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Bruno Dante #4
86'd
In Los Angeles, struggling telemarketer-writer and part-time drunk Bruno Dante is jobless again. The publication of his book of short stories has been put off indefinitely. Searching the want ads for a gig, he finds a chauffeur job. When Bruno calls the number in the ad, he discovers the boss is his former Manhattan employer David Koffman, who is opening a West Coast branch of his thriving limo service. Koffman hires Bruno as resident manager of Dav-Ko Hollywood under one condition: he must remain sober. But instant business success triggers an abrupt booze-and-blackout-soaked downward spiral for Bruno, forcing him to confront his own madness as he struggles to keep his old familiar demons from getting the best of him yet again.
304 pages, Paperback
First published September 22, 2009
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 57 reviews
December 4, 2013
There is a literary subgenre (Subgenre? What the hell does that mean? I don’t know.) I would call “Fucked up alcoholic guys who somehow still get laid while banging on cheap laptops/typewriters in cold water flats (do those exist, still?) about shitty jobs and their misfortunes and bad decisions in their pursuit of meaning outside of conventional interaction.” Yes, I know that’s a long name for a subgenre, and I apologize to any bookseller who would struggle to place such a subgenre’s name on, say, the small shelf this subgenre would require. However, this subgenre does decent trade among white males, in particular, for what I assume are a few different reasons:
A) Writers like Bukowski, John O’Brien, etc. tend to provide an unintentionally romanticized portrait of dropping out of society, leaving an attractive option for guys struggling with, say, picking a major or hating their barista gig.
B) These writers also contribute a window into the lives of people these white males saw when accidentally driving through bad neighborhoods and covertly locking the car doors on the way back from seeing Sonic Youth and on the way to Taco Bell before going home.
C) The writing is sometimes insightful in that the malaise these authors describe potentially mirrors what some of these white males feel in different but perhaps comfortably claustrophobic circumstances. One warning, however—this subgenre looks easy to write but just try it, bucko, and you’ll see you can’t write for shit about that time you took the wrong bus and almost crapped your pants because that homeless guy screamed at you about how you wouldn’t give him a quarter.
(I am one of these white males, just so you know.)
Now, keeping all that in mind, Dan Fante’s 86’d is a fine example of the alcohol-saturated subgenre combined with more spark and hustle (and I don’t mean that as an insult to the latter) than Bukowski. Fante’s veiled-autobiographical (I think) novel focuses on the exhaustion of running a limo company while slamming down cheap swill and writing short stories in your spare time. All the prurient details are present--cheap sex, disastrous choices, and poor social skills. Fante works hard no doubt, and is both supremely fucked up and remarkably efficient. He also knows how to structure a story well and keeps from wallowing in self-pity or losing control of the plot; for all his real-life impulsivity he honors his craft (apparently his dad was a famous screenwriter) and writes with discipline. And if the last forty pages tie up redemption maybe a little too easily, well, I get the sense the author is happier he’s still alive; forget the sad and dramatic ending. I’d read more of Fante. He’s better than most.
Sidebar—I don’t want to live like Charles Bukowski or Dan Fante. I don’t. You know why? Certain little sentences in books of this nature scare the fuck out of me. Sentences that, I don’t know, describe seventeen hour shifts selling vitamins over the phone or waking up in your own piss without knowing where you are. I don’t find those scenarios more “real” than checking out what new movies are out at the library or worrying about if I can remember my ATM pin at Costco so I don’t hold up the line. You can get all “yeah, the junkie slum lifestyle, it’s real man, you’re just a drone” if you want, but do it on your own time. Go drive a limo and drink Wild Turkey or hang out at the track with the dead-eyed vultures. Maybe these authors needed that. But I don’t. I’ll find my own mental illnesses, thank you, and have insurance to get good prescription drugs I can take before watching cable and staying warm.
A) Writers like Bukowski, John O’Brien, etc. tend to provide an unintentionally romanticized portrait of dropping out of society, leaving an attractive option for guys struggling with, say, picking a major or hating their barista gig.
B) These writers also contribute a window into the lives of people these white males saw when accidentally driving through bad neighborhoods and covertly locking the car doors on the way back from seeing Sonic Youth and on the way to Taco Bell before going home.
