bukowski'nin ona ithafen yazdığı bir şiir var ki şöyle bir şey:
-small conversation in the afternoon with John Fante-
he said, ''I was working in Hollywood when Faulkner was
working in Hollywood and he was
the worst: he was too drunk to stand up at the
end of the afternoon and so I had to help him
into a taxi
day after day after day.''
''but when he left Hollywood, I stayed on, and while I
didn't drink like that maybe I should have, I might have
had the guts then to follow him and get the hell out of
there.''
I told him, ''you write as well as
Faulkner.'':
''you mean that?'' he asked from the hospital
bed, smiling.
