incense, flowers and candles. Limerick gained a reputation for piety, but we knew it was only the rain (12).
The Church is also a source of the lyricism of the Irish and of this book, the rhythms of the writing drawing from the rhythms of the sermons and the long association between Irish writers and poets and the religion and its Bible. This lyricism and love of words tempers McCourt's scorning of the religion with a wistful appreciation for it and its ceremonies, the "steam [which] rose
. . . to mingle with the sweetness of incense, flowers and candles." The book is certainly full of cutting humor expressed at the expense of the religion, but underlying that bite is always an acknowledgement of the taste of sustenance which the Church provides. In that sense, the Church can be seen as a metaphor for the Irish culture as a whole, and for the microcosm of that culture as described in McCourt's childhood. He may hate that childhood and its misery, but in reflecting on it he clearly loves much of it at the same time. The Irish may curse
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