCourt lebt mit seiner Frau Ellen in New York City. -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Gebundene Ausgabe .

Chapter One

When the MS Irish Oak sailed from Cork in October 1949, we expected to be in New York City in a week. Instead, after two days at sea, we were told we were going to Montreal in Canada. I told the first officer all I had was forty dollars and would Irish Shipping pay my train fare from Montreal to New York. He said, No, the company wasn't responsible. He said freighters are the whores of the high seas, they'll do anything for anyone. You could say a freighter is like Murphy's oul' dog, he'll go part of the road with any wanderer.

Two days later Irish Shipping changed its mind and gave us the happy news, Sail for New York City, but two days after that the captain was told, Sail for Albany.

The first officer told me Albany was a city far up the Hudson River, capital of New York State. He said Albany had all the charm of Limerick, ha ha ha, a great place to die but not a place where you'd want to get married or rear children. He was from Dublin and knew I was from Limerick and when he sneered at Limerick I didn't know what to do. I'd like to destroy him with a smart remark but then I'd look at myself in the mirror, pimply face, sore eyes, and bad teeth and know I could never stand up to anyone, especially a first officer with a uniform and a promising future as master of his own ship. Then I'd say to myself, Why should I care what anyone says about Limerick anyway? All I had there was misery.

Then the peculiar thing would happen. I'd sit on a deck chair in the lovely October sun with the gorgeous blue Atlantic all around me and try to imagine what New York would be like. I'd try to see Fifth Avenue or Central Park or Greenwich Village where everyone looked like movie stars, powerful tans, gleaming white teeth. But Limerick would push me into the past. Instead of me sauntering up Fifth Avenue with the tan, the teeth, I'd be back in the lanes of Limerick, women standing at doors chatting away and pulling their shawls around their shoulders, children with faces dirty from bread and jam, playing and laughing and crying to their mothers. I'd see people at Mass on Sunday morning where a whisper would run through the church when someone with a hunger weakness would collapse in the pew and have to be carried outside by men from the back of the church who'd tell everyone, Stand back, stand back, for the lovea Jaysus, can't you see she's gasping for the air, and I wanted to be a man like that telling people stand back because that gave you the right to stay outside till the Mass was over and you could go off to the pub which is why you were standing in the back with all the other men in the first place. Men who didn't drink always knelt right up there by the altar to show how good they were and how they didn't care if the pubs stayed closed till Doomsday. They knew the responses to the Mass better than anyone and they'd be blessing themselves and standing and kneeling and sighing over their prayers as if they felt the pain of Our Lord more than the rest of the congregation. Some had given up the pint entirely and they were the worst, always preaching the evil of the pint and looking down on the ones still in the grip as if they were on the right track to heaven. They acted as if God Himself would turn His back on a man drinking the pint when everyone knew you'd rarely hear a priest up in the pulpit denounce the pint or the men who drank it. Men with the thirst stayed in the back ready to streak out the door the minute the priest said, Ite, missa est, Go, you are dismissed. They stayed in the back because their mouths were dry and they felt too humble to be up there with the sober ones. I stayed near the door so that I could hear the men whispering about the slow Mass. They went to Mass because it's a mortal sin if you don't though you'd wonder if it wasn't a worse sin to be joking to the man next to you that if this priest didn't hurry up you'd expire of the thirst on the spot. If Father White came out to give the sermon they'd shuffle and groan over his sermons, the slowest in the world, with him rolling his eyes to heaven and declaring we were all doomed unless we mended our ways and devoted ourselves to the Virgin Mary entirely. My Uncle Pa Keating would have the men laughing behind their hands with his, I would devote myself to the Virgin Mary if she handed me a lovely creamy black pint of porter. I wanted to be there with my Uncle Pa Keating all grown up with long trousers and stand with the men in the back with the great thirst and laugh behind my hand.

I'd sit on that deck chair and look into my head to see myself cycling around Limerick City and out into the country delivering telegrams. I'd see myself early in the morning riding along country roads with the mist rising in the fields and cows giving me the odd moo and dogs coming at me till I drove them away with rocks. I'd hear babies in farmhouses crying for their mothers and farmers whacking cows back to the fields after the milking.

And I'd start crying to myself on that deck chair with the gorgeous Atlantic all around me, New York ahead, city of my dreams where I'd have the golden tan, the dazzling white teeth. I'd wonder what in God's name was wrong with me that I should be missing Limerick already, city of gray miseries, the place where I dreamed of escape to New York. I'd hear my mother's warning, The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know.

There were to be fourteen passengers on the ship but one canceled and we had to sail with an unlucky number. The first night out the captain stood up at dinner and welcomed us. He laughed and said he wasn't superstitious over the number of passengers but since there was a priest among us wouldn't it be lovely if His Reverence would say a prayer to come between us and all harm. The priest was a plump little man, born in Ireland, but so long in his Los Angeles parish he had no trace of an Irish accent. When he got up to say a prayer and blessed himself four passengers kept their hands in their laps and that told me they were Protestants. My mother used to say you could spot Protestants a mile away by their reserved manner. The priest asked Our Lord to look down on us with pity and love, that whatever happened on these stormy seas we were ready to be enfolded forever in His Divine Bosom. An old Protestant reached for his wife's hand. She smiled and shook her head back at him and he smiled, too, as if to say, Don't worry.

The priest sat next to me at the dinner table. He whispered that those two old Protestants were very rich from raising Thoroughbred racehorses in Kentucky and if I had any sense I'd be nice to them, you never know.

I wanted to ask what was the proper way to be nice to rich Protestants who raise racehorses but I couldn't for fear the priest might think I was a fool. I heard the Protestants say the Irish people were so charming and their children so adorable you hardly noticed how poor they were. I knew that if I ever talked to the rich Protestants I'd have to smile and show my destroyed teeth and that would be the end of it. The minute I made some money in America I'd have to rush to a dentist to have my smile mended. You could see from the magazines and the films how the smile opened doors and brought girls running and if I didn't have the smile I might as well go back to Limerick and get a job sorting letters in a dark back room at the post office where they wouldn't care if you hadn't a tooth in your head.

Before bedtime the steward served tea and biscuits in the lounge. The priest said, I'll have a double Scotch, forget the tea, Michael, the whiskey helps me sleep. He drank his whiskey and whispered to me again, Did you talk to the rich people from Kentucky?

I didn't.

Dammit. What's the matter with you? Don't you want to get ahead in the world?

I do.

Well, why don't you talk to the rich people from Kentucky? They might...