What do you think?
Rate this book
The Saga of Arturo Bandini #3
Ask the Dust
"Fante was my god." —Charles Bukowski, in his introduction to Ask the Dust
Arturo Bandini, a young, struggling Italian-American writer living in a seedy hotel in 1930s Los Angeles, falls hard for the elusive, mocking, unstable Camilla Lopez, a Mexican waitress. The pair embark on a strange and strained love-hate relationship, which slowly, but inexorably, descends into the realm of madness.
Ask the Dust is one of the truly great, yet unsung, American novels of the twentieth century. A tough and unsentimental story with a soft and tender heart, it remains as fresh and affecting as the day it was written.
Arturo Bandini, a young, struggling Italian-American writer living in a seedy hotel in 1930s Los Angeles, falls hard for the elusive, mocking, unstable Camilla Lopez, a Mexican waitress. The pair embark on a strange and strained love-hate relationship, which slowly, but inexorably, descends into the realm of madness.
Ask the Dust is one of the truly great, yet unsung, American novels of the twentieth century. A tough and unsentimental story with a soft and tender heart, it remains as fresh and affecting as the day it was written.
165 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1939
About the author
John Fante
51 books2,094 followersFante's early years were spent in relative poverty. The son of an Italian born father, Nicola Fante, and an Italian-American mother, Mary Capolungo, Fante was educated in various Catholic schools in Boulder and Denver, Colorado, and briefly attended the University of Colorado.
In 1929, he dropped out of college and moved to Southern California to concentrate on his writing. He lived and worked in Wilmington, Long Beach, and in the Bunker Hill district of downtown Los Angeles, California.
He is known to be one of the first writers to portray the tough times faced by many writers in L.A. His work and style has influenced such similar authors as "Poet Laureate of Skid Row" Charles Bukowski and influential beat generation writer Jack Kerouac. He was proclaimed by Time Out magazine as one of America's "criminally neglected writers."
In 1929, he dropped out of college and moved to Southern California to concentrate on his writing. He lived and worked in Wilmington, Long Beach, and in the Bunker Hill district of downtown Los Angeles, California.
He is known to be one of the first writers to portray the tough times faced by many writers in L.A. His work and style has influenced such similar authors as "Poet Laureate of Skid Row" Charles Bukowski and influential beat generation writer Jack Kerouac. He was proclaimed by Time Out magazine as one of America's "criminally neglected writers."
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 2,565 reviews
September 25, 2007
I remember when I was fourteen, reading Catcher in the Rye. I went downstairs and told my mom, "it's the weirdest thing, this guy is, like, reading my mind!"
She said, "Matt, everyone thinks they're Holden Caulfield." God, adults can be so stupid sometimes. Obviously she didn't understand that this was something meaningful -- mystical, really -- that was happening to me. Or, to quote another influential poet of my youth, "parents just don't understand."
Flash forward another fourteen years, the last five or so of them being spent living in Los Angeles. Arturo Bandini, I know you too well! Living and dying with each minor victory and defeat... Fighting so often with the object of your affection to where eventually there's a perverse sort of pleasure to be found in it... Realizing that just because love might go unanswered, it doesn't make it any less real... and then of course all the dusty urban imagery that in sixty-five years has gone essentially unchanged and will likely continue to do so well into the future.
It's the telltale sign of good, strong writing when you get the feeling that someone has been reading your mail (or email). To inspire this feeling from a distance of more than half a century is an even greater trick. I would recommend this book to, like, everyone.
She said, "Matt, everyone thinks they're Holden Caulfield." God, adults can be so stupid sometimes. Obviously she didn't understand that this was something meaningful -- mystical, really -- that was happening to me. Or, to quote another influential poet of my youth, "parents just don't understand."
Flash forward another fourteen years, the last five or so of them being spent living in Los Angeles. Arturo Bandini, I know you too well! Living and dying with each minor victory and defeat... Fighting so often with the object of your affection to where eventually there's a perverse sort of pleasure to be found in it... Realizing that just because love might go unanswered, it doesn't make it any less real... and then of course all the dusty urban imagery that in sixty-five years has gone essentially unchanged and will likely continue to do so well into the future.
It's the telltale sign of good, strong writing when you get the feeling that someone has been reading your mail (or email). To inspire this feeling from a distance of more than half a century is an even greater trick. I would recommend this book to, like, everyone.
June 14, 2023
Arturo Bandini is young, penniless, naïve and inexperienced and he seems to be a hopeless dreamer but he has a purpose in life. He dreams to be a writer and he is set on achieving this goal by hook or by crook so he uses any possibility to write.
John Fante knows how to tell his tale right and he writes both very convincingly and captivatingly. Ask the Dust is a love story… Of sort. Its title suggests it to be sad and it is.
Hopes of youth… Desires of youth… Failures of youth… But you’re young and right ahead there seems to be an abyss of time… Some use this time to reach their aims and some use it to destroy their lives.
My plight drove me to the typewriter. I sat before it, overwhelmed with grief for Arturo Bandini. Sometimes an idea floated harmlessly through the room. It was like a small white bird. It meant no ill-will. It only wanted to help me, dear little bird. But I would strike at it, hammer it out across die keyboard, and it would die on my hands.
John Fante knows how to tell his tale right and he writes both very convincingly and captivatingly. Ask the Dust is a love story… Of sort. Its title suggests it to be sad and it is.
A knock on the window. Someone was knocking on the window of that house obscured by heavy vines. I turned and found the window, saw a head; the flash of teeth, the black hair, the leer, the gesturing long fingers. What was that thunder in my belly? And how shall I prevent that paralysis of thought, and that inundation of blood making my senses reel? But I want this! I shall die without it! So I’m coming you woman in the window; you fascinate me, you kill me dead with delight and shudder and joy, and here I come, up these rickety stairs.
Hopes of youth… Desires of youth… Failures of youth… But you’re young and right ahead there seems to be an abyss of time… Some use this time to reach their aims and some use it to destroy their lives.
August 14, 2021
LA POLVERE DEI SOGNI
Colin Farrell è Arturo e Salma Hayek è Camilla nel film omonimo diretto da Robert Towne nel 2006.
Ero giovane, saltavo i pasti, mi ubriacavo e mi sforzavo di diventare uno scrittore. Le mie letture andavo a farle alla biblioteca pubblica di Los Angeles, nel centro della città, ma niente di quello che leggevo aveva alcun rapporto con me, con le strade o con la gente che le percorreva. Mi sembrava che tutti giocassero con le parole e che i cosiddetti grandi scrittori non dicessero un accidenti di niente.
Questo romanzo è del 1939. E probabilmente se non fosse per Charles Bukowski, autore dei corsivi qui riportati, non ne avremmo mai sentito parlare, e quindi io non l’avrei mai letto.
Credo che si debba proprio a quel suo grande estimatore, a sua volta grande scrittore, se conosciamo John Fante che per certi versi è il padre della Beat Generation.
Sabbia e polvere.
A paragone degli scrittori del passato, i moderni non valevano gran che. Tirai giù dagli scaffali un libro dopo l'altro. Perché nessuno diceva niente? Perché nessuno gridava? Mi misi a cercare nelle altre sale della biblioteca . La sezione dei libri religiosi non era che un vasto acquitrino, almeno per me. Passai al reparto filosofia. Scovai un paio di tedeschi dall'animo amaro che mi tennero allegro per un po', ma l'esperienza si esaurì ben presto. Provai con la matematica, ma era esattamente come la religione, mi scorreva sopra senza lasciar traccia. Ovunque cercassi, non trovavo niente che mi interessasse.
La storia è già sentita: un ragazzo, Arturo Bandini (che poi resterà protagonista della maggior parte dei romanzi di John Fante), è approdato dal Colorado a Los Angeles inseguendo i suoi sogni di scrittore.
La realtà però è più dura di quanto aveva immaginato (anche perché siamo tuttora in periodo di Grande Depressione): è più facile ritrovarsi senza un soldo in tasca e lo stomaco vuoto e il proprietario che t’insegue per l’affitto che trovare un lavoro ben pagato e frequentare bella gente interessante.
Incontra una donna, Camilla Lopez, messicana. Il ragazzo, invece, è di origine italiana. Il sangue dei due giovani latini si accende, ma si mescola male. La storia non dura, non finisce bene.
La polvere arriva dal deserto, ricopre strade e marciapiedi, entra nelle stanze dei motel, copre i sogni e le speranze.
Ma alla fine il ragazzo è diventato un uomo.
Poi un giorno, ne presi uno e capii subito di essere arrivato in porto. Rimasi fermo per un attimo a leggere, poi mi portai il libro al tavolo con l’aria di uno che ha trovato l’oro nell’immondezzaio cittadino. Le parole scorrevano con facilità, in un flusso ininterrotto. Ognuna aveva la sua energia ed era seguita da un’altra simile. La sostanza di ogni frase dava forma alla pagina e l’insieme risultava come ‘scavato’ dentro di essa. Ecco, finalmente, uno scrittore che non aveva paura delle emozioni. Ironia e dolore erano intrecciati tra loro con straordinaria semplicità. Quando cominciai a leggere quel libro mi parve che mi fosse capitato un miracolo, grande e inatteso.
Quello che davvero conta e fa la differenza sono tono e scrittura. Il primo è dissacrante, ironico, scanzonato, ma anche struggente e disperato.
La seconda è spezzata, schizofrenica, appartiene alla strada. In sintesi, come diceva Hank Bukowski, è scritto con le viscere e per le viscere, con il cuore e per il cuore.
Dichiarazione d’amore:
Insieme a “Delitto e castigo” e al “Viaggio” di Céline, il tuo “Chiedi alla polvere” è il mio romanzo preferito. Le tue opere hanno dato una mano alla mia vita, mi hanno dato la speranza concreta che un uomo può buttare giù parole sulla pagina e lasciare sgorgare le emozioni. Nessuno l’ha mai fatto così bene come te. Il cielo è bagnato oggi e domani la pista sarà fangosa ma penserò a te e alla fortuna che mi è stata concessa di poter dire alla gente perché “Chiedi alla polvere” è così bello. Un romanzo che mi ha salvato la vita. Non ci sarà mai un altro John Fante. Non so da dove tu abbia preso il talento, ma gli dei certamente te ne hanno ben dotato. Tu per me hai significato e significhi più di qualsiasi uomo vivo o morto.
Lettera di Bukowski a Fante che si legge in “Sulla scrittura” pubblicato da Guanda in questi giorni. Quest’anno cade il centenario della nascita di Bukowski.
L’hotel Alta Vista al 255 S. Bunker Hill Avenue dove abita Arturo Bandini che pagava 3 dollari alla settimana.
Colin Farrell è Arturo e Salma Hayek è Camilla nel film omonimo diretto da Robert Towne nel 2006.
Ero giovane, saltavo i pasti, mi ubriacavo e mi sforzavo di diventare uno scrittore. Le mie letture andavo a farle alla biblioteca pubblica di Los Angeles, nel centro della città, ma niente di quello che leggevo aveva alcun rapporto con me, con le strade o con la gente che le percorreva. Mi sembrava che tutti giocassero con le parole e che i cosiddetti grandi scrittori non dicessero un accidenti di niente.
Questo romanzo è del 1939. E probabilmente se non fosse per Charles Bukowski, autore dei corsivi qui riportati, non ne avremmo mai sentito parlare, e quindi io non l’avrei mai letto.
Credo che si debba proprio a quel suo grande estimatore, a sua volta grande scrittore, se conosciamo John Fante che per certi versi è il padre della Beat Generation.
Sabbia e polvere.
