Malachy McCourt, who fled a melancholic childhood in Ireland for the US, where he became something of a professional Irish man as a thespian, publican and best-selling memoirist, died earlier this month New York city. He was 92.with The New York Times last year that he had a heart condition, multiple kinds of cancer and muscular degeneration.
“Coming out of that life, the things that get you are the two evils of shame on one shoulder, the demon fear on the other,” he told The New York Times in 1998. “Shame says you came from nothing; you’re nobody; they’ll find you out for what you and your mother have done. Fear says what’s the use of bothering, drink as much as you can, dull the pain. As a result, shame takes care of the past, fear takes care of the future, and there’s no living in the present.
“I was blamed for not being my brother,” he lamented, adding slyly, “I now pledge to all those naysayers that someday I will write Angela’s Ashes and change my name to Frank McCourt.” Malachy Gerard McCourt was born September 20th, 1931, in Brooklyn. His father, also named Malachy, had fled to New York from the British as a member of the IRA. His father met his mother, Angela Sheehan, after he was released from jail for hijacking a truck.
Relatively few entries on his CV are verifiable . Among McCourt’s intimates, though, his feats – bona fide, embellished or even fabricated, but by now folkloric – seem perfectly plausible.As a young student he would also escape into books. He read voraciously, but he failed the basic primary certificate at Leamy’s National School.
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