John Fante Books

Without a doubt, John Fante is the greatest American writer - ever. He can switch from first to third person so smoothly it isn't noticed, and the same for present and past tense as well as point of view. Amazing. Yet, he is like a masterful chef who only prepares one masterful dish; that being, of course, the life of Arturo Bandini.
Jerry Smith

This book contains several wonderfully memorable scenes, including the great battle against the crabs, the drowning of Bandini's women, Bandini's attempt to pile more than thirty boxes on a hand cart, and his sister's reaction to his silly novel. In addition, the book perfectly captures male lust and the delusions of grandeur that bites many male teenagers. All and all entertaining read.

I enjoyed this book in its own right, but my expectations for the book were not met because of the reasons that this book was recommended to me. I was told that this book would be very similar to "A Confederacy of Dunces," which frequently produced laugh-out-loud moments during my reading. I found this book to be much darker, and though the protagonists are probably equally outlandish, Ignatius' behavior often came across as light and humorous to me, whereas Arturo Bandini appeared tortured and to be pitied. Clearly, a book with a tortured protagonist does not limit its quality, but I suppose that the mindset that I had coming into this text [that of a lighter comedy] caused me to have mixed reactions towards it.

This is the first novel of Fante's that I have read and I am interested in reading some more of him. There were times I wanted to throw the whole book in the trash, yet I couldn't stop reading it no matter how terribly repugnant the main character Arturo Bandini was. Arturo is your quintessential megalomaniac and sociopath. At about a third of the way through the novel (page 63 to be exact, when our antihero began torturing flies) I was about to throw in the towel and give up completely. However, something kept me reading. As demented as Arturo was, you can't help but read on to see what in the hell he was going to do and say next. After all, just because you can't stand the main character doesn't necessarily mean that the prose isn't profound. On the contrary, I found Fante to be a very interesting, courageous, and an extremely unique writer. Remember folks, this was written before Bukowski (who thought of him as his 'God') and Toole's classic, Pulitzer prize winning "A Confederacy of Dunces". There is no doubt of the impact he had on both authors and God knows how many countless more. Those of you who love Bukowski and/or Toole's classic should really enjoy this novel by John Fante (his first book, by the way).

I think it is safe to say this novel will never make it in Oprah's book club. Most of the masses will probably not enjoy this at all. On top of being an ego-maniac and a sociopath, Arturo is also sexist, racist, violent, sex-starved, mean-spirited, friendless, indolent, obnoxious, arrogant, profane, completely self-absorbed, etc... ad infinitum. He also enjoys reading Hitler and considers himself a Communist. However, all that being said - he is extremely hilarious to say the least! I especially enjoyed his constant battles with his younger (albeit much more mature), religious, reserved sister Mona and his neurotic, over-bearing, ditsy mother. It's so dysfunctional it will either make you depressed or have you rolling on the floor with laughter (or like me, perhaps a little bit of both). Especially when you take into account this was written before WWII. That is what truly amazed me. It's no wonder Bukowski loved him so much!

it's wonderful little novel. there is a lot of confusion, of pain, of loneliness, but there is a lot of joy and of happiness and of hope. it's the story of a young arturo bandini losing jobs, working in the fish cannery, living with mother and sister, and trying to write a novel. it's a little masterpiece. it's one of those books that grab your attention and strike a chord inside you. it's a five stars to me.

I have read all of the Fante books and this is by far my favorite! If you love Bukowski, this is a must! Right from the Bukowski school!

Fante seems quaint and offensive by today's standards. Another wholly disappointing offering from a mediocre writer, like a second-rate Steinbeck best left to obscurity.

It's certainly well written, and it's not that I hated it, but...It's just such a male book that it feels hard to connect to. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some crazed feminist. More so, most of the books in my library were written by men. But most of them don't make me feel excluded. I think that a good book is universal. This isn't.

This story is absolutely hilarious. This guy Fante was nuts! I know I am not a shrink, but I think it's safe to say that his elevator didn't quite go up to the top floor. However, I challenge anyone out there to pick up one of his books and see if they can easily put it down. The guy knows how to write. He may be insane, but the man holds your interest and he makes it real hard to stop reading.

