Butterfly in the Typewriter (9 page)

As with most undergraduates in the liberal arts, Toole spent the first two years of college establishing a foundation in a variety of disciplines. In his first year he redirected his career path, and in his sophomore year he wielded a sharp critique at American society. Perhaps through the temperance of gained wisdom, he restrained and focused his frustration in his junior year when he bloomed intellectually and artistically. While it would be well over six years before he would write
A Confederacy of Dunces
, his undergraduate work from this period indicates his exploration of the philosophical and aesthetic underpinnings of his novel.

Toole dove into his junior year grappling with clashing philosophies that would shape his approach to literature. In the fall of 1956 he honed in on the conflict between medieval philosophy, a system of understanding the world based on hierarchies, and pragmatism, a system of understanding the world that, as Toole defines, “focus[es] on the
results
of things, the
utilitarian aspect
of actions.” For Toole, medieval philosophy presented order and harmony, while pragmatism became the intellectual validation of a Darwinian approach to society. The discourse between these two worldviews would echo throughout his academic and creative work.

He largely based his understanding of medieval thought on the sixth century Roman philosopher Boethius, who wrote
The Consolation of Philosophy
from prison as he awaited execution. This work is central to the worldview of Ignatius Reilly in
Confederacy
. Boethius scholar and Toole's friend Bobby Byrne, whom he would meet a few years later after graduating from Tulane, claimed Toole had a superficial knowledge of the medieval philosopher through his reading of Geoffrey Chaucer. But Byrne does not give Toole enough credit. Both Byrne and Toole studied under one of the leading medieval scholars in the South at the time, Robert Lumiansky, who also served as the dean of graduate studies and would go on to teach at New York University (NYU). On the final exam of Lumiansky's class in 1957, Toole demonstrates a clear understanding of the metaphysical order that explained the human condition, according to
The Consolation of Philosophy
: “Fortune and nature are, together, on the bottom rung of what might be called the Boethian hierarchy. . . . Destiny directs God's will directly through them to man.” He also employed Boethius in a Shakespeare class when he wrote, “The wheel of Fortune is the old medieval device of explaining the rise and fall of illustrious men . . .
De Casibus Virorum Illustrium
. It is the Boethian philosophy of a blind goddess, Fortuna, spinning a wheel on which man's fortune rises and falls.” The same Latin line appears in
Confederacy
in the journal of Ignatius when he recounts his attempts to rally the factory workers in the Crusade for Moorish Dignity. But by the time Toole wrote
Confederacy
, he no longer had to display his knowledge of Boethius to professors or fellow academics. He understood the philosophy well enough to push the metaphor of a “great man falling” into the literal and grotesque:

As a counterpoint to Boethius, pragmatism gained an unavoidable presence in Toole's education, although much like Ignatius in
Confederacy
, Toole grew suspicious of it. He owned a collection of academic essays
titled
Pragmatism and American Culture: Problems in American Civilization
, which documents a discourse between supporters and opponents of pragmatism. In the collection, some philosophers uphold pragmatism, validating its focus on ends and results. Others, like Mortimer Adler, who focus on a medieval sensibility of philosophy, deem pragmatism antithetical to morality, a sign of the “anarchic individualism” that has led to the “cultural disorder . . . of modern times.” This book of rivaling arguments must have weighed in Toole's judgment of the philosophy. In another assignment he argues pragmatism was an influential precursor to the Great Depression. As pragmatism emerged at the turn of the century, “America had found a national philosophy. It looked towards
ends
, rather than
means
, and that was all that the larger capitalists and their guardian, the pre–Great Depression Republican Party, could ask of a nation's philosophers.” Toole continued to apply this philosophy in other classes; he grappled with its meaning and the way it both reflected and influenced American society. During his years as an undergraduate, he clearly developed an appreciation for the medieval interpretation of life. And yet, he was immersed in a country whose pragmatic worldview was antithetical to the medieval notions of Fate and Fortune.

