Eat Yer Werds Book Review: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole

In this edition of Eat Yer Werds, we will be looking at a tasty morsel of literary gumbo called A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole. Only two of Toole's novels have ever been published, and both many years after his unfortunate suicide. The other, The Neon Bible, I have not read, and know little of. In short, there are some funny books out there. But the laughter that a reader experiences is usually an inward laughter; a laughter of the mind, so to speak. It is like when we hear our own voices when we read. The fact that this laughter of consciousness is not an outward physical manifestation doesn't make a book less funny, but my point is that very few books are capable of making one laugh out loud. You know, LOL? In fact, I can only think of a handful that wield that power; and A Confederacy of Dunces is definitely one of them.

Inspired by Foomanchuck's Cortezian journeys around the globe, seeking the perfect sausage, I was reminded of a passage from A Confederacy of Dunces, in which our hero, the 30 year old, obese, unemployed, and highly eloquent Ignatius J. Reilly finds a job peddling frankfurters around the French Quarter. Perhaps this short passage will inspire those who have not read this great book.

When he had finished the first hot dog, Ignatius prepared and consumed another, contemplating other kindnesses that might postpone his having to go to work again. Fifteen minutes later, noticing that the supply of hot dogs in the little well was visibly diminishing, he decided in favour of abstinence for the moment. He began to push slowly down the street, calling again, "Hot dogs!" 


George, who was wandering up Carondelet with an armload of packages wrapped in plain brown paper, heard the cry and went up to the gargantuan vendor. 


"Hey, stop. Gimme one of these."


Ignatius looked sternly at the young boy who had placed himself in the wagon's path. His valve protested against the pimples, the surly face that seemed to hang from the long well-lubricated hair, the cigarette behind the ear, the aquamarine jacket, the delicate boots, the tight trousers that bulged offensively in the crotch in violation of all rules of theology and geometry. 


"I am sorry," Ignatius snorted. "I have only a few frankfurters left, and I must save them. Please get out of my way."


"Save them? Who for?"


"That is none of your business, you waif. Why aren't you in school? Kindly stop molesting me. Anyway, I have no change."


"I got a quarter," the thin white lips sneered. 


"I cannot sell you a frank, sir. Is that clear?"


"Whatsa matter with you, friend?"


"What's the matter with me? What the matter with you? Are you unnatural enough to want a hot dog this early in the afternoon? My conscience will not let me sell you one. Just look at your loathsome complexion. You are a growing boy whose system needs to be surfeited with vegetables and orange juice and whole wheat bread and spinach and such. I, for one, will not contribute to the debauchery of a minor." 


"Whadda you talking about? Sell me one of them hot dogs. I'm hungry. I ain't had no lunch."


"No!" Ignatius screamed so furiously that the passerby stared. "Now get away from me before I run you over with this cart."


George pulled open the lid of the bun compartment and said, "Hey, you got plenty stuff in here. Fix me a weenie."


"Help!" Ignatius screamed, suddenly remembering the old man's warning about robberies. "Someone is stealing my buns! Police!" Ignatius backed up the cart and rammed it into George's crotch.



"Ouch! Watch out there, you nut."


"Help! Thief!" 


"Shut up, for Christ's sake," George said and slammed the door. "You oughta be locked up, you big fruit. You know that?"


"What?" Ignatius screamed. "What impertinence was that?"


"You big crazy fruit," George snarled more loudly and slouched away, the taps on his heels scraping the sidewalk. "Who wants to eat anything your fruity hands touched?"


"How dare you scream obscenities at me. Someone grab that boy," Ignatius said loudly as George disappeared down the street. "Someone with some decency grab that juvenile delinquent. That filthy little minor. Where is his respect? That little guttersnipe must be lashed until he collapses!"


A woman in the group around the mobile hot dog said, "Ain't that awful? Where they get them hot dog vendors from?"


"Bums. They all bums," someone answered her. 


"Wine is what it is. They all crazy from wine if you ast me. They shouldn't let people like him out on the street."


"Is my paranoia getting completely out of hand," Ignatius asked the group, "or are you mongoloids really talking about me?"


"Let him alone," someone said. "Look at them eyes."


"What's wrong with my eyes?" Ignatius asked viciously.


"Let's get outta here."


"Please do." Ignatius replied, his lips quivering, and prepared another hot dog to quiet his trembling nervous system. With shaking hands, he held the foot of red plastic and dough to his mouth and slipped it in two inches at a time. The active chewing massaged his throbbing head. When he had shoved in the last millimeter of crumb, he felt much calmer.


A Confederacy of Dunces--John Kennedy Toole. Penguin Books.