"Dreams from Bunker Hill" takes place in Los Angeles in the late 1930's where Fante's favorite protagonist Arturo Bandini is a struggling writer who is given a job as a Hollywood screenwriter. Obviously, the world of Hollywood is no place for our wacky anti-hero. To me, Bandini seems to be a cross between Howard Stern and Jerry Lewis (obviously not the real Jerry, but the comedic characters he played). Arturo never stops with his antics, each antic seemingly eclipsing the one before it with its stupidity and insanity. There are more than a half dozen scenes in the novel which had me actually keeling over with laughter. Of course, not everyone shares my strange sense of humor. If you are the self-effacing, not too serious type, then you will probably love this guy. This is my third book of his, and so far my favorite. I may not like him as much as Bukowski, but I am really enjoy the majority of his writing and will continue to read more of his work. Like Hank, Fante grows on you, like it or not.

Fante definitely isn't going to be everyone's favorite dish. However, love him or hate him there is definitely no denying this guy was a true original. He was Bukowski's hero (he actually referred to him as 'God') and it is overtly clear after reading one page of Fante where Buke drew his inspiration. If you are a true fan of Hank's, then you positively must read this man. Most of his fans and critics agree that this is one of his better novels. I give it four and a half stars.

This is the second Fante novel I've read and it was a beauty. I just recenlty discovered Fante, too, and all I can say is I'll be reading more of him.

The novel follows Arturo Bandini, a twenty-something from Colorado who's struggling to make it as a writer in Los Angeles. He meets all kinds of morons in the business, and his talent pretty much goes unrecognized.

Fante's writing is just awesome. It far surpases the trash that's written today. If you're into a good story, one that has depth, action and killer prose, you can't go wrong with Fante. It's too bad they don't write like this anymore.

Also recommended: The Gospel of Arnie

Fante leaves behind the extreme characters that used to colour his stories and draws new feelings in his writing. With a parsimony that perhaps Fante gained with maturity, Full of Life discloses a part of Fante that I wouldn't expect from him, but at the same time is as much as his as the Bandini saga. Nonetheless, faithfull to Fante's style Full of Life leaves you that bitter-sweet taste in your mouth that can only come from honest writing.

This book is probably not the masterpiece of John Fante, but anyway has some peculiar carateristics. It is the only one in which the author uses his own name to describe a piece of his real life with his wife, Joyce.
It is funny, ironic, deep, sometimes philosophical, like any other Fante's book. I think it is worth to buy it. If you have loved the author of "Ask the Dust" and "The brotherhood of the grape", you'll find "Full of life" a very good book.

PROBABLY ONE OF THE MORE ENJOYABLE BOOKS I HAVE EVER READ. THE MOVIE VERSION WITH JUDY HOLIDAY AND RICHARD CONTE WAS ALSO MEMORABLE. I WISH IT WAS ON DVD.

Fante seems quaint and offensive by today's standards. Another wholly disappointing offering from a mediocre writer, like a second-rate Steinbeck best left to obscurity.

This is a beautiful book, in the fullest sense of the term. Practically autobiographical, Full of Life tells the tale of Fante and his pregnant wife, Joyce, as well as his father and mother. It is beyond anything, a message of beauty, joy, wonder, astonishment, blissfulness, impending fatherhood, family and love.

Written in a most direct and simple style, Fante expresses very succinctly the emotions of a soon-to-be father, and the rises and falls of being married to a woman who is pregnant for the first time. His trepidation, her alterations at the hands of hormonal shifts and their fluctuating connections to each other, make for a sweetness, pervasive throughout the book, that inspires the deepest of respect for marriage, coupling and home.

When a surprising home accident occurs, Fante decides to venture to his parents home in the Sacramento Valley, from Los Angeles where he and Joyce live in their newly purchased house. His father and mother, the very image of emotional, visceral, animated Italian immigrants, welcome and cajole him, as his appearance is unanticipated. Papa Fante was for many years a bricklayer, and John hopes to engage him in help for his own home, unsure of the high costs hiring out will bring. After some dramas, Papa and son return to L.A., where the coming child brings together Joyce and her father-in-law, leaving John to struggle with issues of marriage, son-hood, fatherhood, and Joyce's new found religion, as if alone.

In the end, Full of Life is an interesting, beautifully written, funny, sweet story of family, in the best sense. The emotions of everyone involved, the observances of scathing insecurity which Fante makes of himself and those around him, the sense of warmth and hope, make this a superb experience. Another terrific time with the Great John Fante.

West of Rome is to me, the crowning achievement of Fante's career. The first novella, My Dog Stupid, is the finest exploration of middle age and transition that I have ever had the fortune to course my eyes over. The mixture of unease, revulsion, conflict and love all painted in Fante's unmistakable style creates such longing within the reader that going to the movies for the next year seems an appalling proposition. I recommend this book without hesitation to those who have yet to be exposed to the marvel that is John Fante, and to those who have walked with this writer before. 5 stars.

