Camino de Los Ángeles by John Fante, , available at Book Depository with free delivery worldwide. A los dieciocho años, Arturo Bandini vive con su madre y su hermana, dos beatas, en San Pedro, el puerto de Los Ángeles. Trabaja en empleos duros y mal. Read Camino de Los Angeles book reviews & author details and more at Free delivery on qualified by John Fante (Author). Be the first to review.
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Fuori di testa, le dico, fuori di testa. Avrebbe dovuto sentire che discorsi.
Sogni di gloria delusi. Goodreads helps you keep track of books you want to read. Want to Read saving…. Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Refresh and try again. Open Preview See a Problem? Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. Paperbackpages. Published October 28th by Anagrama first published The Saga of Arthur Bandini 2.
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Like the Los Angeles Telephone Directory. Day after day I read it, never understanding it, never caring either, but reading it because I liked one growling word after another marching across pages with somber mysterious rumblings. Riotously ambitious, wildly egotistic, possessed with the severe angst of youth, ridden with delirious fantasies, obsessed with the mania There are the roads we choose and there are the roads we walk and there are the walks of life… Oh Spengler!
Riotously ambitious, wildly egotistic, possessed with the severe angst of youth, ridden with delirious fantasies, obsessed with the maniacal desire to become a writer Arturo Bandini turns his life into a bitter burlesque… But, however erratically, he continues to move to his purpose. The Road to Los Angeles is violently grotesque but John Fante is utterly honest in telling his story and honesty is a rather rare merchandise in the modern literature. View all 4 comments. The Road to Los Angles by John Fante introduces one of the most bizarre, disturbed, and likeable alter egos in literature, Arturo Bandini.
His megalomania is s The Road to Los Angles by John Fante introduces one of the most bizarre, disturbed, and likeable alter egos in literature, Arturo Bandini. His megalomania is severe to the point where it becomes absolute comedy. He is the ruler of a kingdom of beautiful women, deadly revolutions, exotic lands, and missions of conquest.
The real world is an inconvenience. The psychological depth is superb. Fante knows how to illustrate the grinding gears of a neurotic xe. The settings are absolutely vivid. You can smell the piles of fish guts smearing the page.
Camino de Los Ángeles
John Fante wrote this in his late twenties. The youthful energy is apparent throughout the whole book. The recklessness of youth drives him to take chances like vante cocky bastard, but he has the writing ability to pull it off every time.
Fante really captures the essence of the grimy, foggy, streets of Los Angles and the blue collar lifestyle. Angelees Road to Los Angles is a book that swings hard with crude impact and special brand of finesse.
Well deserved 5 stars. In the 30s when written, it was refused by all publishers. This book is Arturo Bandini at his best, he is mean, he is raw, he is spoiled, he has the mimimi syndrome, he wants to conquer the world, to write the perfect novel and get the nobel prize and all the women This Bandini reads Nietzsche und Jon, speaks using all the latest neologis Well deserved 5 stars.
This book is Arturo Bandini at his best, he is mean, he is raw, he is spoiled, he has the mimimi syndrome, he wants to conquer the world, to write the perfect novel and get the nobel prize and all the women This Bandini reads Nietzsche und Schopenhauer, speaks using all the latest neologisms, hates the catholics, and is a dreamer.
Fante wrote this book oos Arturo is one of the great characters literature has ever seen. There are 2 more Bandini novels but according to Alex Capus who translated them into german, this one is the only book where Arturo is completely raw and unpolished.
He also swears a lot. Greatly translated into german by Alex Capus The white heat of a sex-starved creative Italian teenager scorches every page. A blinding magnesium flare, an jojn torchsong to precocious youth that, for all its down-and-dirty honesty and frustrated libido, manages to retain a charm and innocence that the instant gratification of cyber space has forever appropriated.
Arturo is utterly adorable. During each episode in his crazed wanderings through the tough dockside streets of s Los Angeles, I fervently wished he’d been transplanted to The white heat of a sex-starved creative Italian teenager scorches every page.
During each episode in his crazed wanderings through the tough dockside streets of s Los Angeles, I fervently wished he’d been transplanted to jogn spiritual homeland, tearing through the cobblestoned communities of Southern Italy. But it wasn’t to be. Cooped up in a coldwater flat with his mother and sister, struggling to survive, the most Italian of all out of control Italian youths who needed the support, tolerance and patience of a large, doting Mediterranean community to flourish.
Arturo is a one-man Manhattan Project.
He’ll exhaust you but you’ll never forget him. Just got this from the local library on an inter-library loan so I’ll need to put it angelees the head of the reading line. I’ll be reading the last two installments of the late Mr.
Fante’s quartet as well. Colin Farrell and Salma Hayek. My paperback edition has the same design but different colors. This is the second part of the Bandini Quartet Tetrology?
John Fante: el escritor maldito que inspiró a Bukowski
The Bandini Family is now located in Los Angeles, and there’s no more father. And now there’s a sister but no little brothers. In the Boulder Rocklin book the father is a bricklayer, while in this book the late father was a carpenter. I suppose I’ll find out if they moved from Rocklin Boulder as I get further into the story.
Long Beach in the 30’s In the sand were brown weeds and grasshoppers. Bits of sea shell sparkled through the weeds. It was man-made land, flat and in disorder, shacks unpainted, piles of lumber, piles of tin cans, oil derricks, and hot dog stands, fruit stands and old men on all sides of the road selling popcorn. Overhead the heavy telephone wires gave off a humming sound whenever there was a lull in the traffic noise.
Out of the muddy channel bed came the rich stench of oil and scum and strange cargo. The nights were nights and nothing else. The days didn’t change from one to the other, the golden sun blasting away then dying out. I was always alone.
It was hard to remember such monotony. The days would not move. They stood like gray stones. Two months crawled by. Finished last night with this appropriately, and thankfully, brief book. Just when I’d about had enough of the freaked out, uber-hormonal, lying, shrieking, never-shut-up think Eddie Haskell on speed AND steroidsendlessly though often quite amusing repetitive, strident, fantacizing, big word using and abusing, grandiose loudmouth, year old peckerhead Arturo Bandini, the book ends rather abruptly.
It’s no surprise to me that John Fante’s would-be publishers read about half or less of this and said NO WAY are we going to publish this. So it sat in his papers for 50 years. And “Wait Until Spring, Bandini,” chronologically the first part of the Arturo story, but second written, became Fante’s first book published. Next up will be Arturo 3, “Ask the Dust,” the most famous – by far – of the quartet. Near the end of the book things happen fast.
We are treated to some of it, as are the lad’s mother and sister, who both own up the pain-in-the-ass-sister gleefully, the mother reluctantly to hating it. This propels Arturo to even greater heights of anguish at first, but then he sucks it up, steals the family jewelry, pawns it, and heads up the road to L.
Camino de Los Ángeles : John Fante :
Sorry if I spoiled the plot, but it’s really not that important. John Fante’ manages to oh-so-cleverly show the reader what really good writing is, knowing that we know that Arturo, his his alter-ego, will eventually get there.
Arturo encounters a mystery woman There was that smell of the sea, the clean salted sweetness of the air, the cold cynical indifference of the stars, the brazen opulence of light in darkness, the glowing languor of slitted crescent moon.
I loved it all. I felt like squealing, making queer noises, new noises, in my throat. It was like walking naked through a valley of beautiful girls on all sides. 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 better and more concise terminology, call home.
Fante’s a one of a kind writer, in a general way kind of like Henry Green. This read like a gorgeous but filthy version of raplh ellison’s ‘invisible man’. One of my favorites, by one if my favorite authors. Love this novel by John Fante as well!