It was with great sadness that I read about the death of Frank McCourt. It was strangely fitting, though, as I was finishing up Station Island by another Irish writer, Seamus Heaney. I believe a fitting way to honor McCourt’s life would be to pull out Angela’s Ashes, which I have done. Perhaps this as fitting a memorial as watching hours of Michael Jackson videos, but certainly (for me) far more satisfying.
Interesting, really, that Ireland only holds a small piece of my genealogy, yet it captivates my imagination. Trad makes my heart sing, and I’m fond of the grand lineage of poets and writers. I may have a German name, but my heart lies in the land of Eire.