Fante seems quaint and offensive by today's standards. Another wholly disappointing offering from a mediocre writer, like a second-rate Steinbeck best left to obscurity. With so many great books out of print, why is every chicken-scratch ever penned by this drunk hack-writer in print?

de här berättelser är ganska roliga men jag recommendera att ni börja med arturo bandinis sagor...sen kommer ni inte läsa 'west of rome' och allt blir finare...vad tycker ni om genomgången? tryck 'yes' om det inte hjälpte och 'no' om det var skit häftigt...

After reading the classic tale of Arturo Bandini's struggle against the world in "Ask the Dust," I continued to buy Fante novel after Fante novel hoping to find that bellicose charm and straight forward prose that made me laugh out loud. However, 1933 was a Bad Year, Full of Life and Dreams of Bunker Hill did't quite make the cuts. As I read these novels I felt Fante somehow wasn't up to the task of telling the tale all the way through. There wasn't that Bandiniesque immediacy, the unique voice frought with passion and toughness. Well, the first novella in this two novella collection, "My Dog Stupid", has that Ask the Dust magic. Bandini By the Tail. Its Bandini against big dogs, sons in laws, uptight Hollywood lawyers and thankless children. But it isn't without it's heart-warming qualities that shows Fante has mellowed with age like a fine port without losing any of his potency. Always good for a laugh, a smile, a "Hurrah", Fante holds a special place in the American canon. I once said to my wife Graham Greene can write and plot circles around Fante, but if what Emerson said is true that "character is higher than intellect", then no wonder Fante is the guy you want to polish off a bottle with.

Jusr read the first of what I hope to be many Fante books, which was recommended to me by a fellow Bukowski fan. It has been a long time since I laughed out loud reading, and that was a true pleasure. If you like Hem, Bukowski, or any other writer with a gift for a tough, workmanlike line, then Fante is like pudding.

The first novella, "My Dog Stupid" introduces the reader to the harrowing family life of an underemployed Hollywood wrtiter in the late 60's--from the slacker son who makes his mother write college essays to the daughter who "runs away" with her surfer boyfriend for a week at a time, returning to pick up wine and fresh towels.

This is all viewed from the jaundiced eye of the protaginist, who find himself having to decide between his fantasies of a life in Rome, his newly found stray Akita, and dealing with his harried, embittered wife.

Nice stuff.

These writings seem quaint and offensive by today's standards. These are wholly disappointing stories from a mediocre writer, like a second-rate Steinbeck. Cooper seems completely in love with his meal ticket, but I doubt this collection will draw any new admirers.

I somehow couldn't get through Fante's Ask the Dust but this collection has me riveted. It's raw, powerful stuff and I'm embarrassed to find so much I admired in a more famous writer (Chinaski) apparently lifted from here (ample credit given, albeit). This is wrenching stuff. How did Fante's reputation get sidetracked? Kind of reminds me of another great writer, Richard Yates, who somehow got lost in the shuffle --jaw-droppingly awesome stuff that just went thwooop over the heads of the "important" critics.

Stephen Cooper has done more justice to telling Fante's story than anyone. It is Steve Cooper who has brought Fante's stories back into the limelight again, giving him the voice he so desperately needed (and deserved) when he was alive. The John Fante Reader is a fantastic compilation of stories from all of Fante's work. From beginning to end, the reader is allowed to follow Fante on his journey as a young boy and into adulthood. This is a fabulous read if you have yet to be indoctrinated into the world of Fante as well as if you already love Fante and his out-of-control imagination and storytelling. This Reader puts together little bits and pieces of his best work. I have not laughed as much as I did reading the escapades of Fante's characters, or cry. He is raw and human and so alive in all of his writing. You won't be sorry for having read this. In fact, it will probably prompt you to run out and buy all of his books and read them one by one. It is almost like being teased, only getting to read bits and pieces from each story here. But they are fabulous stories, nonetheless.

I love this book and that stems largely from the fact that I love Fante. You don't have to be Catholic or ITALIAN to appreciate him. A huge thank you to Steve Cooper for putting this out in the world for everyone to enjoy.