These contradicting philosophies play out in
Confederacy
. The underlying tension in the novel, which plagues the mind of Ignatius, is a conflict between Boethian philosophy and pragmatism. Caught between his mediaeval worldview of Fate and Fortune and the pragmatic worldview of economic mobility, jobs, and social reform, Ignatius believes he is the fallen man awaiting Fortune to send him on a trajectory upward. But he is pushed to act, endeavoring in plots of social reconstruction at whatever cost, which would be a medieval absurdity, but of central value to the pragmatist. The medievalist morally lives with his fate and seeks order, whereas the pragmatist molds his fate for a happy end, even if that means creating disorder. Ignatius expresses this conflict when he writes in his journal,

Morality and pragmatism. Ignatius Reilly and Myrna Minkoff. New Orleans and New York. In
Confederacy
, Toole layers two opposing philosophies in characters, dialogue, and the two most intriguing cities he had ever experienced. But unlike his undergraduate days, in the novel, Toole would not support or declaim either philosophy. In fact, through the ridiculousness of Ignatius, Toole mocks an investment in a single thought system as a means to construct a view of the world. Thereby he seems to ridicule the often-overreaching methods of an academic who applies a formula or method to order the intrinsic chaos of the universe. Of course, he had years of experience to gain before arriving at that conclusion.

As Toole refined his philosophical stance, he also examined the relationship between literature and society, an important approach for him as he narrowed his focus on a career as an English professor, but did not necessarily dismiss a future as a writer. This exploration culminated in an essay wherein he surveys movements in literary history that correspond to shifts in Western society. Unsurprisingly, he finds that each time period responds to the trends and values of the previous age. But these responses do not create a true progression. He observes, “Man behaves in cycles. The great sociological phenomenon of action and reaction is quite unassailable.” While this reading of history is by no means profound, Toole distills his interpretation to arrive at the role of the writer in society. Since he positions literature as an indicator of social change, he asserts, “A writer is a mirror to the temper of his times.”

Such an observation clearly speaks to his mode of writing
Confederacy
. One of the lasting criticisms of the novel is that the characters remain unchanged; in essence, they do not progress. But as a mirror to his society, Toole seems to have determined that he could not reflect the idea of lasting change or redemption when such graces rarely occurred in the world as he knew it. And like any good satire, this notion of unattainable reform flies in the face of the prevailing sentiments of his time, which was an era of intense social activism. As an undergraduate, Toole came to the realization that, regardless of how a society projects itself, the writer must reflect what he observes.

Of course, Toole always preferred to color his reflective lens with humor, which made some of his cynical sentiments more palatable. He has
moments of wry wit in his academic essays, but literary criticism is typically an unsuitable medium for comedy. So in the fall of 1956, Toole found an artistic venue for his caustic humor. As he contemplated Hawthorne, Shakespeare, Chaucer, and the condition of America in his academic classes, he contributed satirical cartoons to the student newspaper
Hullabaloo
and the student literary magazine
Carnival
. While he would become the most well-known literary satirist that New Orleans ever produced, he ventured into satire through comics, which certainly impacted his way of writing.

As a boy, Toole had shown talents in visual art. In high school and college, he drew some thoughtfully designed sketches on the margins and backsides of his class notes. And he sustained an interest in comics well into his college years. He owned a copy of the 1955 illustrated edition of
Archy and Mehitabel
, a poetic satire that begins much like Kafka's
Metamorphosis.
A poet awakes to find himself reincarnated as a cockroach, but at night he continues to write verse on the typewriter of a journalist. Interestingly, George Herriman, a New Orleans–born Creole, contributed the single-frame illustrations to the edition that Toole owned. Herriman was the creator of the famous and highly influential comic
Krazy Kat and Ignatz
. Of course, Ignatz is the German form of Ignatius. As in Herriman's syndicated cartoon,
Krazy Kat
remains devoted to Ignatz, despite his verbal and physical abuses, much like Irene and Myrna Minkoff remain devoted to Ignatius. The characters also speak in an accent remnant of the New Orleans Yat dialect.

Like Herriman's illustrations in
Archy and Mehitabel
, as a cartoonist for
The Hullabaloo
, Toole drew single-frame scenes that captured humorous moments accompanied by a line or two of dialog. But unlike Marquis and Herriman, Toole did not use the vehicle of animal characters. He drew sharply critical images of Tulane students and professors, most of them with glasses and sharply pointed noses.

