Butterfly in the Typewriter

by Cory MacLauchlin

  It seemed he had given himself over to his creation, as if the actual people surrounding him were shadows and the truth lie in the pages that he continued to edit. But this was not a thesis or dissertation he had written. It was not a task to display his literary prowess. He was an artist, and he had created something far more alive than an academic argument. And this creation was the pathway to his dreams of authorship.

  So Toole continued editing for a few months after his return, until a guillotine that had been rising, slowly and silently for months, finally dropped. Back when Toole was settling into his home, editing his novel, and drinking coffee with Bobby Byrne, another man who was about to make the history books walked about the Crescent City. Another New Orleanian, Lee Harvey Oswald, was living in Uptown in the summer of 1963, two miles away from the Toole home. Oswald spent his days organizing a New Orleans chapter of the Fair Play for Cuba Committee and passing out pro-Castro propaganda along Canal Street. By November of 1963, Oswald had moved to Dallas, Texas, where he worked at the public school book depository. And on a sunny day in Dallas, as John F. Kennedy’s motorcade slowly rolled down the street with the president and First Lady waving to crowds from the back seat of a convertible, two bullets ripped through the president’s skull. Oswald was charged with the assassination. Three days later, as he was transported to the county jail, nightclub owner Jack Ruby sent a bullet of his own into Oswald’s abdomen. The shots echoed throughout the country. America stood paralyzed, just before hurling itself into the most turbulent decade of the twentieth century. And as Toole watched this tragedy unfold from his home in New Orleans, his months of editing and rewriting came to a halt. His fingers rested still on the keys of his Olivetti-Underwood typewriter, and all was silent. He later confessed, “The book went along until President Kennedy’s assassination. Then I couldn’t write anything more. Nothing seemed funny to me.”

  By the beginning of 1964, Toole decided to submit his novel to a publisher. While most writers and agents would have sent a manuscript to several publishers, he selected one: Simon and Schuster. It was a house undergoing a transformation, in large part due to its star editor Robert Gottlieb. While Simon and Schuster had once focused on nonfiction and self-help books, Gottlieb ushered in fiction titles such as Catch-22 and the novels of Bruce Jay Friedman. Toole had an especially “intense personal reaction” to Friedman’s Stern. And when his mother later asked why he submitted the manuscript to only one publisher, Toole explained that Simon and Schuster was reputable and prestigious. He deemed that their books sold, while others collected dust on bookstore shelves. Toole wanted more than publication; he had an intense yearning to reach as many readers as possible.

  Today, most large publishing houses acquire works through literary agents. But in the early 1960s Simon and Schuster not only accepted unsolicited manuscripts, it also meticulously documented submissions, considered the work, and then responded to authors. So the novel that carried the weight of Toole’s future traveled from the small apartment in New Orleans to New York, and it landed on the desk of Robert Gottlieb. In many ways, Toole could not have been more fortunate. Michael Korda, an editor under Gottlieb who eventually rose to editor-in-chief at Simon and Schuster, recalled Gottlieb’s fierce dedication to the art of literature. In Another Life Korda explains that Gottlieb approached his role as an editor like a midwife in the creative process—he could see both the big picture of the book and “how intricate changes might bring out the best in it.” And he was surpassingly industrious. He labored for years over Catch-22 with Joseph Heller. Even as the advent of the literary agent emerged among trade presses, he avoided schmoozing at martini-filled business lunches in midtown Manhattan restaurants, preferring that anyone interested in having lunch with him bring a sandwich to his office. In fact, the first time Bruce Jay Friedman arrived at Simon and Schuster to have a working lunch with Gottlieb, he was surprised to find the rising star of Midtown offering him a plate of raw vegetables to munch on while they went over the manuscript for Stern. And of the voluminous number of manuscripts that flooded Simon and Schuster every week, piling up on Gottlieb’s desk, a new humorous writer from New Orleans stood apart from the rest. Gottlieb’s assistant, Jean Ann Jollett, loved Toole’s manuscript and recommended it to Gottlieb. After he read it, Gottlieb wrote encouragingly to Toole.

  In just over a year, Toole had gone from staring at a blank sheet of paper in a borrowed typewriter in Puerto Rico to catching the interests of the most dynamic editor in New York. Things were proceeding according to his plan. Next, editor and writer had to figure out their delicate dance. As Gottlieb knew, every writer is different, and Toole had no experience in publishing a book. Toole had been praised for his writing abilities all his life. When he was sixteen his college professor said he was ready to submit to an academic journal. And his professors at Columbia had little to critique about his writing. But New York publishers did not operate in the realm of grades or degrees. Toole was entering a world of both art and business, subject to market forces, although not driven by that measure alone. However noble the pursuit of publishing literature, at the end of the day it is a business. His novel not only had to be good, it had to sell.