I think the reviewer, Queequeg, who thought this book 'Racist, Mysogynist, and Dated,' missed the point completely. That she is calling him a 2nd rate Steinbeck demonstrates that she cannot read Fante for he is, 'an original voice'. Secondly, her statement that he is 'quaint and offensive' by today's standards' says it all. Today's standards?! Please! Today's standards are hardly a yardstick by which to measure great literature. 'Today's standards' are themselves 'offensive'. Great literature by it's very definition is that which has stood the test of time and Fante, though underrated and overlooked, has and will!! Long live John Fante!!

John Fante, Prologue to Ask the Dust (Black Sparrow, 1990)

Actually, the title of this book is something of a misnomer; it is not a prologue to Fante's brilliant novel, it's a letter Fante wrote to his publisher (and never sent) about why said publisher should publish said novel. It was lost for half a century after being written, found by Fante's widow after his death, and published soon after by Black Sparrow.

If you know Fante's work, you probably know what to expect here. A good argument could be (and has been, many times) made for Fante being the progenitor of the beat Generation, and here, in a short piece of nonfiction, perhaps the best case is made; the style of Fante's 1938 letter obviously informed such writers as Kerouac and his crowd, though they'd have gotten their Fante fix through the novel itself, where it's somewhat diluted. This, folks, is the strong stuff, and it's utterly fantastic. Without the need to hold things together with a narrative thread, Fante jumps around like a manic patient at the lunatic asylum, always returning to Camilla, the model for Dust's man character, and Fante's obsession with her. (As a side note, Fante's inconsistent reference to himself as Arturo Bandini, the hero of his first novel, presage Bukowski's constant references to himself as Chinaski; Bukowski's love for Fante is well-known by anyone who's read Buk's many poems referencing Fante.) The portrait that emerges is of a deeply disturbed, perhaps deranged, but brilliant human being. And the note on which Fante ends the letter redefines sucker punch.

With the demise of Black Sparrow a few years back, it's probably not terribly likely this volume will see print again. If it does find its way into your local bookstore, however, snap it up. It is the stuff nightmares are made of.

"Full of Life,: Stephen Cooper's biography of John Fante, is excellent in many ways. It's also, like its subject, flawed. It gets off to a great start, with sympathetic understanding and some brilliantly written passages. But as the book goes on, the author tends to succumb to Biographeritis: dislike of his subject.

It's the biographer's mission to present an honest picture of his subject, warts and all. A book that did nothing but gush over its subject's good qualities wouldn't be worth much. But it's just as uimportant not to get carried away in the other direction, and present the subject in as bad a light as possible, lovingly nurturing every bad thing that everyone has to say bout him (or her), now that the subject is safely dead. It's what J.B. Priestly described as the posthumous assassin, "running out to plunge another knife into the corpse." This is done without trying to ascertain whether or not the charges are actually true, and certainly without taking a look at the not always admirable motives involved. It's not possible to check out every denunciation, of course; but when the accusation is a serious one - cruelty, for instance - the biographer owes it to the person he's writing about to at least make an effort to see if it really happened. In my opinion Cooper lets Fante down in this respect.

By far the worst thing about the book is that there's one episode which I strongly suspect isn't true: the drowning of the kittens. This is a serious charge of cruelty against a dead man who can't defend himself. Given, over, and over, and over again (his acceptance of a rat for a present - when he was drunk, by the way - having his friend pull over to rescue a cat, buying a pig to keep his dog happy, almost breaking up his marriage because he wanted to keep a dog his wife wanted him to get rid of, refusing to get rid of another dog that almost everyone else in the family hated - someone even volunteered to shoot it), how much he loved animals, I find it very hard to believe that Fante could have done this. It was simply out of character, whatever his faults were. At the very least it strains credulity. Yet Cooper reports it as an accepted fact. He should have checked out this alleged incident very carefully, instead of simply taking the word of ex-neighbors who didn't like him, and who still held a grudge (after fifty years!) over a failed joint movie venture. It's fine for Cooper to assert unequivocally that Fante drank too much, stayed out all night, and neglected his wife, because that's the way Fante habitually behaved. He did NOT habitually murder animals. And the usual explanation for aberrant behavior - "Well, he was drunk" - won't wash here, because Fante also behaved tenderly toward animals when he was drunk. In his writing, as well as in his life, Fante had not only love but pity for helpless animals. Cooper must not have read the chapter in "Ask the Dust" where the narrator is sickened by the murder (and he calls it murder) of the calf, and is tormented by pity for the calf's grieving mother. This episode was described with so much revulsion that it hardly seems like the attitude of someone who would drown kittens. I have an alternate theory: I think one or more of the neighborhood boys killed the kittens, and then blamed it on their unpopular neighbor.

