Frank's Ashes

'Tis a great pity that Frank McCourt couldn't leave swell enough alone and retire as a memoirist after his stupendous success with Angela's Ashes. Unfortunately, the promise of a sequel is given pretty firmly in the pages of his Pulitzer-prizewinning best seller, and McCourt proves to be as good as his word. The dream of coming to America, particularly to New York City, that sustained him through his family's poverty in Limerick has come to pass by the opening pages of 'Tis (Scribner; 367 pages; $26). In the fall of 1959, at age 19, McCourt enjoys his first shower in a Manhattan hotel and then, knowing no better, dries off with the bath mat.

This promising comic beginning is quickly dissipated by the curious affliction that overwhelms McCourt in his new surroundings: the total loss of his sense of humor. He is treated well in the U.S.--a job at the Biltmore Hotel, a room of his own, new friends--but it all seems like ashes to Frank: "New York was the city of my dreams but now I'm here the dreams are gone and it's not what I expected at all. I never thought I'd be going around a hotel lobby cleaning up after people and scouring toilet bowls in the lavatories."

When he isn't feeling superior to his surroundings, McCourt suffers brief spasms of unworthiness. There are his infected eyes, "like two pissholes in the snow," a phrase he likes so much that he repeats it many, many times. Another thoroughly used favorite is "not giving a fiddler's fart." Reading this book can push you to just that point.

--By Paul Gray