I am sure there should be a category of book described thus; books to pass the time with by reading them sat at the back of the bus. I got my copy of this book out of my local public library and it is easy and light to read, so it is perfect for reading on public transport. I would go as far as to suggest taking a bus or train journey you don't need to take just so that you can give yourself time to read a book as good as this.
Given that he was born with cerebral palsy and it was not diagnosed until he was maybe ten, the efforts his mother made to get the young Christy to enjoy stories, learn to read and write, were beyond measure. But she was a busy and confident woman who gave her family reason for confidence, especially the young Christie who when he did learn to read and write was home taught and allowed the space to be creative that his healthy and normal brothers and sisters seemingly did not need as they got on with work, romance, and the other subject with which to fill a life that were normal to the 1940's, 50's, and 60's in Catholic Dublin.
But it is highly commendable that when he was young and his condition was not diagnosed his brothers showed as much indifference to his disability as they could when taking him out and making him part of their gang. At first reading, the way that Christy writes about his childhood and growing up as part of his family leaves practically nothing to be read between the lines for any contrary impressions. But some things can be inferred, he never went hungry, he was intelligent and his family knew it - for all that he had not the powers of speech they had. He had a normal sex drive/wanted girlfriends and idealised the opposite sex at the same age that boys without cerebral palsy did. His father may have been a distant figure, with his work as a bricklayer taking him away from the family quite as much as it did but he seems to be a figure worth revering for his consistency in supporting his large family, materially. He was also a figure who inspired his children to support themselves and each other.
The word that hovers over this book, unused because of how brisk the description of life was, is wholesome with a lower case w over it. Not for Christie Brown's family the pall of shame and guilt at sins committed in secret, where the results could not be explained because the acknowledgement of them froze those who had to acknowledge the deed and it's consequences. I write this as a person for whom the height of Motherly information about 'the birds and the bees' when I was fourteen was being told in venomous tones 'And don't bring any little bastards home [for us to see].' where long after I could never be sure whether Mother meant the person that she did not want to see was the girlfriend I might have got pregnant, the child she might be carrying, or myself after I had been with somebody she could not disapprove of with enough authority and vigour.
Not that adolescence and growing up were plain sailing for Christie, or for any of the family around him. His mother has to shame her bricklayer sons and husband in the family into building a small flat for the Christie Brown who was approaching adulthood and needed space, to think and to exercise so that he could get stronger. And what is anyone to say about going to Lourdes for a holiday, where the biggest respite for being there is that the disabled are very much in the majority there as those present would not be at home because they are shut away? A minority of one with their carers? I have known of holidays for social minorities, where as a group how they recognise one another is a therapeutic effect that is always of value. For anyone who in this age of vastly improved standards of medical and palliative care, the idea of going to Lourdes in 1949, suspecting that you might not come back cured but the break from the family was what you really needed at that moment, it will be a surprise what even a simple break can do.
The nearer the book gets to the end the more I read about Christie Brown's life opening like crushed flower, that is he becomes an adult in spite of the childhood spent mostly in his room where his left foot was his most ready means of expression. Learning to own and work the rest of his body was painful and involved many metaphorical falls. But when he dictates his first autobiography to his younger brother who writes it down. Emotional release through writing, where with the writing a person can organise and reorganise their thoughts is a process I appreciate a lot-it has done good things for me.
The way the book ends is both circular and an opening out in a way that was unforeseeable. The first few chapters of the book are read in public at a benefit concert in support of cerebral palsy services in Dublin, and then-star Burl Ives plays folk songs as, well, the name support act. To me the ending is a proper emotional gut-punch as all descriptions about seeking to rise above the worst adversities life can throw at a person are delivered in a modestly flawless finale.
For anyone who does not recognise the drive required to face the adversity of cerebral palsy when it has not been even diagnosed, then please think on what was going on with the disabled. When Christy was about four years old and living in Ireland, The Third Reich was starting it's grim campaign for the extermination of feeble minded and physically disabled children. The comparison between the Nazi attitude to the disabled, and his mother's support that got the young Christie through so much pain and limitation is as much as you need to contemplate on. That is why this book was the hit it was in the 1950s, just a few years after the mainland European atrocities were stopped, and every country, allied power or axis power was exhausted and slow to recover/rebuild itself.
