I always enjoyed the line from Jonathan Swift - "When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him."
This novel, much like Swift’s, is a scathing satire. Ignatius Reilly is both a truly sad main character and probably a partial analog of the author, whose even sadder demise undercut my casual reading of this brilliantly humorous book.

I read this in my childhood and it stuck with me. I enjoyed many of the scenes immensely and laughed out loud throughout. Around the same time, I picked up Gulliver’s Travels. In both works I felt that the critiques of human foolishness were on point, while they are separated by hundreds of years in both style and authorship, the two works will forever be interwoven in my mind.

I stumbled across the brightly colored Confederacy of Dunces volume in a family member’s house, remembered it, and then sought it out. She had been telling me about her thesis, which had involved Pope’s “The Dunciad,” which I later read and enjoyed as well. I seemed to have an obsession with the word “Dunce” in my youth, for the same reason I felt drawn to certain other unusual words I won’t mention.
Little did I know that this novel was a polished masterpiece of subtle philosophy and an effective and enjoyable character study. I did not know who Boethius was until later, but I still cherished the novel, and identified with the skewed perspective, which occupied an overblown space in my head, as I replayed the scenes later, always picturing the main character as John Candy from Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.

The style is not for everyone, but it is a shame when any author's reputation interferes with anyone's enjoyment of a rewarding novel.

This is the book that almost broke my book club.

John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces is as famous for its back-story as it is for its content. It was published posthumously in 1980, over a decade after Toole ended his own life by carbon monoxide poisoning. Despite having been earlier rejected by publishers, the book went on to win the Pulitzer Prize.

A Confederacy of Dunces is a rambling, aimless, comedic novel centered on Ignatius J. Reilly, a buffoonish overweight man-child with poor fashion sense, worse social skills, and deplorable hygiene. Through 400 pages – which is relatively long for a book in which nothing happens – we follow Ignatius through various minor misadventures: Ignatius goes to a bar; Ignatius gets a job at Levy Pants and attempts to unionize the factory; Ignatius sells hotdogs; Ignatius – in what passes for a large set piece – attempts to use a gay soiree as a political rally.

Comedy is all about personal, subjective reactions. Thus, any artistic medium that relies heavily on comedy is likely to engender varied responses. For my book club, at least, those responses were all passionate.

It was my buddy Colin who picked the book. He’d loved it as an eighteen year-old; now, fourteen years later, he thought it a propitious time to revisit it. Rule 1 of Book Club – at least our book club – is that the person picking the book has to have read it before. He is then forced to “defend” the book at our bimonthly meeting. In his opening statement, Colin declared his undying love. A hilarious romp with an indelible central character.

The salvos came fast and fierce. The group was roughly split on loving or hating the book, and responses lived at those two extremes. Colin was the chief defender. I was his chief inquisitor. No one at our meeting had an indifferent response.

Eventually, the others got tired, their attention drawn by the frozen pizza and beer. The debate came down to Colin and me battling away over the inherent worth of A Confederacy of Dunces while the others looked for a way to exit quietly.

I’ll tell you what I told him.

I hated it.

Hate is a pretty strong word. Perhaps a bit imprecise as well. Overall, I strongly disliked the book. But I hated everyone in it. Based on the epigram by Jonathan Swift, it is clear that Toole’s title refers to Ignatius’s worldview: that his inflated sense of intelligence, his delusions of grandeur, and his unrelenting condescension has created a paradigm in which he believes that every other person in this world is an idiot. And what is more, he thinks this idiot-filled world is in league against him.

I took the title differently. I assumed it to be Toole’s worldview. His evident intelligence, his publishing failures, and his depression clearly combined to lead him to his unfortunate end. Reading this book, I got the sense that Toole really thought himself a genius – one destined to be misunderstood. To that end, the “confederacy of dunces” consists of us – the hapless, clueless world.

There is a strong disgust for humanity permeating every page. There is not a single likeable character. There is not a single person walking the streets of Toole’s New Orleans who shows a flash of wit, warmth, or love.

