Butterfly in the Typewriter
My review of Butterfly in the Typewriter is now listed on the JMB site. a confederacy of duncesButterfly in the TypewriterCory MacLauchlinJohn Kennedy Toolejournal of mind and behaviornew orleansphilosophical literature
My review of Butterfly in the Typewriter is now listed on the JMB site. a confederacy of duncesButterfly in the TypewriterCory MacLauchlinJohn Kennedy Toolejournal of mind and behaviornew orleansphilosophical literature
Mrs. Levy was a woman of interests and ideals. Over the years she ad given herself freely to bridge, African violets, Susan and Sandra, golf, Miami, Fanny Hurst and Hemingway, correspondence courses, hairdressers, the sun, gourmet food, ballroom dancing, and, in recent years, Miss Trixie. She always had to settle for Miss Trixie at a…
Here’s my review of Cory MacLauchlin’s Butterfly in the Typewriter: The Tragic Life of John Kennedy Toole and the Remarkable Story of A Confederacy of Dunces. a confederacy of duncesautoscopicAutotelicButterfly in the TypewriterCory MacLauchlinJohn Kennedy Toolenew orleansphilosophical literaturePsychologyWalker Percy
Beloved Myrna: I have received your offensive communication. Do you seriously think that I am interested in your tawdry encounters with such sub-humans as folk singers? In every letter of yours I seem to find some reference to the sleaziness of your personal life. Please confine yourself to discussing issues and such; thereby you will…
Have you abandoned your project to form a political party or nominate a candidate for president by divine right? I remember that when I finally met you and challenged your political apathy, you came up with this idea. I knew that it was a reactionary project, but it at least showed that you were developing…
His blue and yellow eyes rested on an unopened manila envelope on the top of the toilet. For quite a while Ignatius had been trying to decide whether or not he would open the envelope. The trauma of having found employment had affected his value negatively, and he was waiting until the warm water in…
“The sisters loved Ignatius. He was such a darling child. He used to win all them little holy pictures for knowing his catechism.” “Them sisters shoulda knocked his head in.” “When he useta come home with all them little holy pictures,” Mrs. Reilly sniffed, “I sure never thought then he’d end up selling weenies in…
Lana started to plan the ensemble with the globe. the chalk, and the book. If the thing had commercial possibilities, is should be done with a certain finesse and quality. She had envisioned several arrangements that would combine grace and obscenity (p. 146). “Hey! I sure they a bird trade. White peoples always got parakeets…
“Goofin off? Shit. Goofin off ain cleanin up this mother-fuckin cathouse. They somebody in here sweepin and moppin up all the shit your po, stupor customer drippin on the flo. I feel sorry for them po peoples comin in here thinkin they gonna have theirself some fun, probly gettin knockout drop in they drink, catchin…
Ignatius looked sternly at the young boy who had placed himself in the wagon’s path. His valve protested against the pimples, the surly face that seemed to hang from the long well-luricated hair, the cigarette behind the ear, the aquamarine jacket, the delicate boots, the tight trousers that bulged offensively in the crotch in violation…