C) The writing is sometimes insightful in that the malaise these authors describe potentially mirrors what some of these white males feel in different but perhaps comfortably claustrophobic circumstances. One warning, however—this subgenre looks easy to write but just try it, bucko, and you’ll see you can’t write for shit about that time you took the wrong bus and almost crapped your pants because that homeless guy screamed at you about how you wouldn’t give him a quarter.
(I am one of these white males, just so you know.)
Now, keeping all that in mind, Dan Fante’s 86’d is a fine example of the alcohol-saturated subgenre combined with more spark and hustle (and I don’t mean that as an insult to the latter) than Bukowski. Fante’s veiled-autobiographical (I think) novel focuses on the exhaustion of running a limo company while slamming down cheap swill and writing short stories in your spare time. All the prurient details are present--cheap sex, disastrous choices, and poor social skills. Fante works hard no doubt, and is both supremely fucked up and remarkably efficient. He also knows how to structure a story well and keeps from wallowing in self-pity or losing control of the plot; for all his real-life impulsivity he honors his craft (apparently his dad was a famous screenwriter) and writes with discipline. And if the last forty pages tie up redemption maybe a little too easily, well, I get the sense the author is happier he’s still alive; forget the sad and dramatic ending. I’d read more of Fante. He’s better than most.
Sidebar—I don’t want to live like Charles Bukowski or Dan Fante. I don’t. You know why? Certain little sentences in books of this nature scare the fuck out of me. Sentences that, I don’t know, describe seventeen hour shifts selling vitamins over the phone or waking up in your own piss without knowing where you are. I don’t find those scenarios more “real” than checking out what new movies are out at the library or worrying about if I can remember my ATM pin at Costco so I don’t hold up the line. You can get all “yeah, the junkie slum lifestyle, it’s real man, you’re just a drone” if you want, but do it on your own time. Go drive a limo and drink Wild Turkey or hang out at the track with the dead-eyed vultures. Maybe these authors needed that. But I don’t. I’ll find my own mental illnesses, thank you, and have insurance to get good prescription drugs I can take before watching cable and staying warm.
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August 25, 2024DNF @ 53%.
August 19, 2016
The first thing to know about addiction is that it's a radical self-centeredness - the high, the unshareable private pleasure, takes priority over every thing and every one else in the world while the addict is active with their substance of choice.
Given that fact you'll find that addict-writers write a lot about jacked-up versions of themselves, alter egos that storm through life being much more intense and insightful and generally alive than the author could actually be in their anodyne day-to-day. Sometimes this whole thing works out - Hunter S. Thompson's Raul Duke has a ferocious moral compass and can tell you with intimate detail exactly why 99% of people he meets are scumbags and exactly how the hell our culture got to the point of creating such wretched creatures. Bukowski's Hank Chinaski has moments of real poignancy, describing in loving detail the classical record he puts on the player as he uncorks his third bottle of wine.
Dan Fante's 'Bruno Dante' is not like these guys. He puts the ego in 'alter ego' and does very little else. The scumbags that surround him are all flat caricatures, often stupidly so: every homosexual is a cock-crazed fiend with terabytes of kiddie porn, every woman is an extreme slut who is mere paragraphs from sleeping with the main character at all times, every sober person is an empty-eyed fanatic whose not-bad attitude towards the world is a fate far worse than death.
There's something to be said about art that features shitty people, giving us a chance to get in the heads of those we think of as corrupt and/or evil, letting us gain empathy and insight and challenging our moral sensibilities. 86'ed, though, just plain-and-simply features a shitty person and that's it. The world of 86'ed is a *cartoon* - Bruno Dante isn't wrong in his assessment of things, since in the world of 86'ed people objectively *are* as bad as he thinks they are.
This makes the book alien and bad for those of us who, even once, have seen people act for any reason other than immediate self-gratification.
Of course the narrator is a struggling author, and of course he has his talent and sensitivity prominently displayed and affirmed. There are a few moments where the narrator lists off all of his favorite authors all at once, describing them as his refuge and his greatest hope, but ultimately having it just come across as a puny attempt to flex. It reads like someone shouting their literary resume into the void, as if affection and affinity with these authors gives this guy license to be a douchebag to everyone around him. As far as he sees it his garbage behavior is a natural consequence of his tragic hypersensitivity.
