Now I Ask You by Eugene O’Neill

Predictable free-love farce

Eugene O’Neill

After reading all of Eugene O’Neill’s best-known plays, I decided to dive deeper into his complete works. Doing so has brought my attention to a number of obscure dramas, some of which O’Neill himself wished to be forgotten. One such play is Now I Ask You, which O’Neill wrote in 1916. It was not performed on stage, however, until a 2010 production in St. Louis.

Tom Drayton is engaged to Lucy Ashleigh. Tom would like to marry Lucy, but she, being a modern woman, values her independence above all else. Luckily, Tom has his mother in law, Mrs. Ashleigh, on his side. She tells Tom that all of Lucy’s bohemian affectations and talk of feminism and free love is just an act. Mrs. Ashleigh assures Tom that if he calls Lucy’s bluff, Lucy will back down and eventually assume the role of the devoted wife that he desires. Tom reluctantly goes along with Mrs. Ashleigh’s plan, hoping it will pay off as she predicts. Lucy deigns to marry Tom if he signs a contract stating that theirs is an open marriage, with each party free to pursue their own interests, loves, and liaisons. Tom agrees. After the wedding, Tom keeps waiting for his wife to drop the modern-woman act, but contrary to his mother in law’s assurances, his calling Lucy’s bluff doesn’t seem to have paid off for him.

The fact that free love is even a topic in this play was probably very risqué for 1916. One can imagine O’Neill, like Lucy, envisioning himself as a bohemian artiste who dares to challenge his audience with such a controversial issue. The play in which he explores this theme, however, is about as conventional and predictable as it could be. It seems clear that O’Neill wrote this drama to appeal to a mainstream audience, hoping to make some money off of it. In that regard, however, Now I Ask You obviously didn’t pan out for him.

Over a century later, the free-love debate in this play is rather antiquated, but nowadays we still have to deal with characters like Lucy, counterculture posers who pretend to be more radical or woke than they really are. This is an aspect of the play with which modern readers can identify. Now I Ask You seems to be satirizing such posers, but in this play it’s often difficult to tell when O’Neill is trying to be funny and when he’s trying to be serious. Unless one has their grandparents’ sense of humor, the 21st-century reader really can’t be sure how much of the comedy here is intentional. One interesting piece of progressive-era slang that I picked up from this play is the expression, “I’ll blow you,” which apparently means “I’ll treat you (to dinner, drinks, or whatever the case may be).”

Any debate in this drama over free love, feminism, or modern marriage is overshadowed by the mystery of why Tom would ever want to marry Lucy in the first place, given that she is a truly unpleasant and simply mean person. In fact, Tom is the only sympathetic character in a cast full of arrogant and annoying players. Like the prime-time soap operas or reality TV of today, however, sometimes it is entertaining to observe a train wreck. Now I Ask You is tolerably mediocre and predictable for most of its length, but the epilogue is ridiculously bad, enough to make one lose respect for theatre audiences of 1916 that they would sit through such tripe. A century later, Now I Ask You is little more than a curious novelty that will only appeal to O’Neill completists.

Ms. Marvel Epic Collection, Volume 1: This Woman, This Warrior by Chris Claremont, et al.

Dismal attempt at a feminist superheroine

The superheroine Ms. Marvel made her debut in 1977 in issue #1 of her self-titled magazine. Marvel Comics’ trade paperback Ms. Marvel Epic Collection, Volume 1 collects issues 1 to 14 of Ms. Marvel, as well as Marvel Team-Up issues 61 and 62, and a crossover issue of The Defenders (#57). I grew up reading Marvel Comics, and I think of the 1960s, ‘70s, and to a lesser extent the ‘80s, as the glory days of superhero comics. Sometimes, however, Marvel’s Epic Collections remind me that there were plenty of mediocre and worse comics published during that era. This is one of those volumes.

Marvel had a few female superheroes before Ms. Marvel’s 1977 debut, among them the Invisible Girl (1961), the Wasp (1963), Marvel Girl (1963), Scarlet Witch (1964), Black Widow (1964), and Storm (1975). Those characters are all interesting in their own way, but Ms. Marvel just feels like she was created to satisfy some estrogen quota. By this point, Marvel really seems to have run out of good ideas for superheroes. Carol Danvers was a supporting character in the old Captain Marvel comic starring the male Kree warrior named Mar-Vell. She gets exposed to some alien radiation and is transformed into a sort of Kree/human hybrid, complete with a split personality. This identity crisis becomes cumbersome and is soon dispensed with. Ms. Marvel is super strong (boring) and her suit allows her to fly (also boring). Who knows how strong she is, but she says she’s not bulletproof. As if she weren’t powerful enough, she also has a Kree “seventh sense” that is somewhat similar to Spider-Man’s spider-sense, except that Ms. Marvel can actually see the future. 

Despite a ridiculous costume that flaunts her naked belly and back for all to see, Ms. Marvel isn’t just a slice of cheesecake. In fact, the artists can be commended for actually drawing her like a modern athletic woman who looks like she could be on the Olympic volleyball team. By issue #10, the powers that be had already demurely covered her midriff windows. All of the villains in these Ms. Marvel comics address her as “Woman,” as in “Woman, I will destroy you!” What’s funnier is that even in her own interior monologues, Ms. Marvel refers to herself as “Woman,” as in “Woman, that was a close call!” It couldn’t be any more obvious that this dialogue was written by men.

