It’s my pleasure to introduce you to the best book you’ve never read. It was published, posthumously and after great difficulty, in 1981. It won the Pulitzer Prize. It has the distinction of being the one book everyone in Hollywood would like to turn into a movie, but no one can do it, because it can’t be done. In fact, the project may be cursed, because 3 actors once considered for the lead role died shortly after their names were associated with it. What is it? A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole.

I stumbled upon a reference to the book at Drew’s movie website, which lead to an article in the Times-Picayune that thoughtfully provides us with a list of book clubs that have recently read or discussed the book… including one at an Episcopal parish in the next town to the north. It’s a book that continues to be near the top of many “favorite summer read” lists. So why can’t it be made into a movie?

Well, it’s been a long time since I read it… in fact, I’m probably going to start digging through my book boxes, a few feet behind me in the Lair o’ Computers, just to find my copy. But it’s corrosively, caustically funny, with unforgettable characters, ridiculous situations that build from a very odd beginning to an utterly ludicrous ending, and and the most antagonistic protagonist in modern literature.

Also, much of the book’s action takes place in the outraged and overclocked mind of said lead character, who spends a lot of time scribbling his deathless and important thoughts on innumerable Big Chief writing tablets on the bed in his mother’s house in New Orleans. That is, when he isn’t constantly belching due to a cranky gastric valve that closes up in times of emotional crisis, or compulsively masturbating when reminded of the saucy New York minx that is his creative muse. His world-view is somewhat skewed; he sees himself as a righter of wrongs and fighter against unjustice, but the rest of us see him as an argumentative kook with very odd ideas about costume, personal hygiene, flatulence, and labor relations.

And then there’s all the other characters – one of which is the city of New Orleans itself, with its raucous, Bronx-like dialect somehow wed to French Dixie.

In one person, Ignatius Reilly embodies all 7 deadly sins – Gluttony, Pride, Lust, Sloth, and Anger are definitely in play, though Envy and Covetousness come in whenever it looks like he might make a little money without actually having to do anything distasteful and beneath his dignity, such as work.

Anyway, the movie will never be made. Curse notwithstanding, there’s just no way to get all that lunatic self-justification up on screen, no matter who you cast.

Though if it were up to me, I’d pass on Will Farrell and give Oliver Platt a call… and ask him to start loading up on the Lucky Dogs.