I read this book in the early 1980s shortly after it was first published. The story of the neglected author who had killed himself years earlier and his mother’s struggle to interest a publisher in his work made for (sadly) good publicity. And then there was the book – which I found just as brilliant this time round as the first. I retained a clear memory of the first time the book made me laugh till I hurt (the sucked-out jam doughnuts that Mrs Reilly offers to Patrolman Mancuso). It’s a perfectly constructed tale of wonderfully grotesque characters (how could I have forgotten Miss Trixie?) and ludicrous situations that slot into each other smoothly and deftly. Ignatius Reilly is a compelling and repelling anti-hero who somehow retains his pathos. Despite his love of jam doughnuts and hot dogs and his obsession with Doris Day, he is a complete misfit in consumerist mid-century America; he belongs several centuries earlier – somewhere between Boethius and Thomas Aquinas, and probably in a monastery. His standards are idiosyncratic and exacting:

Possession of anything new or expensive only reflected a person’s lack of theology and geometry; it could even cast doubts upon one’s soul.

Ignatius himself was dressed comfortably and sensibly. The hunting cap prevented head colds. The voluminous tweed trousers were durable and permitted unusually free locomotion. Their pleats and nooks contained pockets of warm, stale air that soothed Ignatius. The plaid flannel shirt made a jacket unnecessary while the muffler guarded exposed Reilly skin between earflap and collar. The outfit was acceptable by any theological and geometrical standards, however abstruse, and suggested a rich inner life.

This eccentric scholastic is at large in decadent New Orleans. Unsurprisingly each new attempt to earn a living results in disaster for those around him – and great entertainment for the reader. There is a happy ending of sorts for those Reilly leaves behind him (big cheer when Jones’s wheel turns upwards) as he is rescued by the anti-heroine and is driven off into the sunset. Boethius lives another day. A masterpiece.