Butterfly in the Typewriter (11 page)

Distanced from the tourist centers of Manhattan, Columbia is situated in Morningside Heights between the Upper West Side and Harlem. Originally named King's College, the school was established in 1754 by a charter from King George II and located in lower Manhattan.
It was renamed Columbia out of patriotic fervor that followed the Revolutionary War, but one can still sense its regal distinction while walking through its current campus. The columned, neoclassical buildings surround green lawns, where students stroll from class to class, from genius lecture to genius lecture. And during Toole's time at Columbia, when the graduate student searched for “overtly social occasions,” the
Graduate Student's Guide
suggested visiting “the Graduate Student Lounge . . . about tea-time” where one would find the knowledgeable Mrs. Edgar Grim Miller “presiding over the students and staff members gathered there.” With the crown emblem and lion mascot, the faculty and students sat upon their thrones as urbane kings of an urban jungle. In this royal sanctuary, a world apart from the frenzy of Times Square or the bohemian quarters of Greenwich Village, Toole could quietly study in the libraries or ponder literature while sitting along the Hudson in Riverside Park. And yet, the endless diversions of the metropolis were at most a subway ride away. For a young man at the age of twenty, it offered the best of both worlds, serene and exhilarating.

But for all its opportunities, Columbia offered no escape from the sobering, financial reality of living and studying in Manhattan. Even with the good fortune of a fellowship, the imposition of money determined Toole's course from day one. The Woodrow Wilson National Fellowship covered tuition and awarded him fourteen hundred dollars for the entire year, from which he had to pay for room and board, books, and supplies. But it lasted only for the fall and spring semesters. In two semesters it was possible to complete the degree, which required ten courses, writing a thesis, and passing two comprehensive exams. But according to the student guide such an achievement was “unusual.” Most master of arts candidates completed the degree requirements over three semesters, usually finishing in the summer. If Toole followed the typical track, he would need money to pay for a summer session. Put into perspective, the student guide presented financial figures for a student with a university loan, savings from a summer job, and income from a part-time job on campus, which still left the student seven hundred dollars short. These funds would “have to be filled from ‘outside' sources: [such as] help from family or sponsors, savings, other loans.” Toole had no outside sources, certainly no substantial help from his family; they simply could not afford it. It was clear, he had to accomplish the unusual.
He had to graduate in two semesters, after which, if approved, he could continue on to the PhD program at Columbia.

With his deadline established, he began his life as a graduate student. He moved into Furnald Hall, room 1008. It was sparsely furnished with two beds, a sink, and an alcove at the far end, offering enough space for a desk or a chair, positioned under the bay windows. The top floor room offered a view over Broadway. Out of the windows he could see the bell towers of the Union Theological Seminary and Broadway Presbyterian Church, the soaring gothic tower of Riverside Church, and the new high-rise dorms under construction at Barnard College. Ten floors down, the wood-paneled lounge of Furnald Hall with its grand marble fireplace and huge chandelier offered students a spacious escape from the confines of their small rooms. Crown emblems embossed on the coffered ceiling subtly reminded students of their privileged place.

Unpacked and settled in his room, Toole set his sights on the work ahead. He had lectures to attend, much reading to do, and a thesis to write. In the brisk autumn air, he headed to class. His short walk across the South Lawn to Philosophy Hall soon became commonplace. But each day he passed the buildings and statues that ever so clearly evidenced his elevation from Tulane. Upon exiting Furnald, he passed the Graduate School of Journalism, founded by Joseph Pulitzer and where the famed Pulitzer Prize annually originates. To the right, on the south end of the lawn, Toole could see the Butler Library, the giant columns upholding the names of poets and philosophers Homer, Plato, and Socrates. On the north end of the lawn, he passed the iconic Alma Mater statue, sitting upon her throne on the steps of the Low Library with an open book in her lap, her arms outstretched, welcoming all her chosen ones. Finally, approaching Philosophy Hall, he passed an original cast of Rodin's
The Thinker
, the timeless statue prompting contemplation. Renowned academics, poets, and writers had made a similar trek to arrive at those same oak doors. He walked in the footsteps of Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Joseph Heller, J. D. Salinger, and Upton Sinclair. Here it was that great thinkers came to study and teach, as they had for decades. Inside, professors sat in their offices, the doors slightly ajar, as they worked on their latest projects. The faint clacking of typewriters echoed into the wood-paneled corridors. Lecture rooms filled
with students quietly chatting, awaiting professors. Taking his seat, Toole set his course for something greater than what New Orleans could offer him.