This conceit works when we know that the world is different than the narrator presents - Lolita's Humbert Humbert sees himself as tragically attuned to the transcendently fuckable beauty of pre-pubescent girls, the narrator of The Telltale Heart sees himself as tragically attuned to the ugliness of his victim's evil eye. We normies know that child-rape and random murder are some of the most despicable acts imaginable, since we live in a world where children don't deserve to be raped and people don't deserve to violently die. That's what gives the above books their power, putting us in the head of brilliant and articulate monsters who see the world far differently than any of us ever could.
Tragic, morally-warping hypersensitivity only works within a world that we recognize. Without that world there's no chance for connection, no chance for challenge- it becomes akin to watching wine-drunk bum ranting on the street about his knowledge of the lizard people, slicing off his ear and offering it to you because he thinks he's Van Gogh. Without a bridge between you it never becomes tragic and instead remains merely sad.
Given that fact you'll find that addict-writers write a lot about jacked-up versions of themselves, alter egos that storm through life being much more intense and insightful and generally alive than the author could actually be in their anodyne day-to-day. Sometimes this whole thing works out - Hunter S. Thompson's Raul Duke has a ferocious moral compass and can tell you with intimate detail exactly why 99% of people he meets are scumbags and exactly how the hell our culture got to the point of creating such wretched creatures. Bukowski's Hank Chinaski has moments of real poignancy, describing in loving detail the classical record he puts on the player as he uncorks his third bottle of wine.
Dan Fante's 'Bruno Dante' is not like these guys. He puts the ego in 'alter ego' and does very little else. The scumbags that surround him are all flat caricatures, often stupidly so: every homosexual is a cock-crazed fiend with terabytes of kiddie porn, every woman is an extreme slut who is mere paragraphs from sleeping with the main character at all times, every sober person is an empty-eyed fanatic whose not-bad attitude towards the world is a fate far worse than death.
There's something to be said about art that features shitty people, giving us a chance to get in the heads of those we think of as corrupt and/or evil, letting us gain empathy and insight and challenging our moral sensibilities. 86'ed, though, just plain-and-simply features a shitty person and that's it. The world of 86'ed is a *cartoon* - Bruno Dante isn't wrong in his assessment of things, since in the world of 86'ed people objectively *are* as bad as he thinks they are.
This makes the book alien and bad for those of us who, even once, have seen people act for any reason other than immediate self-gratification.
Of course the narrator is a struggling author, and of course he has his talent and sensitivity prominently displayed and affirmed. There are a few moments where the narrator lists off all of his favorite authors all at once, describing them as his refuge and his greatest hope, but ultimately having it just come across as a puny attempt to flex. It reads like someone shouting their literary resume into the void, as if affection and affinity with these authors gives this guy license to be a douchebag to everyone around him. As far as he sees it his garbage behavior is a natural consequence of his tragic hypersensitivity.
This conceit works when we know that the world is different than the narrator presents - Lolita's Humbert Humbert sees himself as tragically attuned to the transcendently fuckable beauty of pre-pubescent girls, the narrator of The Telltale Heart sees himself as tragically attuned to the ugliness of his victim's evil eye. We normies know that child-rape and random murder are some of the most despicable acts imaginable, since we live in a world where children don't deserve to be raped and people don't deserve to violently die. That's what gives the above books their power, putting us in the head of brilliant and articulate monsters who see the world far differently than any of us ever could.
Tragic, morally-warping hypersensitivity only works within a world that we recognize. Without that world there's no chance for connection, no chance for challenge- it becomes akin to watching wine-drunk bum ranting on the street about his knowledge of the lizard people, slicing off his ear and offering it to you because he thinks he's Van Gogh. Without a bridge between you it never becomes tragic and instead remains merely sad.
October 22, 2013
This was going to be a two star rating until the ending, which gave the Bruno Dante character a hint of redemption. I left the book hoping that it was a transformative ending for the character. But for long stretches I had a hard time rooting for Bruno, who comes off as less sympathetic than the elder Fante’s Bandini character, who in turn is less sympathetic than Bukowski’s Chinaski character. Bandini and Chinaski both felt like products of their time and place, with their flaws and genius beaten into them by life, but Bruno Dante simply seems like someone who takes pleasure in shooting himself in both feet until the gun is empty and who happens to write on the side. He has terrible things happen to him, and instead of dealing with it, he opts for aggressively stupid and intentionally chaotic choices that are so stunningly wrongheaded, so cruel, and so thoughtless at times that it is hard to feel much sympathy for him when he does things right, or when good luck falls in his lap. This may be Fante trying to show how irrational alcoholics truly are (and he does a good job of proving that point if that was his intention), but it was a grueling journey for the reader. It was a grueling journey for Fante himself to learn that lesson, I'm sure, so maybe it evens out. Look, it wasn’t a terrible book, and Bruno isn’t a terrible guy all the time, but the book did have as many frustrating passages as smartly written ones, and the promise of a new start at the end of the book is what helped me concede a bit on my doubts and give it a three out of five rating. I hope Bruno makes it. Side note: I enjoyed Fante’s poetry added at the end of this edition of the book. I’d like to read more of that.
