I've had this book forever. This is one of those books that one is "supposed" to read because, hey, it has this tragic story around it: the author writes the book, the author can't find a publisher, the author commits suicide, the author's mother walks the book from publisher to publisher, the author's mother finds a publisher, the book is published, the book becomes a hit.
Okay, so this book has some reason for becoming a hit, right?
Right.
I did not like this book. I understand the whole story around the book. I laughed a number of times while reading the book. I can understand why the book was published, it's not a bad book, but, eh, I really did not like this book.
I didn't like it for one reason: the main character, Ignatius J. Reilly.
The basic plot is "Ignatius J. Reilly is an educated but slothful 30-year-old man living with his mother in the Uptown neighborhood of early-1960s New Orleans. Reilly, in his quest for employment, has various adventures with colorful French Quarter characters." Yeah. And "Ignatius Jacques Reilly is something of a modern Don Quixote—eccentric, idealistic, and creative, sometimes to the point of delusion." WHICH IS COMPLETELY INACCURATE.
Ignatius J. Reilly is an ass, pure and simple. He's a jerk, He's lazy. He hides in his bedroom instead of working, forcing his mother to support him. He blames others for his actions. He denies responsibility for his own actions. He is a destructive force in a relatively normal world. He steals from his employers. He causes some seriously bad events to happen, letting an old lady take the blame for a relatively bad misdeed.
Even his mother knows the guy is an ass, eventually deciding to throw him head first into life by kicking him out of the house.