A Monk Swimming

A Monk Swimming

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by Malachy McCourt

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Slapped with a libel suit after an appearance on a talk show, Malachy McCourt crows, "If they could only see me now in the slums of Limerick, a big shot, sued for a million. Bejesus, isn't America a great and wonderful country?" His older brother Frank's Pulitzer Prize-winning memoir, Angela's Ashes, took its somber tone from the bleak atmosphere of those


Slapped with a libel suit after an appearance on a talk show, Malachy McCourt crows, "If they could only see me now in the slums of Limerick, a big shot, sued for a million. Bejesus, isn't America a great and wonderful country?" His older brother Frank's Pulitzer Prize-winning memoir, Angela's Ashes, took its somber tone from the bleak atmosphere of those slums, while Malachy's boisterous recollections are fueled by his zestful appreciation for the opportunities and oddities of his native land.

He and Frank were born in Brooklyn, moved with their parents to Ireland as children, then returned to the States as adults. This book covers the decade 1952-63, when Malachy roistered across the U.S., Europe, and Asia, but spent most of his time in New York City. There his ready wit and quick tongue won him an acting job with the Irish Players, a semiregular stint on The Tonight Show hosted by Jack Paar, and friendships with some well-heeled, well-born types who shared his fondness for saloon life and bankrolled him in an East Side saloon that may have been the first singles bar. He chronicles those events—and many others—with back-slapping bonhomie.

Although McCourt acknowledges the personal demons that pursued him from his poverty-stricken childhood and destroyed his first marriage, this is on the whole an exuberant autobiography that pays tribute to the joys of a freewheeling life.

Editorial Reviews

Christopher Lehmann-Haupt
This amusing intemperate memoir...speaks in the raucous brogue of a native freshly landed on a foreign shore. Outrageous and comic.
The New York Times
Philadelphia Inquirer
A rollicking good read that, as the Irish say, would make a dead man laugh.
Lucy Grealy

Malachy McCourt's memoir, A Monk Swimming, picks up the McCourt story -- begun in his brother Frank's Angela's Ashes -- in New York City, where Malachy arrived in 1952, at the age of 20, bearing not only the rich Irish accent that was his heritage, but also the infamous gift of gab. These things served him well: He became a colorful character not only as an actor -- he was a regular guest on the Jack Paar show, appeared in several films and in a number of plays -- but also in real life. He has often and gleefully drunk to excess, a habit that causes him to take frequent stabs at being preposterous: showing up naked at fancy bars; shocking expat Russian royalty by praising the revolution; haphazardly immersing himself, briefly, in the international smuggling trade.

Malachy McCourt is the embodiment of a certain Irish type; a talker, a drinker, a wit. It's very easy to picture him sitting next to you in some pub, swallowing his Johann Barleycorn (whiskey) and holding court. Still, as lovable a rapscallion as McCourt may be in real life, the raconteuring doesn't equal literary style. The average chapter length here is only about four pages, which, while creating the sense of a fast read, never allows anything or anyone to be described or pondered over in any real depth. Events both large and small, horrifying and gorgeous, are given the same quick quip treatment. Rather than use his obvious alacrity with language to his advantage, McCourt unfortunately reduces almost everything to a colorful saying. This is most obvious whenever he's describing sex, his own or someone else's: "inserting his sausage into a different lubricious casing every night" being just one example of the level here.

It's heinous, I think, to judge books against larger moral frameworks, and it's preposterous to ask McCourt to come to terms with his mythic drinking. But this would have been a far richer book if he'd chosen to ask questions in a style more conducive to insight than, for example, wondering why the Catholic church would rather a man sleep with a prostitute than masturbate: "Why ... is it less of a sin to stick the winkie into a paid lady than to wank? Theologians, please note."

McCourt captures the lilt of a coarse Irish accent perfectly with colloquialisms and a rhythmic juggling of syntax. Frequently, and this is what saves the book, McCourt's phrases really do hit the mark; one man is wonderfully described as having "the look of Jesus after a few bad days with the Romans." Electric fans do the "air-wafting duty." A rendezvous is in "some pretentious little orifice in a wall on the East Side." This ability to shape language is, as I said, what makes this book worthwhile. A better idea would have been to use this talent as a starting place for the book. With McCourt's passion for words as a means rather than an end, what a gorgeous memoir this might have been.