Over the next nine months, he spent much of his time in Philosophy Hall, taking five graduate courses each semester, almost all of which reflected his declared focus on British Literature. His professors for these courses were among the luminaries of Columbia. In their own way they contributed to his development as a scholar, teacher, and writer.

He enrolled in an eighteenth-century British Literature class that was taught by the department chair, Marjorie Nicolson, a “short tank of a woman” often seen “drawing on a cigarette with her thin lips.” She declared her independence through her fierce dedication to academic rigor. But never a tyrant, she tailored her questions so as to challenge students, not demoralize them. Students affectionately called her Miss Nicki behind her back.

He also took two courses with the lively William Nelson, another ranking official listed as the department representative in the
Graduate Student's Guide
. Robert Parker, who studied extensively under Nelson, remembers him as an underrated scholar and gentleman. In the seminar on British poet Edmund Spencer, Nelson would often read passages of poetry. He maintained that when read aloud, Spencer's
The Faerie Queen
becomes one of the great joys in literature, despite its intentional archaic language and reputation for difficulty. Nelson's lectures became a kind of literary theater, which may have demonstrated to Toole a way to blend both performance and teaching to create memorable classroom moments. And any young scholar harboring aspirations of a writer in the mid-twentieth century would benefit from William Tindall's Contemporary British Literature course. Under Tindall's guidance, Toole leapt into the world of James Joyce, reading
Finnegan's Wake
and
Ulysses
. Tindall encouraged students to discard the confines of historical context and read a work of literature in its present-day significance, an approach that differed from Toole's undergraduate instruction. But such a challenge may have provided him an opportunity to appreciate Joyce in a new light. As an author steeped in the place of his birth, Joyce used his city, Dublin, to parallel the roots of Western literature in
Ulysses
. And yet, Tindall argued, one need not understand those roots to appreciate the work. Similarly, in
Confederacy
, Toole would compose a reflection of
New Orleans, while connecting the work to the long line of his literary predecessors, from Chaucer to Dickens, and yet he would achieve an accessibility open to anyone with a sense of humor.

By far the most important professor he met at Columbia was John Wieler who taught a course on sixteenth-century literature, the area of Toole's particular interest. Wieler was a graduate of the PhD program at Columbia and must have been teaching there as a part-time faculty member. By 1959 he was already acting chairman at Hunter College, an all-girls school located on the east side of Manhattan. Wieler would prove integral in Toole's professional life, essentially opening the door to his transition from student to professor. The two would spend an academic year getting to know each other, a year in which Wieler became very impressed by Toole.

It is quite possible Toole also attended other lectures outside the courses for which he registered. At that time, graduate students did not earn grades for each class. There was no attendance taken and most lecture courses required no term papers. The English department held the philosophy that “Students devote themselves to preparation for final examinations and to Essays or Dissertations. Courses . . . are designed as aids to their progress, rather than as ends in themselves.” One need not appear on a specific class roster to partake in the learning; they just needed to show up early enough to find a seat. Many graduate students registered for courses, as they needed to pay for thirty credits of coursework, but they attended other classes out of interest. William Cullen Bryant II could be giving a lecture on Romanticism, or Mark Van Doren might be discussing his recent book
Don Quixote's Profession
. Toole could take full advantage of the intellectually rich environment.

