2 Novels by John Fante
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Overview: John Fante (April 8, 1909 – May 8, 1983) was an American novelist, short story writer and screenwriter of Italian descent. He is perhaps best known for his work, Ask the Dust, a semi-autobiograpical novel.
Fante was born in Denver, Colorado, in 1909, to his father, Nicola Fante, and his mother, Mary Capolungo. He attended various Catholic schools in Boulder, Colorado, before briefly enrolling at the University of Colorado. He dropped out of college in 1929 and moved to Southern California to focus on his writing. He wrote about writing and the people and places where he lived and worked, which included Wilmington, Long Beach, Manhattan Beach, the Bunker Hill district of downtown Los Angeles, California, as well as various homes in Hollywood, Echo Park and Malibu.[1] Diabetes cost him his eyesight and led to the amputation of both legs. He died in 1983.
Genre: Classic Fiction
Ask The Dust: Unanimously recognized as Fante’s greatest achievement this book tells the story of Arturo Bandini, a wannabe writer from Colorado looking for glory and inspiration on the streets of Los Angeles.
One day Arturo walks in a third-rate bar where the beer is cheap and smells acid ordering a coffee with his last 5 cents. The coffee tastes like rags’ rinse but what catches his attention is Camilla Lopez, the waitress, a Mexican that he admits isn’t beautiful yet attractive. The two start a complex and confused relationship that Fante renders beautifully in all its nuances of love, anger, revenge and hopelessness.
One could argue that Fante is what James Joyce would have wanted to be if faith hadn’t tasked him to come up with the stream of consciousness. Arturo’s thoughts flow effortlessly uncovering the weakest part of its persona and leaving the man’s raw flesh to react to the world around him.
Dreams From Bunker Hill: My first collision with fame was hardly memorable. I was a busboy at Marx’s Deli. The year was 1934. The place was Third and Hill, Los Angeles. I was twenty-one years old, living in a world bounded on the west by Bunker Hill, on the east by Los Angeles Street, on the south by Pershing Square, and on the north by Civic Center. I was a busboy nonpareil, with great verve and style for the profession, and though I was dreadfully underpaid (one dollar a day plus meals) I attracted considerable attention as I whirled from table to table, balancing a tray on one hand, and eliciting smiles from my customers. I had something else beside a waiter’s skill to offer my patrons, for I was also a writer.
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