Where was Joyce while this was going on? It's hard to believe that this spirited lady would have just stood by passively while Fante the Fiend carried out his murderous action. For that matter, where were his own kids? There's no corroboration by them. How convenient, that everyone in the family was absent that day (which almost never happened), except the Strobel kid. If there's a future edition of this book, I hope Cooper will at least really check out this attack on Fante. At the very least, he owes it to Fante's memory to point out that this seems to be uncharacteristic behavior for someone who was known for his lifelong love of animals.

Cooper's appreciation of Fante's work is much better. I have to say, though, that, like several of the reviewers, he missed the point of "Ask the Dust." He harps on the name-calling and the racial epithets. That's an important component of the book, certainly. But it's not what the book is about, any more than "Vanity Fair" is solely about Becky Sharp, Thackeray's great anti-heroine. "Ask the Dust," like "Vanity Fair" and "Of Human Bondage," examines a basic problem of human existence: why do we love the people who don't love us?

Cooper has a warm appreciation for Fante's writing. As he notes, "Ask the Dust," in addition to being a great Los Angeles book - the city itself, its streets and cafes and boarding houses and skid row, is one of the major characters in the book - has one of the most lyrical and haunting - and saddest - endings ever written. Cooper may not be a fan of Fante the man, but he loves Fante the writer.

For a book called "Full of Life," this work is surprisingly flat and boring. Not much happens in the life of John Fante. He drinks a lot, writes a little, drinks some more, abuses his wife, drinks even more, and saves just enough time to drown a sack of kittens in the kitchen sink while his children cry horrified. That's it for the drama, though. There isn't much life here, just a sad example of a generation of gruff and abusive alcoholic men slowly fading into memory. "Life" in these terms seems defined by random violent outbursts, failure and the bottle. Even Cooper's prose, fashioned to echo his idol, falls flat on the page with sentences like, "He was full of piss and vinegar." This isn't a biography as much as a eulogy to a time and a man better left forgotten. Fante's literary achievements were limited in his lifetime at best, perhaps in no small part due to his heavy alcoholism. There is nothing new or interesting here, not even a great work of art to point to and wonder. Cooper looks behind the curtain of Fante's existence, finding that whatever wizard we had imagined there had long ago crumbled to dust. There is no life here, full or otherwise...

I hope the interest in "Ask the Dust" (reprint and Hollywood film) will send many readers to this excellent biography. If you want to learn more about Fante and the Los Angeles literary and screenwriting scene of his era, this book is a gold mine. Recognition came late for Fante, and it wouldn't have come at all without Charles Bukowski's advocacy, but this biography, Robert Towne's feature film, and the Independent Lens documentary that aired recently on PBS ("A Sad Flower in the Sand") are helping to rectify the critical neglect. Two comments on the other reviews. Yes, it will be useful in the classroom. I just taught "Ask the Dust" in a course at San Francisco State University, and this work was a huge help. And to those who could do without the endnotes, they were indispensable for me as I researched the life of Fante's friend Carey McWilliams.

Overall, a good first biography of John Fante. Fante's extensive screenwriting efforts are documented in detail here, and there are interesting insights into the writing of Ask the Dust. I found some portions a bit dry, like the delving at length into Fante's family tree at the beginning. Likewise, the fifty pages of scholarly Notes at the end are tedious reading and seem superfluous. Invaluable are facts surrounding incidents such as Fante's car accident later in life (Stephen Cooper hinting that perhaps it was an attempt at autocide), and Fante's purchase of a revolver (the biographer suggesting that Fante may have been planning to kill himself). Inexcusable, however, are omissions like the failure to note the recent writing achievements of Fante's son, Dan, whose books are big business in Europe. Dan may have his father's gift of braggadocio, and the curse of ten times the old man's bitterness, but the oversight (?) is bizarre in the context of such an obviously well-researched bio. The few glossed-over gaps in Full of Life are almost to be expected since John Fante's own letters and fictions were so frequently full of fabrication themselves.

