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Off the Shelf
By Nan Graham | Friday,
August 19, 2016
One day in the spring of 1995, when Frank McCourt was sixty-four
years old, I received a box from literary agent Molly Friedrich, containing
the first 159 pages of the memoir ANGELA’S ASHES. Several of us read the
pages, as Frank would say, with alacrity. And loved them, swiftly seduced by
the opening sentences: “When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I
survived it all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood; the happy
childhood is hardly worth your while.” READ
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