Angela's Ashes

Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt may be the longest resting book on my bookshelf. Seven years ago, right after college, I lived in a big, old house in Allston, shared with 5+ individuals, none of whom I met before moving in. For a variety of reasons, I was miserable. At the end of the year, when we were all moving out, I went through Messy Jessie's room and scavenged stuff she'd left behind-- some Pottery Barn chairs and a copy of Angela's Ashes.
Here I'm going to compare my year of suffering to the McCourts':
The McCourts had to live upstairs in "Italy" because downstairs "Ireland" was always flooded. I had to live in my room solely because our living room wasn't furnished. The McCourts had to fight off rats and fleas in their flat. I lived mouse free because of Red Head's cat, Doodle. The rent collector threatened the McCourts with eviction because of non-payment of rent. When our landlord came to pick up the rent, Red Head told us not to answer the door and keep the apartment dark, so he would leave. We were also threatened with eviction! The McCourts were cold and ill-clothed. I was cold because we had to pay for our own heat and were advised to be frugal less we end up with a $200 heating bill.
In all, the McCourts were probably worse off, living poverty stricken in Ireland during the Depression and World War II. Both Frank and I vowed to move on to better situations-- he to America and me to Brighton, the neighborhood not of college slumming, but of young professionals.
Angela's Ashes was a delight to read in part because it's impossible to read without the lilting Irish accent. The vernacular of young Frankie is naive and hilarious. He knows if he asks too many questions he'll get a thump on the head. At times I thought the storylines a bit redundant, but Mr. McCourt earned his storytelling. I certainly liked Roddy Doyle's Paddy Clarke, Ha, Ha, Ha better, but I'll give Angela's Ashes 4/5 netflix stars.