John Fante

“Sinema salonlarından çıkıp gerçeğe alışabilmek için gözlerini kırpıştırdıklarını gördüm, dünyada neler olup bittiğini öğrenmek için sendeleyerek evlerine Times okumaya gidişlerini izledim. Onların gazetelerine kustum ben, edebiyatlarını okudum, örf ve adetlerine uydum, yemeklerini yedim, sanatlarına esnedim. Ama ben yoksulum, soyadımın sonu ünlü bir harfle bitiyor ve benden nefret ediyorlar, babamdan ve babamın babasından da, ellerinden gelse kanımı içerler ama yaşlanmışlar artık, güneşin altında ölüyorlar, oysa ben genç ve umut doluyum, yaşadığımız zamanı ve ülkemi seviyorum ve sana Yağlı dediğimde yüreğim değildi konuşan, eski bir yara titreşti sadece. Yaptığımdan çok utanıyorum.”

“Listen closely. There’s a remote possibility that you might learn something: First, I don’t give a damn if my work is commercial or not…I’m the writer. If what I write is good, then people will read it. That’s why literature exists. An author puts his heart and guts on the page. For your information, a good novel can change the world. Keep that in mind before you attempt to sit down at a typewriter. Never waste time on something you don’t believe in yourself.”

“I tossed my shoulders and swaggered away, whistling with pleasure. In the gutter I saw a long cigaret butt. I picked it up without shame, lit it as I stood with one foot in the gutter, puffed it and exhaled toward the stars. I was an American, and goddamn proud of it.”

“Almighty God, I am sorry I am now an atheist, but have You read Nietzsche?”

“(...) I let go, crying and unable to stop because God was such a dirty crook, contemptible skunk, that's what he was for doing that thing to that woman. Come down out of the skies, you God, come on down and I'll hammer your face all over the city of Los Angeles, you miserable unpardonable prankster. If it wasn't for you, this woman would not have been so maimed, and neither would the world, (...)”

“Careful, Arturo Bandini: don't strain your eyesight, remember what happened to Tarkington, remember what happened to James Joyce.”

“All that was good in me thrilled in my heart at that moment, all that I hoped for in the profound, obscure meaning of my existence. Here was the endlessly mute placidity of nature, indifferent to the great city; here was the desert beneath these streets, around these streets, waiting for the city to die, to cover it with timeless sand once more. There came over me a terrifying sense of understanding about the meaning and the pathetic destiny of men. The desert was always there, a patient white animal, waiting for men to die, for civilizations to flicker and pass into the darkness. Then men seemed brave to me, and I was proud to be numbered among them. All the evil of the world seemed not evil at all, but inevitable and good and part of that endless struggle to keep the desert down.”

“Arturo Bandini: -What does happiness mean to you Camilla? Camilla: -That you can fall in love with whoever you want to, and not feel ashamed of it.”

“Nor did he give a damn for the world either, or the universe, or heaven or hell. But he liked women.”

“I have seen them stagger out of their movie palaces and blink their empty eyes in the face of reality once more, and stagger home, to read the Times, to find out what's going on in the world. I have vomited at their newspapers, read their literature, observed their customs, eaten their food, desired their women, gaped at their art. But I am poor, and my name ends with a soft vowel, and they hate me and my father, and my father's father, and they would have my blood and put me down, but they are old now, dying in the sun and in the hot dust of the road, and I am young and full of hope and love for my country and my times, and when I say Greaser to you it is not my heart that speaks, but the quivering of an old wound, and I am ashamed of the terrible thing I have done.”

“Donna Tosacana était devenue une femme imposante, toujours vêtue de noir depuis la mort de son mari. Sous la soie noire extérieure, elle portait des jupons, quatre jupons aux couleurs vives. Ses chevilles enflées ressemblaient à des goitres. Ses minuscules chaussures paraissaient prêtes à éclater sous la pression de ses cente vingt-cinq kilos. Une douzaine de seins superposés semblaient s'écraser sur sa poitrine. Elle était bâtie comme une pyramide, sans hanches. Ses bras étaient si charnus qu'ils ne tombaient pas à la verticale, mais faisaient un angle avec son corps ; ses doigts enrobés de graisse évoquaient des saucisses. Elle n'avait quasiment pas de cou. Quand elle tournait la tête, les bourrelets de chair se déplaçaient avec la lenteur mélancolique de la cire molle. On voyait son crâne rose à travers ses cheveux blancs clairsemés. Son nez était mince et exquis, mais ses yeux évoquaient deux raisins noirs écrasés. Dès qu'elle parlait, ses fausses dents jacassaient dans l'idiome qui leur était propre.”

