Frank McCourt survived the misery of Limerick — barely. Now he's in New York, nineteen years old, with $50 in his pocket and an Irish accent that makes Americans assume he's stupid. This is the sequel to *Angela's Ashes*, picking up where poverty left off: McCourt washing floors, lying about his education, sleeping in basements, and slowly, painfully building a life in 1950s America. He teaches himself to teach, falls in and out of love, and wrestles with the guilt of leaving his family behind. McCourt writes with the same dark humor and unsentimental honesty that made his first memoir devastating. He doesn't mythologize the immigrant dream — he shows you the decades of work it actually took. For anyone who loved *Angela's Ashes* or wants a memoir that earns its hope the hard way.