July 24, 2011
This was my first exposure to author Dan Fante. I avoided knowing anything about him before reading this book, as I wanted to experience it without preconceptions. The first-person narrative is from Bruno Dante, and starting with my efforts to keep the names of author and narrator straight, I had the uncomfortable feeling that the autobiographical and fictional content may also be an inseparable blend. In other words, too much information.
In this novel there is no building tension to end in a tidy resolution. Instead it is more an episodic narrative of ups and downs during an overall downward trend, and in that respect it is very realistic. But these episodes are interesting and entertaining, though the entertainment value for me came from feeding my pre-existing negativity regarding the Hollywood attitude. They were also somewhat disturbing, as they poignantly reminded me of past acquaintances who seemed to continually relive the same self-destructive scenes. Surprisingly the conclusion suggests a subtly, but significantly different diagnosis and prognosis.
The modern realism led me to believe it was written by a new, young writer. I was surprised to learn from the supplementary materials at the end of the book that Fante was born in 1944, but that Bruno Dante is his alter-ego and that it is largely autobiographical. I look forward to reading more of his work.
In this novel there is no building tension to end in a tidy resolution. Instead it is more an episodic narrative of ups and downs during an overall downward trend, and in that respect it is very realistic. But these episodes are interesting and entertaining, though the entertainment value for me came from feeding my pre-existing negativity regarding the Hollywood attitude. They were also somewhat disturbing, as they poignantly reminded me of past acquaintances who seemed to continually relive the same self-destructive scenes. Surprisingly the conclusion suggests a subtly, but significantly different diagnosis and prognosis.
The modern realism led me to believe it was written by a new, young writer. I was surprised to learn from the supplementary materials at the end of the book that Fante was born in 1944, but that Bruno Dante is his alter-ego and that it is largely autobiographical. I look forward to reading more of his work.
July 25, 2011
In "86'd" Bruno Dante struggles with his demons (alcoholism, drug abuse, the violent voices in his head) as he attempts to hold down a job with a limo service in LA. Those familiar with Fante's other works (which all feature Dante as protagonist) will welcome a return to the sordid, darkly comic world of this character.
Fante has to be careful about not repeating himself. "86'd" revisits much of the tone and topics of his other works. Nevertheless here Dante is involved in a new profession, engages in new horrible and sometimes amusing actions, and continues on his quest for redemption while often lapsing into self-destruction.
Dante makes for a complex character - sympathetic, pathetic, cruel, funny, sad. And Fante's world is one of sadness and despair. But amidst all the terribleness is a ray of hope, which may one day result in some measure of peace for its disturbed protagonist.
That said, I felt the book was missing something. Fante's other works either feature crazier hijinks ("Short Dog") or focus on greater central themes (Dante dealing with the death of his father, love). Here the story meanders a bit and does not grapple with anything beyond Dante's quest to stop his destructive impulses.
A decent read.
Fante has to be careful about not repeating himself. "86'd" revisits much of the tone and topics of his other works. Nevertheless here Dante is involved in a new profession, engages in new horrible and sometimes amusing actions, and continues on his quest for redemption while often lapsing into self-destruction.
Dante makes for a complex character - sympathetic, pathetic, cruel, funny, sad. And Fante's world is one of sadness and despair. But amidst all the terribleness is a ray of hope, which may one day result in some measure of peace for its disturbed protagonist.
That said, I felt the book was missing something. Fante's other works either feature crazier hijinks ("Short Dog") or focus on greater central themes (Dante dealing with the death of his father, love). Here the story meanders a bit and does not grapple with anything beyond Dante's quest to stop his destructive impulses.
A decent read.
September 19, 2020
Dan Fante was a talented writer. I kinda liked the concept and character, but its monotony is dull in a novel. He was kind of a modern equivalent Bukowski. The reason for three stars is that like his primary character Bruno, he’s an overconfident screw up that constantly spins excuses, is erratic, and constantly using his Father’s shortfall for his excuse of failure.
