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Rating: 
Summary: Excellent novel of the Italian-American experience
Review: "1933 Was a Bad Year" is a posthumously published novel by John Fante, who died in 1983. "1933" tells the story of Dominic Molise, a 17-year old Italian-American living in Colorado. While his father, an out-of-work bricklayer, seeks to alleviate the family's poverty by earning money at the pool tables, Dominic dreams of becoming a successful baseball player."1933" is a superb slice of American life; both funny and sad, the book is full of vivid characters and memorable scenes. Probably may favorite character is Dominic's wrathful, acid-tongued grandmother, an Italian immigrant with a dislike for the United States. "1933" offers a pungent taste of the Italian-American experience, and explores such issues as the gulf between immigrant parents and their American-born children. Baseball is a potent motif in the book, and I liked the way the left arm of pitcher Dominic is treated as a "character" with its own motivation. This is one of those novels that I wished would go on when I finished the last sentence; I will definitely be reading more of Fante's work.
Rating: 
Summary: "1933. . ." was a good book
Review: I first picked up a Fante book because someone told me that Bukowski was a huge fan. "Ask the Dust" - that first book - introduced me to John Fante's alter ego, Arturo Bandini. It started to make sense to me, why Bukowski liked him. For Arturo Bandini read Henry Chinaski. I read around and learned one or two more things about Fante. Like how he was mainly a scriptwriter in Hollywood because his books didn't really sell. Like how he wrote four Bandini books. "Wait Until Spring, Bandini" and "The Road to Los Angeles" preceded "Ask the Dust". "Dreams from Bunker Hill" came last, written in 1978 after Fante had gone blind. He dictated the book to his wife, Joyce. I read "Wait Until Spring, Bandini" after "Ask the Dust" and didn't like it quite as much. "Wait Until Spring, Bandini" is a mean book. Not that meanness per se is a bad thing. Just that the meanness in "Wait . . ." seemed real. The authenticity of the feeling sapped me somewhat. I felt winded by the relentless pain. "Wait . . ." is "Ham on Rye" without the ham or the rye. I didn't seek out anything else. I mean, I toyed with reading other Fante books but somehow, I don't know, something always came up. It wasn't that I didn't care. It's just . . . I'm making excuses, I know. Not being honest, somehow. I just felt we weren't suited, John Fante and I. Time went by. I got over it. Didn't think of him as often as I had. Opened myself up to new experiences. Got back out there. Said here I am. At which point, "1933 was a bad year" came my way. I thought that - with the distance involved (between 1933 and now) - it couldn't hurt just to look inside. I approached it the way you'd approach a box somebody told you had a snake inside. You know? You kind of lift the lid, peer into the shadows, tense yourself ready to slam the lid down at the first sign of a hiss or a rattle. Instead I got this: "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." I stopped dead in my tracks too. Alright, I thought. All-right! The next 127 pages flew by in just over an hour and a half. It's the story of Dominic Molise - Bandini without the hard rock where his heart should be. It treads similar ground to "Wait . . . " (the wayward father, the flakey religious mother, the sweetheart who doesn't care, the poverty) but - for whatever reason - this just rang my bell far more than that. Which is probably wrong. I know I've got things the wrong way up, that I should like the Bandini books more but - what are you gonna do?
