I’ve become enamored of this writer, there is really no one like him. I wonder who his own influences were. I’ve read most of the series of novels that made him famous, and this one was undoubtedly one of the most autobiographical from his youth: Set during the depression in small town Colorado, our young hero, the son of an extremely religious catholic mother and an unreliable, Italian bricklayer father, spins fantastic fantasies and dreams. In this case he has a golden arm, that he protects, admires and rubs often with liniment to protect it for baseball season where he aspires to make it big. He is poor, short, with ears that stick out and is very self-conscious. Oh, but the arm will serve him and make him famous – in fact it keeps him in stead with the son of the wealthiest man in town, ostensibly his best friend. Fante’s prose is so over the top hilarious and real that it just explodes off the page. Here (p. 9), e.g. “I had a great stride those days, the gait of a gunslinger, the looseness of the classic lefthander, the left shoulder dropping a little. The Arm dangling limp as a serpent – my arm, my blessed, holy arm that came from God, and if the Lord created me out of a poor bricklayer he hung me with jewels when he hinged that whizzer to my collarbone”.
Fante writes sharp prose from the brain of adolescent, deprived young boys of a certain era. I can still relate to those feelings, and this author captures them in their pure essence. What a talent he has. Of course, the fantasies about the older sister of his best friend, and their encounters are feverish and the failures would be tragic if they weren’t so explosively comical. Fante’s characters are doomed to fail, to be beaten down by life, and there is a sadness in that. The unrequited desires of our poor protagonist is something I recall as a young man a long time ago (p. 46): “Many a night in good weather and bad I went out of my way to walk past and glance up at her window. Sometimes I saw her up there, but usually not. Just seeing the light oming from the window, warm behind the curtains, made my heart speed up. I loved her. It was crazy, impossible and stupid, but I longed to be the rug she walked on, the bed she slept in, the soap that cleansed her skin….”
This was an incomplete novel, so it only gets 3 stars as a book form. Apparently, the author’s wife published it posthumously. I’m glad she did, it works like a novella or short story, but clearly there was more to come as the great Dominic Molise had yet to reach his full potential.
Some authors struggle to explain their characters, but Fante’s are portrayed so purely, simply and believably. One feels he is one of them. He’s just a delight. He doesn’t spare anyone, all the people in his stories are exposed as flawed, yet deeply lovable in their wonderfully rendered imperfections. The author seems to have a pure heart of his own. There is a beautiful innocence and simplicity in his writing that makes make me happy. Not mean-spirited like Bukowski, whose recommendation, oddly, led many to this author & a rekindling of interest.