The John Fante Reader by John Fante
If I get the job I’ll send you some money out of my first check. You’ll hear from me soon.
Love from Johnnie
{To Pascal Covici, Viking Press}
MAY 26, 1940
2904 MANHATTAN AVE,
MANHATTAN BEACH, CALIF.
Dear Pasquale—
You are right about a book of short stories now. I hate to agree with you but I’ve got to be honest and face the facts. […]
The man with the scythe nearly got me again. This time it was the flu. Three weeks ago I came down with it and within six hours my fever jumped to 105 and stayed there four days. The doctor gave me heavy doses of sulfanilamide which beat the fever down but damn near killed me. I lost 22 pounds in two weeks. It might have been easier except for the automobile accident, which left me very weak and susceptible.
And so it goes—
I was going to ask you for another advance to see me over this hump but my wife has forbidden it. Anyway I find myself worse off than ever in my life before, and just as soon as the blitzkrieg is licked I shall go to work for you. I’m chafing to write, mad with the desire.
I love war, chaos, gloomy predictions about the end of this civilization. It is always at times like these that I can sock it to my machine. And when in my forties they offer me the Nobel Award you can be sure I shall gladly accept it.
We face eviction here. If it happens my wife will go North and stay with her mother, but I’ll stick it out for a couple of weeks and then move in with a friend in Hollywood. This address is good for another ten days however.
The country has gone hog wild, Pasquale. The patriots have come out from under the damp stones and now we shall have a clear-cut view of democracy with her clothes off. Myself, I am innocent. I had nothing to do with Versailles because I was a little boy. I had less to do with the misery and decay after ‘29, because I too went hungry and roamed the streets, my head buzzing with the fabrications of the liars who turned me loose from their stinking temples of learning. I feel like a man of God. I held my nose and gritted my teeth. Now I come up for air and smell blood. They can tear this over-rated civilization apart, they can have their fascism and nazism and bolshevism and democracy. I shall type with one hand, the fingers of the other pinching my nostrils. It will be slower, less convenient, but it will be great writing anyway. Hitler. Blah. Mussolini. Blah. The fools. Neither have read “The Little Dog Laughed.”
Best regards,
John
{To William Saroyan}
TUESDAY [c. early 1942]
Dear Willie—
We are awful proud of you up here, us simple folk. (No MGM salary but good people anyway, those Fante people.) I was talking it over with my boy awhile ago (he had just soiled his britches and lay there in it, reveling in it) and I says to him, I says, “Son, what do you want from William Saroyan?” The boy sort of rolled from right to left and back again before replying. Then he said, “Tell the son of a bitch to send me Phyllis Brooks.” By this time his enormous penis had risen and lengthened to the size of a pencil eraser and I knew, knew with the conviction of blood echo down the years, that here was a lad who would in years to come rival even William Saroyan, old Hollywood Bill.
Tell everybody to kiss my ass, with love.
Jf.
AUGUST 2, 1941
Dear Mother and Father,
Joyce got back Monday morning, and it was very good to have her with me again. The apartment had got so dirty, with dishes piled in the kitchen and soiled clothes draped over every chair.
Joyce has told you I am working. It is truly a wonderful job I have now. Orson Welles, our producer, is the finest guy in Hollywood, and the maker of the best pictures. One of the pictures I am writing is supposed to be based on the true story of how a certain bricklayer in San Francisco met a certain Italian girl. I told Welles this was a true story, and he believed it. In a few days the studio will send you a contract which you are to sign, in which you promise not to sue them for libel. Please sign the papers and don’t worry about it. The story I have written (with Norman Foster) promises to be the finest love story ever made in Hollywood. You have nothing to worry about, and when you see the picture I can promise you that it will make you very happy and proud.
All stories we do for Welles for this picture are supposed to be true stories. Well, my story of the Italian bricklayer isn’t exactly true, but I had to tell them it was true in order to sell it. I got a thousand dollars for the idea. Please do as I say and sign the papers which RKO sends you. I will take care of the rest. Studios have to be very careful not to be sued for libel, and though there is nothing in the story to offend anybody, they still don’t want to take any chances. As soon as I get my check I will send you some money on it.
Meantime, I am making 300 a week, and my salary may be boosted to 400 in a month. The job may last a long time—possibly a year. But I am not sure. Anyhow, I am saving my money for the baby and a chance to write my book without any financial help from anybody.
Joyce is well and getting along fine. Sorry I haven’t written until now, but I’ve been awfully busy these past two weeks.
All my love
Johnnie
{To his Denver cousin Jo Campiglia}
DECEMBER 30, 1944
[LETTERHEAD] PARAMOUNT PICTURES, INC.
