John Kennedy Toole’s novel has been scolded for its ‘reactionary satire’ of an unchanging world, which seems to get things wrong twice over

Now that I’ve reached the end of A Confederacy of Dunces, I have to admit to some confusion. Not with the book so much as some of the things I’ve read about it. I’ve already discussed editor Robert Gottlieb’s famous complaint that John Kennedy Toole’s novel doesn’t have “a reason”. Plenty of other reviewers have also said that Ignatius J Reilly’s lack of development is a problem – but I don’t get it.

With forceful eloquence, Jonathan Rosenbaum was one of the first critics to put forward this idea in the Soho News when the book was first published in 1980. A Confederacy of Dunces, he said, was a “reactionary satire” and:

The heroes and victims of reactionary satire are usually the same people. They live according to an improbable cosmic law that declares human personality to be an unalterable given, incapable of undergoing any development or improvement. Following this narrow philosophy – a familiar form of Southern comfort – one quickly arrives at the conclusion that one’s character, idiosyncratic warts and all, is as inescapable as one’s skeleton.

As you’ve probably guessed, Rosenbaum doesn’t think that reactionary satire is a good thing:

All of Toole’s preposterous characters seem mired in this condition – to the profit of nothing but the author’s despairing, affectionate scorn and slapstick.

I’d recommend reading Rosenbaum’s entire review, which is as interesting as it is provocative – but for now, I want to focus on the idea that having a fixed personality is a problem. Why do some critics demand that novels must feature change? Is a reader left dissatisfied and undernourished if a character makes it through a book epiphany-free? Do people in the real world always change and grow?

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This is not to criticise change and development as literary devices. My A-level essay on Jane Austen’s Emma would have been pretty damn lean if she hadn’t had some crucial changes of heart. The revelations and alterations in Proust are so impressive that they sometimes made me feel that I, too, would never be the same again. And I love watching Dickens’s characters learn and grow.

But that’s not all I want from a book. While there’s much to appreciate in the character development of Dicken’s hero in David Copperfield, its greatest joy has to be Betsey Trotwood and her unalterable ability to crash a scene. Meanwhile, when PG Wodehouse married off his great character Psmith at the end of Leave It to Psmith, this meant that he couldn’t find any more adventures for him. He never made the same mistake again; Bertie Wooster didn’t change in a good half-century or so. But are we to think less of Wooster than Psmith, or any other character that doesn’t fit this arbitrary demand?

It’s tempting to take a cue from Ignatius and suggest that those who demand change should be “lashed” until they “drop”. But would Ignatius condone such punishment? Maybe such violence would be approved by the Ignatius at the start of the novel, a man who writes contemptuous notes about Myrna Minkoff. But what about Ignatius at the end, after he has taken Myrna’s advice and gone out into the world to be subjected to its delights and punishments? Is he really the same person as the confident troll who begins and ends arguments just by asking: “Please define your terms”?

Ignatius may well contend that he is still the same; his bluster and high-flown rhetoric consistent throughout. But by the end of the book, isn’t he at least cowed? He seems genuinely frightened that he might face prison for forgery or be taken away by “hirsute brutes” from the hospital. Hasn’t he learned important lessons? I’d suggest that Toole shows Ignatius refusing to change while also subtly undergoing fundamental revisions to his life and outlook.

Ignatius isn’t alone in his development; his mother veers from fretful indulgence of her grotesque child to a determination to stop him ruining her life; Mr Levy becomes more involved in the day-to-day of running his trouser company and begins to stand up to his caustic wife. While I don’t think any novel should be criticised for a perceived lack of character development, I also don’t think the charge should be applied to A Confederacy of Dunces at all. Like Ignatius, my “brain begins to reel from … literary labours”. Maybe I should take his advice and go make myself a nice cheese dip. Who says he has nothing to teach us?