Clearly the opportunities for learning at Columbia were abundant. But as a student sitting in a class among eighty peers, and as a young scholar trying to navigate the ways of a new institution, Columbia could also be a lonely place. It offered little warmth in its welcome to graduate students. Toole had received the
Graduate Student Guide
in June, giving him sufficient time to read what the dean of the graduate faculties referred to as “the law.” Therein students were forthrightly told,

According to this handbook, the successful student would read incessantly, type to perfection, not burden his professors with inane questions of policy, and, most importantly, become an independent scholar. It preemptively forgives the professors burdened with thought if they overlook the questions of students. “If it should happen that in the welter of . . . multifarious and yearly increasing demands, an officer of instruction should accidentally overlook a student's legitimate need of consultation time, it would not be surprising.” Another graduate student in the English department in 1958, Robert Bozanich, took away from the handbook the lesson that “one should not greet a professor in a casual encounter on campus and . . . one should not feel rebuffed if ignored.” Like many students at the time, Toole must have found this abrasiveness off-putting. He wanted the rigor and prestige of Columbia, but he would tire of this institutional condescension.

Furthermore, the English department ran a massive operation where MA candidates often felt insignificant. Thelma Toole referred to it as a machine, churning out graduates. The clear sense of hierarchy between the PhD and the MA students could make the graduate experience “very impersonal.” And the “huge lecture classes” offered “few opportunities for student-to-student or student-to-professor” interaction. At Columbia, Toole learned much from his professors, and he fortunately found a mentor in Wieler, but such a bond was not the usual for everyone, especially at the MA level.

Despite the institutional shortcomings of Columbia, Toole had at his doorstep one of the invaluable benefits of coming to New York, the artistic and cultural capital of the country. When not in class, he reveled in his explorations of the city, especially in the autumn when New York appears most alive. Trees arch over walkways; yellow, red, and orange leaves burst with color, a vibrant spectacle against the backdrop of black pavement and gray concrete. Ruth Lafranz, his romantic interest from Tulane, accompanied him on some of these excursions. As Dalt Wonk reports, “The two Southerners did up Gotham. They went to Coney Island, rode the Staten Island Ferry. They frequented Roseland, a dance palace. They took in plays and operas and the Bronx zoo.”

And naturally Toole enjoyed wandering through Greenwich Village, the artistic hub of New York in 1958. While New Orleans had the Quarter, New York had the Village, and both places attracted colorful characters. Within the first few weeks after Toole arrived in New York, he strolled through the Village and reported some of his observations in a letter to Dave Prescott, an acquaintance and graduate student from Tulane. Prescott responded, “Your first reactions to life at Columbia and to the Village proved most interesting reading.” In a four-page reply letter, Prescott offered Toole a detailed update of Tulane, reviewing new graduate students, additions to their “lunchroom coterie,” and other New Orleans news. He also tells of an occurrence in the French Quarter, a story of violence and dark humor Toole likely found amusing. Prescott sets the scenario with the well-publicized murder of a Mexican tour guide by three Tulane students. Amid the subsequent tensions between whites and Hispanics, a friend of Prescott's was victimized. A new graduate student to Tulane named Shmuel Barovsky was walking in the Quarter when three Latinos “bludgeoned . . . his skull three times with a lead pipe and robbed” him. Prescott writes that Shmuel “began screaming at the top of his lungs causing a resident to open her window and in turn cry out.” The attackers grabbed what looked like his wallet but was really his address book and ran away. A patrolman soon came, and the two “were off to Charity” hospital. But on the way to Charity, they saw the three assailants, chased them down, and caught them as other police converged on the scene. The officers began to push the “disturbers-of-the-peace” into a police van. And as Shmuel stood “dazedly beside the patrol car with blood pouring down over his shoulders” a policeman started pushing him toward the van. Another officer noticed the commotion and yelled out, “That's the victim!” Shmuel was let go, spent a few days in the hospital, and returned to school, “wearing his beret everywhere to cover his stitches.”