A paragone degli scrittori del passato, i moderni non valevano gran che. Tirai giù dagli scaffali un libro dopo l'altro. Perché nessuno diceva niente? Perché nessuno gridava? Mi misi a cercare nelle altre sale della biblioteca . La sezione dei libri religiosi non era che un vasto acquitrino, almeno per me. Passai al reparto filosofia. Scovai un paio di tedeschi dall'animo amaro che mi tennero allegro per un po', ma l'esperienza si esaurì ben presto. Provai con la matematica, ma era esattamente come la religione, mi scorreva sopra senza lasciar traccia. Ovunque cercassi, non trovavo niente che mi interessasse.
La storia è già sentita: un ragazzo, Arturo Bandini (che poi resterà protagonista della maggior parte dei romanzi di John Fante), è approdato dal Colorado a Los Angeles inseguendo i suoi sogni di scrittore.
La realtà però è più dura di quanto aveva immaginato (anche perché siamo tuttora in periodo di Grande Depressione): è più facile ritrovarsi senza un soldo in tasca e lo stomaco vuoto e il proprietario che t’insegue per l’affitto che trovare un lavoro ben pagato e frequentare bella gente interessante.
Incontra una donna, Camilla Lopez, messicana. Il ragazzo, invece, è di origine italiana. Il sangue dei due giovani latini si accende, ma si mescola male. La storia non dura, non finisce bene.
La polvere arriva dal deserto, ricopre strade e marciapiedi, entra nelle stanze dei motel, copre i sogni e le speranze.
Ma alla fine il ragazzo è diventato un uomo.
Poi un giorno, ne presi uno e capii subito di essere arrivato in porto. Rimasi fermo per un attimo a leggere, poi mi portai il libro al tavolo con l’aria di uno che ha trovato l’oro nell’immondezzaio cittadino. Le parole scorrevano con facilità, in un flusso ininterrotto. Ognuna aveva la sua energia ed era seguita da un’altra simile. La sostanza di ogni frase dava forma alla pagina e l’insieme risultava come ‘scavato’ dentro di essa. Ecco, finalmente, uno scrittore che non aveva paura delle emozioni. Ironia e dolore erano intrecciati tra loro con straordinaria semplicità. Quando cominciai a leggere quel libro mi parve che mi fosse capitato un miracolo, grande e inatteso.
Quello che davvero conta e fa la differenza sono tono e scrittura. Il primo è dissacrante, ironico, scanzonato, ma anche struggente e disperato.
La seconda è spezzata, schizofrenica, appartiene alla strada. In sintesi, come diceva Hank Bukowski, è scritto con le viscere e per le viscere, con il cuore e per il cuore.
Dichiarazione d’amore:
Insieme a “Delitto e castigo” e al “Viaggio” di Céline, il tuo “Chiedi alla polvere” è il mio romanzo preferito. Le tue opere hanno dato una mano alla mia vita, mi hanno dato la speranza concreta che un uomo può buttare giù parole sulla pagina e lasciare sgorgare le emozioni. Nessuno l’ha mai fatto così bene come te. Il cielo è bagnato oggi e domani la pista sarà fangosa ma penserò a te e alla fortuna che mi è stata concessa di poter dire alla gente perché “Chiedi alla polvere” è così bello. Un romanzo che mi ha salvato la vita. Non ci sarà mai un altro John Fante. Non so da dove tu abbia preso il talento, ma gli dei certamente te ne hanno ben dotato. Tu per me hai significato e significhi più di qualsiasi uomo vivo o morto.
Lettera di Bukowski a Fante che si legge in “Sulla scrittura” pubblicato da Guanda in questi giorni. Quest’anno cade il centenario della nascita di Bukowski.
L’hotel Alta Vista al 255 S. Bunker Hill Avenue dove abita Arturo Bandini che pagava 3 dollari alla settimana.
December 4, 2013
John Fante was Bukowski's god, and "either you adore him or you've never heard of him." Writing that's raw, swolen, true, and moving from a macro view of paragraph by paragraph, tectonic plates, words that are so organic, you never think about the words, they're tendons and muscles and joins that are by themselves ordinary yet Fante's voice is bold, heroic, cowardly, greedy, broken, blindingly joyful, I would follow him anywhere. It's rare that I buy a copy of a book I've already read, if I didn't own it to begin with. I needed to own Ask the Dust. The intro by Bukowski is terrific, too.
June 27, 2021
Here goes my 200th book report since joining Goodreads.
And my introduction to the fiction of John Fante is Ask the Dust, his 1939 novel considered by some scholars and educators to be one of the best works of fiction set in the Great Depression and the best set in Los Angeles. Superlatives like those could work against the book's vitality, which is palpable. Fante's narrator--destitute twenty year old boy Arturo Bandini struggling against hunger, wanting and creative resistance--lacks the worldliness of John Steinbeck's Depression-era men and would've done well to read The Grapes of Wrath and grow up. His story is as bare as a cupboard, but Fante's language and the atmosphere he conjures are breathtaking.
I was passing the doorman of the Biltmore, and I hated him at once, with his yellow braids and six feet of height and all that dignity, and now a black automobile drove to the curb, and a man got out. He looked rich, and then a woman got out, and she was beautiful, her fur was silver fox, and she was a song across the sidewalk and inside the swinging doors, and I thought oh boy for a little of that, just a day and night of that, and she was a dream as I walked along, her perfume still in the wet morning air.
Then a great deal of time passed as I stood in front of a pipe shop and looked, and the whole world faded except that window and I stood and smoked them all, and saw myself a great author with that natty Italian briar, and a cane, stepping out of a big black car, and she was there too, proud as hell of me, the lady in the silver fox fur. We registered and then we had cocktails and then we danced awhile, and then we had another cocktail and I recited some lines of Sanskrit, and the world was so wonderful, because every two minutes some gorgeous one gazed at me, the great author, and nothing would do but I had to autograph her menu, and the silver fox girl was very jealous.
In reality, Arturo (or Arthur, depending on how prejudiced the person he's introducing himself to is towards Italians) is five months off the bus from Boulder, Colorado, chasing dreams of becoming the Great Writer he knows himself to be. He checks in to a room in the Alta Loma Hotel in Bunker Hill, in the center of downtown Los Angeles, with little more than one-hundred fifty dollars in his pocket and big dreams in his head. Arturo carried two suitcases, one full of copies of a literary magazine edited by his hero J.C. Hackmuth, who has published a short story Arturo wrote titled The Little Dog Laughed. No one in the hotel seems to care, too busy eroding by sun, hunger or dust.
Down to his last nickel, Arturo makes his way to Spring Street and a bar called the Columbia Buffet. He becomes fixated on a Mexican waitress named Camilla Lopez who serves him the worst cup of coffee he's ever tasted. Their romance hardly blossoms along the lines of mutual respect; Arturo projects his own self-loathing onto Camilla, who in return is often angry that the vigorous writer cannot be the man she loves, bartender Sammy Wiggins, who longs to publish western stories but is ailing from tuberculosis. Arturo is pursued by a desperate older woman named Vera Rivkin who becomes the inspiration for his first novel. Wanting to celebrate his success with Camilla, fate steps in.
So this is where she lived! I smelled it, touched it with my fingers, walked through it with my feet. It was as I had imagined. This was her home. Blindfolded I could have acknowledged the place, for her odor possessed it, her fevered, lost existence proclaimed it as part of a hopeless scheme. An apartment on Temple Street, an apartment in Los Angeles. She belonged to the rolling hills, the wide deserts, the high mountains, she would ruin any apartment, she would lay havoc upon any such little prison as this. It was so, ever in my imagination, ever a part of my scheming and thinking about her. This was her home, her ruin, her scattered dream.
The writing in Ask the Dust is so intoxicating, so filled with ardor and longing--whether it's righteous or completely misplaced by our boy narrator--that I couldn't help but fall under its spell. With little more than his imagination and a typewriter, Fante sketches Depression-era Los Angeles as vividly as the three greatest L.A. movies--Chinatown (1974), Blade Runner (1982) and L.A. Confidential (1997)--were able to do with an army of visual artists. Fante also knows the tempests brewing under the skin of both the aspiring artist and the amorous, socially awkward male--often one and the same--and conveys the life and times of both demographics memorably.
Ask the Dust comes up short of complete satisfaction due to a couple of things. There's the length, which I'd peg at 50,000 words, nearly novella length. This is accounting for the threadbare nature of the story, the unwillingness of Fante/Bandini to really explore Camilla, Sammy, Vera, or anyone else in Los Angeles. This is a book about a boy's angst first and a city second, with characters further down the list. There's also disconnection between Arutro and Camilla where a novelist like Steinbeck might've developed a connection. The target demographic for Fante might be budding (male) authors or those with an interest in historic Los Angeles. These are my demographics.
One of the novel's fans was Robert Towne, the Academy Award winning screenwriter of Chinatown who called Ask the Dust the greatest novel ever written about Los Angeles. In 2006, a long-simmering film version adapted and directed by Towne was released. Starring Colin Farrell as Arturo Bandini, Salma Hayek as Camilla and Idina Menzel as Vera, it suffered a fate similar to Billy Bob Thornton's 1999 adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's All the Pretty Horses as a sober love story mismatched with idealistic imagery. It is in Fante's book where his descriptions thrive. I didn't ask any questions. Everything I wanted to know was written in tortured phrases across the desolation of her face.
And my introduction to the fiction of John Fante is Ask the Dust, his 1939 novel considered by some scholars and educators to be one of the best works of fiction set in the Great Depression and the best set in Los Angeles. Superlatives like those could work against the book's vitality, which is palpable. Fante's narrator--destitute twenty year old boy Arturo Bandini struggling against hunger, wanting and creative resistance--lacks the worldliness of John Steinbeck's Depression-era men and would've done well to read The Grapes of Wrath and grow up. His story is as bare as a cupboard, but Fante's language and the atmosphere he conjures are breathtaking.
I was passing the doorman of the Biltmore, and I hated him at once, with his yellow braids and six feet of height and all that dignity, and now a black automobile drove to the curb, and a man got out. He looked rich, and then a woman got out, and she was beautiful, her fur was silver fox, and she was a song across the sidewalk and inside the swinging doors, and I thought oh boy for a little of that, just a day and night of that, and she was a dream as I walked along, her perfume still in the wet morning air.
Then a great deal of time passed as I stood in front of a pipe shop and looked, and the whole world faded except that window and I stood and smoked them all, and saw myself a great author with that natty Italian briar, and a cane, stepping out of a big black car, and she was there too, proud as hell of me, the lady in the silver fox fur. We registered and then we had cocktails and then we danced awhile, and then we had another cocktail and I recited some lines of Sanskrit, and the world was so wonderful, because every two minutes some gorgeous one gazed at me, the great author, and nothing would do but I had to autograph her menu, and the silver fox girl was very jealous.
In reality, Arturo (or Arthur, depending on how prejudiced the person he's introducing himself to is towards Italians) is five months off the bus from Boulder, Colorado, chasing dreams of becoming the Great Writer he knows himself to be. He checks in to a room in the Alta Loma Hotel in Bunker Hill, in the center of downtown Los Angeles, with little more than one-hundred fifty dollars in his pocket and big dreams in his head. Arturo carried two suitcases, one full of copies of a literary magazine edited by his hero J.C. Hackmuth, who has published a short story Arturo wrote titled The Little Dog Laughed. No one in the hotel seems to care, too busy eroding by sun, hunger or dust.
Down to his last nickel, Arturo makes his way to Spring Street and a bar called the Columbia Buffet. He becomes fixated on a Mexican waitress named Camilla Lopez who serves him the worst cup of coffee he's ever tasted. Their romance hardly blossoms along the lines of mutual respect; Arturo projects his own self-loathing onto Camilla, who in return is often angry that the vigorous writer cannot be the man she loves, bartender Sammy Wiggins, who longs to publish western stories but is ailing from tuberculosis. Arturo is pursued by a desperate older woman named Vera Rivkin who becomes the inspiration for his first novel. Wanting to celebrate his success with Camilla, fate steps in.
