Memories of a Catholic Girlhood

Memories of a Catholic Girlhood

Mary McCarthy

Language: English

Pages: 264

ISBN: 0156586509

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


This unique autobiography begins with McCarthy’s recollections of an indulgent, idyllic childhood tragically altered by the death of her parents in the influenza epidemic of 1918. Tempering the need to fictionalize for the sake of a good story with the need for honesty, she creates interchapters that tell the reader what she has inferred or invented. Photographs.

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Grandmother McCarthy, but recently passed away, had left a fund to erect a chapel in her name in Texas, a state with which she had no known connection. Sitting in the twilight of my uncle Louis’ screened porch, we sought a common ground for our reunion and found it in Uncle Myers. It was then that my brother Preston told me that on the famous night of the butterfly, he had seen Uncle Myers steal into the dining room from the den and lift the tablecloth, with the tin butterfly in his hand.

Away from Catiline, shaking their heads and registering dismay, disbelief, horror, or what-did-I-tell-you, according to the part they were supposed to have played in history. Cato nodded grimly to Catulus and Caesar scratched his pate. As the arraignment of Catiline proceeded, I could feel the curiosity of the first rows slowly transfer itself to me—Lucius Sergius Catilina, adulterer, extortioner, profligate, bankrupt, assassin, suspected wife-killer, broken-down patrician, democrat, demagogue,.

Peroration and stepped from the rostrum. There was a great burst of applause. Miss Gowrie signaled. My moment had come. From my lonely bench, I surveyed them in superb isolation, the damned soul, proud and unassimilable, the marked, gifted man. I paused, as though hesitating to waste my words on these gentry, and then leapt to my feet and delivered Catiline’s speech, in toto, as recorded by Sallust—a short tirade, unfortunately, highly colored but stiff, ending in the défì “I will extinguish the.

Misspellings, though the writers claim to be educated; and they are all, without exception, menacing. “False,” “misrepresentation,” “lying,” “bigotry,” “hate,” “poison,” “filth,” “trash,” “cheap,” “distortion”—this is the common vocabulary of them all. They threaten to cancel their subscriptions to the magazine that published the memoir; they speak of a “great many other people that you ought to know feel as I do,” i.e., they attempt to constitute themselves a pressure group. Some demand an.

Night. And, a corollary, no matter how mad she was in the morning, she always kissed him good-by before he went to the office. She passed this recipe on to me gravely after I had been divorced; if I would just follow it, I would never have any more trouble, she was certain. This advice made me smile; it was so remote in its application to my case. But she shook her head reprovingly as she stood in front of her mirror, undoing her pearls for the night. “Remember, Mary,” she enjoined. “All right,”.

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