The John Fante ReaderHarper Collins, 2010. szept. 14. - 336 oldal It's not every day that a writer, almost unheard of in his lifetime, emerges twenty years after his death as a voice of his generation. But then again, there aren't many writers with such irrepressible genius as John Fante. The John Fante Reader is the important next step in the reintroduction of this influential author to modern audiences. Combining excerpts from his novels and stories, as well as his never-before-published letters, this collection is the perfect primer on the work of a writer -- underappreciated in his time -- who is finally taking his place in the pantheon of twentieth-century American writers. |
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Angeles arms Arturo asked Bandini beautiful began brother called chair church closed clothes cold coming darkness dead Dear didn’t dollars don’t door eyes face Fante father feel feet felt fingers floor four front girl give hair hands hated head heard It’s Italian Joyce kitchen knew laughed leave letter light living looked morning mother mouth moved never night once opened Papa picture play pulled remember side sitting smiled stand steps stone stood stopped story street sure talk tell thing thought told took town turned waiting walked wall watched week wife window wine woman women wonder write
Népszerű szakaszok
127. oldal - O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee...
199. oldal - Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far As the universe spreads its flaming wall : Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years, One minute of heaven is worth them all...
112. oldal - CONTRITION. 0 my God! I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell...
30. oldal - His name was Arturo, but he hated it and wanted to be called John. His last name was Bandini, and he wanted it to be Jones. His mother and father were Italians, but he wanted to be an American. His father was a bricklayer, but he wanted to be a pitcher for the Chicago Cubs
33. oldal - I at once notice to him Wop and Dago are without any distinct meaning, though if one not an Italian slaps them onto him, he's instantly insulted. Christopher Columbus was the greatest Wop who ever lived, says my father. So is Caruso. So is this fellow and that. But his very good friend Peter Ladonna is not only a drunken pig, but a Wop on top of it; and of course all his brothersin-law are good-for-nothing Wops. He pretends to hate the Irish. He really doesn't, but he likes to think so, and he warns...
55. oldal - He enjoyed killing blue-bottle flies. He got a big kick out of killing muskrats, and birds. He loved to fight. He hated those chickens. He had had a lot of dogs in his life, and he had been severe and often harsh with them. And what of the prairie dogs he had killed, the pigeons, the pheasants, the jackrabbits? Well, the only thing to do was to make the best of it. Worse, it was a sin to even think of killing or injuring a human being. That sealed his doom. No...
48. oldal - ... has ever flung the word at me, and I am so angry that I strike out foolishly. We fight after the game, this boy and I, and I make him take it back. Now school days become fighting days. Nearly every afternoon at 3:15 a crowd gathers to watch me make some guy take it back. This is fun; I am getting somewhere now, so come on, you guys, I dare you to call me a Wop! When at length there are no more boys who challenge me, insults come to me by hearsay, and I seek out the culprits. I strut down the...
49. oldal - I pretend ignorance of what she says, and smirk stiffly; my friends daren't know that I can speak any language but English. Sometimes this infuriates her. She bristles, the loose skin at her throat knits hard, and she blasphemes with a mighty blasphemy. When I finish in the parochial school my people decide to send me to a Jesuit academy in another city.
128. oldal - I want to talk to you." She crossed her legs. "I'ma writer," I said. "I'm gathering material for a book." "I knew you were a writer," she said. "Or a businessman, or something. You look spiritual, honey." "I'ma writer, see. I like you and all that. You're okay, I like you. But I want to talk to you first.
49. oldal - ... forever red and brilliant with wine. These things are heirlooms belonging to my father, and no matter who may come to our house, he likes to stand under them and brag. So I begin to shout to him. I tell him to cut out being a Wop and be an American once in a while. Immediately he gets his razor-strop and whales hell out of me, clouting me from room to room and finally out the back door. I go into the woodshed and pull down my pants and stretch my neck to examine the blue slices across my rump....