Ultimately, I don't think McCourt creates a genuine voice for himself so much as he accurately conveys the sound of an already established voice -- a voice you could easily argue is a stereotype. It's a hard-drinking, hard-living Mick telling this often shaggy tale, and if you're a die-hard Erinophile, then this book's for you. If you want a wee bit more than that, you might be disappointed. -- Salon

Cleveland Plain Dealer
A Monk Swimming is a delight not just as a successor to Angela's Ashes but on terms entirely its own.
Clare Loeffler
This is a funny and likeable book. -- Literary Review
People Magazine
Irresistible...equal parts pathos and belly laughs.
San Francisco Chronicle
Highly entertaining....Malachy McCourt's book rollicks along....it will certainly be of interest to anyone eager to learn more about the McCourts.
Kirkus Reviews
Malachy picks up the family story—well, his part of it anyway—where older brother Frank left off in Angela's Ashes. The McCourts lived in direst poverty in Limerick, Ireland, with their father (for whom Malachy was named) a charming but irresponsible drunk who deserted the family during WWII. In his own story, Malachy takes up matters with his arrival in New York City courtesy of Frank. After a brief stint in the army (about which he says almost nothing), Malachy becomes a longshoreman before drifting, almost inadvertently, into a dual career of raconteur-actor and minor-celebrity barkeep.

And a raconteur he is; Malachy is the sort of professional Irishman who is trotted out to entertain the 'quality' with his blarney-rich hijinks, songs, and drunken antics. In short, he's a somewhat more introspective (and better-read) version of his father. Therein lies the book's shortcoming. If readers are looking for the tormented and introspective recollections of Frank, they will be sorely disappointed. Malachy can spin a yarn and he can pile on the clever euphemisms and circumlocutions of the tavern philosopher with the greatest of ease, but a rollicking, roistering, roaring boy like him cannot be expected to turn his eyes inward for more than a few tired apercus about what a bad husband and father he was.

It's entirely appropriate that the two longest sections of the book are devoted to the collapse of his first marriage under the weight of his great thirsts and lusts, and a bizarre episode in which he smuggled gold ingots to India. The latter is more vividly told, a goofy adventure fueled by booze, but the former, by far the more important event, is recounted in a curdledtone of self-pity and self-flagellation. Sporadically amusing, but just as often infuriating.

Product Details

Hachette Book Group
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.81(d)

Read an Excerpt

There was always the story in any gathering in Limerick. Be it boys, girls, the men, the women, bald facts were considered cold and inhuman; therefore all storied events had to be wrapped in words. Warm words, serried words, glittering, poetic, harsh, and even blasphemous words.

So the cold evenings were made warm with myths and tales of dirty doings and derring-do, and horrific yarns of the tortures of hell awaiting the evildoer. We the children sat in darkness, shivering in horrored delight, having been told we had two ears and unready tongue.

My father, Malachy, and his chums, Mr. Meehan, Mr. Looney, and Mr. Moran, spun out the silver-gold yarns and, by sheer eloquence, made our miserable surroundings disappear. And my father would sing his patriotic odes to Ireland, like the one about Roddy McCorley going to die on the bridge of Toome. My mother sang droopy love songs like, ``We Are in Love with You, My Heart and I.''

Death brought a silence to our house. First Baby Margaret Mary and then the twins--Eugene at four, and Oliver, four-and-a-half. Poverty killed them. My father left, to go on a lifelong drinking binge, never to come back, and I hated him for depriving me of him. It was many years before my mother sang another droopy love song, because she sank into a deep depression and love fled into the damp, grey Limerick sky, never to return.

The poor will always be with us, it sez in the Bible, and having had the strange privilege of being born into a not poor, but poverty-stricken, family, it became my passionate intention to be always with someone, but, by the living Jesus Christ, I would not be poor or poverty stricken.

