We've seen a lot of celebrities pass away recently.  I'm not sure if it's any more than normal, but it certainly seems like a new one every day.  Usually, I'm relatively flippant about the whole thing.  I'm sure they're fine people (or possibly not), but the outpouring of emotion, often seemingly rote and insincere, always seems odd to me, and I've been less than reverent towards this latest batch.  But a few days ago, I saw that author Frank McCourt had taken ill and was not expected to last more than a few days, which proved to be true as he passed away from meningitis, resulting from cancer treatment for melanoma.  Of course, I think Frank would be among the first to make a crack about the irony of an Irishman passing from the cursed pale skin we've all got. 

I first read Angela's Ashes, McCourt's first book, published at age 66, when I was getting out of college.  My grandmother gave it to me, suggesting that it was something I needed to read, and boy was she right.  I've always been fascinated with Ireland, the land of my particular heritage, and the inherent skill with language and humor its most talented writers possessed.  I was instantly drawn into McCourt's tale of growing up poor in Limerick, Ireland in extreme poverty, and a drunken absentee father. I could certainly relate to the latter part. 

The thing is, every time I see references to Angela's Ashes, I hear about "grim" "sullen" tales of a terrible life.  But that's not the book I remember reading.  Angela's Ashes is a remarkably funny book in my mind, as are McCourt's other books, 'Tis and Teacher Man.  In Angela, McCourt tells most of the story through his own eyes as a child.  In that sense, the child has no context for what is horrible around him, and very often, the writing struck me as totally honest, but very funny.  Through that sense of humor, we were able to understand what the life was really like for a kid living through what he lived through.  The 1999 film adaptation by director, Alan Parker, lacked all of that humor, because it wasn't told straight from the voice of the child who lived through it.  But the amazing sparse wording of the book, written in the voice McCourt spoke brought you right there.

McCourt was a gigantic inspiration to me, as a writer.  He did so much with so little, and in a world chock full of memoirs that don't need to be read, his work stood out, because of his ability to capture his experiences and his personality, and those around him so well using so little.  There aren't wasted words in McCourt's books.  It doesn't hurt that he had an impressive life, but a lifetime of skillful storytelling would have allowed him to charm me with his exploits no matter how mundane they might actually be.  If I could capture even a small portion of the heart that McCourt put in his prose in my own writing, I'd be thrilled.  The work will stand forever as a benchmark, and I look forward to reading his story many more times before the curse of the pale skin finally makes a go for me. 

The lanes of Limerick are certainly as sad tonight as they were when young Frank lived in them during the great Depression.  I will miss you and your words terribly.

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