Butterfly in the Typewriter (34 page)

Of course, despite their numerous similarities, one glaring difference between these two novels remains. Under the auspices of Robert Gottlieb,
Superworm
was published;
Confederacy
was not. Toole must have asked, “Why Deaux and not me?” Some key aesthetic differences between the two novels offers insight into Gottlieb's decision against
Confederacy
. S
uperworm
has a focused plot, closely following the protagonist and not wandering into the lives of other characters. In essence, the plot drives the characters. But the plot of
Confederacy
is the medium providing opportunity for the humorous expression of the characters. Indeed, Toole had spent his life observing and mimicking characteristics of personalities, and his characters take a primary role in the book. In this regard
Confederacy
is quite Dickensian: the seemingly disparate yarns of various characters strewn about the city weave together to form the narrative. But this approach requires time, space, and patience from the reader—and perhaps a willingness to lose oneself in a character. But unlike Dickens, Toole avoids sentimentality and agendas of social reform.

Furthermore,
Superworm
offers a pointed commentary on society in the 1960s. Its message was quite clear. The final words of the novel cast
Claude, the radical activist, as “just another naked nut.” Through satire, it critiques the tide of social activism in the late 1960s. Thomas Lask of the
New York Times
explains, “Mr. Deaux makes a few sharp comments on the do-gooders who are more concerned with action than with results.... He is also acute in showing how often personal drives are elevated to crusades.” Clearly Gottlieb's final criticism of
Confederacy
was not only an expression of his opinion, but a valid observation from the standpoint of an editor with the responsibility of finding sellable material in a particular market. In
Superworm
, Gottlieb may have seen marketability; it must have had that “meaning” that he deemed missing in
Confederacy
.

And yet
Superworm
received similar criticism to that of
Confederacy
, even though a decade separated the publication of the novels. Reviewers said of both writers they were “trying too hard.” Lask observed that Deaux's “humor was too mechanical.... You can feel him cranking the machine up. But there are scenes of genuine hilarity.” Lask sees the meaningful commentary in the novel but finds the point and humor forced at times.

In his belief that
Confederacy
had been stolen, Toole had created a compelling and elaborate narrative of Gottlieb and Deaux conspiring against him. Deaux points out that Gottlieb actually had very little to do with
Superworm
. And it would be remarkably out of character for Gottlieb, who had behaved with so much compassion and took two years to help a writer with whom Simon and Schuster had no contract, only to lift the ideas and hand them to another writer in their house that had proved a moderate success. But to a powerless and once aspiring writer now defeated, the publishing world could be enigmatic. Writers on the margins have used all kinds of methods to understand the road to publication, looking for clues at the bottom of teacups, hoping to make sense out of the exclusive and seemingly insurmountable stratosphere in those high-rise buildings of midtown Manhattan.

If Toole kept up with the
New York Times
, then he may have seen in March of 1968 the profile detailing the sweeping changes in the publication world, including Gottlieb's transition to Knopf. As Henry Raymont reported, “Possibly the most striking change was that of Mr. Gottlieb, who took with him Simon and Schuster's top
editorial production team.” Raymont acknowledges that in the midst of this consolidation and emergence of multimillion-dollar publishing houses, a shift from family-owned businesses to huge corporations, publishing houses would be less likely to take risks on writers. Ultimately, the publishing world was getting bigger, stronger, more concentrated, and far more difficult to navigate, and the media cast Gottlieb's move to Knopf as a key indicator of this dramatic change. In this context the exchange Toole had with Gottlieb appears remarkably rare. And if Toole read the newspaper article, it may have put a final end to any thoughts of resubmitting the novel. The editor who once said he would never abandon Mr. Micawber likely seemed unreachable now. Gottlieb finished up his spring 1968 list for Simon and Schuster.
Superworm
was one of the last novels under his wing. From Toole's perspective, Gottlieb had thrown his creative work to another writer as he jumped ship, and there was nothing Toole could do about it.

But even in the midst of his outrage, Toole never lost his capacity for wit. When Patricia Rickels asked about his plans for the novel, now that it had been stolen, Toole replied dismissively that he had given up on it. He had begun writing another novel. The working title of his new novel, he said, was
The Conqueror Worm
. He would outdo Deaux; he would conquer
Superworm
.

Patricia and Milton caught the allusion to the poem with the same title by Edgar Allan Poe. Poe's poem is an allegorical tragedy of Man, who succumbs to the all-consuming worm. Over the breakfast table at the Rickelses house, Toole cited the horrific futility of life. He determined the world had entered into a confederacy against him. And it seems he began to see his life as if he were sitting in the theater of Poe's mind:

Poe was an artist who explored the darkest aspects of the human mind. And Toole could find many relatable traits to the Gothic poet. Poe had an actress mother. He had lived a life of financial struggle. As a Southern writer, he had faced a literary field dominated by figures in New England. His most famous poem “The Raven” was essentially stolen from him, widely published without his permission or benefit. And it has been theorized that Poe also grappled with mental illness. Of course there were few options for treatment, let alone diagnosis in his day. In the end, Poe ended up unconscious in a ditch. A few days later, estranged and muttering nonsense in a hospital in Baltimore, he died.