June 4, 2012
I didn't like it as much as Chump Change or Mooch, and his cab driver stories were a lot more entertaining in Short Dog.
August 21, 2023
A tough nasty book about a raging and enraged alcoholic navigating Hollywood while trying to ignite a writing career. A quick easy entertainment.
December 4, 2010
I liked this book. The subject matter isn't likely to captivate mass market audiences (topics of alcoholism, unemployment, self destruction, self loathing, and general loseriness), BUT: ignoring all the side distractions (Fante's father, autobiographical fiction, etc), 86'd was just a damn good story. The character is highly unusual, and, in the end, very empathetic. If the greatest aspect of reading literature is the ability to see life through the eyes of another persona, doesn't this story deliver?
Yeah, Bruno Dante is a piece of crap, but he's a piece of crap that's more human than most of the characters running around in novels these days.
Yeah, Bruno Dante is a piece of crap, but he's a piece of crap that's more human than most of the characters running around in novels these days.
March 25, 2024
I'm glad to be done with Dan fante. Not to say I didn't enjoy the series and taxi book, because I did, but good riddance. If there were a 5th book in this series I'd read it, but I'm glad there isn't.
The first two and the taxi book were good. Really good. The last two were only so so. After like ten others of 86'd, I felt like I'd already read it. To the point I closed the book and looked at my Goodreads history to see if I'd marked it. But no, it's just more of the same.
That said, it's still entertaining. Even 3 stars.
The first two and the taxi book were good. Really good. The last two were only so so. After like ten others of 86'd, I felt like I'd already read it. To the point I closed the book and looked at my Goodreads history to see if I'd marked it. But no, it's just more of the same.
That said, it's still entertaining. Even 3 stars.
February 28, 2021
Further adventures of Bruno Dante, boozer, chauffeur, and frustrated writer. Fante has a way of telling his story that can draw the reader in to his cycle of misery, hope and misfortune to the point of understanding him. His struggles to survive coincide with his battle with addiction and he’s often his own worst enemy. Despite the dark subject matter Fante presents a surprisingly engaging novel. I liked it. 3 & 1/2 stars
June 1, 2012
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/theliter... listened to this interview and then read Dan Fante's work. I loved his father's work, and have to say I really love his work as well. Will definitely check out more! I highly recommend this book.
August 15, 2025
A Furious, Bloodshot Swan Song for Bruno Dante
Dan Fante’s “86’d” is the final, fatalistic crescendo in Bruno Dante’s symphony of self-annihilation. Older but no wiser, Bruno staggers through Los Angeles like a wounded animal, broke, lonely and clinging to the last frayed threads of his sanity. The prose is a molotov cocktail of rage, vulnerability and a masochistic edge.
What sets it apart is its gut-punch clarity. Bruno’s usual drunken escapades, failed jobs, ill-advised hookups, midnight epiphanies scribbled on motel stationery, take on a darker hue here. The laughs are fewer, the consequences heavier.
Fante peels back Bruno’s cynicism to reveal raw nerve: the fear of irrelevance, the ache for redemption, the crushing weight of “maybe this time I’ll get it right”.
The novel stumbles only in its repetition, readers of “Chump Change” and “Mooch” will recognise Bruno’s cycles, but the emotional stakes feel higher, the voice more desperate.
By the end, you’re not just watching a trainwreck; you’re “rooting for it to derail spectacularly”, if only to feel something, but Fante leaves you mid-swing, simply imagining what ways Bruno will fuck it up…
Dan Fante’s “86’d” is the final, fatalistic crescendo in Bruno Dante’s symphony of self-annihilation. Older but no wiser, Bruno staggers through Los Angeles like a wounded animal, broke, lonely and clinging to the last frayed threads of his sanity. The prose is a molotov cocktail of rage, vulnerability and a masochistic edge.
What sets it apart is its gut-punch clarity. Bruno’s usual drunken escapades, failed jobs, ill-advised hookups, midnight epiphanies scribbled on motel stationery, take on a darker hue here. The laughs are fewer, the consequences heavier.
Fante peels back Bruno’s cynicism to reveal raw nerve: the fear of irrelevance, the ache for redemption, the crushing weight of “maybe this time I’ll get it right”.
