John Fante (1909–1983)

How is it that I never heard of quintessential Los Angeles author John Fante until now? St. Fante, the doomed Catholic romantic who presaged Kerouac as the steady-eyed chronicler among the invisible underclass of his generation. El Fante, the true spirit of LA, sitting up nights that refuse to cool down and typing madly in a white undershirt while his ashtray blooms and the smell of flowers on the hot wind makes the whole city smell like a funeral. Fante the bulldog—Bukowski before show more Bukowski had thought of it, or had given in to it—his spirit resilient against cops, and beautiful/crazy Mexican girls, and poverty. I mean, what the hell were they teaching us in school? If I had my way, I’d have kids read this book over and over. This is life: mad, frantic, desperate, and ecstatic. Neglect to read this at your own peril. show less

I did not enjoy spending time with Arturo Bandini as a young near-destitute author in depression era Los Angeles. Everything he relates is so filtered through a self with the emotional intelligence of a gnat and only enough residual honesty to know when he is lying. His assumption that how he treats women is what they deserve is particularly distasteful, yet something in the language and the stuttering grasps at connection is compelling.

“I was twenty then. What the hell, I used to say, take your time, Bandini. You got ten years to write a book, so take it easy, get out and learn about life, walk the streets. That’s your trouble: your ignorance of life.”

“I didn't ask any questions. Everything I wanted to know was written in tortured phrases across the desolation of her face.”

Ask the Dust, like many of my books has been languishing on shelf for a number of years. My timing was perfect, I needed a short read before show more starting my Stegner, so I plucked it down and what a terrific surprise it turned out to be. I had completely forgot that it had been written in 1938. It follows a young Italian-American writer in dust-choked LA, who falls hard for a Mexican waitress, while struggling to write his first novel. The prose is sharp and spare, like a strand of barbed wire. Fante should have gotten the same recognition as Salinger, Nathanael West, or Kerourac and like those authors, they are not for everyone. Highly recommended. show less

I read this in tandem with a friend who hated the novel. Quite the contrary, I really liked it, the everyday struggle is sprinkled with lyricism. I agree that often this glitter is misogynistic and racist. Fante succeeds here. There is no need to rationalize for his characters' biases and imperfections. This is a gritty novel of mixed fortunes.