So this is where she lived! I smelled it, touched it with my fingers, walked through it with my feet. It was as I had imagined. This was her home. Blindfolded I could have acknowledged the place, for her odor possessed it, her fevered, lost existence proclaimed it as part of a hopeless scheme. An apartment on Temple Street, an apartment in Los Angeles. She belonged to the rolling hills, the wide deserts, the high mountains, she would ruin any apartment, she would lay havoc upon any such little prison as this. It was so, ever in my imagination, ever a part of my scheming and thinking about her. This was her home, her ruin, her scattered dream.
The writing in Ask the Dust is so intoxicating, so filled with ardor and longing--whether it's righteous or completely misplaced by our boy narrator--that I couldn't help but fall under its spell. With little more than his imagination and a typewriter, Fante sketches Depression-era Los Angeles as vividly as the three greatest L.A. movies--Chinatown (1974), Blade Runner (1982) and L.A. Confidential (1997)--were able to do with an army of visual artists. Fante also knows the tempests brewing under the skin of both the aspiring artist and the amorous, socially awkward male--often one and the same--and conveys the life and times of both demographics memorably.
Ask the Dust comes up short of complete satisfaction due to a couple of things. There's the length, which I'd peg at 50,000 words, nearly novella length. This is accounting for the threadbare nature of the story, the unwillingness of Fante/Bandini to really explore Camilla, Sammy, Vera, or anyone else in Los Angeles. This is a book about a boy's angst first and a city second, with characters further down the list. There's also disconnection between Arutro and Camilla where a novelist like Steinbeck might've developed a connection. The target demographic for Fante might be budding (male) authors or those with an interest in historic Los Angeles. These are my demographics.
One of the novel's fans was Robert Towne, the Academy Award winning screenwriter of Chinatown who called Ask the Dust the greatest novel ever written about Los Angeles. In 2006, a long-simmering film version adapted and directed by Towne was released. Starring Colin Farrell as Arturo Bandini, Salma Hayek as Camilla and Idina Menzel as Vera, it suffered a fate similar to Billy Bob Thornton's 1999 adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's All the Pretty Horses as a sober love story mismatched with idealistic imagery. It is in Fante's book where his descriptions thrive. I didn't ask any questions. Everything I wanted to know was written in tortured phrases across the desolation of her face.
April 18, 2024
چند روز پیش دوستی گفت که ترجیح میده زندگی نامه آدم های ناموفق رو بخونه ، و بنظرم این کتاب همونه که اون دوست دنبالشه :)
داستان زندگی باندینی جوان، نویسنده ناموفقی که همیشه از طرف زنها و ناشران ریجکت میشه و حالا درحالیکه با فقر و گرسنگی دست به گریبانه، به دنبال رویاهاش وارد شهر لسآنجلس میشه...
این کتاب اولین آشنایی من با جان فانته بود و باید اعتراف کنم خیلی احساس بدبختی میکنم که تاحالا چیزی از این نویسنده نخونده بودم. قلم روان، نبوغ و صداقت جان فانته منو مجذوب کرده و دوست دارم بیشتر ازش بخونم♡
داستان زندگی باندینی جوان، نویسنده ناموفقی که همیشه از طرف زنها و ناشران ریجکت میشه و حالا درحالیکه با فقر و گرسنگی دست به گریبانه، به دنبال رویاهاش وارد شهر لسآنجلس میشه...
این کتاب اولین آشنایی من با جان فانته بود و باید اعتراف کنم خیلی احساس بدبختی میکنم که تاحالا چیزی از این نویسنده نخونده بودم. قلم روان، نبوغ و صداقت جان فانته منو مجذوب کرده و دوست دارم بیشتر ازش بخونم♡
July 3, 2023
اگر از کارهای بوکفسکی و سلین خوشتان میآید حتما این کتاب را هم بخوانید و آرتورو باندینی را هم به شخصیتهای به یادماندنی فردینان و هنری چیناسکی اضافه کنید.
*********************************************************************
بله، فانته تأثیر قدرتمندی رویم داشت. خیلی از خوندن این کتابها نگذشته بود که شروع کردم به زندگی بایه زن. اون از من بد مستتر بود و با هم دعواهای وحشیانهای می کردیم و بیشتر وقتها سرش داد میزدم «به من نگو حرومزاده! من باندینیام آرتورو باندینی!» فانته خدای من بود و میدونستم که باید خدایان رو تنها گذاشت، نه اینکه بری در خونهشون رو بزنی. مقدمه. چارلز بوکفسکی. صفحهی ۱۱ کتاب
ای روزگار از آسمونها بیا پایین، بیا پایین تا صورتت رو روی کل شهر لسآنجلس له و لورده کنم، ای لودهی نابخشودنی. صفحهی ۱۲۲ کتاب
دنیا یه افسانه بود، یه سطح شفاف، و همهی چیزهای روشن فقط واسهی یه مدت کوتاه اینجا بودن؛ همهی ما باندینی و هکمث و کامیلا و ورا، همهی ما فقط واسهی یه مدت کوتاه اینجا بودیم، و بعد یه جای دیگه میبودیم؛ ما اصلاً زنده نبودیم، به زنده بودن نزدیک میشدیم، ولی هیچ وقت بهش دست پیدا نمیکردیم. ما قراره بمیریم. همه قراره بمیرم. حتی تو آرتورو، حتی تو هم باید بمیری. صفحهی ۱۳۱ کتاب
*********************************************************************
بله، فانته تأثیر قدرتمندی رویم داشت. خیلی از خوندن این کتابها نگذشته بود که شروع کردم به زندگی بایه زن. اون از من بد مستتر بود و با هم دعواهای وحشیانهای می کردیم و بیشتر وقتها سرش داد میزدم «به من نگو حرومزاده! من باندینیام آرتورو باندینی!» فانته خدای من بود و میدونستم که باید خدایان رو تنها گذاشت، نه اینکه بری در خونهشون رو بزنی. مقدمه. چارلز بوکفسکی. صفحهی ۱۱ کتاب
ای روزگار از آسمونها بیا پایین، بیا پایین تا صورتت رو روی کل شهر لسآنجلس له و لورده کنم، ای لودهی نابخشودنی. صفحهی ۱۲۲ کتاب
دنیا یه افسانه بود، یه سطح شفاف، و همهی چیزهای روشن فقط واسهی یه مدت کوتاه اینجا بودن؛ همهی ما باندینی و هکمث و کامیلا و ورا، همهی ما فقط واسهی یه مدت کوتاه اینجا بودیم، و بعد یه جای دیگه میبودیم؛ ما اصلاً زنده نبودیم، به زنده بودن نزدیک میشدیم، ولی هیچ وقت بهش دست پیدا نمیکردیم. ما قراره بمیریم. همه قراره بمیرم. حتی تو آرتورو، حتی تو هم باید بمیری. صفحهی ۱۳۱ کتاب
January 15, 2019
Se mantiene el crescendo en la tercera entrega de la saga Bandini: salvo sorpresa final, esta será la mejor.
Virtudes literarias aparte, dado el carácter autobiográfico de la serie, llama la atención el impudor del autor ante sus miserias y mezquindades y el escaso valor que concede a sus virtudes… con una especialísima excepción: su genio literario. El humor está más presente en esta entrega que en las otras dos y consiguió más de una vez arrancarme una carcajada, cosa nada fácil.
Virtudes literarias aparte, dado el carácter autobiográfico de la serie, llama la atención el impudor del autor ante sus miserias y mezquindades y el escaso valor que concede a sus virtudes… con una especialísima excepción: su genio literario. El humor está más presente en esta entrega que en las otras dos y consiguió más de una vez arrancarme una carcajada, cosa nada fácil.
June 14, 2023
In one way this reminded me of The Catcher in the Rye, though not the good way. For me as for so many teens growing up, Holden Caulfield was all that. Imagine, then, my horror when I grew up to be an English teacher in a high school assigning the book of my dreams. Imagine, too, the horror I felt as 75% of my young readers were turned off by the book, considering HC to be a shallow whiner.
A shall--, wha?
That was a few decades back. Just a few years ago I dared to return to Salinger's magnum opus, risking everything, I thought, if time treated it poorly. But it didn't. And that pleased me no end (I'm a simple man). I thought the book achieved everything it set out to. I thought both Holden and his little sister Phoebe were great characters. I even liked the bit characters--Ackley, Stradlater, Jane Gallagher, etc.
But back to Ask the Dust. Chaz Bukowski put me on to it. Even wrote an intro for it, circa 1979, complaining how anemic contemporary books were in those days, how nothing had any life like the pre-Revolution Russians. Until this book.
Yikes. A tall order. Ask the Dust on a par with Tolstoy and Dostoevsky? Uh, no. But back to Salinger's book. I found my response to John Fante's novel somewhat akin to my students' reaction to Salinger's. The protagonist, Arturo Bandini, was 20 but immature for his days. Whiny, if whimsical. Deluded, if hopeful. A writer with all the wannabe writer dreams. It was mildly funny in the start, until it wasn't.
The trouble is, Bandini seemed a bit of a crackpot. Over the edge. And then the girl he falls for, one Camilla, is almost a mirror image. A crackpot. Over the edge. His neighbor who cadges money off of him? Crackpot, check. Over the edge, check. The crazy older woman he'd never seen before who shows up at his door one night looking for love? Crackpot (natch). Over the edge (-urally). (But at least she was the source of writing ideas for young Bandini who, like every 20-year-old who wants to write, has an editor who publishes everything he mails in.)
Don't get me wrong. It was an easy read and I never wanted to STOP. It was just, I don't know, a rather plotless thing begging me to fall in love with its characters (as all plotless books do), and I just couldn't fully deliver.
So not bad and not great. Three points. All for you, Bukowski, because the character was as down and out as you played at being. That counts for something, maybe.
A shall--, wha?
That was a few decades back. Just a few years ago I dared to return to Salinger's magnum opus, risking everything, I thought, if time treated it poorly. But it didn't. And that pleased me no end (I'm a simple man). I thought the book achieved everything it set out to. I thought both Holden and his little sister Phoebe were great characters. I even liked the bit characters--Ackley, Stradlater, Jane Gallagher, etc.
But back to Ask the Dust. Chaz Bukowski put me on to it. Even wrote an intro for it, circa 1979, complaining how anemic contemporary books were in those days, how nothing had any life like the pre-Revolution Russians. Until this book.
Yikes. A tall order. Ask the Dust on a par with Tolstoy and Dostoevsky? Uh, no. But back to Salinger's book. I found my response to John Fante's novel somewhat akin to my students' reaction to Salinger's. The protagonist, Arturo Bandini, was 20 but immature for his days. Whiny, if whimsical. Deluded, if hopeful. A writer with all the wannabe writer dreams. It was mildly funny in the start, until it wasn't.
The trouble is, Bandini seemed a bit of a crackpot. Over the edge. And then the girl he falls for, one Camilla, is almost a mirror image. A crackpot. Over the edge. His neighbor who cadges money off of him? Crackpot, check. Over the edge, check. The crazy older woman he'd never seen before who shows up at his door one night looking for love? Crackpot (natch). Over the edge (-urally). (But at least she was the source of writing ideas for young Bandini who, like every 20-year-old who wants to write, has an editor who publishes everything he mails in.)
Don't get me wrong. It was an easy read and I never wanted to STOP. It was just, I don't know, a rather plotless thing begging me to fall in love with its characters (as all plotless books do), and I just couldn't fully deliver.
So not bad and not great. Three points. All for you, Bukowski, because the character was as down and out as you played at being. That counts for something, maybe.
