ANSWER: No. Obviously.

I don’t have a green hunting cap (no matter how much I’d like to) and I don’t live in New Orleans. And as far as I know, I’m not a principle character in a great novel. There are similarities however. I’m a loner and a know it all. I still live with my parents. I work shitty jobs that far from utilise my skill set. I’m about to go back to university, and avoiding the precarious slide in to indefinant study may prove to be difficult. Like Japanese tourists, the stupid are everywhere and I find myself surrounded by idiots on a near daily basis. Whether they are in confederacy against me is so far unclear.

Mr Reilly is one of my favourite ever characters. Confederacy of Dunces is a masterpiece. A one off. The history surrounding this novel is almost as interesting and entertaining as the book itself. John Kennedy Toole attempted unsuccessfully to get COD published, and due to this failure he committed suicide. His mother, Thelma Toole, found the manuscript for COD after his suicide and coming to the attention of Walker Percy, was published in 1980, eleven years after Toole’s tragic death.

Film adapations are generally fraught with tension brought on by book-loving purists incessant need to have EVERYTHING in the original upheld, no matter how difficult the text to visual translation may be. COD has unfortunately not reached this point as of yet and for a very cool and curious reason. The role of Ignatius J. Reilly is apparently cursed. John Belushi, John Candy and Chris Farley were all touted for the role prior to their untimely deaths. Spooky. Will Ferrel is the next unfortunate to be considered for the role (the devil in me hopes that this curse continues ’cause I fucking hate the guy [except for Stranger Than Fiction which, going against the grain of his hardcore fans, I thought he was awesome in]).

The point I’m trying and inevitably failing to make is that you should read it. I can lend you my copy if you’re a cheapskate or share my fear of libraries. Here’s some extra inspiration, and more effective in it’s brevity than I could ever hope to achieve (you can put me in the ‘far too much’ category).

As The Poems Go by Charles Bukowski

as the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you’ve created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,
the traffic, the nights and the days of the
years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living
it, typing one more line now as
a man plays a piano through the radio,
the best writers have said very
little
and the worst,
far too much.

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