1933 Was A Bad Year (Paperback)

"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.

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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?

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