June 6, 2020
Struggling writer Arturo Bandini (Great name!) arrived in 1930's Los Angeles to make it Big, but ends up in a crummy hotel on Bunker Hill where he spends most of his time dreaming the days away whilst surviving on a diet of oranges and cheap drink, the town is gripped by poverty and every time he sits at his typewriter the lack of ideas is paramount. But the publication of a short story which leads to some much needed cash brings Bandini some joy, where it's a case of spend! spend! spend! New clothes, cigars, fine food, and nights out: indulgent excess! But the high life does not last, and it's while at a diner that he is drawn to Camilla Lopez, a waitress with hidden troubles of her own, and so begins a love/hate relationship that always seemed doomed from the start.
Arturo Bandini is such a great creation and on first impressions Henry Chinaski springs to mind, although there are some similarities here with Bukowski, Fante writes more from the heart with a tenderness that overall makes this more of a moving read than the Chinaski novels. It reminded me a little of Nathaniel West's brilliant 'The Day of the Locust' in terms of the hopes and dreams of those trying to make a name for themselves in the City of Angels. Great stuff!
Arturo Bandini is such a great creation and on first impressions Henry Chinaski springs to mind, although there are some similarities here with Bukowski, Fante writes more from the heart with a tenderness that overall makes this more of a moving read than the Chinaski novels. It reminded me a little of Nathaniel West's brilliant 'The Day of the Locust' in terms of the hopes and dreams of those trying to make a name for themselves in the City of Angels. Great stuff!
September 9, 2009
Fuck this book. "I acted like a racist douchebag toward a girl I like/hate because I've experienced racism myself, and then I sexually assualted her. Later, I felt sad she was gone forever." Arturo Bandini writes charmingly, and the setting and (non)plot are super inviting, but Jesus Christ, I expected so much more from a press (Black Sparrow) that's supposed to be cool and an author with such an old-timey mystique. Fuck this.
July 29, 2021
مقدمهی چارلز بوکوفسکی:
یه روز از توی کتابخونه یه کتابی کشیدم بیرون و بازش کردم و یافتمش! یه لحظه وایستادم به خوندن.بعد مثل آدمی که تو زبالهٔدونی ،طلا پیدا کرده،کتاب رو بردم سر یه میز.و بلاخره مردی اینجا بود که از نشون دادن احساساتش ترس نداشت.طنز و درد با سادگی کم نظیری باهم ترکیب شده بود.شروع اون کتاب واسم یه معجزهی مهار نشدنی و عظیم بود.کارت کتابخونه رو داشتم.کتاب رو بردم اتاقم ،رفتم روی تخت و خوندمش،و خیلی قبل از این که تمومش کنم میدونستم با مردی طرفم که سبک نگارش متمایزی ابداع کرده بود.اون کتاب از غبار بپرس جان فانته بود.کسی که بعدها تاثیر مادام العمری روی نوشتن من گذاشت.بله فانته تاثیر قدرتمندی رویم داشت .خیلی از خوندن این کتابها نگذشته بود که شروع کردم به زندگی با یه زن.اون از من بد مست تر بود و باهم دعواهای وحشیانهای میکردیم و بیشتر وقت ها سرش داد میزدم: «به من نگو حرامزاده! من باندینیام،آرتورو باندینی!»
فانته خدای من بود و میدونستم که باید خدایان رو تنها گذاشت،نه اینکه بری در خونشون رو بزنی.
یه روز از توی کتابخونه یه کتابی کشیدم بیرون و بازش کردم و یافتمش! یه لحظه وایستادم به خوندن.بعد مثل آدمی که تو زبالهٔدونی ،طلا پیدا کرده،کتاب رو بردم سر یه میز.و بلاخره مردی اینجا بود که از نشون دادن احساساتش ترس نداشت.طنز و درد با سادگی کم نظیری باهم ترکیب شده بود.شروع اون کتاب واسم یه معجزهی مهار نشدنی و عظیم بود.کارت کتابخونه رو داشتم.کتاب رو بردم اتاقم ،رفتم روی تخت و خوندمش،و خیلی قبل از این که تمومش کنم میدونستم با مردی طرفم که سبک نگارش متمایزی ابداع کرده بود.اون کتاب از غبار بپرس جان فانته بود.کسی که بعدها تاثیر مادام العمری روی نوشتن من گذاشت.بله فانته تاثیر قدرتمندی رویم داشت .خیلی از خوندن این کتابها نگذشته بود که شروع کردم به زندگی با یه زن.اون از من بد مست تر بود و باهم دعواهای وحشیانهای میکردیم و بیشتر وقت ها سرش داد میزدم: «به من نگو حرامزاده! من باندینیام،آرتورو باندینی!»
فانته خدای من بود و میدونستم که باید خدایان رو تنها گذاشت،نه اینکه بری در خونشون رو بزنی.
March 17, 2016
This book was beautifully depressing. I read it because Charles Bukowski loved John Fante so much and I was not let down. The story had a depressed swagger that was believable even though it was about a time mostly remembered for glamor.
November 11, 2022
سومین رمان از مجموعه آرتور باندینی ، از غبار بپرس ، جان فانته مسیر زندگی آرتور را تا تبدیل شدن او به یک نویسنده نسبتا حرفه ای و شناخته شده در لس آنجلس را بیان کرده . در کتاب دوم یعنی جاده لس انجلس آرتور به دنبال رویا های خود یعنی عشق ، پول و شهرت خانه خود را ترک کرد و راهی لس انجلس شده بود ، حال او در از غبار بپرس به بخشی از رویاهای خود می رسد .
آرتور گرچه همچنان جامعه ستیز ، یاغی و سرکش است اما به نظر می رسد که نسبت به دوران نوجوانی خصوصیات منفی او اندکی کمتر شده است . اما زبان آرتور هم چنان تند و تلخ است ، سری پر شور و شر دارد اما او هم چنان برای هدف خود یعنی نویسنده شدن سخت می جنگد .
رابطه آرتور با کامیلا لوپز ، دختری مکزیکی که در کافه ای کار می کند درنوع خود بسیار جالب است ، دامنه عواطف آنان نسبت بهم میان عشق و تنفر نوسان می کند . به نظر می رسد که آنان بیشتر شبیه هستند تا مکمل هم . گرچه به گونه ای عاشق هم هستند اما همدیگر را سخت آزار می دهند .
نکته جالب در این مجموعه آرتور باندینی ، عوض شدن مداوم و همیشگی تعداد افراد خانواده اوست . در کتاب تا بهار صبر کن باندینی ، آرتور اضافه بر پدر و مادردو یا سه برادر داشت . در جاده ی لس انج��س ، پدر فوت شده ، از برادران خبری نیست و یک خواهر جای آنان را گرفته است و در این کتاب آرتور برای پدر و مادر خود که در شهر دیگری هستند پول می فرستد . باید دید که در آخرین کتاب رویاهای بانکر هیل ، جان فانته چه برنامه ای برای خانواده آرتور دارد .
کلام جان فانته تلخ است و سوزان ، قهرمان کتاب اوآرتورگویی هم قهرمان است و هم ضد قهرمان ، خواننده هم از پیروزی او لذت می برد و هم از تحقیر شدن او. آرتور هم همدردی خواننده را بر می انگیزد و هم حس نفرت او را ( گرچه که در از غبار بپرس نفرت خواننده از آرتور ممکن است کمتر شود ) اما جان فانته در وجود آرتور صفت بسیار مثبتی گذاشته است : صداقت بی نهایت او که سخت ستودنی ایست .
آرتور گرچه همچنان جامعه ستیز ، یاغی و سرکش است اما به نظر می رسد که نسبت به دوران نوجوانی خصوصیات منفی او اندکی کمتر شده است . اما زبان آرتور هم چنان تند و تلخ است ، سری پر شور و شر دارد اما او هم چنان برای هدف خود یعنی نویسنده شدن سخت می جنگد .
رابطه آرتور با کامیلا لوپز ، دختری مکزیکی که در کافه ای کار می کند درنوع خود بسیار جالب است ، دامنه عواطف آنان نسبت بهم میان عشق و تنفر نوسان می کند . به نظر می رسد که آنان بیشتر شبیه هستند تا مکمل هم . گرچه به گونه ای عاشق هم هستند اما همدیگر را سخت آزار می دهند .
نکته جالب در این مجموعه آرتور باندینی ، عوض شدن مداوم و همیشگی تعداد افراد خانواده اوست . در کتاب تا بهار صبر کن باندینی ، آرتور اضافه بر پدر و مادردو یا سه برادر داشت . در جاده ی لس انج��س ، پدر فوت شده ، از برادران خبری نیست و یک خواهر جای آنان را گرفته است و در این کتاب آرتور برای پدر و مادر خود که در شهر دیگری هستند پول می فرستد . باید دید که در آخرین کتاب رویاهای بانکر هیل ، جان فانته چه برنامه ای برای خانواده آرتور دارد .
کلام جان فانته تلخ است و سوزان ، قهرمان کتاب اوآرتورگویی هم قهرمان است و هم ضد قهرمان ، خواننده هم از پیروزی او لذت می برد و هم از تحقیر شدن او. آرتور هم همدردی خواننده را بر می انگیزد و هم حس نفرت او را ( گرچه که در از غبار بپرس نفرت خواننده از آرتور ممکن است کمتر شود ) اما جان فانته در وجود آرتور صفت بسیار مثبتی گذاشته است : صداقت بی نهایت او که سخت ستودنی ایست .
September 28, 2007
I'm giving it three but it really deserves 3.5.
I started off tearing into this book with the momentum I tore through Bukowski, which isn't to say that I love Bukowski, I don't, but I tore through his works. It's easy shit to tear through.
So I read the overwhelmingly positive Bukowski introduction and I'm off and running. I have a strange fasination with early 20th century LA. I couldn't say why. I have lived in San Francisco the majority of my life and been to LA 3-4 times. I couldn't care less about modern LA, it's something about private eyes and coniving starlets with loose morals in gang run speak easys that gets me going. Wait, that's Raymond Chandler....
Anyways, I like the time period. I also like Antonio Bandini's general insanity. He's a complex guy. A mess but a complex guy.
The writing starts out interesting but decent and by about a hundred pages I didn't care so much anymore. The book was destined to sit on the side of my bed with the other 10 books I'm half way through and will finish sometime before 2010.
Then on a random Saturday afternoon, camping in the Redwoods, about half way through my second 22 of Lagunitas Mother IPA I locked in.
Every word was resonating. Bandini was speaking God's truth. I was there with him, with her, in the desert. Bandini takes it, but man can he dish it out. I tore through the rest of that novel that Saturday afternoon. And in it's finishing pages when the small plastic cup of IPA was gone and the whiskey was burning strong I closed Ask the Dust with a bang and threw that fucker into the desert.
Bandini!
I started off tearing into this book with the momentum I tore through Bukowski, which isn't to say that I love Bukowski, I don't, but I tore through his works. It's easy shit to tear through.
So I read the overwhelmingly positive Bukowski introduction and I'm off and running. I have a strange fasination with early 20th century LA. I couldn't say why. I have lived in San Francisco the majority of my life and been to LA 3-4 times. I couldn't care less about modern LA, it's something about private eyes and coniving starlets with loose morals in gang run speak easys that gets me going. Wait, that's Raymond Chandler....
Anyways, I like the time period. I also like Antonio Bandini's general insanity. He's a complex guy. A mess but a complex guy.
The writing starts out interesting but decent and by about a hundred pages I didn't care so much anymore. The book was destined to sit on the side of my bed with the other 10 books I'm half way through and will finish sometime before 2010.
Then on a random Saturday afternoon, camping in the Redwoods, about half way through my second 22 of Lagunitas Mother IPA I locked in.