Over a hundred years of medical advances separated Poe's death from Toole's descent into mental illness. And yet the therapy for severe mental disorders was a grim prospect in Toole's day. Plenty of writers in the mid-twentieth century illustrate this point. When Ernest Hemingway fell into debilitating depression and displayed suicidal tendencies, doctors administered electroshock therapy, sending a current of electricity coursing through his body. In July of 1961 Hemingway decided only the blast from his shotgun could cease his suffering. And when Allen Ginsberg “saw the best minds of [his] generation destroyed by madness,” he had in mind his friend Carl Solomon in Rockland Psychiatric Center, who was undergoing insulin-shock therapy—repeatedly induced into a convulsive coma through massive injections of insulin. Fortunately, Solomon survived. But poet and novelist Sylvia Plath did not. She had undergone both insulin and electroshock therapy in her periodic stints in mental hospitals. In February of 1963, at the age of thirty, she laid her head down in her gas oven and the hissing fumes filled her lungs. And in 1966 Toole's Uncle George had reached the point to where his own siblings made a plea to the coroner to commit him to the psychiatric ward at Charity Hospital, a place that was described in the 1950s by one doctor as “a giant cage” where “most patients were strapped to the beds, and they had to be untied in order to examine them.” Had Toole's illness been delayed a few more years, he might have had the benefit of advances in drug therapy and humanitarian laws implemented within the field of mental health. But that was not to be the case.

Having completed the fall semester at Dominican, the winter holidays of 1968 offered Toole a reprieve from teaching as well as several weeks at home with his parents. He weathered Christmas and New Year's Eve. But after the holiday season, the blinking lights, pine trees propped in living rooms shedding dry needles on the floor, smiling plastic Santa Clauses on lawns, and giant wreaths on department store windows, always seem sad and surreal in the bleakness of January. From the windy snows of New York to the chilling rains in New Orleans, winter usually dampened Toole's spirits. This melancholy season was worse than others. As the holidays concluded, and with Mardi Gras on the horizon, Toole decided he could not return to his position at Dominican. He was absent the first day of class, and he never came back. In this decision, he compromised the family's livelihood. The illness that plagued his mind now threatened to consume the whole family.

On January 19, the bough snapped. Toole and his mother had a disagreement that erupted into a devastating fight. Thelma never confessed to the cause of the argument. Whatever the tipping point, the dispute escalated beyond reason. Bitterness, resentment, and a mind riddled with paranoia exploded in their house on Hampson Street. Toole stormed out. The next day he returned while his mother was away. He packed some of his belongings and went to the bank to withdraw his money. He quit his job, and he quit his parents. In his blue Chevy Chevelle he left New Orleans and took to the road embarking on his final journey.

O
n the day Toole left New Orleans, Richard Nixon ascended to the office of president to take the helm of a country mired in the Vietnam Conflict and countless Cold War fronts. In his inaugural address, Nixon spoke of peace and love and of the world as God sees it, “Beautiful in that eternal silence where it floats.” Just as the pristine blue-and-white marble spinning in space belies the heartache of its inhabitants, the silent passing of days tormented Thelma as she waited to hear from her son. He was out in the world somewhere. He could have gone in any direction.

She suspected he would head to Lafayette to the home of the Rickelses. In his moment of crisis, it would make sense to seek refuge in the warm embrace of the family that always appeared to him stable and lovely. The next day Thelma called Patricia Rickels to make sure her son had arrived. Patricia told her that she had not seen him. Thelma did not believe her. “Please, Please!” she begged, “From one mother to another, just tell me he is there. I won't even ask to speak with him. Just tell me he is safe.” Hearing the guilt-racked pleas, Patricia wanted to tell her that her son was okay, but she could not. “I am sorry, Mrs. Toole,” she said. “I have not seen him.” “How could you be so cruel?” Thelma turned on her. “Why would you torment me so?”

Days turned into weeks. Thelma called anyone she could think of who might know where he was. No one in Lafayette had seen him, so they told her. She called Cary Laird, who was now living in Florida. Laird had not seen him. “How long has he been gone?” he asked. “For
several weeks,” she responded. He could sense her distress, and he reassured her that Toole would never do anything to harm himself. He would certainly come back.

By mid-February, Mardi Gras celebrations were in full swing. Streets echoed with the sounds of marching bands and laughter. The Mardi Gras Indians danced in their costumes of vibrant feathers and beads. And yet her son never broke the aching silence in their home. Her boy with those “dark, luminous eyes” who once doted on her, praised her piano playing, and requested gold-framed pictures of her, never relieved her pain.

But this wasn't about Thelma. Toole had unbound himself from his roles as professor, writer, and son. With money in his pocket, throwing care out the window, he roamed the country. North, south, east, or west, he was on a journey, looking for something he had not yet found, perhaps something more to life than the confinement of his dutiful expectations. He spent two months on the road. The details of his trip remain largely a mystery. But one certainty lay in the distance: every journey must come to an end. After such a long period, perhaps the challenges of home weren't as bad as he thought. Perhaps he just needed some time away from it all, a little room to breathe. It seems he turned back toward New Orleans.