I am at this moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labours, I make an occasional cheese dip.
Not many books have made me laugh out loud, and this one did several times. Toole was awarded the Pulitzer prize in literature in 1981. It's a shame that he wasn't alive to witness the success of his writing. The fact that the author's manuscript was discovered by his mother made me think of Ignatius, barricaded in his room, yelling at his mother, and working on his own manifesto. I wonder what else the author had in common with his misunderstood protagonist.