Every word was resonating. Bandini was speaking God's truth. I was there with him, with her, in the desert. Bandini takes it, but man can he dish it out. I tore through the rest of that novel that Saturday afternoon. And in it's finishing pages when the small plastic cup of IPA was gone and the whiskey was burning strong I closed Ask the Dust with a bang and threw that fucker into the desert.
Bandini!
February 19, 2020
Смятала съм, че хората, които искат да пишат, удържат в себе си порой от идеи. Опитват се да ги обуздаят, но в един момент баражът се пропуква и думите просто рукват към света. Неестествено ми се е струвало да искаш да си писател, а да не ти идва какво да кажеш. В тази връзка не съм разбирала и вездесъщия писателски блокаж. Истината обаче е, че няма общовалидна истина. Звучи като парадокс, защото е. Всички имаме какво да кажем на света, независимо от темпото или обстоятелствата, при които го правим. Понякога думите изригват сами, друг път трудно отвоюваме дори една мисъл, но накрая винаги идват.
Артуро Бандини е задушаващо беден, беден като мишока Педро, който му прави компания в оскъдно обзаведената хотелска стая в Града на ангелите. Бандини е и гладен. И то не само защото няма пари и известно време кара основно на портокали. Гладен е за успех. За признание е гладен и за любов. Протагонистът на Фанти, „горд с това, по дяволите“, че е американец, е кълбо с ту положителен, ту отрицателен заряд, подвластно на genius loci и на zeitgeist , духа на мястото и времето на една смутна епоха. Бандини трака по пишещата си машина, пуши евтините си цигари и се вслушва в сухия вятър, идещ откъм пустинята Мохаве в Лос Анджелис, скован от Голямата депресия, тъжен, дрипав и мръсен, като много от мексиканските му жители.
„Бандини крачи по улицата — невисок, но набит, горд с мускулите си, стиска юмруци и се наслаждава на твърдия разкош на бицепсите си; абсурдно безстрашния Бандини, който не се страхува от нищо друго, освен от неизвестното, в този свят на вълшебства и тайни.“
Името на Артуро Бандини се повтаря безброй пъти в романа, като той понякога говори за себе си от първо лице, понякога започва да кръжи над особата си и иронично се самовеличае, сякаш описва някого другиго. Честото прескачане от самосъжаление към презрение до полушеговита самовлюбеност рамкира всички важни аспекти от живота на Бандини – и емигрантските му корени, и отношенията му със сервитьорката Камила, писането и спонтанните му прояви на религиозност. Само от неизвестното се бои Артуро, но се оказва, че почти нищо не му е известно. За него лелеяните мексиканки са „ацтекски принцеси и принцеси на маите“, но нарича един мексиканец „мазен, мръсен циганин“. Неведнъж надменно изтъква, че е американец, а посяга към европейските си корени като към нещо по-добро, като си поръчва шотландско уиски и в бара иска „да свирят Щраус. Нещо виенско.“
„Когато бях малък и живеех в Колорадо, точно Смит, Паркър и Джоунс ме обиждаха с ужасните си думи, наричаха ме „мангал“, „мазньо“ и „циганин“ и техните деца ме нараняваха, точно както аз те нараних тази вечер. И ме нараниха с такава сила, че аз никога нямаше да стана един от тях, и потърсих убежище в книгите, и навътре в себе си, и ме прогониха… и понякога, Камила, когато видя лицата им, аз отново усещам онази стара болка и понякога виждам техните безсърдечни лица..., които изживяват празния си живот под палещото слънце.“
Бандини, писателят в зародиш, „авторът на блестящия разказ „Кученцето се засмя“, чието заглавие дори е смехотворно, търси опрощение и спасение от болката си в своята Камила, но понякога боли твърде много, за да протегнеш ръка. Понякога те е страх да отметнеш воала на идеала си, защото не знаеш какво се крие под него. А твоят идеал също търси своето късче щастие. И него го боли и също се лута, а ако попитате някого някога защо е влюбен и защо любовта е ирационална, и защо нараняваме себе си и тези, които обичаме най-много, отговорът може да бъде само един. Питай прахта.
„Пустинята винаги щеше да си бъде там като търпеливо, бяло животно, което чака хората да умрат, цивилизациите да примигнат и да потънат в небитието.“
Артуро Бандини е задушаващо беден, беден като мишока Педро, който му прави компания в оскъдно обзаведената хотелска стая в Града на ангелите. Бандини е и гладен. И то не само защото няма пари и известно време кара основно на портокали. Гладен е за успех. За признание е гладен и за любов. Протагонистът на Фанти, „горд с това, по дяволите“, че е американец, е кълбо с ту положителен, ту отрицателен заряд, подвластно на genius loci и на zeitgeist , духа на мястото и времето на една смутна епоха. Бандини трака по пишещата си машина, пуши евтините си цигари и се вслушва в сухия вятър, идещ откъм пустинята Мохаве в Лос Анджелис, скован от Голямата депресия, тъжен, дрипав и мръсен, като много от мексиканските му жители.
„Бандини крачи по улицата — невисок, но набит, горд с мускулите си, стиска юмруци и се наслаждава на твърдия разкош на бицепсите си; абсурдно безстрашния Бандини, който не се страхува от нищо друго, освен от неизвестното, в този свят на вълшебства и тайни.“
Името на Артуро Бандини се повтаря безброй пъти в романа, като той понякога говори за себе си от първо лице, понякога започва да кръжи над особата си и иронично се самовеличае, сякаш описва някого другиго. Честото прескачане от самосъжаление към презрение до полушеговита самовлюбеност рамкира всички важни аспекти от живота на Бандини – и емигрантските му корени, и отношенията му със сервитьорката Камила, писането и спонтанните му прояви на религиозност. Само от неизвестното се бои Артуро, но се оказва, че почти нищо не му е известно. За него лелеяните мексиканки са „ацтекски принцеси и принцеси на маите“, но нарича един мексиканец „мазен, мръсен циганин“. Неведнъж надменно изтъква, че е американец, а посяга към европейските си корени като към нещо по-добро, като си поръчва шотландско уиски и в бара иска „да свирят Щраус. Нещо виенско.“
„Когато бях малък и живеех в Колорадо, точно Смит, Паркър и Джоунс ме обиждаха с ужасните си думи, наричаха ме „мангал“, „мазньо“ и „циганин“ и техните деца ме нараняваха, точно както аз те нараних тази вечер. И ме нараниха с такава сила, че аз никога нямаше да стана един от тях, и потърсих убежище в книгите, и навътре в себе си, и ме прогониха… и понякога, Камила, когато видя лицата им, аз отново усещам онази стара болка и понякога виждам техните безсърдечни лица..., които изживяват празния си живот под палещото слънце.“
Бандини, писателят в зародиш, „авторът на блестящия разказ „Кученцето се засмя“, чието заглавие дори е смехотворно, търси опрощение и спасение от болката си в своята Камила, но понякога боли твърде много, за да протегнеш ръка. Понякога те е страх да отметнеш воала на идеала си, защото не знаеш какво се крие под него. А твоят идеал също търси своето късче щастие. И него го боли и също се лута, а ако попитате някого някога защо е влюбен и защо любовта е ирационална, и защо нараняваме себе си и тези, които обичаме най-много, отговорът може да бъде само един. Питай прахта.
„Пустинята винаги щеше да си бъде там като търпеливо, бяло животно, което чака хората да умрат, цивилизациите да примигнат и да потънат в небитието.“
March 22, 2009
I picked this up for a buck last week. Fante's such an easy read that I should have been finished that night, but I can't even seem to feign an interest in fiction lately. Well, maybe that's not entirely true. Maybe brain is still convalescing from all the Texas, drugs, and alcohol that I consumed last weekend. I'm astonished that I'm even capable of reading my e-mails lately.
An example of Fante's ostensible solipsism. "War in Europe, a speech by Hitler, trouble in Poland, these were the topics of the day. What piffle! You warmongers, you old folks in the lobby of the Alta Loma Hotel, here is the news, here: this little paper with all the fancy legal writing, my book! To hell with that Hitler, this is more important than Hitler, this is about my book. It won't shake the world, it won't kill a soul, it won't fire a gun, ah, but you'll remember the book. The story of Vera Rivken, a slice out of life." Indeed, he makes such a charming argument. World War II, bah! Bandini's aimless adventures; far more important.
Books such as Ask the Dust seem to fall into the "hey, listen-to-me-becoming-a-great-writer" category. I've never really understood how any of these guys were published. I chalk it up to the historical period. Maybe the idea of the struggling writer trying to make a name for himself in Los Angeles appealed to the sympathies of the difficult times in which these books were written. Honestly, I see nothing more than a nuanced journal kept by someone who thinks that they are becoming a great writer. There isn't really anything more to Ask the Dust than a few banal observations about the human condition, a masochistic relationship with a bar waitress, and an appalling amount of exclamation points.
I've often heard Bukowski compared to Fante. Fante's influence on Bukowski is chronologically accurate, but it's unfair to Bukowski to say that Fante is superior in some way. They're both awful writers. They're both assholes too. The only difference is that Fante paints a portrait of his alter-ego as this altruistic, Catholic saint, whereas Bukowski drowns himself in booze-soaked, self deprecation. At least Bukowski was honest, and funny. Anyway, I don't even know why I really care that much. Maybe I just can't stand needless arguments about which piece of crap is better.
An example of Fante's ostensible solipsism. "War in Europe, a speech by Hitler, trouble in Poland, these were the topics of the day. What piffle! You warmongers, you old folks in the lobby of the Alta Loma Hotel, here is the news, here: this little paper with all the fancy legal writing, my book! To hell with that Hitler, this is more important than Hitler, this is about my book. It won't shake the world, it won't kill a soul, it won't fire a gun, ah, but you'll remember the book. The story of Vera Rivken, a slice out of life." Indeed, he makes such a charming argument. World War II, bah! Bandini's aimless adventures; far more important.
Books such as Ask the Dust seem to fall into the "hey, listen-to-me-becoming-a-great-writer" category. I've never really understood how any of these guys were published. I chalk it up to the historical period. Maybe the idea of the struggling writer trying to make a name for himself in Los Angeles appealed to the sympathies of the difficult times in which these books were written. Honestly, I see nothing more than a nuanced journal kept by someone who thinks that they are becoming a great writer. There isn't really anything more to Ask the Dust than a few banal observations about the human condition, a masochistic relationship with a bar waitress, and an appalling amount of exclamation points.
I've often heard Bukowski compared to Fante. Fante's influence on Bukowski is chronologically accurate, but it's unfair to Bukowski to say that Fante is superior in some way. They're both awful writers. They're both assholes too. The only difference is that Fante paints a portrait of his alter-ego as this altruistic, Catholic saint, whereas Bukowski drowns himself in booze-soaked, self deprecation. At least Bukowski was honest, and funny. Anyway, I don't even know why I really care that much. Maybe I just can't stand needless arguments about which piece of crap is better.
April 8, 2021
یادمه تو مقدمه کتاب مرگ قسطی سلین خونده بودم که مهم ترین کار نویسنده انتقال حسه...
اگه حرف سلین درست باشه ، این کتاب بهترین اثریه که خوندم. با تک تک سلولام شخصیت داستان رو حس می کردم .
حجمی از صداقت رو تو این کتاب می بینی که تو کمتر کتابی دیده میشه و نکته دیگه روانشناسی خیلی خوب کتاب بود .
کلا نگذرین ازین کتاب. عالیه عالییی
اگه حرف سلین درست باشه ، این کتاب بهترین اثریه که خوندم. با تک تک سلولام شخصیت داستان رو حس می کردم .
حجمی از صداقت رو تو این کتاب می بینی که تو کمتر کتابی دیده میشه و نکته دیگه روانشناسی خیلی خوب کتاب بود .
