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John Fante

John Fante Books

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Ask the Dust

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Full of life

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“I stretched out on the bed and slept. It was twilight when I awakened and turned on the light. I felt better, no longer tired. I went to the typewriter and sat before it. My thought was to write a sentence, a single perfect sentence. If I could write one good sentence I could write two and if I could write two I could write three, and if I could write three I could write forever. But suppose I failed? Suppose I had lost all of my beautiful talent? Suppose it had burned up in the fire of Biff Newhouse smashing my nose or Helen Brownell dead forever? What would happen to me? Would I go to Abe Marx and become a busboy again? I had seventeen dollars in my wallet. Seventeen dollars and the fear of writing. I sat erect before the typewriter and blew on my fingers. Please God, please Knut Hamsun, don’t desert me now. I started to write and I wrote: “The time has come,” the Walrus said, “To talk of many things: Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax— Of cabbages—and kings—” I looked at it and wet my lips. It wasn’t mine, but what the hell, a man had to start someplace.”

WritingOptimismPersistence
Book:Dreams from Bunker Hill
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“Arturo Bandini was pretty sure that he wouldn't go to hell when he died. The way to hell was the committing of mortal sin. He had committed many, he believed, but the confessional had saved him. He always got to confession on time — that is, before he died. And he knocked on wood whenever he thought of it — he always would get there on time — before he died. So Arturo was pretty sure he wouldn't go to hell when he died. For two reasons. The confessional, and the fact that he was a fast runner.”

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Book:Wait Until Spring, Bandini
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“She made me a stranger unto myself, she was all of those calm nights and tall eucalyptus trees, the desert stars, that land and sky, that fog outside, and I had come there with no purpose save to be a mere writer, to get money, to make a name for myself and all that piffle. She was so much finer than I, so much more honest, that I was sick of myself and I could not look at her warm eyes, I suppressed the shiver brought on by her brown arms around my neck and the long fingers in my hair. I did not kiss her. She kissed me, author of The Little Dog Laughed.”

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Book:Ask the Dust
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“I went to the library. I looked at the magazines, at the pictures in them. One day I went to the bookshelves, and pulled out a book. It was Winesburg, Ohio.. I sat at a long mahogany table and began to read. All at once my world turned over. The sky fell in. The book held me. The tears came. My heart beat fast. I read until my eyes burned. I took the book home. I read another Anderson. I read and I read, and I was heartsick and lonely and in love with a book, many books, until it came naturally, and I sat there with a pencil and a long tablet, and tried to write, until I felt I could not go on because the words would not come as they did in Anderson, they only came like drops of blood from my heart.”

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Book:Dreams from Bunker Hill
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“It was a bad one, the Winter of 1933. Wading home that night through flames of snow, my toes burning, my ears on fire, the snow swirling around me like a flock of angry nuns, I stopped dead in my tracks. The time had come to take stock. Fair weather or foul, certain forces in the world were at work trying to destroy me.”

WorldTryingHomeNightCertainForceFireFairsEarsAngryWinterTrackSnowWeatherBurningFlamesToesFoulFlocksNun
Book:1933 Was A Bad Year
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“One night I was sitting on the bed in my hotel room on Buker Hill, down in the middle of Los Angeles. It was an important night in my life, because I had to make a decision about the hotel. Either I paid up or I got out: that was what the note said, the note the landlady had put under my door. A great problem, deserving acute attention. I solved it by turning out the lights and going to bed.”

SaidImportantProblemLightNightDecisionRoomsAttentionDoorsMiddleBedSittingPaidNotesHillsHotelLos AngelesOne NightDeservingHotel Rooms
Book:The Bandini Quartet: Wait Until Spring, Bandini: The Road to Los Angeles: Ask the Dust: Dreams from Bunker Hill
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“Oh, God, help me! And I walked faster, my thoughts pursuing me, and I began to run, my frozen shoes squealing like mice, but running didn't help, the thoughts to the left and right and behind me. But as I ran, The Arm, that good left arm, took hold of the situation and spoke soothingly: ease up, Kid, it's loneliness, you're all alone in the world; your father, your mother, your faith, they can't help you, nobody helps anybody, you only help yourself, and that's why I'm here, because we are inseperable, and we'll take care of everything.”

WorldHelpingCareRunningKidsMotherFatherLeftBehindsSituationLonelinessArmsShoesTake CareFasterEaseRanHelp MeSpokesMiceMy ThoughtsFrozenAll AloneGod HelpHelp YourselfLeft And RightGod Help MeSquealing
Author:John Fante
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“Ah, Evelyn and Vivian, I love you both, I love you for your sad lives, the empty misery of your coming home at dawn. You too are alone, but you are not like Arturo Bandini, who is neither fish, fowl nor good red herring. So have your champagne, because I love you both, and you too, Vivian, even if your mouth looks like it had been dug out with raw fingernails and your old child's eyes swim in blood written like mad sonnets.”

IfsLooksChildrenHomeEyeWrittenBloodLove YouMouthsRedEmptyMadMiseryFishesDawnComing HomeSwimSonnetChampagneFingernailsFowlSad LifeHerringRed Herrings
Book:Ask the Dust
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“(...) I let go, crying and unable to stop because God was such a dirty crook, contemptible skunk, that's what he was for doing that thing to that woman. Come down out of the skies, you God, come on down and I'll hammer your face all over the city of Los Angeles, you miserable unpardonable prankster. If it wasn't for you, this woman would not have been so maimed, and neither would the world, (...)”

IfsWorldHas BeensFacesCitiesSkyCryLetting GoDown AndMiserableDirtyLos AngelesYour FaceHammersCrooksPranksters
Author:John Fante
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“Listen closely. There’s a remote possibility that you might learn something: First, I don’t give a damn if my work is commercial or not…I’m the writer. If what I write is good, then people will read it. That’s why literature exists. An author puts his heart and guts on the page. For your information, a good novel can change the world. Keep that in mind before you attempt to sit down at a typewriter. Never waste time on something you don’t believe in yourself.”

PeopleIfsWorldGivingWritingMindFirstsBelieveHeartMightLiteratureNovelInformationPossibilityWastePagesDon't BelieveDamnChanging The WorldBelieve In YourselfGutsWasting TimeBelieve In YouTypewritersDon't Give A DamnI Don't Give A Damn
Author:John Fante
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“So what’s the use of repentance, and what do you care for goodness, and what if you should die in a quake, so who the hell cares? So I walked downtown, so these were the high buildings, so let the earthquake come, let it bury me and my sins, so who the hell cares? No good to God or man, die one way or another, a quake or a hanging, it didn’t matter why or when or how.”

IfsMenWayShouldMatterUseCareDiesSinHellBuildingGoodnessOne WayWhat IfRepentanceEarthquakesDowntownQuakeDo You Care
Book:The Bandini Quartet: Wait Until Spring, Bandini: The Road to Los Angeles: Ask the Dust: Dreams from Bunker Hill
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“Sick in my soul I tried to face the ordeal of seeking forgiveness. From whom? What God, what Christ? They were myths I once believed and now they were beliefs I felt were myths.”

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Book:The Bandini Quartet: Wait Until Spring, Bandini: The Road to Los Angeles: Ask the Dust: Dreams from Bunker Hill
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