WEST COAST STUDIOS
Dear Jo—
I was very glad to have your note Christmas. It has certainly been a long time since any exchange of letters between us, but I see no reason why we can’t start all over again in the New Year, which I hope will be a pleasant one for you, bringing with it all the things you desire most. […]
It’s true that I have not done very much writing for publication since the war, but the cause lies in the war itself and a deep sense I possess of the futility of saying much in these bloody times. I have a story forthcoming in the Woman’s Home Companion, and I have finished one-half of a new book. Otherwise, I do nothing except play with my sons and screw my wife, both actions which I regard as very noble and good for my immortal soul. My children are simply gorgeous. Nicky, the older, is not yet three; but he knows his letters and can write out the alphabet, as well as spell a number of words. He has memorized nearly two hundred lines of Mother Goose, speaks with marvelous clarity, and says delightful things. On Christmas, for example, I patted his fanny and said, “What’s that?” He pulled away from me, frowned, and said, “If you ask questions like that I won’t like you anymore.” And my boy Danny is really a big fellow. He is nine months old and weighs 27 pounds, has five teeth and the smile of an angel. They are a source of endless pleasure for us, and my wife is really a genius with a master touch when it comes to directing their little lives.
These grandsons have brought much happiness to my mother and father, who literally worship them and spoil them as fast as we try to undo their sinister tricks with cakes, candy, cookies, and anything their little hearts desire. My father even slips Nick a glass of wine now and then. As for my mother, she stands by transfixed with delight when Nicky climbs into a chair and proceeds to throw every dish out of the refrigerator. She thinks he’s simply an angel, even when (and he always does it) he throws the cat down the toilet bowl.
I may sit out the war here at Paramount, where I have been offered a contract. It’s big dough—$600 a week—and except for being separated from my family I like the assignment—a Gypsy story for Lamour and de Cordova. I have a ten week guarantee with an option at the end of that period. If all goes well, I plan to move the family down here about February, if we can buy a house. […]
But enough of that … Please give my love to everybody and my hope that all of you will be happy in the New Year. But most of all I hope that 1945 brings real Peace on Earth so those brave wonderful kids can come home. …
Always with affection,
johnnie
{undated, c. summer 1948}
TUESDAY
Dear Mother and Father,
[…] Joyce joined the church a
I wish you could have seen Danny at his baptism. He didn’t want to go, but finally agreed if we would let him take his gun. So he was baptized holding a cowboy gun, and he threatened to shoot anybody who hurt him.
Love to you both,
Johnnie
SEPTEMBER 15, 1948
Dear Mother and Father,
It’s been weeks since I wrote you. I don’t know why, except that we have all been busy down here. […]
I had a letter yesterday from Father Paul Reinert, who at 39 is the acting president of St. Louis University. Joyce wrote him, and this was his answer to her letter. A couple of weeks ago Joyce was very puzzled about some of the Church teachings, and she could find nobody to solve her problem. What she wanted to know was this: If God is all-good, and knows all things, then why did he create some men who are doomed to hell? How can an all-good, all-knowing God create a man who is not going to reach heaven?
This is a very tough question to answer. In fact, it was so tough that Paul couldn’t answer it either. But he referred her to some books on the subject. Joyce read these and was satisfied.
I have had a lot of trouble with my work lately. It seems I haven’t been able to write anything that gives me any satisfaction. I have tried movies, short stories, and even begun a book. But all of these have turned out badly. Rather than worry too much about it, I spent a lot of time playing golf. But there is no money in golf and I have stopped that and gone back to work again. I have another office now. It is right across the alley from the house, on Wilshire Blvd. The room is small but quiet and I pay $25 a month for it. It is a good place to work. I just got started here this morning, and I feel I will produce something here. I was down at Palm Springs last week for 5 days, working on a movie story with a friend, but we didn’t get anything on paper.
Covici was in town two weeks ago. I had a long talk with him and told him my idea for a new book. He listened patiently and when I was finished he said he didn’t like it. I was very disappointed. […]
JULY 25, 1952
{To The Stanley Kramer Company, Inc.}
1438 NORTH GOWER STREET
LOS ANGELES 28, CALIFORNIA
Gentlemen:
My attention has been directed to a claim made by one Rena Vale that in 1939 she identified me as being a Communist Party member and described me at that time as being employed by RKO in the Orson Welles unit.
I was employed by RKO in 1939 in the Orson Welles unit. I had heard the name of Rena Vale at that time. I did not meet Rena Vale at that time nor at any time since. I was not a at any time in my life of any Communist organization nor in any Communist front organization.
I am a Roman Catholic in addition to being an American citizen and it is philosophically and emotionally impossible for me to associate myself with any group that is even remotely identified with Communism or Communist front organizations.
I wish to repeat again—I never have been, am not now and under no circumstances would or could be a member of any Communist of Communist front organization.
I am strongly and unalterably opposed to any ideology foreign to our American form of Government.
Sincerely yours,
John Fante
{To his Malibu friend, television writer Jackson Stanley}
17 JAN 1954
Dear Jack:
I am very happy now. It is 2:00 am and the new day is almost here. It has the promise of 18 hours with my beautiful children and perhaps a couple of hours with my book. But I can tell you, my friend, that the bright moments will be with the children, and the sad, confusing, painful, frightening, even horrible hours will be with the book, and the book is nothing—nothing at all; even if it has importance it is still like nothing compared to the pleasures I shall have today with my kids.
