
The thing about this book, is that it's a memoir. Frank McCourt, the author, and the main character who grows up throughout the book, has amazing stamina and a very large forgiving heart. He paints his father as a loving man, who just messed up a little, not as an out of control alcohol who can't decide what matters most: his starving wife and children, or that bottle of Jack.
Back to the memoir part. Frank McCourt uses humor through a child's eyes as he grows up miserably. It may be because of his childlike ways, that he is ignorant of how things truly work in the world, but it was probably for the best. For instance, Frank goes to confession with all the other little boys in his catholic school, and feels the pressure of coming up with a sin. Frank has a problem--he hasn't actually sinned. The only thing closest would be listening to an inappropriate story, which he can't really help. So, he overhears the other boys sins-- lies to their mother, stealing money, stealing food, stuff like that, and he ends up going to confession and confessing that he had done all the other boys' sins as well. Ha, he ends up sinning by telling that he had sinned to the priest, when in actuality, he had done nothing wrong. Oh, children. Then he throws up his first communion. That apparently, was a sin--so I guess Frank got his sin after all, even though he couldn't help it. I can't understand religion sometimes. A lot of times actually.
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