I did not like being damp all the time. I did not like being cold and wet in the winter. I did not like looking in windows of shops filled with meats sweets biscuits breads, and my eyes bulging, the mouth aching for the chance to chew on something substantial. I did not like being eaten by fleas, gorging themselves on my bitter blood. I did not like having lice and nits in my hair my arse my armpits my eyebrows and every seam of the trousers and gansey I wore. I didn't like the boils and pimples on my small epidermis, not to mention the shame of scabies and ringworm. I didn't like having badly patched clothes and broken boots that Van Gogh would have sneered at. I didn't like having caked shit in my trousers because they couldn't be washed for the want of a replacement to wear while they were drying. I didn't like being made fun of and sneered at by the upper classes, who had tea and buns in the afternoon and electric light in every room.

I have never liked the smell of the newly made, newly varnished coffins that were brought in to take away our dead forever.

I was a smiley little fella with a raging heart and murderous instincts. One day I would show THEM--yes, you rotten fucking arsehole counter-jumping stuck-up jumped-up whore's-melts nose-holding tuppence-ha'penny-looking-down-on-tuppence snobs. I'll go back to America where I was born and I'll fart in yer faces.

And I did.

What People are Saying About This

James Brady
These McCourt boyos, the best literary family act since Dumas pere et fils.
Peter Quinn
Savagely funny, intoxicatingly sad, and wonderfully written.
Thomas Keneally
McCourt...makes his vivid, whimsical, raucous, murderous joy and voice available to the rest of us in tales of riot and glory.

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Monk Swimming 3.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 15 reviews.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
Ho,ho, this McCourt fellow is himself and then some. He's what you think of when you hear the phrase, 'Irish wit.' Reading this book is like spending time at a really fun Irish bar just shooting the breeze with a great talker and storyteller. The next pint's on me, Mr. Malachy!
Guest More than 1 year ago
This was an adventure... brilliantly written. A fun story, you'd think this fella a caffler.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Having enormously enjoyed his brother's books, I really wanted to like this one- but I couldn't.I think these stories would be just terrific standing around at a bar, but they just don't seem to hold up in this medium.I could only stay with the book about halfway, then I had to move on.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Frank McCourt focused on the differences between he and his brother in his first work, 'Angela's Ashes', and how Malachy was always the jollier of the two. Malachy proves this on his own in this wonderful autobiography which is a perfect compliment to his older brother's stories. Whereas 'Ashes' recounts the melancholy times spent in Irish poverty, and ''Tis' is the continuation, written in the same style of bittersweet angst, 'A Monk Swimming' is raucous, lusty, and amazing account of Malachy's arrival in America and life afterward - the drinking, the women, the travels, and the accidental fame, told in the way that only a good-humored Irishman can. McCourt twists the language in such a way that it is nearly ipossible not to laugh, but the wonderful thing about the book is that one is laughing along with him.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I was looking forward to reading another 'McCourt' book. The beginning chapters had me laughing so hard out loud that I was embarrassed! I truly wanted to appreciate this book. However, the last third of the book does tend to go on. We really did not need to have detail after detail of every trip taken with the gold bars. I kept waiting for more humor but it does not exsist at the end. too bad.
Guest More than 1 year ago
He has terific humor,but always invoved with sex. I wonder how much is true and how much is invented, especially the gold bar bit. Ol barleycorn seems to ruin a lot of Irish lives.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This was a vastly different type of work than Frank McCourt's, and I liked it very much. It is better, I think, that Malachy told his own story, in his own way, versus try to take off from Frank's. They are very different people, so their stories could not be the same.
Guest More than 1 year ago
For those of you who have read Angelas Ashes, Malachy is child who covers his pain in comedy and laughter. This life story is outragous and funny...unbelievable in its best moments.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Malachy McCourt has written THE funniest book I've read in years! Every turn of the page, I was laughing! I couldn't put it down. The funniest part, I thought was when he and Robert Micthum were palling around, with all the vistors to that trailer they were in, such as Frank Sinatra, were making the secne livier. Wonderful story!
Guest More than 1 year ago
If you have read his brother's work you are left with the feeling that sommething very good finished too early and that you want more of it. A Monk Swimming does that job wonderfully.