Yours truly,
John Fante
JULY 28, 1957
Honey:
The women of Naples are pigs. They are fat pigs in frumpy dresses, usually black, and stained with tomato sauce, urine, grease, or a baby’s bowel movement. Their breasts hang down to their knees, and their asses drip like water-filled balloons to the ground. When they walk, they don’t—they shuffle, a sliding flop-flop on wooden or leather sandals out of which can be seen ten dirty toes. But I must explain that they are also wonderful women, each with the face of the mother of God and the twisted, calloused, tender hands of women who have spent a lifetime looking after their children and their men. Those giant flopping breasts, so ludicrous, so monstrous, comfort weeping children, and it is not hard to imagine that they arouse men. It is even possible that in Naples men prefer their women hulking and brutalized, with ponderous stomachs and eyes that have looked at God. I imagine the men want the women to possess a strong smell of sweat and menstruation because it is so close to the animal, it is as close as one can get and still live in a civilization. For, they are civilized, sophisticated, generous, kind, polite, gallant, and terribly brave people.
JULY 29
The Albergo Vesuvio is a wonderful hotel. My room overlooks the Via Carracciolo, a promenade skirting the whole Bay. Vesuvius is to my left when I walk out on the grill balcony of my third floor quarters. Across the street beyond the Via is a cluster of cafes built out on the water. Tonight as I write they are lighted by bright neon signs, and a hundred small boats are clustered beneath the wharf upon which the cafes are built. In the day Neapolitan kids dive into the water from the wharf for coins tossed by tourists. The water is incredibly dirty, with bits of food and slime all through it, but these rugged brown alert boys are healthy and possessed of fierce vitality. […]
The food here is in great quantities, richly seasoned, generously served by polite waiters. Their meat is on the strong side, however, and most of it seems to be veal, although you really can get anything you want, from lamb chops to filet mignon. The great problem is avoiding the bread. It is sinfully good in any form, specially the rolls. They are always served with a small saucer filled with balls of creamy butter. Octopus is a famous delicacy hereabouts. […] It is served right out of a pot, boiled, and comes slithering into your dish with all tentacles squashing about.
The back streets are fascinating—I refer to the poorer sections—no more than alleys, really, but swarming with people. Every door is some kind of shop and out front are stacked piles of vegetables, mountains of fish (tubs of eels swimming and very much alive) octopi, big slabs of tuna, and a hundred pink and yellow and white fish I’ve never seen before. There are shops that sell shirts, others that sell shoes, others dishes, others clothing, others bread, others milk, others pastry, each a specialty shop, some terribly dirty, others clean. Meat shops hang butchered animals in the front door or outside the front of the shop. Other places sell just eggs. Now and then you run into a basso (small lower floor shop) with a chicken out front, a string tied to one of its legs as it forages for food. And God the cats, and the dogs, and the kids! The kids are often bare-assed naked, all are as dirty as is humanly possible, but they are lovely. Sad to state, the little girls already look rather oddly unhandsome, with tight little faces and great beautiful eyes. You should see how sweetly little five year old girls mind their baby brothers, actually carrying them in their arms—for these children have human dolls to play with, early training for the heavy drudgery of early marriage. The boys are all very good-looking, and extremely uninhibited, wild savages in one respect, yet polite in another.
Having been here a few days, I now know why they wanted me to come. We must make this story contemporary, in order to capture the fabulous richness of the present scene. It means writing a brand new script, retaining only the story line of the previous one. At first, in Rome, talking to Jack Fier, I said I was against this, and meant it, but now that I have been here, I s
This is written July 30, after midnight, so that tomorrow marks the 20th anniversary of the best thing that ever happened to me in my lifetime, or in a thousand lifetimes. Surely you know the day will be spent with a twist in my heart for being so far away from the woman I love.
J.F.
{To his children, c. Summer 1957}
TUESDAY
Dear Jimmy and Vicky:
Every time I go to a restaurant around the corner from the hotel, I sit outside under a bigumbrella. Across the street I can see a lot of Naples children playing in the alley. They are very poor children, barefooted, wearing ragged shirts and shorts. But they don’t mind being poor; in fact, they seem to have a very good time.
The very first day I went to that restaurant, a little girl from across the street came over to my table, smiled, touched her lips with her fingertips, and then held her fingers out for some money. In other words, she was giving me a kiss, and I was to give her a coin. She was about nine years old, this girl. She was rather tall, but very thin. She wore an old blue dress torn at the hem and shoulder. Her hair was black and it straggled down over her face. Her eyes were dark brown. The dress was too short, falling above her knees. Her legs were quite dirty. Her toes were simply black from street dirt. She wasn’t really a pretty girl; in fact, her nose looked like it might have been broken at one time, and her teeth were not straight, nor were they clean. But in spite of all that, she seemed to be a very nice little girl. That first day, I gave her a coin. It was a 50 lira coin, a little more than a nickel, not quite as much as a dime. She ran across the street with the coin, and I watched her. She went into a store on the corner, and pretty soon she came out with two doughnuts. Then she crossed to the curbing, and sitting on the curbing was a little boy, a very small boy, only two years old, her little brother.