  In June of 1964 Toole made arrangements to go to New York and visit with Gottlieb, so author and editor could work together, presumably to address some issues in the manuscript. But Toole could make it only near the end of June when Gottlieb would be in Europe. It was the first misstep in this dance that would become increasingly awkward. Jollett wrote to Toole to warn him of the situation, hoping that he could make his trip earlier in order to meet with Gottlieb. She ended that letter asking Toole, “Is now the time for me to tell you that I laughed, chortled, collapsed my way through Confederacy? I did.”

  Unfortunately, Toole and Gottlieb could not coordinate their schedules, so Gottlieb sent some of his editorial comments in a letter. His critique was direct. He took issue with Toole’s plot structure, particularly at the end of the novel. He admitted that Toole had created brilliant scenes and “wittily tied them together at the end.” But the “threads must be strong and meaningful all the way through.” His comments echoed Emilie Dietrich Griffin’s advice when she wrote to Toole in 1961 saying, “You have to be saying something that you really mean . . . not just dredging characters and situations up because they are charming.” Gottlieb reiterates, “There must be a point to everything you have in the book, a real point, not just amusingness forced to figure itself out.” After his criticism, he encourages Toole to keep working on the book, while suggesting some time away from the manuscript might be helpful. But he clearly states, “Please, no matter what, let me see the book again when you have worked on it again.”

  Toole still took his trip to New York. Jollett, a Southerner herself, welcomed him. She was eager to see “what the author of the book looked like.” The trip was an opportunity for Toole to gain some insight into the publishing world. But she gave Toole fair warning that she would be unable to offer any more editorial advice. It must have been quite disappointing if Toole earnestly sought clear direction from Gottlieb, as he was navigating a world that was quite foreign to him.

  While in New York, Toole visited Joe Hines, an English instructor he had met in Puerto Rico who lived on the West Side of Manhattan. They spoke of Toole’s venture into publishing that was now in limbo. Once Toole returned to New Orleans, Hines wrote to him,Dear John,

  It has now been some time since you returned to the land of the night-blooming jasmine. I wonder how your meisterwork is progressing. Have you finished and presented it for re-examination to Miss Jollett? I take a rather selfish interest in the book, since, upon its completion and publication, I will have some contact, however slight, with fame and notoriety; one needs a touch of megalomania to get by.

  Hines spends the rest of the letter discussing a trip to New Orleans to visit Toole, who had told him of the “interesting and unusual” city. Later that summer, Hines had the benefit of having Toole as his New Orlean
s tour guide. During the visit, they took in the film Becket, the story of the thirteenth-century Saint Thomas à Becket, which left Toole questioning the reasons behind the saint’s “sudden conversion to goodness, religion, selflessness.” At a time when Toole was urged to think most deliberately about the reasons for his characters and their behaviors, he found the about-face of a famous religious figure puzzling. While the audience liked to see characters transform, rarely do people change so drastically. Toole posed the question to Hines, who responded that it must have been “the grace of God,” a response that Toole likely found unhelpful. Hines provided Toole a break from edits and rewrites, allowing time to talk to a friend and showcase his city.

  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:One wonders how your masterwork is doing. When last I saw you, you expected to have the revision completed before the beginning of this semester and sent winging on its way to Jean [Jollett] so that she might laugh and chortle on every reading of each page. I wonder if it has been sent to “your publisher” and when it may see the light of day and the book store’s shelf.

  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,Ken came for two days at Christmas and, under the influence, confided in me his deplorable state—a virtual incarceration (entre nous) with parents prematurely senile and giving full vent to a latent possessiveness. My advice to him, who is too young for such, was to escape after this year. One can tolerate the aged when they are really old and when the disparity in the age of parents and children is not so great.

  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,Whenever I visited, Ken’s mother would sit with us, and Ken would tell me of another letter from the publisher requesting more changes, and Ken’s mother would take over and rail in the most sweeping terms of “art” and “beauty” and “genius” and how publishers didn’t understand anything at all. And Ken would sit silent as his mother would swell with scorn. It was quite a performance.

  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 perf
ormed 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.