Butterfly in the Typewriter (30 page)

In many ways New Orleans still gave Toole a sense of wonder as he spoke with his army friend and showed him around. After nearly a year back at home, preparing the revised manuscript to send back to Gottlieb for review, he still relished the quirkiness of his hometown. One evening in the summer of 1964 he met with Byrne and Fletcher at the Napoleon House. Fletcher had recently returned from Europe and like any globetrotter back in his provincial home, Fletcher was eager to share with his friends stories of his adventures. But he was “disappointed to discover that all they seemed to want to do was gossip about their uptown New Orleans neighborhood.” Toole was deeply invested in his city at the time, rewriting a novel about the people of New Orleans, the very people Byrne and he discussed. Let alone, Ignatius Reilly had nearly consumed his mind for well over a year, and here sat across the table one of the major inspirations of that character. Fletcher felt snubbed by his friends, but it must have been a productive evening for Toole.

In the fall of 1964, as Toole started his second year of teaching at Dominican, he sent the revised manuscript to Gottlieb and awaited his response. Still troubled by some parts of it, Gottlieb asked his close friend and literary agent Candida Donadio to read it. While Gottlieb was not trying to impose an agent on Toole, he knew that if he were to get an agent, Donadio, who represented Joseph Heller and Bruce Jay Friedman, would be the one for him. Both agent and editor agreed on
some significant changes that needed to be made to
Confederacy
. In mid-December Gottlieb writes to Toole, summarizing their suggestions. They agreed Toole was “wildly funny, funnier than anyone around, and our kind of funny.” They praised almost every character in the story with the exception of Myrna Minkoff and the Levys. They concurred, “Ignatius is in trouble.” With directness, Gottlieb critiqued the character Toole had been developing for years, “He is not as good as you think he is. There is much too much of him.” Donadio and Gottlieb also agreed the book was too long. But the area that they found most disconcerting was its lack of “meaning.” Gottlieb writes, “With all its wonderfulness . . . the book does not have a reason . . . it is a wonderful exercise in invention, but . . . it isn't really about
anything.
” Gottlieb seems at a loss as to how to direct Toole, at least through the medium of a letter. But, yet, he restates his dedication to him, claiming, “We can't abandon it or you (I will never abandon Mr. Micawber).” While Gottlieb admits that the book could be “improved upon,” he also says it would never sell. He continues on a rather confusing explanation, “When Candida and I know something is basically for us, but not right, it is very difficult to have it right for other people in town on our wavelength; and the others are out of the question.” So what was Toole to do? He could try another publishing house, but Gottlieb, who had already dedicated much time to the novel, told him it needed a particular kind of editor. And Gottlieb was right. Publishing houses were not clamoring to release comic novels in the mid-1960s. They have always been difficult to place, but Gottlieb had edited some of the best in American fiction. From Toole's perspective, this letter must have been difficult to swallow, as well as somewhat disorienting. Where did he stand in the midst of these messages? Gottlieb tells him that he could give up on the book but then tells him that is not a good idea. And yet the book was not really marketable; however, Toole shouldn't despair. The letter fluctuates with Gottlieb's stream of thoughts. And in the end it reads more like a personal letter than business correspondence. Having typed it himself, Gottlieb confessed he could not “dictate this kind of letter,” a letter from an editor searching for a balance between honesty and encouragement to help a young writer.

Recognizing letters were not the best way to communicate these messages, Gottlieb asks if Toole could come to New York and they
could sit down to talk, with intent to discuss “specific editorial suggestions.” That may have been the best course of action. But it didn't happen. Toole brooded over the letter, then replied in thanks for his honesty.

That same month, Toole received a letter from his friend Joe Hines. Having spent some time with Toole in New Orleans, Hines now addressed him as Kenny, instead of John. He discusses the works of Evelyn Waugh, Toole's favorite writer, and then asks about the status of the book, the project that dominated Toole's life:

But with the latest of Gottlieb's letters, Toole must have doubted if his novel would ever sit upon a bookshelf, let alone be read. He came to the maze of New Orleans, and now it seemed his work had entered into the labyrinth of New York publishing. The way toward publication must have appeared far more daunting then he imagined it would be. Still, he retained the face of optimism at least. He writes to Gottlieb on December 16, 1964, stating that he found Gottlieb's letter “encouraging” and requests that Gottlieb call him collect.

But something seems to have changed for Toole over the holiday season. In late December of 1964, Toole retreated to Lafayette and met with his friend J. C. Broussard. Broussard saw a man drastically altered from the inflated ego he witnessed in the Sazerac Bar two years prior. Reporting the sad episode to Fletcher, Broussard writes,

Over the course of the evening, Toole did not discuss his correspondence with Gottlieb. He must have labored over the words of the man who held the key to his escape from his current situation, but instead with his guard down after a few drinks he spoke to Broussard about his parents. It is possible that the words of his mother lay heavy on his mind as well. According to Nick Polites, Gottlieb's fluctuations between praise and critique drove Toole's mother wild. During this period, Polites remembers making several visits to the Toole house, where he sat in audience to her rants. He recalls,

