by John Kennedy Toole.
I read this book a long time ago, and like certain other books (Lolita, by Nabakov, The Master and Margarita, Bulgakov, etc, etc) I always pick up when I come across.
I'm like that Jehova Witness of readers (and film) who comes across something good and will spare no expense to share it with others.
Anyways, I picked it up with the vague idea that I'd pass it along to Ken. It was a great book.
And it's been kicking around in my Jeep and finally I thought I'd pick it up and relive a few passages - and - fresh as ever, barely a page read and your laughing out loud.
The descriptions, preposterous, apt, hilarious, the characters drawn from life as grotesque as they - as we all - must appear, the plot heaps absurdity upon absurdity in a manner that only real life can emulate.
That John Kennedy Toole took his own life is hardly a surprise, to see things this clearly - while it makes you laugh - also can lead to despair. Comedy is the means to deal with life, tragedy is the means to end it.
Anyways, would that I could write prose that good.