Title: Clever phrases can't excuse Malachy McCourt's sordid youth.
Review: Malacy McCourt isn't the writer his brother Frank is, although he can sometimes turn a clever phrase. However, his facility for language can't hide the fact that he spent his early days in New York engaged in boozing, whoring, and illegal activity. Perhaps we're supposed to find his antics amusing or cute, but to me this is a tale of a wasted, squalid life. Since the book ends somewhere in the 60's, I smell a sequel coming, wherein I'm sure Mr. McCourt has an ephiphany and turns his life around. I won't be wasting my time reading it, though. Let's be honest--were it not for the success (and rightfully earned success) of "Angela's Ashes," would anyone care about Malachy McCourt or his book?
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