A Confederacy of Dunces and the American Escape

After many recommendations, I finally read A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole's comedic novel of New Orleans in the early '60s.  The book features a colorful cast of characters who are all defective, but in different and complementary ways.  At the center of the ensemble is Ignatius Reilly, an obese, over-educated, self-interested, unsympathetic pseudo-intellectual still living with his mother at 30; Ignatius is so obnoxious, so over-bearing, so pathetic and unjustifiably arrogant, that...well, he can't help but feel familiar, can he!

Just me reading off his characteristics, you were able to think of several Ignatiuses (Ignatii?) you know personally, didn't you. He's like an internet troll on a Reddit board, brought to life.  He's so off-putting that he's strangely fascinating; there's a sort of train-wreck allure to both him, and the manifold ways he keeps shooting himself in the foot.

But give Toole credit--A Confederacy of Dunces could have very easily been a deeply cruel novel, wherein a thoroughly unlikeable person is beaten down again and again.  However, Toole, while making no bones about Ignatius's obnoxiousness, still seems to have a genuine affection for him, as well as for near every one else in this book.  There's no attempt at sugar-coating Ignatius here, but nor is there any sadistic glee, either.  In fact, without spoiling anything, by novel's end, Ignatius's misadventures indirectly result in improved circumstances for most of the novel's characters.

In the end, Toole seems to imply that Ignatius, whatever else may be his utter lack of all other redeeming qualities, is still human--and that is the only redeeming quality he really needs.  That goes for every one else, too.  We all deserve each others' compassion and respect, not because of our talents or connections or even our goodness, but simply because we are all fellow human beings. 

Now I want to put some more pressure upon the ending of A Confederacy of Dunces: again, while trying not to spoil anything, Ignatius finally leaves New Orleans in the finale, hitching a ride to New York from the one person he has yet to alienate.  This is a big step for Ignatius, for he has constantly bored folks throughout the novel by describing his one bus-trip to Baton Rouge (his only venture ever outside New Orleans) as some sort of horrific heart-of-darkness traumatizing experience, which he pathetically uses to justify not leaving his pitiful comfort zone.

Nevertheless, one could still be cynical about this ending, for Ignatius has not really changed or grown as a character throughout the novel. This friend rescuing him is a former college love-interest from New York, one who will doubtless grow to be as infuriated with Ignatius as literally everyone else justifiably has.  One could read the novel's ending with a tone of dread: the madcap antics Ignatius has wrecked upon New Orleans will now only be shifted to New York.  Ignatius hasn't changed, only his location.

Except...it's actually impossible to read the ending to A Confederacy of Dunces that cynically, because it's an American novel!  Americans are incurably optimistic (just compare the UK version of The Office to the US one), but more than our optimism is our deep-rooted need to escape!  

This novel has caused me to realize that the great escape, the movement away, the push outward and forward, is central to making a novel distinctly American.  No, Ignatius hasn't really changed, not yet anyways...but at least he's moving!  Admit it, your American heart lifts within you whenever you read of the main character getting away.  It's hard-wired into your American soul.

Consider all the other great escapes of American lit: Yossarian escaping the Catch-22; Jack Kerouac On The Road; Hemmingway making his Farewell to Arms; Huck Finn heading down the Mississippi; Frederick Douglass escaping to freedom quite literally; Ishmael boarding the Pequod; McMurphey escaping the asylum in One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest; Andy in The Shawshank Redemption; the Okies heading for California in The Grapes of Wrath.  Even when the escape is disillusioning, or is ambiguous, or even straight up fails (maybe even especially when it fails), the great focus on near all American literature is still on the celebratory escape.

Maybe, more so even than all the racist rhetoric associated with Manifest Destiny and so forth, the real reason Americans kept expanding out relentlessly outward and westward, is because we just wanted to friggin' get out.  Compared to our Old World ancestors who often stayed rooted in the same village for generations, we Americans are renowned for our relentless mobility; because the quickest way to start changing yourself is to change locations.

Yes, yes, we all know that the only zen you find at the top of a mountain top is the zen you bring there, and the grass only appears greener on the other side, and you should be content with what you have...except you really shouldn't.  No American actually believes that.  When someone we know is stuck in a bad situation, our advice is never to just "deal" with it and accept your lot in life, no--we tell them to get outta there! 

Maybe when you move you'll be the same person there as you are here...but then again, maybe you won't!  Changes in locations and situations have a curious way of shaking people awake.  This is a doctrine we believe in here in America: it's never too late to start over, it's never too late to get out.  And we rejoice, we cheer, we applaud, we high-five and hug, when someone who has stayed in one place for too long finally moves!  The movement, more so than the moral, is always what's most important to us.