کلا نگذرین ازین کتاب. عالیه عالییی
April 7, 2015
*جزء مما قاله تشارلز بوكوفسكي عن الرواية :
في البدء كان تشارلز بوكوفسكي ..
تصفحت الرواية وأنا أقوم بترتيب الكتب التي اقتنيتها من معرض الرياض ..
ووجدتني وقد بدأت بقراءتها ..
في مقدمته تحدث بوكوفسكي عن حبه للقراءة والأدب بحثاً عن كتب تتحدثُ إليه وتصرخ به (حسب تعبيره) ، كتب استثنائية ولم يجد إلا القليل ، حتى وقعت بين يديه نسخة لـ رواية اسأل الغبار ..
تحدثَ عن كيف أحب العمل وأثر به وأثر بكتاباته طوال حياته ، وعن تقديره لـ جون فانتي ..
مقدمة كـ هذه ستجعلك تبدأ بقراءة الكتاب فوراُ ..
آرتورو باندبني شاب طموح يعيش في لوس انجلوس في ثلاثينيات القرن الماضي ، كاتب وحالم يتكسب من كتاباته الغير منتظمة والتي تنشر في بعض المجلات وعلى فترات متباعدة ..
يسحرك (خاصة في البداية ) آرتورو بكل عنفوانه وغضبه واندفاعه ، وتجذبكَ تناقضاته وصراعاته مع هويته ، كراهيته للنظرة الدونية التي وصمَ باعتباره ابناً عائلة كانت ذات يوم عائلة مهاجرة وهو مع ذلكَ لا يتواني ممارسة نفس الفعل مع آخرين .
رواية عن الحياة ، عن مصاعبها وآلامها ، تتحدث أيضاً عن حب وموت وصحراء قاسية ، عن التدمير الذاتي ، وعن الواقع وخرابه وعن النهاية ، إنه مزيج مثالي ..
عمل يضحكك ويبكيكَ بـالوقت نفسه ، مليء بالكوميديا السوداء وبالآلام ، ومؤثر واجزم أنه سـ يلمس كل قاريء بطريقة خاصة ، جون فانتي كاتبٌ عظيم ، هذه رواية مكتوبة بقوة وتصميم : مكتوبة من القلب ، فهمت الكثير بعدَ أن عرفت مدى التشابه بين شخصية آرتورو والكاتب ..
إنها رواية عن الأحلام ، عن الكتابة وعن رجل وحيد وعالمٍ قاسٍ وحبٍ مستحيل ...
March 11, 2018
Πριν απο αρκετο καιρο, ειχα διαβασει το βιβλιο του Bukowski, "το μονο που νοιαζει ειναι να ξυνομαι στη μασχαλη..".σε αυτο το βιβλιο λοιπον ειχε αναφερει ως μεγαλυτερη επιρροη του στο συγγραφικο του εργο τον John Fante κι ετσι αποφασισα να διαβασω κατι δικο του προκειμενου να δω πως θα μπορουσε να γραφει καποιος ο οποιος επηρεασε τον Bukowski...το "ρωτα τη σκ��νη" λοιπον μου αφησε τις καλυτερες εντυπωσεις.παρουσιαζει οντως πολλες ομοιοτητες με το εργο του Bukowski , ωστοσο ο Fante βγαζει μια μελαγχολια και περισσοτερη "σοβαροτητα" και ωριμοτητα απο το ωμο και πολλες φορες προσβλητικο χιουμορ του αγαπημενου Bukowski.
Η ιστορια εκτυλίσσεται στο Λος Αντζελες(φυσικα), με πρωταγωνιστη εναν ανερχομενο συγγραφεα και alter ego του Φαντε, τον Αρτουρο Μπαντινι.η ζωη του ειναι γεματη στερησεις, απογοητευσεις και αυτοαναιρεσεις , μεχρι που συναντα μια ομορφη Μεξικανα και τοτε απλα μεταφερει στη "σχεση " τους αυτες τις συμπεριφορες με ολεθρια φυσικα αποτελεσματα.η ιστορια ειναι σχεδον αυτοβιογραφικη του συγγραφεα και το βιβλιο διαβαζεται πολυ ευκολα.πραγματικα σε μεταφερει στο κλιμα εκεινης της εποχης με τη ζωντανη αφηγηση και σε βαζει 100% στον ψυχισμο του πρωταγωνιστη.αξιζει εως την τελευταια σελιδα..
Η ιστορια εκτυλίσσεται στο Λος Αντζελες(φυσικα), με πρωταγωνιστη εναν ανερχομενο συγγραφεα και alter ego του Φαντε, τον Αρτουρο Μπαντινι.η ζωη του ειναι γεματη στερησεις, απογοητευσεις και αυτοαναιρεσεις , μεχρι που συναντα μια ομορφη Μεξικανα και τοτε απλα μεταφερει στη "σχεση " τους αυτες τις συμπεριφορες με ολεθρια φυσικα αποτελεσματα.η ιστορια ειναι σχεδον αυτοβιογραφικη του συγγραφεα και το βιβλιο διαβαζεται πολυ ευκολα.πραγματικα σε μεταφερει στο κλιμα εκεινης της εποχης με τη ζωντανη αφηγηση και σε βαζει 100% στον ψυχισμο του πρωταγωνιστη.αξιζει εως την τελευταια σελιδα..
July 6, 2012
« Avevo vent’anni, allora. Che diavolo, dicevo, prenditela comoda, Bandini. Hai davanti a te dieci anni per scrivere un libro, vacci piano, allora, guardati attorno e impara qualcosa, gira per le strade. Il tuo guaio è che non sai niente della vita. Dio Mio, amico, ti rendi conto che non sei mai stato una donna? »
Arturo Bandini. Sì, Arturo Bandini.
Non conoscete Arturo Bandini?
Come no… via! Lo scrittore! Arturo Bandini lo scrittore!
No? Dai, quello lì… quello che ha scritto… ‘Il cagnolino rise’ e ‘Le colline perdute’ e quell’altro romanzo che adesso sta spopolando in libreria che… come si chiama? Mannaggia. Parla di una donna, sì, la storia di una donna che…
Ma, Cristo, che ci parlo a fare con voi. Se non sapete neanche chi è Arturo Bandini. Roba da non credere.
Ve lo dico io chi è Arturo Bandini. Arturo Bandini è un tronfio, narcisista, iper-sicuro-di-sé e promettente giovane scrittore. Quel che fa Arturo Bandini è sempre ben fatto. Quel che scrive Arturo Bandini è sempre ben scritto. Arturo Bandini capisce tutto lui. Non sbaglia mai. È un figo. Le donne lo amano.
Se potessimo spaccare in due la testa di Arturo Bandini, sezionarla come un’anguria, questo è all’incirca ciò che ci troveremmo dentro: un perpetuo elogio di sé che si trasforma continuamente in apologia. L’elogio di sé è necessario, come sempre è necessaria l’apologia, perché, per quanto il lettore medio sia suscettibile al fascino del Bandini, vede bene – lo vede pure l’occhio meno acuto – che l’Arturo Bandini in potenza si trasforma raramente nel Bandini in atto. Il Bandini che vive, quello che del Bandini-idea ha solo il nome e i contorni, è un ragazzetto, è povero, è andato via da casa con pochi soldi e tanti sogni di gloria, con le donne è un disgraziato, nessuno lo prende sul serio, è una miseria. Il cozzo tra l’idea che Bandini ha di sé e l’impressione che suscita sugli altri è terribile.
Il vero Bandini è uno che si affaccia appena alla vita, che ha bisogno di sicurezze e di conferme, continuamente scisso tra i precetti dell’educazione cattolica e un grande desiderio di trasgressione. Si professa ateo, ma prega. Si considera sessualmente un portento, e riesce a possedere una donna sì e no. Si sente incredibilmente virile, ma si eccita sempre al momento sbagliato. Il desiderio lo smorza, lo annichilisce anziché attizzarlo: solo il disprezzo e il dolore gli risvegliano l’appetito. Pensa di essere un sadico, invece è masochista. Il vero Bandini strepita per imporre alla vita l’idea che ha della vita, per sovrapporre l’immagine mitica che ha di sé alla sua immagine in carne e ossa. Far entrare la letteratura nella vita è la stessa cosa che far entrare la vita nella letteratura: una lotta impari, una faticaccia, uno sforzo spesso senza risultati o con risultati così magri da non valere l’impegno. « Questi momenti – il lato brutto della vita – si trasformeranno in altrettante pagine ».
Così io credo sia questo. ‘Chiedi alla polvere’ è una teoria del possesso. Il possesso della vita nella vita. Il possesso della vita nella letteratura. Il possesso della donna nella vita – Camilla. Il possesso della donna nella letteratura – Vera. Il possesso di quella forza che sta oltre la vita, la letteratura e l’amore e che è il furore, l’orgoglio vitale, la potenza di esistere.
Così mi ha fatto sentire questo libro: potente, vitale, divertita, in pace col mondo, coraggiosissima. Pronta a solcare il globo da est a ovest e da ovest a est. Pur essendo un libro terribile, mi ha fatto sentire terribilmente bene.
La scrittura di Fante è un’automobile sportiva lanciata a tutta velocità su un rettilineo. Il rettilineo, però, è circondato da mura di mattoni e l’auto sbanda continuamente a destra e a sinistra cozzando contro i muri. Il lettore è scagliato in avanti e frantumato perpendicolarmente. La visuale è tutta una polvere di schegge di vernice.
Non aggiungo altro. Credo di aver letto questo libro nel momento giusto per me. Vi auguro di leggerlo nel momento giusto per voi.
Arturo Bandini. Sì, Arturo Bandini.
Non conoscete Arturo Bandini?
Come no… via! Lo scrittore! Arturo Bandini lo scrittore!
No? Dai, quello lì… quello che ha scritto… ‘Il cagnolino rise’ e ‘Le colline perdute’ e quell’altro romanzo che adesso sta spopolando in libreria che… come si chiama? Mannaggia. Parla di una donna, sì, la storia di una donna che…
Ma, Cristo, che ci parlo a fare con voi. Se non sapete neanche chi è Arturo Bandini. Roba da non credere.
Ve lo dico io chi è Arturo Bandini. Arturo Bandini è un tronfio, narcisista, iper-sicuro-di-sé e promettente giovane scrittore. Quel che fa Arturo Bandini è sempre ben fatto. Quel che scrive Arturo Bandini è sempre ben scritto. Arturo Bandini capisce tutto lui. Non sbaglia mai. È un figo. Le donne lo amano.
Se potessimo spaccare in due la testa di Arturo Bandini, sezionarla come un’anguria, questo è all’incirca ciò che ci troveremmo dentro: un perpetuo elogio di sé che si trasforma continuamente in apologia. L’elogio di sé è necessario, come sempre è necessaria l’apologia, perché, per quanto il lettore medio sia suscettibile al fascino del Bandini, vede bene – lo vede pure l’occhio meno acuto – che l’Arturo Bandini in potenza si trasforma raramente nel Bandini in atto. Il Bandini che vive, quello che del Bandini-idea ha solo il nome e i contorni, è un ragazzetto, è povero, è andato via da casa con pochi soldi e tanti sogni di gloria, con le donne è un disgraziato, nessuno lo prende sul serio, è una miseria. Il cozzo tra l’idea che Bandini ha di sé e l’impressione che suscita sugli altri è terribile.