The novel stumbles only in its repetition, readers of “Chump Change” and “Mooch” will recognise Bruno’s cycles, but the emotional stakes feel higher, the voice more desperate.
By the end, you’re not just watching a trainwreck; you’re “rooting for it to derail spectacularly”, if only to feel something, but Fante leaves you mid-swing, simply imagining what ways Bruno will fuck it up…
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February 14, 2023Je ne le note pas.
Je prends ce livre de Fante. Durant la lecture, j'ai eu un mauvais goût ; un remaniement exagéré de son écriture habituel, comme si il se copiait lui-même. Je lis et j'ai l'impression que l'on me montre quelque chose de perdu, semblable aux vendeurs de marché persuadant de l'authenticité de leurs sacs achetés dans les sacs-lots transparents des petits magasins débordant d'autres sacs-lots transparents du treizième arrondissement parisien. Tout me paraît triste, et je commence à douter de mon amour naissant pour Fante. Puis, au milieu du livre, quand vient le personnage de John Fante, je regarde la couverture et le nom. Dan Fante.
Je ne savais pas qu'il avait un fils. Et ma lecture prouve une tristesse de son écriture, dans l'ombre d'un éclat plus intime et fine - pas besoin de faire tapageur pour sortir le suc de l'humanité.
Je prends ce livre de Fante. Durant la lecture, j'ai eu un mauvais goût ; un remaniement exagéré de son écriture habituel, comme si il se copiait lui-même. Je lis et j'ai l'impression que l'on me montre quelque chose de perdu, semblable aux vendeurs de marché persuadant de l'authenticité de leurs sacs achetés dans les sacs-lots transparents des petits magasins débordant d'autres sacs-lots transparents du treizième arrondissement parisien. Tout me paraît triste, et je commence à douter de mon amour naissant pour Fante. Puis, au milieu du livre, quand vient le personnage de John Fante, je regarde la couverture et le nom. Dan Fante.
Je ne savais pas qu'il avait un fils. Et ma lecture prouve une tristesse de son écriture, dans l'ombre d'un éclat plus intime et fine - pas besoin de faire tapageur pour sortir le suc de l'humanité.
October 22, 2022
I enjoy a liquor-soaked, dipsomaniacal tale of insanity and debauchery as much as the next guy but this was just plain awful.
Fante’s prose is turgid, juvenile and forced. The book’s protagonist — a thin substitute for Fante himself named Bruno Dante — is nothing but a cheap imitation of a Bukowski anti-hero. The book’s other characters are flat, unthinking and unfeeling caricatures of what I assume to be the naked and insane.
The ghosts of John Fante and Charles Bukowski linger. Perhaps this is a failed experiment in trying to outdo the writer’s predecessors. A bad, mediocre undergraduate novel written without imagination, invention or clarity of thought and execution.
Fante’s prose is turgid, juvenile and forced. The book’s protagonist — a thin substitute for Fante himself named Bruno Dante — is nothing but a cheap imitation of a Bukowski anti-hero. The book’s other characters are flat, unthinking and unfeeling caricatures of what I assume to be the naked and insane.
The ghosts of John Fante and Charles Bukowski linger. Perhaps this is a failed experiment in trying to outdo the writer’s predecessors. A bad, mediocre undergraduate novel written without imagination, invention or clarity of thought and execution.
August 19, 2021
Only the most casual reader would be unaware of Dan Fante's family ties and influences and they are proudly worn on the sleeve of Fante's writing as we journey through the life and struggles of Bruno Dante.
The writing is engaging and funny and as much as you understand Dante's cynicism, you still want him to get well and succeed in life and it forces you to race through the pages. I'm not sure where this fits in the order of his novels and will need to check, but there is optimism among the downtrodden-ness of the novel.
The writing is engaging and funny and as much as you understand Dante's cynicism, you still want him to get well and succeed in life and it forces you to race through the pages. I'm not sure where this fits in the order of his novels and will need to check, but there is optimism among the downtrodden-ness of the novel.
October 29, 2025
Molto più Bukowski che John Fante.
Narratore aspirante scrittore che non se la passa bene, tra alcolismo e peripezie varie.
Dan Fante è fortemente derivativo, ma ci sono sempre momenti di grande autenticità in cui un po' il cuore te lo spezza.
Dei tre letti, Angeli a Pezzi rimane il migliore, con il racconto del rapporto con il padre John che tiene in piedi tutto.
Narratore aspirante scrittore che non se la passa bene, tra alcolismo e peripezie varie.
