Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Ask The Dust by John Fante

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

So reads the first paragraph of John Fante’s novel Ask the Dust. When I first read this in the preface of Brett Easton Ellis’s The Informers, I was immediately drawn to the simplicity, the frankness, and the desperate nonchalance that even a few sentences brought out. So I said to myself, “Who is this John Fante, and where can I get a hold of his book Ask the Dust? It wasn’t anywhere. I couldn’t even buy it locally.

Eventually, I found a copy and read it. It was written in first person. The situations were real. There was both a human and animal element to it. The story was about a young displaced writer in 1930’s L.A., facing poverty and unrequited love while trying to make a name for himself in a rented room. Actually, the story wasn’t necessary. You see, when I had finished reading it, I barely remembered the plot. It didn’t matter. The author had opened up the private thoughts of the human mind. He had not spared embarrassing, awkward situations, and had written about the details of life. This was what most impressed me -- that a guy could be this honest about himself, and that he could truly know himself this well to put it all down on paper.

So after that, I read everything by Fante I could get my hands on. It was more of the same. Situations more honest than before – even his domestic writing that was done in the 1950’s like Full of Life, a story about the birth of his son, had that edge. Well, come to find out that Ask the Dust was heavily influenced by another called Hunger by Knut Hamsun. I picked that up too, and started reading it. It was even more desperate, and more spiritual. I sort of felt gyped -- like Fante had simply popped himself into Hamsun’s book and taken out some of the more desperate elements. But I’m still glad he wrote it, they say he is the father of the L.A. novel, and probably one of the more underappreciated writer’s of American Literature. Fante eventually ended up making big bucks writing for the movies, and he always said it finished him as a novelist.

Fante would have pretty much been lost as a writer, had he not been rediscovered in the early 1980’s by Charles Bukowski. Bukowski had a huge following and called Fante “his god” after having discovered him the reading room of the L.A. Public Library. While Fante’s stuff is more toned down than Bukowski’s, you can still see the influence there. That wonderful raw edge of humanity.

No comments: