The Angela's Ashes/'Tis Boxed Set (Hardcover)

by Frank McCourt (Author)

Editorial Reviews

Product Description

Quite possibly the most perfect holiday gift -- a beautiful boxed collection of two prizewinning, perennial bestselling modern classics: Angela's Ashes and 'Tis.

With almost 8 million copies of Frank McCourt's books in print, fans just can't get enough of their favorite author. From the heartwrenching times young Frank spent in the slums of Ireland to his struggle for the American dream as an impoverished immigrant, readers can now have both of McCourt's remarkable memoirs conveniently combined in one elegant package.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

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 ta

Product Details

• Hardcover: 736 pages
• Publisher: Scribner; Slipcase edition (November 1, 2000)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 0743204018
• ISBN-13: 978-0743204019
• Product Dimensions: 10 x 6.8 x 2.4 inches
• Shipping Weight: 3.1 pounds
• Average Customer Review: 4.9 out of 5 stars See all reviews (7 customer reviews)
• Amazon.com Sales Rank: #994,392 in Books (See Bestsellers in Books)

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

7 of 8 people found the following review helpful:

5.0 out of 5 stars 'Tis- A wonder story about the reality of the american dream, March 7, 2002

By	Paul B Tucker "paultucker" (Chicago, IL United States) - See all my reviews

One of my favourite books. Mr. McCourt brings tenderness and humor out of the dark and challenge of life. Tis' is essentially the story of an immigrant and his new life in New York City. Beginning with his voyage to America, the autobiographical story follows his struggle to make it in a country that isn't always accepting of strangers. Don't be mistaken to think of this as an extension of the dark tone of Angela's Ashes (which I also liked). I found this book much lighter in tone and more optimistic. McCourt finds his way to the promised land and has to deal with the realities of American society. It's full of the irony of everyday life and his struggles for education, happiness, love, and acceptance. Yes Mr. McCourt is an Irish immigrant, but it's not soley about his being Irish in America. If anything, it's about his struggle to be an American.

10 of 13 people found the following review helpful:

5.0 out of 5 stars An incredible life marvelously shared in this two-book set, February 24, 2001

By A Customer

Both "Angela's Ashes" and "Tis" are marvelous works, and both are also told by one of the amazing storytellers of our time. McCourt has the abitlity to make the miserable almost seem magical. His open account of his early life in these two volumes serves to inspire, and also, certainly, to entertain.

4 of 5 people found the following review helpful:

5.0 out of 5 stars Tears, laughter & wonder, April 14, 2004

By	Passapon "Passapon" (Hayward, CA USA) - See all my reviews

McCourt has done a great job, keeping my eyes awake for 6 hours reading his memoir. Time really flies when you are happy!! Veriety of emotions happened from page to page. When I was reading the beginning of the page,I wanna cry. When it came to the end of the page, I just wanted to burst out laughing.
Frank is just an ordinary Irish boy, who just has to struggle with alcoholic dad that used up every penny in the pubs, leaving his Angela and other siblings groaning with empty stomachs.
Frank has truly brought me inspiration!