It is seldom that I find a fictional character that I can genuinely relate with. Or, to put it mildly, that I am able to comprehend the philosophical POV of another person. I have written earlier about Holden Caulfield and Christopher Boone. The greatest joys of reading Lucky Jim in my graduate days was the discovery of a relatable soul. More than in the character Dixon, but in the implied author (yes, I know my bit of narratology). He was excruciatingly funny, the way descriptions bring out vivid pictures of silly everyday life and persons, the unapologetic loserliness of the protagonist, the hypocrisies of academia, the embarrassing sadness of living.
It’s unfortunate that the book is not popular, and that the people I recommended it to found it boring and tedious. They’d rather prefer Wodehouse with his pretentious, monotonous, trivial hotchpotch of wordplay, misunderstandings, idiosyncratic characters and endless repartee. Wodehouse, I admit, is fun for a depressing and hectic day because it takes away the steam with its childish revel in nonsense.