Steven Eggleton's Blog: Pater's Potpourri - Posts Tagged "john-fante"

I think every writer would ultimately admit, that out of all the books they’ve read, there was one that stood above the rest. One that lit a fire in their belly and ignited a passion for writing. For me that book was, The Road to Los Angeles.
I was in my early twenties and living in this tiny apartment that was perpetually infested with ants and leaked when it rained. I was depressed, trying to write, and reading all the Bukowski I could get my hands on. I was looking for something, but I didn’t know what. Like most people my age I was trying to find my place in the world.
At any rate, it wasn't long before I had read everything Bukowski had ever wrote. I felt lost. After being steeped in the world of “the dirty old-man”, how could one be expected to go back to reading the Bronte sisters or Melville? I just couldn’t do it. Everything else was like sand in my mouth. In an attempt to sate my hunger, I went back and poured through all of Bukowski again, and decided I would read all of the writers he had mentioned in his books, his heroes. Perhaps they would provide the fix that I needed to slowly wing me from the intense grip of “the poet laureate of skid row”.
Sadly it wasn’t the case. I read them all: Celine, Hamsun, Saroyan, Li Po (and while all excellent in their own right); none of them packed the punch that Bukowski did. Finally, at my wits end, I came to John Fante –The Road to Los Angeles, specifically.
It was like striking gold in the desert! Here was this crazy little book written in the 30’s screaming at me through time and space, and daring me not to relate. Like Bukowski, the language was simple and fresh. Yet Fante had a poetry to his language which Bukowski lacked. His words carried a warmth and love I never felt in Bukowski or any other writer for that matter. The pain was mixed with humor, making you want to laugh and cry all at the same time.
In Arturo Bandini, I found a fellow brother in arms. A smart aleck who covered up his low self-esteem with a veneer of biting sarcasm. A lonely intellect forged through late-night erudition. A lost soul struggling to find his way. In short, a madman.
Like I had Bukowski, before him, I would soon consume all the Fante I could find. Dissecting and studying his style like an eager student, I mimicked him like an ape. And though all of his books should be considered national treasures, none of them are as dear to me as the first one I read –The Road to Los Angeles. A book full of insanity, character, and most importantly –love.