Dan Fante è fortemente derivativo, ma ci sono sempre momenti di grande autenticità in cui un po' il cuore te lo spezza.
Dei tre letti, Angeli a Pezzi rimane il migliore, con il racconto del rapporto con il padre John che tiene in piedi tutto.
September 19, 2020
This last part of the Bruno Dante quadrilogy is very powerful again. After a slight dip in part 3, Dan Fante is back in full force. There is even some redemption at the end (that I found a little unbelievable, I must say, after so many feeble attempts to sober up)
July 8, 2018
I really enjoyed this book. It was brutal chaos relabeled as fiction. I recently found out about this dysfunctional family from watching a Bukowski interview, so now I have 2 new favorite authors.
November 3, 2019
DNF. If Bukowski had no real talent he'd just be a drunk arsehole and his name would probably be Dan Fante.
Want to read
July 19, 2020elibrary
June 17, 2024
Gli perdoniamo di non essere John Fante.
January 28, 2022
How many times can a person mess up? That's a question Bruno Dante the subject of this novel can't seem to answer, even though he keeps trying. Is redemption possible? Does he even want it?
Don't give up on him though, there may be hope. Even though Bruno sometimes seems a hopeless case, he's never boring and through him Fante searches for the answers to life and all its puzzles by looking through Bruno's eyes. He explores the shallowness and cynicism in the Hollywood scene and the toll it takes on those involved. This is the last of Fante's series about Bruno set in LA.
Don't give up on him though, there may be hope. Even though Bruno sometimes seems a hopeless case, he's never boring and through him Fante searches for the answers to life and all its puzzles by looking through Bruno's eyes. He explores the shallowness and cynicism in the Hollywood scene and the toll it takes on those involved. This is the last of Fante's series about Bruno set in LA.
January 19, 2011
Bruno Dante is an alcoholic writer with an occasional drug usage problem. To pay his bills, he works as a driver for a limo service, schlepping Los Angeles' elite around the town. He formerly worked in New York City for a boss who is opening a Los Angeles branch of the limo service. One of the stipulations is Dante has to stay clean and sober. This does not happen and he grows dissatisfied with this job, and is usually drinking a few fingers of bourbon along with some Vicodin to get through the day. Periodically through the novel, he has a few opportunities to get out of limo driving and people who want to cut him a break, but he invariably screws his chances of this and falls deeper into his alcohol fueled depression. He tries A.A. and towards the end of the book, it seems to have a positive effect.
There really isn't much of a plot to the book; the reader is more or less following Dante through his days of driving and drinking. Fante's depiction of L.A., using it as a background character to the story, the phony jackasses of the movie industry, the seedy underbelly of L.A., as well as some of the ridiculous things one encounters as a limo driver are intriguing. Prepare for coarse language and raw descriptions of sex and drug usage.
I was originally planning to rate this three stars because while I didn't really connect with the main character, Fante's realistic depictions of Los Angeles effectively draws the reader into the story.
There really isn't much of a plot to the book; the reader is more or less following Dante through his days of driving and drinking. Fante's depiction of L.A., using it as a background character to the story, the phony jackasses of the movie industry, the seedy underbelly of L.A., as well as some of the ridiculous things one encounters as a limo driver are intriguing. Prepare for coarse language and raw descriptions of sex and drug usage.
I was originally planning to rate this three stars because while I didn't really connect with the main character, Fante's realistic depictions of Los Angeles effectively draws the reader into the story.
August 2, 2012
At the end of Chump Change I wondered if Fante would be able to keep up the pace for 3 more semi-autobiographical novels. I also wondered whether I could keep up if in fact he did. Now having read them in close succession I can say that he’s kept it interesting without wearing me out. Bruno Dante continues to be a serial juicer with a masochistic edge and a deep dislike of people. With women, his relationships (if they can be called that) are cruel and dehumanizing, almost as bad as the jobs he takes to support his habits. As a boiler room salesman, taxi driver, movie usher, window washer, limo driver and working in other terrible jobs Bruno is in one bad situation after another. All the while he is trying to put his words on paper, scratching out poems in the cab or typing short stories in his motel room. The stories were hard to read, but the prose was direct and approachable. In the end I’d say reading these books is like having an eloquent tour guide to the dark side of a city you don’t care about: I don’t think I wanted to know more about these aspects of life, but I couldn’t resist Fante as a story teller.
