A Confederacy of Dunces
Every time I think of VD(J) I think that someone should write about him in a book. It might start like this:
A green hunting cap squeezed the top of the fleshy balloon of a head. The green earflaps, full of large ears and uncut hair and the fine bristles that grew in the ears themselves, stuck out on either side like turn signals indicating two directions at once. Full, pursed lips protruded beneath the bushy black moustache and, at their corners, sank into little folds filled with disapproval and potato chip crumbs. In the shadow under the green visor of the cap Ignatius J. Reilly's supercilious blue and yellow eyes looked down upon the other people waiting under the clock at the D.H. Holmes department store, studying the crowd of people for signs of bad taste in dress. Several of the outfits, Ignatius noticed, were new enough and expensive enough to be properly considered offenses against taste and decency. Possession of anything new or expensive only reflected a person's lack of theology and geometry; it could even cast doubts upon one's soul.
Well, someone has, and even though they thinly disguised VD by calling him a different name, he was not fooled since he has more names than I have pseudonyms at G-stringmail. In fact, the person who wrote this, a guy by the name of John Kennedy Toole, did so in the 60's. He was so saddened at what he saw in the future he committed suicide. But we know know that he had the prescience of a Nostradamus.
The book is A Confederacy of Dunces. And the man who discovered it wrote in the forward, "Here at any rate is Ignatius Reilly, without progenitor in any literature I know of -- slob extraordinary, a mad Oliver Hardy, a fat Don Quixote, a perverse Thomas Aquinas rolled into one -- who is in violent revolt against the entire modern age, lying in his flannel nightshirt, in a back bedroom on Constantinople Street in New Orleans, who between gigantic seizures of flatulence and eructations is filling dozens of Big Chief tablets with invective."
Is that a discription of VD(J) -- or what? You can bet a televangelist's tube of KY Jelly that it is.
Read about this novel HERE ... and HERE ... and HERE ...
And, as a last view of VD(J) I leave you with this:
"A monument of sloth, rant and contempt, a behemoth of fat, flatulence and furious suspicion of anything modern - this is Ignatius J Reilly of New Orleans, noble crusader against a world of dunces. In magnificent revolt against the twentieth century, Ignatius propels his monstrous bulk among the flesh posts of the fallen city, documenting life on his Big Chief tablets as he goes, until his maroon-haired mother decrees that Ignatius must work."
A green hunting cap squeezed the top of the fleshy balloon of a head. The green earflaps, full of large ears and uncut hair and the fine bristles that grew in the ears themselves, stuck out on either side like turn signals indicating two directions at once. Full, pursed lips protruded beneath the bushy black moustache and, at their corners, sank into little folds filled with disapproval and potato chip crumbs. In the shadow under the green visor of the cap Ignatius J. Reilly's supercilious blue and yellow eyes looked down upon the other people waiting under the clock at the D.H. Holmes department store, studying the crowd of people for signs of bad taste in dress. Several of the outfits, Ignatius noticed, were new enough and expensive enough to be properly considered offenses against taste and decency. Possession of anything new or expensive only reflected a person's lack of theology and geometry; it could even cast doubts upon one's soul.
Well, someone has, and even though they thinly disguised VD by calling him a different name, he was not fooled since he has more names than I have pseudonyms at G-stringmail. In fact, the person who wrote this, a guy by the name of John Kennedy Toole, did so in the 60's. He was so saddened at what he saw in the future he committed suicide. But we know know that he had the prescience of a Nostradamus.
The book is A Confederacy of Dunces. And the man who discovered it wrote in the forward, "Here at any rate is Ignatius Reilly, without progenitor in any literature I know of -- slob extraordinary, a mad Oliver Hardy, a fat Don Quixote, a perverse Thomas Aquinas rolled into one -- who is in violent revolt against the entire modern age, lying in his flannel nightshirt, in a back bedroom on Constantinople Street in New Orleans, who between gigantic seizures of flatulence and eructations is filling dozens of Big Chief tablets with invective."
Is that a discription of VD(J) -- or what? You can bet a televangelist's tube of KY Jelly that it is.
Read about this novel HERE ... and HERE ... and HERE ...
And, as a last view of VD(J) I leave you with this:
"A monument of sloth, rant and contempt, a behemoth of fat, flatulence and furious suspicion of anything modern - this is Ignatius J Reilly of New Orleans, noble crusader against a world of dunces. In magnificent revolt against the twentieth century, Ignatius propels his monstrous bulk among the flesh posts of the fallen city, documenting life on his Big Chief tablets as he goes, until his maroon-haired mother decrees that Ignatius must work."
posted by John Stone at 2:22 PM
1 Comments:
Anon: I have deleted you comments today. I very rarely do this but did so in this case for the following reasons.
(a) they were redundant to the two comments you posted yesterday.
(b) They wern't even on the same planet as to the subject as the blog ... and I believe in giving a *LOT* of leeway.
(c) If you are really looking for someone to buy into the Zionist conspiracy to destroy the World Trade Centers I suggest you go to the blod of someone who is directly involved -- our local jewbritarian.
Post a Comment
<< Home