Ask the Dust by John Fante

This novel was hypnotizing. I don't mean that the cover has swirls reminiscent of the snake's eyes in The Jungle Book; I mean that the style and language is deliriously overpowering.

As far as writing about writers goes, Fante keeps it firmly in the realm of everyday life - when his protagonist writes, it is described as simply as when he walks. It is refreshing for an author to describe writing matter-of-factly, instead of addressing the art as though it is a lofty impossible thing, only possible locked away in solitude or under the influence of various drugs.

I grew up in the outskirts of Los Angeles, in the "flat plain" of the San Fernando Valley. Regardless, I've always felt close to the culture and history of Los Angeles proper. I have a soft spot for it, so forgive me. Fante's descriptions of Los Angeles are beautiful, especially when they are directed at the less beautiful aspects of the city and its people.

One reviewer of this book said that it was definitely not recommended reading for the young, and even though I am relatively young, I would agree with this statement. I first read this book about nine or ten years ago and, honestly, I didn't know what all the fuss was about. I simply failed to understand its psychological nuances. Now that I am much closer to the protagonist's age, his thoughts, moods, delusions, and hopes are all more understandable, more realistic, and more heartbreaking than they possibly could have been while I still lived under my parents' roof.

Fante's main character, Arturo Bandini, is a writer who is struggling more in the sense of affording food than coming up with ideas. He has a proper amount of contradiction in his personality. I feel that too many characters are without internal conflict, and it's hard to identify with people who always seem to feel one way all the time. Bandini vacillates between delusions of grandeur and self-loathing, love and hate for his culture, simple enjoyment of Los Angeles and melancholy for its people. The palm trees that are so surprisingly gorgeous that he simply must sit underneath them and nap all afternoon, are, in a later chapter, sadly trapped in concrete while they suffocate under dust and car exhaust. Only sometimes does Bandini fully realize the contradictions in his behavior and opinions, and his inability or unwillingness to synthesize the two sides is perhaps the most human thing about him.

Don't trust the synopsis on the back of the book - if you pick up the Harper Perennial edition, it will mislead you greatly.

What might be most notable for the "cool" young reader is that Charles Bukowski referred to Fante as "my god." There is at least one poem by ol Buk about Fante's bout with diabetes - the Harper edition contains this poem in the back. It's beautiful. You can see the influence that Fante's direct style had on Bukowski, but at no point does the knowledge of Bukowski's imminent emergence overshadow the power of Fante's writing.

Any man who describes the ground during an earthquake as "carpet over oil," is okay in my book. What is dangerous about this novel is that Fante makes writing one seem positively easy. While that might make too many amateurs jump into the pool of literature, I can't help but admit that he is the first writer in a long time (if not ever) who has made me feel as though I must take the plunge myself.

Highly recommended, especially for Los Angeles residents or natives. Or, I suppose, anyone who likes to read. The Los Angeles (do not read "Hollywood") aspect of the book is negligible unless you are directly familiar with or nostalgic for the landscapes, which I am. I might actually take a break from fiction for awhile, so that Dust can cast its shadow a little longer.