Lest anyone believe the dribble of the last reviewer who gave Cooper's biography one star, I thought I'd send in a review that at least strives for honesty, to say nothing of accuracy, which that other reviewer made no attempt to show. Stephen Cooper's biography of John Fante is a thoroughly enjoyable if occasionally painful read. Enjoyable because he presents a well-rounded picture of the man who penned such American classics as: Ask The Dust, The Brotherhood of the Grape, My Dog Stupid, Dreams From Bunker Hill, and others, including a number of very fine and moving short stories. Painful, because John Fante certainly was a flawed human being, as this biography clearly shows. To complain that Fante drank, or was lazy, or abused his wife, etc. is silly. What, we can or should only read books by people who are saints? If that's the criteria for what writers we read then there'd be nothing to read on the fiction shelves by either men or women. Should I refrain from reading Claire Boothe Luce or Dorothy Parker because they were less than perfect people? Should I dump my Dostoyevsky books simply because he treated everyone monstrously, or my Dickens, because he was a lousy father and husband? I'm sorry to destroy the illusions of the simpleton who wrote that review, but writers are sometimes petty, self-centered, back-biting, bores, many of whom drink to excess or gamble, or cheat, or womanize, etc., etc. If you want nice problem-free people to emulate go for film stars or musicians, or jocks, right? Maybe certain people shouldn't read biographies, but can instead continue to march along the primrose path believing idiocies like the writers they admire are as perfect as the works they create.

For this person to state something like: "There is nothing new or interesting here, not even a great work of art to point to and wonder. Cooper looks behind the curtain of Fante's existence, finding that whatever wizard we had imagined there had long ago crumbled to dust." --I'm sorry, but that's not even half intelligent, it's sheer wanton stupidity. Yeah, that's why John Fante has admirers from John Fowles all the way down.

Cooper's book gives us the externals that formed John Fante the writer. If that is uninteresting to the previous reviewer, that's sad. That he or she doesn't appreciate Fante work, and feels the need to attack it is pathetic. Fante will long outlast you, and I'd sure hate to see what lies on your bookshelves. Fante's books continue to sell and be reprinted, here in the U.S and in Europe. While there's no accounting for taste, there's no accounting for its absence in this case. Set Fante beside anyone who wrote in the 1930s or 1940s-Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, etc.-and you will see that Fante's writing is not dated, but is incredibly fresh. And while he writes a clean simple prose, at the same time there is poetry there, too. How many writers can you name who are capable of accomplishing that? Add Fante's humor, and you have writing that is a miracle. Sure there are passages that are cruel-life was very cruel for Mexicans, Italians, Philipinos, and others living in the U.S. all vying to fit in as Americans, to survive. And that was the world John Fante worked to depict in his writing. If that a failure of a life, then give me more failures!

Fante's writing is brilliant, but of course you have to have some taste to realize this. And if you've got any sense, you'll find it hilarious; it will make you laugh out loud, and yes, wince on occasion. It will move you, because there's an emotional content in his writing that is sorely lacking in 95% of the writers out there.

Stephen Cooper's biography is not adulatory. Instead, it's honest, as Fante's writing is honest. Cooper writes of the whole man, not a part of him. To the other reviewer who complained that Fante's fictions were so frequently full of fabrication, well, that's why they call it fiction, silly. People do themselves and Fante a huge disservice by assuming what he wrote was autobiographical. Fante clearly infused his character, his alter ego, Arturo Bandini, into a framework wherein he used bits and pieces of real life, but his writing is not a mirror of his life. John Fante the person is not the same as John Fante's writing. Again, for those of you who are troubled by the definitions of `novel' and `fiction,' he made it up.

I say hats off to Stephen Cooper for writing a good solid biography of a man who deserves a much wider audience. Perhaps when the film Ask The Dust comes out in December, and Robert Towne doesn't blow it, that will happen.

This is a brilliant portrait of a misunderstood and underestimated author. I recommend it to any student of California literature.

This book provides an excellent account of the California screenwriter and novelist's life, and an eminently readable interpretation of his works in terms of his life as an Italian-American author. This is essential reading for anyone interested in Fante and in the Italian-American experience.

I knew John Fante. We worked together at screenwriting in Los Angeles. While I started out wanting to applaud Mr. Collins' efforts at capturing his subject, again and again in reading this book I came upon unsubstantiated assumptions that I know to be in part or wholly inaccurate. Collins is a decent enough writer but here he takes on alchemy and produces too much hot air. Comparatively, Steven Coopers biography of Fante was at least workmanlike and based on interviews with Fante's widow, Joyce, and Fante's family. Conversely, Mr. Collins' effort appears to be fundamentally realized by intellectual assertion and personal specualtion. Having know Fante I cannot recommend this work. At best too much of it is guesswork and at worst it is insulting to its subject. I have no wish to be unkind to Mr. Collins but I do recommend that he stick to writing about what he actually knows.