Rating:
Summary: "1933. . ." was a good book
Review: I first picked up a Fante book because someone told me that Bukowski was a huge fan. "Ask the Dust" - that first book - introduced me to John Fante's alter ego, Arturo Bandini. It started to make sense to me, why Bukowski liked him. For Arturo Bandini read Henry Chinaski. I read around and learned one or two more things about Fante. Like how he was mainly a scriptwriter in Hollywood because his books didn't really sell. Like how he wrote four Bandini books. "Wait Until Spring, Bandini" and "The Road to Los Angeles" preceded "Ask the Dust". "Dreams from Bunker Hill" came last, written in 1978 after Fante had gone blind. He dictated the book to his wife, Joyce. I read "Wait Until Spring, Bandini" after "Ask the Dust" and didn't like it quite as much. "Wait Until Spring, Bandini" is a mean book. Not that meanness per se is a bad thing. Just that the meanness in "Wait . . ." seemed real. The authenticity of the feeling sapped me somewhat. I felt winded by the relentless pain. "Wait . . ." is "Ham on Rye" without the ham or the rye. I didn't seek out anything else. I mean, I toyed with reading other Fante books but somehow, I don't know, something always came up. It wasn't that I didn't care. It's just . . . I'm making excuses, I know. Not being honest, somehow. I just felt we weren't suited, John Fante and I. Time went by. I got over it. Didn't think of him as often as I had. Opened myself up to new experiences. Got back out there. Said here I am. At which point, "1933 was a bad year" came my way. I thought that - with the distance involved (between 1933 and now) - it couldn't hurt just to look inside. I approached it the way you'd approach a box somebody told you had a snake inside. You know? You kind of lift the lid, peer into the shadows, tense yourself ready to slam the lid down at the first sign of a hiss or a rattle. Instead I got this: "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." I stopped dead in my tracks too. Alright, I thought. All-right! The next 127 pages flew by in just over an hour and a half. It's the story of Dominic Molise - Bandini without the hard rock where his heart should be. It treads similar ground to "Wait . . . " (the wayward father, the flakey religious mother, the sweetheart who doesn't care, the poverty) but - for whatever reason - this just rang my bell far more than that. Which is probably wrong. I know I've got things the wrong way up, that I should like the Bandini books more but - what are you gonna do?
Rating:
Summary: the best
Review: This is one of the best books I've ever read. It's even better, and understandable, that Fante never published the book himself... but it is a treasure and I am eternally grateful to his widow for finding it (and "Road to Los Angeles" and having it published.
Rating:
Summary: Phenomenal, full of life, dreams and reality
Review: This is one of the most alive books, both from an imagery standpoint and a spiritual one (and I don't mean spiritual in a religious way but it can be) that I have read. For a young writer who is trying to write from the heart, this novel is essential. A wonderful story of childhood and its dissipation into adulthood.
Rating:
Summary: Fante rules, but not his best
Review: Where would I be without the twin barrels of the shotgun of literature for this century, John Fante and Charles Bukowski? In need of good literature, thats where! So let me say that any of Fante's work is worth a read. Yet this book is certainly not his best. Of course any fan of Fante can see that he has two main kinds of stories: childhood stories and struggling writer stories. His childhood stories are usually about his Catholic, Italian-American upbringing, and they are good if that is what you like. That is what this book is. I don't prefer this stuff. I vastly prefer, no, worship, his writer stories which are about a bright young artist living in a thoughtless and bizarre world. This stuff is straight from Knut Hamsen's work (especially Hunger, which inspired Fante and Buk to no end) and includes Dreams of Bunker Hill, Ask the Dust, and to a lesser degree The Road to Los Angeles. While 1933 shines, these other works are the sun.
Rating:
Summary: Fante rules, but not his best
Review: Where would I be without the twin barrels of the shotgun of literature for this century, John Fante and Charles Bukowski? In need of good literature, thats where! So let me say that any of Fante's work is worth a read. Yet this book is certainly not his best. Of course any fan of Fante can see that he has two main kinds of stories: childhood stories and struggling writer stories. His childhood stories are usually about his Catholic, Italian-American upbringing, and they are good if that is what you like. That is what this book is. I don't prefer this stuff. I vastly prefer, no, worship, his writer stories which are about a bright young artist living in a thoughtless and bizarre world. This stuff is straight from Knut Hamsen's work (especially Hunger, which inspired Fante and Buk to no end) and includes Dreams of Bunker Hill, Ask the Dust, and to a lesser degree The Road to Los Angeles. While 1933 shines, these other works are the sun.
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