From such testimony, one wonders whose work Gottlieb had criticized. Surely the editor discussed the novel, but by extension of the mother-son relationship, in criticizing her son's genius, he berated her, as well. Thelma may have believed her tirades in the parlor defended her son's honor. She likely detected that Gottlieb's words fell hard on him, but her theatrics may have exacerbated the issue. Had Toole been receiving these letters away from home, in his own apartment, he may have been spared the protective tirades of his mother. Then again, he may have felt even more detached and lonesome if he had not had Thelma to share in his disappointment. And one can only imagine if Thelma performed with such vehemence in front of a guest, how she would have carried on when they were alone. Byrne sensed this startling disconnect between Thelma's public praise of her son and their one-on-one interactions. In the 1995 interview with Carmine Palumbo, Byrne recounts how his aunt, who taught Toole in grade school, used to talk about Thelma bragging about her genius son. When Byrne told Toole of this,
he looked puzzled, saying, “My mother spends all her time telling me how stupid I am.” Toole received sharp criticism from both Gottlieb and his mother, as he struggled to determine how to edit his novel. And from what Polites witnessed, Thelma amplified Gottlieb's criticism, stirring a toxic mix. Some part of Toole must have wanted it all to end.

Toole decided to request Gottlieb return the manuscript. He was almost ready to give up. In January of 1965 he writes to Gottlieb, “The only sensible thing to do, it seems to me, is to ask for the manuscript. Aside from some deletions, I don't think I could really do much to the book now—and, of course, even with revisions you might not be satisfied. I can't even
think
of much I could do to the book.” Clearly, Toole was demoralized. And a worsening situation at home did not help matters. Yet, he had come too far in a remarkably short time just to walk away from it. His mother, who never settled for retreat, would not approve of him giving up. And perhaps Toole recognized that if he gave up on the book, any hope of changing his situation at home was impossible. Toole couldn't hold his “stiff upper lip” for long. Without an appointment or a call announcing his intentions, Toole went to New York to speak to Gottlieb face to face.

His mind must have reeled during the long trip north. He had restrained himself in his replies, trying to maintain his composure. What would he say when he stood in front of the man who had called his work “meaningless”? But when he arrived at Simon and Schuster, he found Gottlieb was once again out of town. For the second time, he stood in the office of his would-be publisher after a full day's travel, only to find Gottlieb away. As he spoke to Miss Jollett, a tide of emotion overwhelmed him. As he later explained, he was “bent with obsequiousness” as he “almost sank through the floor in between . . . silences, cryptic comments and occasional mindless (for it had left me) absurdities.” Then he blacked out. Moments later, returning to consciousness, he left a request for Gottlieb to call him, and he returned to New Orleans. He had suffered a nervous breakdown in the offices of Simon and Schuster.

Toole knew he had embarrassed himself. To Gottlieb in 1965, Toole was one of the hundreds of talented young writers with manuscripts that would pass by his desk in any given month. And the busy editor could carry on a conversation through letters without it intruding on his daily work. But now Toole had come to his place of business
unannounced and created a disturbing scene. As a potential partner in an artistic endeavor, Toole had presented troubling, unstable behavior. The whole fiasco even took Toole by surprise. What had caused him to act so irrationally? What compelled him to lash out at the one person he had identified as his lifeline? It was the first incident indicating the paranoia and the despair that would consume him.

After such an episode, many editors would have justifiably walked away, cutting off all communication. But in late February or early March Gottlieb called, and Toole asked him to clarify some of his statements made in the December letter. During that conversation, Gottlieb made the suggestion that it might be time for Toole to work on another novel, which Toole interpreted as “an opening to withdraw with at least a little grace.” By this point, Gottlieb knew he was dealing with an incredibly sensitive, possibly disturbed writer, and he opened all possibilities to Toole. Perhaps a rejection letter would have made a clean break between editor and writer. But something about Toole kept Gottlieb's interests. Perhaps recognizing Gottlieb's willingness to overlook the episode in New York, Toole let his guard down. He wrote Gottlieb a letter detailing the story of his life and the story behind
Confederacy
. It was rare for Toole to be so open and candid about his personal affairs. He confesses, “I've been trying to think straight since speaking to you on the telephone, but confusion and depression have immobilized my mind. I have to come out of this though, or I'll never do anything.” He also recognized that his own relationship to his work was withholding him. The intensity that he felt toward his novel, which de Russy noted in 1963, had increased. He writes to Gottlieb, “Whenever I attempt to talk in connection with
Confederacy of Dunces
I become anxious and inarticulate. I feel very paternal about the book; the feeling is actually androgynous because I feel as if I gave birth to it too.”

Toole goes on to explain his experiences in New York, Lafayette, and Puerto Rico, and then refocuses on the book:

And while he draws a distinction between himself and his creation, he writes later in the letter that in some ways Ignatius became part of him:

In a twist of roles, Toole, who had spent so much time observing people around him, had placed himself into his character he created to re-envision his world.

He goes on to address Gottlieb's critique of the novel. He fully acknowledges, “I know that it has flaws, yet I am afraid that some stranger will bring them to my attention.” He admitted that the Levys were “the book's worst flaw” and Myrna Minkoff may be “a debacle.” But he holds fast to Irene Reilly, Santa Battaglia, Patrolman Mancuso, and Burma Jones because “these people say something about New Orleans. They're as real as individuals and also as representative of a group.” Clarifying his point, he states,