The pro-Dunces members of my book club pointed out that I have a tendency towards “likeable” characters. I considered the possibility, and though there is a grain of truth, I don’t think it’s entirely accurate. It was not the characters’ un-likability that struck me; it was their creator’s disdain. Toole appears to despise his own characters. How could I feel otherwise?

Ignatius is a tiresome, boorish person to follow. He is disruptive, dishonest, and frankly disgusting. His interactions with others are marked by a tendency towards sociopathy. He is written for laughs – or so I am told, by those who found him funny – but he is clearly suffering from undiagnosed mental illnesses. But rather than seeing him to a hospital, we have to follow him as he plods and farts his way through each day, griping about his “valve,” unable to reach the tiniest bit of insight.

The side characters are just as bad. Ignatius’s widowed mother Irene is an alcoholic enabler – and so immensely irritating that I nearly defenestrated my copy of this book on several occasions. Ignatius’s long-distance “girlfriend” – for lack of a better word – Myrna is a sex-crazed New York beatnik who attempts to solve Ignatius’s problems by analyzing his sex life. (To be fair, her correspondence with Ignatius is fairly hilarious). Mr. Gonzalez, the manager at Levy Pants, is a clueless bungler who doesn’t realize that Ignatius is filing things in the trash. The owner of Levy Pants, Gus Levy, is dumb, indifferent, and put upon by his wife, a trite, do-it-yourself psychoanalyst. Patrolman Angel Mancuso seems to have a decent enough heart, but he is such an inept milquetoast that it’s impossible to care about him.

The one character with a semblance of actual (rather than perceived) aptitude is Burma Jones, a black porter at the club Night of Joy. He works there for Lana Lee and puts up with her unpleasantness so that he isn’t arrested for vagrancy. Burma rises above the crowd with his ability – not to be taken lightly in this novel – to accurately observe life as it swirls around him. He is, in other words, relatively sane. But even this character is marred by the black stereotypes and tropes he is forced to carry.

Honestly, I sometimes enjoy trashing a book. Especially a trashy book that deserves it. I don’t feel that way in this instance. For one, the background – Toole’s publishing woes, his death – is sad. For another, he was a man of obvious talent. A Confederacy of Dunces is a masterpiece in that it absolutely achieves – with great skill – exactly what it sets out to achieve. I simply did not like it.

After our book club disassembled, I didn't hear from Colin for awhile. I wondered if I hadn’t assaulted his favorite book a bit too hard. Books are personal. Sharing them is a risk. (Especially with our book club. We don’t stab in the back; we stab in the front). I almost texted him to apologize. But his wife was also expecting a baby any day, so it occurred to me that he had other things on his mind.

Then, the other night, I was taking an evening stroll when I ran into him and his wife as they walked around, trying to jumpstart labor. I was going to ask them about baby-related stuff, but Colin cut me off immediately.

“I’ve been thinking about A Confederacy of Dunces,” he said. “I’m more certain than ever that you’re completely f---ing wrong. It’s a great book. It changed my life.”

“Did it really change your life?” I asked.

“Well, no. But it’s really damn funny.”

So, there you have the dissenting opinion. I didn't care for A Confederacy of Dunces. But maybe I’m just completely f---ing wrong.

اتحادیه‌ی ابلهان کتاب زیباییه. داستان اصلی اونقدر سرگرم کننده هست که نمی‌تونین کتاب رو ثانیه‌ای زمین بذارین.
شخصیت اصلی داستان، ایگنیشس رایلی، اونقدر بامزه، دیوونه و با عقاید جنون آمیز و گاها ترسناکه، که نمی‌تونین در برابر عدم کشف اتفاقات پیش‌روش مقاومت کنین.
طنز جالبی داره و در این حال ساختاری منسجم.

مهم‌ترین چیزی که من رو ترغیب به خوندنش کرد، تراژدی نویسنده بود؛ نحوه چاپ کتاب بعد از مرگ نویسنده!