A Letter to Fante
Dear Mr. Fante, We never met, but a long time ago a common friend, Chinaski, told me you were a writer better than him. At first I didn’t believe it. You know how these things go. Bukowski says something like that and you think he’s either drunk, being generous, or both. But he kept at it. He told me to read you and decide for myself. So I did. Six or seven books later, I have to admit it: he was right. Good writers make me feel like giving them a call after reading their work, just to have a friendly chat. That’s how I decide if someone is a good writer or not. But you are dead and don’t have a phone, so I’m writing instead of calling. I hope you don’t mind. The reason for that call changes for me from writer to writer. For example, Kafka made me want to call him just to say take it easy and not be so harsh on himself. Stefan Zweig made me want to call him to discuss the world. Dostoyevsky made me want to call him to talk about the pain that people have to endure and whether it h...