“Maintenant je le savais, maintenant j'allais le faire. Je suis remonté là-haut en courant, avec la bouteille d'eau bénite, un idiot muni d'eau bénite, je le savais, je savais que j'étais idiot, mais je m'en moquais. Je devais les avertir de mon arrivée. Je devais au moins les prévenir, ils avaient droit à ça. J'ai gueulé : "Eau bénite !""L'eau bénite arrive !""Voilà l'eau bénite !"Quand je me suis rué dans l'entrée de la mine, ils étaient tous immobiles sur le sol, blancs et nus et paralysés, figés comme de blâmes cadavres."Attention à l'eau bénite ! Voici l'homme qui détient l'eau bénite ! Un truc super puissant !"J'ai ai éclaboussé un peu partout, elle glougloutait hors de la bouteille en giclant sur leurs cadavres blancs. "C'est l'eau bénite, les amis ! Un truc super-puissant !" Sur leurs visages, leurs poitrines, leurs parties poilues, jeter l'eau bénite, chasser le diable, tuer le diable, sauver mon père, libérer mon père !”

“Elle me lança le gant au visage. "Gibier de potence !" dit elle. "Petit malfrat !"Elle fit demi-tour et m'abandonna à mon sort. Je me séchai, enfilai un caleçon et entrai dans la cuisine. Elle était devant la cuisinière, le dos tourné, en train de préparer mon petit-déjeuner. L'expert des appendices charnus que je suis détecta aussitôt la contraction de ses fessiers - signe indubitable de fureur chez une femme. L'expérience m'a appris à me montrer extrêmement prudent en présence d'une métamorphose aussi spectaculaire des fessiers féminins, si bien que je m'assis sans moufter. J'avais l'impression d'affronter un serpent lové sur lui-même.”

“If there is work there is warmth, that when a man has freedom of movement it is enough, for then his blood is hot too”

“She had no need in her heart for either book or magazine. She had her own way of escape, her own passage into contentment: her rosary. That string of white beads, the tiny links worn in a dozen places and held together by strands of white thread which in turn broke regularly, was, bead for bead, her quiet flight out of the world. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. And Maria began to climb. Bead for bead, life and living fell away. Hail Mary, Hail Mary. Dream without sleep encompassed her. Passion without flesh lulled her. Love without death crooned the melody of belief. She was away: she was free; she was no longer Maria, American or Italian, poor or rich, with or without electric washing machines and vacuum cleaners; here was the land of all-possessing. Hail Mary, Hail Mary, over and over, a thousand and a hundred thousand times, prayer upon prayer, the sleep of the body, the escape of the mind, the death of memory, the slipping away of pain, the deep silent reverie of belief. Hail Mary and Hail Mary. It was for this that she lived.”

“So what’s the use of repentance, and what do you care for goodness, and what if you should die in a quake, so who the hell cares? So I walked downtown, so these were the high buildings, so let the earthquake come, let it bury me and my sins, so who the hell cares? No good to God or man, die one way or another, a quake or a hanging, it didn’t matter why or when or how.”

“Ah, Evelyn and Vivian, I love you both, I love you for your sad lives, the empty misery of your coming home at dawn. You too are alone, but you are not like Arturo Bandini, who is neither fish, fowl nor good red herring. So have your champagne, because I love you both, and you too, Vivian, even if your mouth looks like it had been dug out with raw fingernails and your old child's eyes swim in blood written like mad sonnets.”

“The old folk from Indiana and Iowa and Illinois, from Boston and Kansas City and Des Moines, they sold their homes and their stores, and they came here by train and by automobile to the land of sunshine, to die in the sun, with just enough money to live until the sun killed them, tore themselves out by the roots in their last days, deserted the smug prosperity of Kansas City and Chicago and Peoria to find a place in the sun. And when they got here they found that other and greater thieves had already taken possession, that even the sun belonged to the others; Smith and Jones and Parker, druggist, banker, baker, dust of Chicago and Cincinnati and Cleveland on their shoes, doomed to die in the sun, a few dollars in the bank, enough to subscribe to the Los Angeles Times, enough to keep alive the illusion that this was paradise, that their little papier-mâché homes were castles.”

“One night I was sitting on the bed in my hotel room on Buker Hill, down in the middle of Los Angeles. It was an important night in my life, because I had to make a decision about the hotel. Either I paid up or I got out: that was what the note said, the note the landlady had put under my door. A great problem, deserving acute attention. I solved it by turning out the lights and going to bed.”

“I felt his hot tears and the loneliness of man and the sweetness of all men and the aching haunting beauty of the living”

“So fuck you, Los Angeles, fuck your palm trees, and your highassed women, and your fancy streets, for I am going home, back to Colorado, back to the best damned town in the USA - Boulder, Colorado.”

“I have wanted women whose very shoes are worth all I have ever possessed.”

“She was forcing it with her scorn, the kiss she gave me, the hard curl of her lips, the mockery of her eyes, until I was like a man made of wood and there was no feeling within me except terror and a fear of her, a sense that her beauty was too much, that she was so much more beautiful than I, deeper rooted than I. She made me a stranger unto myself, she was all of those calm nights and tall eucalyptus trees, the desert stars, that land and sky, that fog outside, and I had come there with no purpose save to be a mere writer, to get money, to make a name for myself and all that piffle. She was so much finer than I, so much more honest, that I was sick of myself and I could not look at her warm eyes, I suppressed the shiver brought on by her brown arms around my neck and the long fingers in my hair. I did not kiss her. She kissed me, author of The Little Dog Laughed. Then she took my wrist with her two hands. She pressed her lips into the palm of my hand. She placed my hand upon her bosom between her breasts. She turned her lips towards my face and waited. And Arturo Bandini, the great author dipped deep into his colourful imagination, romantic Arturo Bandini, just chock-full of clever phrases, and he said, weakly, kittenishly, 'Hello.”