Il vero Bandini è uno che si affaccia appena alla vita, che ha bisogno di sicurezze e di conferme, continuamente scisso tra i precetti dell’educazione cattolica e un grande desiderio di trasgressione. Si professa ateo, ma prega. Si considera sessualmente un portento, e riesce a possedere una donna sì e no. Si sente incredibilmente virile, ma si eccita sempre al momento sbagliato. Il desiderio lo smorza, lo annichilisce anziché attizzarlo: solo il disprezzo e il dolore gli risvegliano l’appetito. Pensa di essere un sadico, invece è masochista. Il vero Bandini strepita per imporre alla vita l’idea che ha della vita, per sovrapporre l’immagine mitica che ha di sé alla sua immagine in carne e ossa. Far entrare la letteratura nella vita è la stessa cosa che far entrare la vita nella letteratura: una lotta impari, una faticaccia, uno sforzo spesso senza risultati o con risultati così magri da non valere l’impegno. « Questi momenti – il lato brutto della vita – si trasformeranno in altrettante pagine ».
Così io credo sia questo. ‘Chiedi alla polvere’ è una teoria del possesso. Il possesso della vita nella vita. Il possesso della vita nella letteratura. Il possesso della donna nella vita – Camilla. Il possesso della donna nella letteratura – Vera. Il possesso di quella forza che sta oltre la vita, la letteratura e l’amore e che è il furore, l’orgoglio vitale, la potenza di esistere.
Così mi ha fatto sentire questo libro: potente, vitale, divertita, in pace col mondo, coraggiosissima. Pronta a solcare il globo da est a ovest e da ovest a est. Pur essendo un libro terribile, mi ha fatto sentire terribilmente bene.
La scrittura di Fante è un’automobile sportiva lanciata a tutta velocità su un rettilineo. Il rettilineo, però, è circondato da mura di mattoni e l’auto sbanda continuamente a destra e a sinistra cozzando contro i muri. Il lettore è scagliato in avanti e frantumato perpendicolarmente. La visuale è tutta una polvere di schegge di vernice.
Non aggiungo altro. Credo di aver letto questo libro nel momento giusto per me. Vi auguro di leggerlo nel momento giusto per voi.
August 3, 2021
My plight drove me to the typewriter. I sat before it, overwhelmed with grief for Arturo Bandini. Sometimes an idea floated harmlessly through the room. It was like a small white bird. It meant no ill-will. It only wanted to help me, dear little bird. But I would strike at it, hammer it out across die keyboard, and it would die on my hands.
*
Oh Bandini, talking to the reflection in the dresser mirror, what sacrifices you make for your art! You might have been a captain of industry, a merchant prince, a big league ball player, leading hitter in the American League, with an average of.415; but no! Here you are, crawling through the days, a starved genius, faithful to your sacred calling. What courage you possess!
*
They were myths I once believed, and now they were beliefs I felt were myths. This is the sea, and this is Arturo, and the sea is real, and Arturo believes it real. Then I turn from the sea, and everywhere I look there is land; I walk on and on, and still the land goes stretching away to the horizons. A year, five years, ten years, and I have not seen the sea. I say unto myself, but what has happened to the sea? And I answer, the sea is back there, back in the reservoir of memory. The sea is a myth. There never was a sea. But there was a sea! I tell you I was born on the seashore! I bathed in the waters of the sea! It gave me food and it gave me peace, and its fascinating distances fed my dreams! No Arturo, there never was a sea. You dream and you wish, but you go on through the wasteland. You will never see the sea again. It was a myth you once believed.-But, I have to smile, for the salt of the sea is in my blood, and there may be ten thousand roads over the land, but they shall never confuse me, for my heart's blood will ever return to its beautiful source.
*
I was like a man made of wood and there was no feeling within me except terror and a fear of her, a sense that her beauty was too much, that she was so much more beautiful than I, deeper rooted than I. 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.
*
Take the longing in these restless eyes and feed it to lonely swallows cruising an autumn cornfield, because I love you Camilla, and your name is sacred like that of some brave princess who died with a smile for a love that was never returned.
*
Across the desolation lay a supreme indifference, the casualness of night and another day, and yet the secret intimacy of those hills, their silent consoling wonder, made death a thing of no great importance. You could die, but the desert would hide the secret of your death, it would remain after you, to cover your memory with ageless wind and heat and cold. It was no use. How could I search for her? Why should I search for her? What could I bring her but a return to the brutal wilderness that had broken her? I walked back in the dawn, sadly in the dawn. The hills had her now. Let these hills hide her! Let her go back to the loneliness of the intimate hills. Let her live with stones and sky, with the wind blowing her hair to the end. Let her go that way.
*
Oh Bandini, talking to the reflection in the dresser mirror, what sacrifices you make for your art! You might have been a captain of industry, a merchant prince, a big league ball player, leading hitter in the American League, with an average of.415; but no! Here you are, crawling through the days, a starved genius, faithful to your sacred calling. What courage you possess!
*
They were myths I once believed, and now they were beliefs I felt were myths. This is the sea, and this is Arturo, and the sea is real, and Arturo believes it real. Then I turn from the sea, and everywhere I look there is land; I walk on and on, and still the land goes stretching away to the horizons. A year, five years, ten years, and I have not seen the sea. I say unto myself, but what has happened to the sea? And I answer, the sea is back there, back in the reservoir of memory. The sea is a myth. There never was a sea. But there was a sea! I tell you I was born on the seashore! I bathed in the waters of the sea! It gave me food and it gave me peace, and its fascinating distances fed my dreams! No Arturo, there never was a sea. You dream and you wish, but you go on through the wasteland. You will never see the sea again. It was a myth you once believed.-But, I have to smile, for the salt of the sea is in my blood, and there may be ten thousand roads over the land, but they shall never confuse me, for my heart's blood will ever return to its beautiful source.
*
I was like a man made of wood and there was no feeling within me except terror and a fear of her, a sense that her beauty was too much, that she was so much more beautiful than I, deeper rooted than I. 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.
*
Take the longing in these restless eyes and feed it to lonely swallows cruising an autumn cornfield, because I love you Camilla, and your name is sacred like that of some brave princess who died with a smile for a love that was never returned.
*
Across the desolation lay a supreme indifference, the casualness of night and another day, and yet the secret intimacy of those hills, their silent consoling wonder, made death a thing of no great importance. You could die, but the desert would hide the secret of your death, it would remain after you, to cover your memory with ageless wind and heat and cold. It was no use. How could I search for her? Why should I search for her? What could I bring her but a return to the brutal wilderness that had broken her? I walked back in the dawn, sadly in the dawn. The hills had her now. Let these hills hide her! Let her go back to the loneliness of the intimate hills. Let her live with stones and sky, with the wind blowing her hair to the end. Let her go that way.
March 11, 2023
During my early days in Mumbai, I used to stay at a defunct nursing home that still had a small general practitioner doctors clinic. The building was getting converted into a paying guest facility. There was this beautiful, thin and fair skinned nurse who worked there. I was from the English speaking middle class and she was from the Hindi speaking under class. We used to circle each other, taunting, challenging, hoping but mostly ignoring. On my last day at that place, I was clearing out my cupboard and she barged in to say goodbye and grabbed a Rexona roll-on deodorant that was half used. She said she would use it. Did not even wait for my permission. I guess this is a yucky story. But it has stayed with me.
When Bukowski met Fante, Fante warned Bukowski about bitterness. Fante told Bukowski that eventually most people end up becoming bitter. That quote stayed with me when I read it in my thirties. I am in my forties now.
Fante is a honest writer. Not like the pussies who populate English literature today. There is some racial supremacism in this book. Fante wrote about how his people were the conquerors and his Mexican waitress lovers people can go to hell because they were the losers/conquered. Obviously things do not work out between Italian American writer Bandini and Mexican waitress Camilla. That would be an understatement. I ordered this in the early days of the thriving online Indian bookstores. I read it during my last days in Mumbai. The film was a dud.
When Bukowski met Fante, Fante warned Bukowski about bitterness. Fante told Bukowski that eventually most people end up becoming bitter. That quote stayed with me when I read it in my thirties. I am in my forties now.
Fante is a honest writer. Not like the pussies who populate English literature today. There is some racial supremacism in this book. Fante wrote about how his people were the conquerors and his Mexican waitress lovers people can go to hell because they were the losers/conquered. Obviously things do not work out between Italian American writer Bandini and Mexican waitress Camilla. That would be an understatement. I ordered this in the early days of the thriving online Indian bookstores. I read it during my last days in Mumbai. The film was a dud.
April 3, 2014
And I answer, the sea is back there, back in the reservoir of memory. The sea is a myth. There never was a sea. But there was a sea! I tell you I was born on the seashore! I bathed in the waters of the sea! It gave me food and it gave me peace, and its fascinating distances fed my dreams! No, Arturo, there never was a sea. You dream and you wish, but you go on through the wasteland. You will never see the sea again. It was a myth you once believed. But, I have to smile, for the salt of the sea is in my blood, and there may be ten thousand roads over the land, but they shall never confuse me, for my heart's blood will ever return to its beautiful source.
The glorious face of the greatest editor, J.C. Hackmuth, a God of magazine publishers, gazes benevolently on the castawayed writer. Arturo Bandini, writer of the greatest story told. The Little Dog Laughed. Not about a dog, what stunning prose. He will autograph it for you. Here, take two and three with love. Tear and hunger stained pages and his prostrate body in signed (a puppy love school girl wouldn't flourish the name combinations so well) IOUs. They'll sell, some day, one day bright blind. It hurt me when he peeled off two dollars, three and eight. Fifteen and fifty cents loaned to a man who was so not good for it. Remember the lean days, Arturo! Oranges for breakfast, lunch and no dinner. I liked about Fante how I felt sorry for the charitable Japanese fruit dealer when Arturo bypasses his stall to blow an unexpected windfall (weeell, a deadbeat returns fifteen cents so he can get it adds up later) on two dozen cookies. I hated Arturo as he hated himself, waiting for him. A hazy Japanese fruit seller with blunted edges of charity, waiting on him in unreality. He's also unreal in world goes on without you. I wanted to hold his hand blind leading the blindfolded. He hurts me because he is too damned dumb. He would give it all away just in case some other dumb asshole might be thinking about him what he's thinking about himself. If they are thinking about him, laughing at him. I bet he could get afraid of going out in public with a smile on his face lest some jerk sees him and decides to turn it upside down. I liked a whole lot how Fante held this self aware/unself awareness of Arturo like it was just the weather. He is always greatest writer in the world voice-over in the aftermath of the kicked dog tail under tow. In his blind spot he's a part time racist. Dear great Hackmuth, they called me all kinds of names when I was coming up. All the bad ones, you can't imagine. I hate him as he licks his wounded on her. The dancing Mexican, his Mayan princess. Camilla the poor waitress in the center of his virgin's fixation. Arturo is youngish, I guess, but the more he lied the longer he grew in the tooth. They don't allow your kind in my hotel. I guess there was an upper hand change somewhere in the fists and fits. It's too sad as she's covered in his useless writer's glamour. That's what stuck to me, how no good he was on her terms and his own terms were pity and hate.
It could have been worse. He could have stayed in the writer's block motel with Barton Fink. His neighbor murders veal on a blood soaked binge. His neighbor lets it all hang out in a filthy bathrobe. No heads in boxes. Every cloud. It was funny when he's sunk to his knees in lowest moment prayers to God for blessing of stolen milk. It was buttermilk! The homesick "Memphis Kid" signs his I gotta get out of here and go home where friends are friends out of Fort Worth, Texas. Home becomes home when they had to leave it and Los Angeles (or wherever) picks up the same old wander lust bowl. Okay, I'm not so sure I buy the letting down of I'm the star of the movie and what can they do for me that settles on the two women he manages to bang (by not running out of the room). I wouldn't change anything about Ask the Dust, it's just this nagging wonder about what is going to happen if he writes a great book, anyway. There's a shut up silence in him for Vera and Camilla and I wish it had had nothing to do with him in my gut, though I know it wouldn't be Arturo Bandini if he didn't ruin it and start talking again. Of course he has to autograph his book, a gesture for the wind. Hackmuth is a mere man (I never met him. Maybe such a Godsend is out of my sights). Maybe he wanted to remember her where he liked himself, wild beach hair blowing ancient temptress. I was there and he couldn't get it up and it was to the ground and snarling echoes of cruel thoughts from where they are wherever people are before they are born. (Fante was pretty perfect in the phoenix ashes of shame and ego I could hardly stand it. )Wherever people go when they die, that's where Camilla is. I guess he loved her in between.... I liked that it felt real all this damned pretense. It is a lot of work to be Arturo every day. It was strangely kind of innocent, and I didn't mean it hurt. I wouldn't change a thing since the book about him didn't just read like some book about something....
