Last Saturday, during a long weekend returning to good ol’ Ipswich, my mum, dad and I went out for a coffee in nearby Woodbridge. Naturally, I did not partake in coffee-drinking, owing to my conviction that it smells pleasant but tastes like hell. The jaunts to Woodbridge have always been frequent since their branch of Costa Coffee opened to perpetuate my Dad’s addiction; I just love the place because they have a tremendous Oxfam bookshop there.

This particular purveyor of pre-owned literature is a favourite of mine. Whilst I was frequenting the establishment on Saturday, searching for something to distract my brain from compelling me to feast on more chocolate, my Mum managed to pick out a book and recommended it to me. I should here explain that my mum knows books. She knows them well. Your knowledge of books is inevitably vastly inferior to hers. She keeps the book industry afloat during hard times, and should essentially carry some kind of goodwill fiction ambassador title. On this occasion, the book brought to my attention was John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces.

Over the next few days, it seemed increasingly like one of the best novels I have ever read. In the last year, I’ve read a few modern classics. Catcher in the Rye seemed somewhat overhyped, and the popularity of The Great Gatsby is mystifying. Confederacy of Dunces, meanwhile, is marvellous. The descriptive writing in the work is completely unparalleled, and the depth of the characters, and the richness with which you get to know them, is immense. Toole also manages to write in local dialect without producing a maddeningly dreadful load of prose, which is always an accomplishment.

The character of Ignatius J. Reilly, the book’s main instigator, is one of the most fascinating fictional creations I have yet come across. I defy you to read this book, and not to begin wording stinging criticisms of things in the eloquent-yet-verbose manner of Ignatius. Mr. Reilly’s way with words stops nowhere short of a total mastery of the English language. His words are as poetic as they are hilarious.

Mr. Toole himself committed suicide twelve years prior to the publication of this book. It is said that one of his chief reasons for doing so was his frustration that others did not share his view of the work as a comic masterpiece. This is ironic and tragic, and is yet further evidence of the blurred line between genius and insanity. The novel is a comic masterpiece. I certainly don’t remember reading a funnier book. To me, it’s on a par with The Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy, which itself is truly outstanding. Aside from being funny, this book does well to put across the difficulty of an existence in which you believe in your own worldview, but find others rallying against it.

Right next to my copy of The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, this book now has sacred status amongst my possessions.