October 8, 2009
The troubled son of yet another troubled writer, Dan Fante autobiographical books come disguised as fiction. This is a smart move on Fante's part and protects him from the James Frey syndrome.
From the school of Selby and Bukowski, Fante's protagonist Bruno Dante floats from one odd job to another in a drunken stupor leaving wreckage both literal and figurative in his wake. I admire the fact that Fante pulls no punches when describing his pointless and damaged life, but ultimately I feel nothing for him. I find it hard to be sympathetic with someone who gets into violent confrontations with ordinary store clerks. I've been on the other end of that encounter and grew to despise people who consistently ask to "speak to the manager" over some perceived slight.
There are occasional flashes of brilliance in Fante's writing, but it lacks the visceral punch of Selby or Bukowski.
From the school of Selby and Bukowski, Fante's protagonist Bruno Dante floats from one odd job to another in a drunken stupor leaving wreckage both literal and figurative in his wake. I admire the fact that Fante pulls no punches when describing his pointless and damaged life, but ultimately I feel nothing for him. I find it hard to be sympathetic with someone who gets into violent confrontations with ordinary store clerks. I've been on the other end of that encounter and grew to despise people who consistently ask to "speak to the manager" over some perceived slight.
There are occasional flashes of brilliance in Fante's writing, but it lacks the visceral punch of Selby or Bukowski.
February 14, 2012
As far as the 'drunken down and out thinly-veiled-autobiographer sadomasochist' subgenre goes, this rates as Unremarkable. It was a page turner, but nowhere near as visceral or poetic as a Chinaski or Bandini story, which it aspires to be. Credit where it's due though, the characters were realistic (conversely, they lacked the proper fiction/fantasy/exaggeration normal to this genre), and it was a good story (even though it lacked tension). The ending pulled it from three stars to two.
If this genre is your kind of thing, i'd recommend some Tom Waits alongside it. I listened to The Heart of Saturday Night a few times while reading this, and i've got a lot of the scenes overlaid with the trumpet/saxophone/piano refrain from Drunk on the Moon. Cool stuff.
And i'm blinded by the neon
Don't try and change my tune
'Cause I thought I heard a saxophone
I'm drunk on the moon
If this genre is your kind of thing, i'd recommend some Tom Waits alongside it. I listened to The Heart of Saturday Night a few times while reading this, and i've got a lot of the scenes overlaid with the trumpet/saxophone/piano refrain from Drunk on the Moon. Cool stuff.
And i'm blinded by the neon
Don't try and change my tune
'Cause I thought I heard a saxophone
I'm drunk on the moon
August 12, 2012
this was a fast paced read that really kept me going. i really never wanted to put it down once, but it was easy to read for short amounts of time and pick right back up.
this was my first dan fante book and I am led to believe that his other books are similar in style and all are semi-autobiographical. i like that.
the story here was good, it was kind of like life, i expected characters to come back into the fold, especially portia, but in life there are characters that are there and important and then just not there anymore. no redemption, stories often times try to wrap up with redemption and this one had a good chance at that with the whole 12 step angle.
i didnt really like that angle. i kind of wished that he would just drink himself to death or drive himself stupid enough to die. so, i guess the redemption is that he didnt die.
this was my first dan fante book and I am led to believe that his other books are similar in style and all are semi-autobiographical. i like that.
the story here was good, it was kind of like life, i expected characters to come back into the fold, especially portia, but in life there are characters that are there and important and then just not there anymore. no redemption, stories often times try to wrap up with redemption and this one had a good chance at that with the whole 12 step angle.
i didnt really like that angle. i kind of wished that he would just drink himself to death or drive himself stupid enough to die. so, i guess the redemption is that he didnt die.
November 3, 2009
Bruno Dante may be a hero to some, to me he's just a crazy fool. I didn't find this book hysterically funny as advertised, however, I did read it and was fascinated by Dante's endless depravity, his ability to emerge out of sticky situations only to screw up again and again. The capacity we humans have for self-destruction is pretty amazing and the insanity of many people who may appear perfectly normal is truly beyond imagining. Author John Fante (get it: Fante, Dante) supposedly knows what he's writing about because, gee, guess what, he's writing about himself.
This book has a message, which is: I, John Fante, was a fallen down drunken bastard and it was really cool!
This book has a message, which is: I, John Fante, was a fallen down drunken bastard and it was really cool!
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