July 29, 2018
از غبار بپرس، درباره ی یک داستانکوتاهنویسه که درگیر مثلث عشقی میشه.
ترجمه عالی نبود ولی خیلی خوب بود و معلوم بود. مترجم زحمت کشیده بود. مقدمه ی مترجم مال حدود ده سال پیش بود و زمان اولین چاپ کتاب مال یک سال پیش. اولش تعجب کردم اما در حین خوندن کتاب، حدس زدم مترجم زیر بار حذفیات وزارت ارشاد نرفته و حالا کتاب با کمینه ی حذفیات به چاپ رسیده.
اولِ کتاب، قهرمان داستان درگیر فقر بود و دغدغه ی اصلیش نوشتن بود اما از یک سوم انتهای کتاب دغدغه اش به کلی عوض شد و سخاوتمندانه پول خرج می کرد که این به نظرم از معایب بزرگ داستان بود. اما توصیفات خیلی خوبی داشت.
دوستداران بوکفسکی و سلین و کرواک به احتمال زیاد این کتاب رو خواهند پسندید.
ترجمه عالی نبود ولی خیلی خوب بود و معلوم بود. مترجم زحمت کشیده بود. مقدمه ی مترجم مال حدود ده سال پیش بود و زمان اولین چاپ کتاب مال یک سال پیش. اولش تعجب کردم اما در حین خوندن کتاب، حدس زدم مترجم زیر بار حذفیات وزارت ارشاد نرفته و حالا کتاب با کمینه ی حذفیات به چاپ رسیده.
اولِ کتاب، قهرمان داستان درگیر فقر بود و دغدغه ی اصلیش نوشتن بود اما از یک سوم انتهای کتاب دغدغه اش به کلی عوض شد و سخاوتمندانه پول خرج می کرد که این به نظرم از معایب بزرگ داستان بود. اما توصیفات خیلی خوبی داشت.
دوستداران بوکفسکی و سلین و کرواک به احتمال زیاد این کتاب رو خواهند پسندید.
December 14, 2022
South of No North led me to Love Is A Dog From Hell which led me to Fante. I think we who appreciate Bukowski, and what Bukowski did for changing modern writing, owe a debt of gratitude to Black Sparrow Press. Black Sparrow published Bukowski. And then Bukowski said to to Black Sparrow, "hey, you should check out Fante...." and the rest is literary dust... Ask The Dust is a gem of depression. A stark sadness on a sun-lit beach. A lonely sigh. A beautiful, beautiful book. Don't ask why, just ask the dust.
January 18, 2023
Στην Καμίγια, με αγάπη
Αρτούρο!
Ο καταραμένος έρωτας κ η αγωνία των ακραίων αντιθέσεων που όμως τόσο μοιάζουν να συγκλίνουν
Αρτούρο!
Ο καταραμένος έρωτας κ η αγωνία των ακραίων αντιθέσεων που όμως τόσο μοιάζουν να συγκλίνουν
October 14, 2007
Ask the Dust is about as good a book as has ever been written. I say book, instead of novel because I'm not sure it is a novel. Same with story, not sure there is much of a story here either. Instead, it is a hotwired connection to the mind of Arturo Bandini, the manic writer manifested in this and two other books Fante wrote. It might be a shambles of a story, a bust as a novel, but it's a motherfucker of a book.
It's been said that Joyce's Finnegan's Wake is a collection of all things in the world at that moment, half of them in Ireland, half of those in Dublin, half of those on Joyce's street, half of those in his house and so on and so forth until you reach either infinity or negation, depending on which way you traverse the graph.
In Ask the Dust, Bandini feels everything whether in proximity or imagined but it all channels through this one man in a frightening rush, and this man, ill equipped to survive even without the encumbering of being the universe's conduit, is ravaged by the unending spurt of life. Bandini possibly experiences nothing, no one - they are figments in his narrative. I've considered the possibility that this book actually takes place with a catatonic Bandini sitting in that dour Bunker Hill apartment, his synapses sparking out like burnt fuses, manufacturing this wild life of devastating failures punctuated by successes. I've also considered that Bandini is Fante, a juvenile, but often dead-on assumption among writers who only write a few books all about writers.
None of it matters though. Arturo Bandini is the greatest. Muhammad Ali took ego lessons from Bandini. He is a shrieking lunatic mostly because it is possible that he is the only living person all earth, that the rest of us are either dull shades or occasional fellow lost souls. Reading Ask the Dust makes you want to go raving mad for just a while, so you can get the taste of blood in your mouth, so you can hear what it sounds like when you howl like a wolf. I think its the third time I've read this over the past decade, but the first time as a writer myself, and Bandini's anguish and longing to be read and to be loved and whatever pathetic impulses and personality defects that compel a person to Make Things of Spiritual Value only serve to underscore and expose the frightening longing we all have to exist.
It's been said that Joyce's Finnegan's Wake is a collection of all things in the world at that moment, half of them in Ireland, half of those in Dublin, half of those on Joyce's street, half of those in his house and so on and so forth until you reach either infinity or negation, depending on which way you traverse the graph.
In Ask the Dust, Bandini feels everything whether in proximity or imagined but it all channels through this one man in a frightening rush, and this man, ill equipped to survive even without the encumbering of being the universe's conduit, is ravaged by the unending spurt of life. Bandini possibly experiences nothing, no one - they are figments in his narrative. I've considered the possibility that this book actually takes place with a catatonic Bandini sitting in that dour Bunker Hill apartment, his synapses sparking out like burnt fuses, manufacturing this wild life of devastating failures punctuated by successes. I've also considered that Bandini is Fante, a juvenile, but often dead-on assumption among writers who only write a few books all about writers.
None of it matters though. Arturo Bandini is the greatest. Muhammad Ali took ego lessons from Bandini. He is a shrieking lunatic mostly because it is possible that he is the only living person all earth, that the rest of us are either dull shades or occasional fellow lost souls. Reading Ask the Dust makes you want to go raving mad for just a while, so you can get the taste of blood in your mouth, so you can hear what it sounds like when you howl like a wolf. I think its the third time I've read this over the past decade, but the first time as a writer myself, and Bandini's anguish and longing to be read and to be loved and whatever pathetic impulses and personality defects that compel a person to Make Things of Spiritual Value only serve to underscore and expose the frightening longing we all have to exist.
November 10, 2017
Kitaba başlamadan önce herhangi bir fikrim yoktu konusu hakkında. Bukowski tavsiye ettiği için (hatta Fante’yi tanrısı ilan ettiği için) Bukowski’ye çok benzer bir metin okuyacağımı düşünerek kitaba başladım. Yanılmışım.
Ana karakter (Arturo Bandini), çokça örneğini gördüğümüz bir yazar adayı ve onun yaşadıkları (Martin Eden/J.London ve Açlık/K.Hamsun ‘dan aşina olduğumuz üzere). Arturo, gel gitleri bol bir karakter, kimi yerde mizaha kayan bir ruh hali içerisinde. Ancak bazı yerlerde de son derece gerçekçi bir ruh haline bürünüyor ve ağzından (kaleminden) inanılmaz güzellikte cümleler dökülüyor :
“Harikulade, sorgulamaktan çekindiğim huzur dolu günler. Kenti keşfediyorum: gizemli ara sokaklar buldum, maziden arda kalmış çürümeye yüz tutmuş eski evler, yalnız ağaçlar. Gece gündüz Ford’umda yaşıyor, bir tek hamburger ve kahve molası veriyordum. Hayat böyle yaşanmalıydı, gayesizce dolaşarak, bir mola ve yola devam, beyaz çizgiyi izle, bir sigara yak ve çölün şaşırtıcı göğünde anlamları ara boşuna” (S.145)
Diğer karakterler çok uçlarda yaşayan tipler; Camillia Lopez, Sammy, Vera Rivken.. dünya üzerinde var olduğunu bildiğim ama yolumun bir türlü kesişmediği karakterler. Hepsi çok baskın, çok kaotik ve çok kararlı karakterler.. Hem acınası hem de imrenilesi.
Ana karakter (Arturo Bandini), çokça örneğini gördüğümüz bir yazar adayı ve onun yaşadıkları (Martin Eden/J.London ve Açlık/K.Hamsun ‘dan aşina olduğumuz üzere). Arturo, gel gitleri bol bir karakter, kimi yerde mizaha kayan bir ruh hali içerisinde. Ancak bazı yerlerde de son derece gerçekçi bir ruh haline bürünüyor ve ağzından (kaleminden) inanılmaz güzellikte cümleler dökülüyor :
“Harikulade, sorgulamaktan çekindiğim huzur dolu günler. Kenti keşfediyorum: gizemli ara sokaklar buldum, maziden arda kalmış çürümeye yüz tutmuş eski evler, yalnız ağaçlar. Gece gündüz Ford’umda yaşıyor, bir tek hamburger ve kahve molası veriyordum. Hayat böyle yaşanmalıydı, gayesizce dolaşarak, bir mola ve yola devam, beyaz çizgiyi izle, bir sigara yak ve çölün şaşırtıcı göğünde anlamları ara boşuna” (S.145)
Diğer karakterler çok uçlarda yaşayan tipler; Camillia Lopez, Sammy, Vera Rivken.. dünya üzerinde var olduğunu bildiğim ama yolumun bir türlü kesişmediği karakterler. Hepsi çok baskın, çok kaotik ve çok kararlı karakterler.. Hem acınası hem de imrenilesi.
October 26, 2022
Ask the Dust by John Fante
.
This is the perfect novel for any aspiring writer. Fante really gets to the heart and struggles of a writer. He describes the grim, dusty underbelly streets of LA so well. I've never been to LA but I've seen enough movies, videos on the city to have an idea
.
Bandini is a writer trying to survive in the city. He makes a bit of money, spends it and meets a woman. Charles Bukowksi idolized Fante and now I see why he wrote books like Post Office, Factotum, Women and so on...he captures the beauty and sickness of LA which he could relate to. Almost when I read Dubliners by James Joyce. It was like the stories were written for me
.
Fante is a class act and it's the perfect summer read. I read this book during a heatwave in Ireland which is very rare. It was fitting for this book set in hot California. The sun shooting through the curtain, dust in the air, sipping a cold one. This book is perfection!
.
.
This is the perfect novel for any aspiring writer. Fante really gets to the heart and struggles of a writer. He describes the grim, dusty underbelly streets of LA so well. I've never been to LA but I've seen enough movies, videos on the city to have an idea
.
Bandini is a writer trying to survive in the city. He makes a bit of money, spends it and meets a woman. Charles Bukowksi idolized Fante and now I see why he wrote books like Post Office, Factotum, Women and so on...he captures the beauty and sickness of LA which he could relate to. Almost when I read Dubliners by James Joyce. It was like the stories were written for me
.
Fante is a class act and it's the perfect summer read. I read this book during a heatwave in Ireland which is very rare. It was fitting for this book set in hot California. The sun shooting through the curtain, dust in the air, sipping a cold one. This book is perfection!
.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 2,565 reviews