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A Memoir
by Frank McCourt
That is what I wanted to tell the priest but I didn't know how to talk to him
either. All I knew about priests was that they said Mass and everything else in
Latin, that they heard my sins in English and forgave me in Latin on behalf of
Our Lord Himself who is God anyway. It must be a strange thing to be a priest
and wake up in the morning lying there in the bed knowing you have the power to
forgive people or not forgive them depending on your mood. When you know Latin
and forgive sins it makes you powerful and hard to talk to because you know the
dark secrets of the world. Talking to a priest is like talking to God Himself
and if you say the wrong thing you're doomed.
There wasn't a soul on that ship who could tell me how to talk to rich
Protestants and demanding priests. My uncle by marriage, Pa Keating, could have
told me but he was back in Limerick where he didn't give a fiddler's fart about
anything. I knew if he were here he'd refuse to talk to the rich people entirely
and then he'd tell the priest to kiss his royal Irish arse. That's how I'd like
to be myself but when your teeth and eyes are destroyed you never know what to
say or what to do with yourself.
There was a book in the ship's library, Crime and Punishment, and I
thought it might be a good murder mystery even if it was filled with confusing
Russian names. I tried to read it in a deck chair but the story made me feel
strange, a story about a Russian student, Raskolnikov, who kills an old woman, a
moneylender, and then tries to convince himself he's entitled to the money
because she's useless to the world and her money would pay for his university
expenses so that he could become a lawyer and go round defending people like
himself who kill old women for their money. It made me feel strange because of
the time in Limerick when I had a job writing threatening letters for an old
woman moneylender, Mrs. Finucane, and when she died in a chair I took some of
her money to help me pay my fare to America. I knew I didn't kill Mrs. Finucane
but I took her money and that made me almost as bad as Raskolnikov and if I died
this minute he'd be the first one I'd run into in hell. I could save my soul by
confessing to the priest and even though he's supposed to forget your sins the
minute he gives you absolution he'd have power over me and he'd give me strange
looks and tell me go charm the rich Protestants from Kentucky.
I fell asleep reading the book and a sailor, a deckhand, woke me to tell me,
Your book is getting wet in the rain, sir.
Sir. Here I was from a lane in Limerick and there's a man with gray hair
calling me sir even though he's not supposed to say a word to me in the first
place because of the rules. The first officer told me an ordinary sailor was
never allowed to speak to passengers except for a Good Day or Good Night. He
told me this particular sailor with the gray hair was once an officer on the Queen
Elizabeth but he was fired because he was caught with a first-class
passenger in her cabin and what they were doing was a cause of confession. This
man's name was Owen and he was peculiar the way he spent all his time reading
below and when the ship docked he'd go ashore with a book and read in a café
while the rest of the crew got roaring drunk and had to be hauled back to the
ship in taxis. Our own captain had such respect for him he'd have him up to his
cabin and they'd have tea and talk of the days they served together on an
English destroyer that was torpedoed, the two of them hanging on to a raft in
the Atlantic drifting and freezing and chatting about the time they'd get back
to Ireland and have a nice pint and a mountain of bacon and cabbage.
Owen spoke to me next day. He said he knew he was breaking the rules but he
couldn't help talking to anyone on this ship who was reading Crime and
Punishment. There were great readers in the crew right enough but they
wouldn't move beyond Edgar Wallace or Zane Grey and he'd give anything to be
able to chat about Dostoyevsky. He wanted to know if I'd read The Possessed
or The Brothers Karamazov and he looked sad when I said I'd never heard
of them. He told me the minute I got to New York I should rush to a bookshop and
get Dostoyevsky books and I'd never be lonely again. He said no matter what
Dostoyevsky book you read he always gave you something to chew on and you can't
beat that for a bargain. That's what Owen said though I had no notion of what he
was talking about.
Copyright © 1999 by Frank McCourt
The dirtiest book of all is the expurgated book
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