Thursday, December 02, 2004

Confederacy of One

I am the Ignatius Reilly of the twenty-first century. Many of you may not know who Ignatius is. Simply stating that he is the literary equivalent of Bob is not enough. Mr. Reilly, whose creation may very well have resulted in Toole's (the author) suicide, is a literary character without equal or merit. He is a loathsome, egocentric madman who sees modernity as hopeless corrupt; he fights against the oppression of everyday by virtue of sleeping, eating, watching cartoons and reveling in his flatulence. Yet, even this bloated messiah of intemperance has good points; sadly they are buried underneath a labyrinth of lard and intellectual nihilism.

I don't particularly like the character, but I can't deny we are very much alike. I spend my days in self-exile, pondering the inevitable end of civilization, bemoaning the barbarians within our own gates. Too, I watch an unhealthy amount of cartoons, consume an even unhealthier amount of food and suffer from insufferable bouts of gas--my pyloric valve is a difficult mistress. Our greatest similarity is not surprising, at least for those who have read the book and know anything about my person, we both find work to be a pedestrian cause; it is an end to reason, not a means to an end.

I do admit that finding my entire psyche, the entirety of my being, encapsulated in a little under four hundred pages is a bit depressing. Though, much like the book, my life consists of a series of comedic disasters, however; unlike Reilly, I am not destined to escape the mono-color walls, no, Bob is clearly set for a long stay in the ward of mental delving.

There truly is a Confederacy of Dunces that stands in my way; it is a Confederacy of one--me.

Go to Hell