‘A Confederacy of Dunces’ by John Kennedy Toole
In 7th Grade, I picked out this book quite randomly off the school library shelf because the blurb seemed interesting and had expletives. I took it home, read the first few pages, couldn’t make head or tail of it, couldn’t get myself to like the characters, so I gave it back and went back to reading Animorphs or whatever it is that I used to read back then. The book that I gave up on was A Confederacy of Dunces.
A couple of weeks ago, I came across the book again and not for the first time since 7th grade. This time, I decided I was ready and—emboldened by my experience with Catch-22—I ordered it. And I just finished reading it.
When I first looked up the novel, I read that it was a “picaresque” novel and I didn’t know what that meant. I looked it up and then promptly forgot the definition. Having forgotten it, I resolved to not look it up again but see if I could figure it out on my own based on how the book ends. But for your sake, here’s what Wikipedia says:
According to the traditional view of Thrall and Hibbard (first published in 1936), seven qualities distinguish the picaresque novel or narrative form, all or some of which an author may employ for effect:
- A picaresque narrative is usually written in first person as an autobiographical account.
- The main character is often of low character or social class. He or she gets by with wits and rarely deigns to hold a job.
- There is little or no plot. The story is told in a series of loosely connected adventures or episodes.
- There is little if any character development in the main character. Once a pícaro, always a pícaro. His or her circumstances may change but these rarely result in a change of heart.
- The pícaro's story is told with a plainness of language or realism.
- Satire is sometimes a prominent element.
- The behavior of a picaresque hero or heroine stops just short of criminality. Carefree or immoral rascality positions the picaresque hero as a sympathetic outsider, untouched by the false rules of society.
It makes sense now. Ignatius, the main character whom I hate so much, is definitely a rascal who never really means to be nice and do what’s expected of him. Dunces is episodic in a way but it mostly follows a traditional plot structure.
The one feature of picaresque novels that Dunces exemplifies is that there is never any character development. That is, Ignatius never develops. The other characters develop: his mother is rid of her son emotionally and physically, Mr. Levy regains control of his life, Mancuso gets a promotion, Darlene gets a job, Jones gets a job and an award. But once you’re an Ignatius you stay an Ignatius. That’s the kind of person he is. In fact, the picturesqueness of Dunces is forced onto it by the main character, a personality whose stubbornness is so insecure that it’s anti fragile. How can there then be any character development? Once an Ignatius, always an Ignatius.
I don’t really know how to write about the ending without spoiling it, but I can say that it annoyed me. But the more I think about it, the more I submit to its inevitability. I wanted the worst for Ignatius—the main character—and the best for everybody else, and when that didn’t happen, I was annoyed. But that’s what this type of person is, I think. And that’s the point. They “get away with it” and the world goes on because it can.
