The Wit and Wisdom of Ali Ihsan ELMAS

 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...

 Dear Bukoswki, I know you’re dead. It’s okay, so many people are dead: my father is dead, my grandma is dead, my uncle-in-law is dead. Even Lemmy is dead! I’ll be dead in 40 years, at most. But still, it doesn’t matter. I’ve read all your novels and stories, many of your poems, and I’ve even listened to your readings. That’s why I wanted to write to you: I take you as a friend. Anyhow, I’m writing this letter to ask for some advice. I’m feeling confused, Charles. I don’t know what the hell is going on with me or with the world itself. I don’t have any answers, and probably not even the right questions, but with all your wisdom maybe you can enlighten me. Here’s how I feel, dear Hank: I feel like I’m waiting for something to happen. Something big, something that would give meaning to my life. No one ever promised, or even said, that anything important would happen to me, but I still wait anyway. Something that would put some joy in the air, some excitement, some gamble. Something t...