Given that he was born with cerebral palsy and it was not diagnosed until he was maybe ten, the efforts his mother made to get the young Christy to enjoy stories, learn to read and write, were beyond measure. But she was a busy and confident woman who gave her family reason for confidence, especially the young Christie who when he did learn to read and write was home taught and allowed the space to be creative that his healthy and normal brothers and sisters seemingly did not need as they got on with work, romance, and the other subject with which to fill a life that were normal to the 1940's, 50's, and 60's in Catholic Dublin.
But it is highly commendable that when he was young and his condition was not diagnosed his brothers showed as much indifference to his disability as they could when taking him out and making him part of their gang. At first reading, the way that Christy writes about his childhood and growing up as part of his family leaves practically nothing to be read between the lines for any contrary impressions. But some things can be inferred, he never went hungry, he was intelligent and his family knew it - for all that he had not the powers of speech they had. He had a normal sex drive/wanted girlfriends and idealised the opposite sex at the same age that boys without cerebral palsy did. His father may have been a distant figure, with his work as a bricklayer taking him away from the family quite as much as it did but he seems to be a figure worth revering for his consistency in supporting his large family, materially. He was also a figure who inspired his children to support themselves and each other.
The word that hovers over this book, unused because of how brisk the description of life was, is wholesome with a lower case w over it. Not for Christie Brown's family the pall of shame and guilt at sins committed in secret, where the results could not be explained because the acknowledgement of them froze those who had to acknowledge the deed and it's consequences. I write this as a person for whom the height of Motherly information about 'the birds and the bees' when I was fourteen was being told in venomous tones 'And don't bring any little bastards home [for us to see].' where long after I could never be sure whether Mother meant the person that she did not want to see was the girlfriend I might have got pregnant, the child she might be carrying, or myself after I had been with somebody she could not disapprove of with enough authority and vigour.
Not that adolescence and growing up were plain sailing for Christie, or for any of the family around him. His mother has to shame her bricklayer sons and husband in the family into building a small flat for the Christie Brown who was approaching adulthood and needed space, to think and to exercise so that he could get stronger. And what is anyone to say about going to Lourdes for a holiday, where the biggest respite for being there is that the disabled are very much in the majority there as those present would not be at home because they are shut away? A minority of one with their carers? I have known of holidays for social minorities, where as a group how they recognise one another is a therapeutic effect that is always of value. For anyone who in this age of vastly improved standards of medical and palliative care, the idea of going to Lourdes in 1949, suspecting that you might not come back cured but the break from the family was what you really needed at that moment, it will be a surprise what even a simple break can do.
The nearer the book gets to the end the more I read about Christie Brown's life opening like crushed flower, that is he becomes an adult in spite of the childhood spent mostly in his room where his left foot was his most ready means of expression. Learning to own and work the rest of his body was painful and involved many metaphorical falls. But when he dictates his first autobiography to his younger brother who writes it down. Emotional release through writing, where with the writing a person can organise and reorganise their thoughts is a process I appreciate a lot-it has done good things for me.
The way the book ends is both circular and an opening out in a way that was unforeseeable. The first few chapters of the book are read in public at a benefit concert in support of cerebral palsy services in Dublin, and then-star Burl Ives plays folk songs as, well, the name support act. To me the ending is a proper emotional gut-punch as all descriptions about seeking to rise above the worst adversities life can throw at a person are delivered in a modestly flawless finale.
For anyone who does not recognise the drive required to face the adversity of cerebral palsy when it has not been even diagnosed, then please think on what was going on with the disabled. When Christy was about four years old and living in Ireland, The Third Reich was starting it's grim campaign for the extermination of feeble minded and physically disabled children. The comparison between the Nazi attitude to the disabled, and his mother's support that got the young Christie through so much pain and limitation is as much as you need to contemplate on. That is why this book was the hit it was in the 1950s, just a few years after the mainland European atrocities were stopped, and every country, allied power or axis power was exhausted and slow to recover/rebuild itself.
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