“Dear Woman Who Gave Me Life:The callous vexations and perturbations of this night have subsequently resolved themselves to a state which precipitates me, Arturo Bandini, into a brobdingnagian and gargantuan decision. I inform you of this in no uncertain terms. Ergo, I now leave you and your ever charming daughter (my beloved sister Mona) and seek the fabulous usufructs of my incipient career in profound solitude. Which is to say, tonight I depart for the metropolis to the east — our own Los Angeles, the city of angels. I entrust you to the benign generosity of your brother, Frank Scarpi, who is, as the phrase has it, a good family man (sic!). I am penniless but I urge you in no uncertain terms to cease your cerebral anxiety about my destiny, for truly it lies in the palm of the immortal gods. I have made the lamentable discovery over a period of years that living with you and Mona is deleterious to the high and magnanimous purpose of Art, and I repeat to you in no uncertain terms that I am an artist, a creator beyond question. And, per se, the fumbling fulminations of cerebration and intellect find little fruition in the debauched, distorted hegemony that we poor mortals, for lack of a better and more concise terminology, call home. In no uncertain terms I give you my love and blessing, and I swear to my sincerity, when I say in no uncertain terms that I not only forgive you for what has ruefully transpired this night, but for all other nights. Ergo, I assume in no uncertain terms that you will reciprocate in kindred fashion. May I say in conclusion that I have much to thank you for, O woman who breathed the breath of life into my brain of destiny? Aye, it is, it is.Signed.Arturo Gabriel Bandini.Suitcase in hand, I walked down to the depot. There was a ten-minute wait for the midnight train for Los Angeles. I sat down and began to think about the new novel.”

“Please God, please Knut Hamsun, don't desert me now. I started to write and I wrote: The time has come," the Walrus said,To talk of many things:Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax — Of cabbages — and kings —”

“IT'S MORNING, TIME to get up, so get up, Arturo, and look for a job. Get out there and look for what you'll never find. You're a thief and you're a crab-killer and a lover of women in clothes closets. You'll never find a job!Every morning I got up feeling like that. Now I've got to find a job, damn it to hell. I ate breakfast, put a book under my arm, pencils in my pocket, and started out. Down the stairs I went, down the street, sometimes hot and sometimes cold, sometimes foggy and sometimes clear. It never mattered, with a book under my arm, looking for a job.What job, Arturo? Ho ho! A job for you? Think of what you are, my boy! A crab-killer. A thief. You look at naked women in clothes closets. And you expect to get a job! How funny! But there he goes, the idiot, with a big book. Where the devil are you going, Arturo? Why do you go up this street and not that? Why go east - why not go west? Answer me, you thief! Who'll give you a job, you swine - who? But there's a park across town, Arturo. It's called Banning Park. There are a lot of beautiful eucalyptus trees in it, and green lawns. What a place to read! Go there, Arturo. Read Nietzsche. Read Schopenhauer. Get into the company of the mighty. A job? fooey! Go sit under a eucalyptus tree reading a book looking for a job. ”

“Ask the dust on the road! Ask the Joshua trees standing alone where the Mojave begins. Ask them about Camilla Lopez, and they will whisper her name.”

“Oh, God, help me! And I walked faster, my thoughts pursuing me, and I began to run, my frozen shoes squealing like mice, but running didn't help, the thoughts to the left and right and behind me. But as I ran, The Arm, that good left arm, took hold of the situation and spoke soothingly: ease up, Kid, it's loneliness, you're all alone in the world; your father, your mother, your faith, they can't help you, nobody helps anybody, you only help yourself, and that's why I'm here, because we are inseperable, and we'll take care of everything.”

“Ah, Los Angeles! Dust and fog of your lonely streets, I am no longer lonely. Just you wait, all of you ghosts of this room, just you wait, because it will happen, as sure as there's a God in heaven.”

“You are nobody, and I might have been somebody, and the road to each of us is love.”

“It was a bad one, the Winter of 1933. Wading home that night through flames of snow, my toes burning, my ears on fire, the snow swirling around me like a flock of angry nuns, I stopped dead in my tracks. The time had come to take stock. Fair weather or foul, certain forces in the world were at work trying to destroy me.”

“Los Angeles, give me some of you! Los Angeles come to me the way I came to you, my feet over your streets, you pretty town I loved you so much, you sad flower in the sand, you pretty town!”

“We talked, she and I. She asked about my work and it was a pretense, she was not interested in my work. And when I answered, it was a pretense. I was not interested in my work either. There was only one thing that interested us, and she knew it. She had made it plain by her coming.”