Quotes from Frank McCourt

He knows how it is to leave Ireland, did it himself and never got over it. You live in Los Angeles with sun and palm trees day in day out and you ask God if there's any chance He could give you one soft rainy Limerick day

You have to study and learn so that you can make up your own mind about history and everything else, but you can't make up an empty mind. Stock your mind, stock your mind. It is your house of treasure and no one in the world can interfere with it. [...] Your mind is your house and if you fill it with rubbish (...) it will rot in your head. You might be poor, your shoes might be broken, but your mind is a palace.

You are never to let anybody slam the door in your face again.

I think my father is like the Holy Trinity with three people in him, the one in the morning with the paper, the one at night with the stories and the prayers, and then the one who does the bad thing and comes home with the smell of whiskey and wants us to die for Ireland.

Where is she now, Dad? If there's a heaven, Maggie, she's there and she's queen of it. Is there a heaven, Dad? If there isn't, Maggie, I don't understand God's ways. She doesn't understand my babbling and neither do I because the tears erupt and she tells me again, It's all right to cry, Dad.

People arrived and there was eating, drinking, dancing and misunderstandings between all the couples, married and unmarried. Frank Schwake wouldn't talk to his wife, Jean. Jim Collins quarreled in a corner with his wife, Sheila. There was still a coolness between Alberta and me and between Brian and Joyce. Other couples were affected and there were islands of tension all over the apartment. The night would have been ruined except for the way we all united against an outside danger.

Es lo que dice mi padre de los hombres que no beben –dice Eamon–, que no son de fiar.

The bus stops at the O'Connell Monument and Uncle Pat goes to the Monument Fish and Chip Café where the smells are so delicious my stomach beats with the hunger. He gets a shilling's worth of fish and chips and my mouth is watering

They say she's always angry because she has red hair or she has red hair because she's always angry.

The devil you know is better than the devil you don't.

St. Francis is no help, he won't stop the tears bursting out of my two eyes, the sniffling and choking and the God oh Gods that have me on my knees with my head on the back of the pew before me and I'm so weak with the hunger and the crying I could fall on the floor and would you please help me God or St. Francis because I'm sixteen today and I hit my mother and sent Theresa to hell and wanked all over Limerick and the county beyond and I dread the millstone around my neck.

It's lovely to know the world can't interfere with the inside of your head.

I was sick of my miserable childhood, too, the way it followed me across the Atlantic and kept nagging at me to be made public.

think I am? Smothered in fancy furs? The food churned in my stomach. I gagged. I ran to her backyard and threw it all up. Out she came. Look at what he did. Thrun up his First Communion breakfast. Thrun up the body and blood of Jesus. I have God in me backyard. What am I goin' to do? I'll take him to the Jesuits for they know the sins of the Pope himself.

Inertia is, perhaps, the single most powerful stumbling block to writing. It takes energy, courage, patience, and commitment to keep writing in your journal. It's no small thing to open doors, let down barriers, enter sealed rooms, and walk obscure avenues of memory that haven't been traveled in years—or perhaps ever been traveled.

For once, mam, my bladder isn't near my eye and why isn't it?

The master says it's a glorious thing to die for the Faith and Dad says it's a glorious thing to die for Ireland and I wonder if there's anyone in the world who would like us to live. My brothers are dead and my sister is dead and I wonder if they died for Ireland or the Faith. Dad says they were too young to die for anything. Mam says it was disease and starvation and him never having a job. Dad says, Och, Angela, puts on his cap and goes for a long walk.

Mikey's father, champion of all pint drinkers, is like my uncle Pa Keating, he doesn't give a fiddler's fart what the world says and that's the way I'd like to be myself.

Ooh, aren't we getting solemn, and where did I leave my soapbox? Look

It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while.

the English and the terrible things they did to us for eight hundred long years.

It's lovely to know the world can't interfere with the inside of your head.

This is the situation in the public schools of America: The farther you travel from the classroom the greater your financial and professional rewards.

Who threw the overalls in Mrs. Murphy's chowder? Nobody spoke so he said it all the louder It's a dirty Irish trick and I can lick the Mick Who threw the overalls in Murphy's chowder.