Through these comics, he uses the people of Tulane, often the female students of Newcomb College—the all-female affiliate of Tulane—as a means to critique the university and popular culture. No topic seemed forbidden to him. Addressing Cold War politics in the university setting, he depicts a sizeable Russian sorority sister picketing in front of a professor with a sign that reads, “Workers Unite!” The oblivious professor reviews the student's transcript and dryly observes that she has not taken
American Government. Toole presented the meeting point of religion and modern society when he drew a determined Moses at a movie theater entrance, cradling the sacred tablets in his arms and pointing his staff that parted the Red Sea toward the box office window. The biblical prophet demands free admission to view
The Ten Commandments
. He is directed to speak to a manager.

Above all, women were his favorite subjects in his comics. Toole depicted the uptight, sweater-wearing women of Newcomb College: the loose lily stumbling into the scene, as if she just returned from a night on Bourbon Street, and the rare beauty, the ephemeral delight, ostracized for her otherness. In one comic, a young, beautiful woman, whose face Toole practiced drawing to perfection, walks ahead of two Newcomb students with short, cropped hair and unshaven legs. The two ladies comment that the new girl will “never fit in.” In another series of comics, Toole references the 1957 film
Bus Stop
with his beloved Marilyn Monroe. In a three-part installment, he depicts a voluptuous Monroe leaning in ecstasy against a bus stop post. In the background, two Newcomb students observe her and whisper, “I don't know who she is, but she's been there for two days.” The next week the same frame was published with the caption, “What! She still here?” Two weeks later, the same image appears with the caption, “NOoooo!” The homely ladies appear threatened by the beauty that simply will not leave.

His jabs at Newcomb students, Tulane professors, and others were typical of his acerbic humor. As Mmahat recalls, Toole “delighted in picking out the eccentricities in people and poking fun at everything he encountered.” But he was not beyond making fun of himself, as he did in an illustration published in the student literary magazine
Carnival
. In the fall of 1956, Toole served as nonfiction editor, reviewing newly published books. He also provided small illustrations as accents to stories and poems. In the ninth edition of
Carnival
, Toole contributed “Portraits,” a visual parody of the
Carnival
staff. On the first floor of a decrepit building, the artistic editor, a busty woman sitting on a stove, cuts out images from a page of “easy cut-outs.” The business office has a vending machine with selections of martinis, beer, gum, candy, and
Carnival Magazine
. Outside a curtained doorway, a motley group of contributors waits for the editors' decisions. But below, in the basement
den, the editors crowd around a television. They watch
Superman
, which seems to take their minds off their own rejection letters pasted haphazardly on the wall. Toole appears in the background with dark hair and sunglasses. His tongue hangs out the side of his mouth as he holds up a beer bottle. He lampoons the entire group, including himself, humorously casting the way would-be writers cope with rejection: they call themselves editors, watch television, and drink beer.

Toole's comics are the first creative materials that demonstrate his versatile and scathing satirical wit. And the sensibility developed as a cartoonist for
The Hullabaloo
and
Carnival
is present in
Confederacy
. In his comics, he caricatures the world of Tulane. In
Confederacy
, he does the same to New Orleans. The characters, the plot, the dialogue, almost everything is exaggerated in
Confederacy
, except for the setting, which Toole depicts realistically. As he wrote in 1957, “Social satire, to be effective, must be based upon realistic aspects of the society being satirized.” He applied this maxim with precision in blending the beauty of New Orleans with the cartoon-like absurdity of the characters. For example, Patrolman Mancuso ridiculously dressed in a T-shirt, Bermuda shorts, and a fake red beard rides on his motorcycle that could, at the sound of its siren, “make suspicious characters within a half-mile radius defecate in panic and rush for cover.” And yet, he passes under the “ancient oaks of St. Charles Avenue arched over the avenue like a canopy shielding him from the mild winter sun,” and he thinks to himself it “must be the loveliest place in the world.” In the end, it is not the place but rather the people who live, laugh, and die in that city that create the tragicomic play of New Orleans life. The real-life characters so often seem as outlandish as Ignatius Reilly, standing in front of D. H. Holmes, “with a green hunting cap squeezing the top of the fleshy balloon of a head.” It is no coincidence that the covers of
Confederacy
have been adorned with cartooned versions of Ignatius. The 2002 Grove Press paperback depicts a cartoon Ignatius walking down a French Quarter street, with the wrought iron galleries in the background taken from a real photograph. It is that meeting point between the unreal and the real, in other words the absurd, where Toole rooted his humor—an approach that first sprouts in his comics.