Chris Claremont, who went on to become one of Marvel’s golden boys with the X-Men, writes almost all the issues in this volume, and he delivers some really atrocious stories here. Gerry Conway created the character, however, and Claremont was just stuck with her. On the bright side, the art here is pretty good. Jim Mooney does his best John Buscema imitation, and John himself and his brother Sal are on hand for a few issues. John Byrne draws the two issues of Marvel Team-Up. It’s apparent that Marvel wanted to get this title off to a good start by putting some of their best 1970s talent at the drawing board, but it doesn’t make up for the abysmal storytelling.

The Brie Larsen version of Captain Marvel that you see in the Marvel Cinematic Universe is quite different from these comics but just as poorly thought-out. In the movies, she’s basically Marvel’s green lantern, and she’s as powerful as Superman. What makes Marvel’s heroes interesting is their weakenesses, the fact that they’re not perfect. The MCU’s Captain Marvel, however, isn’t allowed to have any weaknesses because then she wouldn’t be the epitome of female power. Heaven forbid an intentional feminist icon should have any flaws, so she ends up just being boring and ridiculous, much like Conway and Claremont’s version in these initial issues.

Blindness by José Saramago

Gut-wrenching account of a contagion apocalypse

Portuguese author José Saramago won the 1998 Nobel Prize in Literature. One of the works the prize committee singled out when announcing his award was his 1995 novel Blindness. I had previously read Saramago’s novel The Cave, which I wasn’t too crazy about. Blindness is a better-known and highly regarded book, however, so I decided to give Saramago a second try. I’m glad I did, because I was blown away by this book from page one. The most surprising thing about the novel, to me, is that it’s actually a kind of thriller, something one doesn’t expect from Nobel laureates.

At a busy intersection in an unnamed city, a car comes to a stop at a red light. When the light turns green, the car doesn’t move, causing a traffic jam. The reason for the car’s immobility is that the driver has suddenly and inexplicably gone blind. One of the bystanders on the scene gives the blind man a ride home, and later the blind man’s wife takes him to see an ophthalmologist who can find no cause for the sudden loss of sight. Soon, the bystander, the wife, and the doctor have all gone blind, indicating that this blindness is caused by a swiftly spreading contagion. When the authorities are notified of the outbreak, the first several victims and those who have come in contact with them are rounded up and quarantined. A former mental hospital is converted into a sanitarium, but in reality it is more of a concentration camp. The internees receive periodic disbursements of food and water, but are otherwise left to care for and govern themselves. Any who attempt to escape will be shot on sight by military guards who are terrified of catching the blindness disease.

This novel isn’t so much about blindness as it is about what happens to people when they are subjected to such extreme circumstances. Somewhat like a Holocaust novel, the story is an examination in how low humanity can be degraded while still remaining human. All of the characters in the book are nameless—the doctor, the first blind man, the girl with the dark glasses, the old man with the eyepatch, etc.—which adds to the feeling of inhumanity and loss of identity. The tone and effect of Blindness is quite similar to that of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale. On the one hand, you are riveted to the story, and you admire the author for writing such a perfectly compelling narrative. On the other hand, you’re disgusted and repulsed by much of what you’re reading. One can’t help but acknowledge, however, that in an extreme apocalyptic situation such as this, there would be oppression and atrocities, violence, murders, rapes, filth, and degradation. This hell through which Saramago guides the reader is not a pleasant experience, but it is an experience that rings true to the reality of human nature as we unfortunately know it.

To be honest, the ending of Blindness wasn’t all I hoped it would be, but I was so impressed by the entire novel up to that point that I’m willing to overlook that imperfection and praise the whole work. After reading this novel, I really want to explore more of Saramago’s work, in particular his 2004 novel Seeing, which is a sequel to Blindness. For anyone interested in Saramago’s work, I would recommend buying The Collected Novels of José Saramago ebook volume from Open Road Media, which contains 13 novels and usually sells for under five bucks.

Cuba Libre by Elmore Leonard

Crime caper in the Spanish-American War

Elmore Leonard got his start writing Westerns back in the 1950s and eventually became one of America’s bestselling authors in the genre of crime fiction. His 1998 book Cuba Libre, a historical novel set during the Spanish-American War, is somewhat of an intersection between these two genres. Though technically not a Western, it does often read like a horse opera that just happens to be set in the Caribbean.

The story opens in 1898, right after the USS Maine has been sunk in Havana Harbor but shortly before the United States has declared war on Spain. Ben Tyler, a cowboy by trade, gets out of Yuma Territorial Prison, where he has been incarcerated for bank robbery. He meets up with his old friend and former ranch boss Charlie Burke, who recruits Tyler into a scheme to ship horses from Galveston to Cuba. The horses are just a cover, however, for a smuggled shipment of guns to be sold to the Cuban revolutionaries fighting for independence from Spain. When Tyler and Burke arrive in Cuba, however, they are double-crossed by their contacts in Cuba and harassed by Cuban law enforcement. This puts Tyler and Burke in a difficult position from which they must escape if they hope to obtain their hard-earned profit and take revenge on their antagonists.

I’m a fan of Leonard’s writing in general, but this is not his best work. Transplanting his usual crime caper fare to this historical setting should have worked out fine, but here in some cases the history gets in the way of the crime fiction and vice versa. Just when the heist plot seems to be gaining momentum, the reader gets diverted into a historical aside. I don’t think it’s necessary that the reader know the barrel width of every gun on every battleship, nor the failures of every general participating in the war. I prefer Leonard’s earlier Westerns, which would sometimes incorporate historical information—such as the Civil War in Last Stand at Sabrer River—but in a less obtrusive way. The plot of Cuba Libre is a bit low on thrills. There’s a comic undertone that nullifies much of the danger that would realistically occur in this scenario. The most exciting scene in the book happens towards the front, and the conclusion of the novel is less than climactic.

The characters are also not particularly interesting. They are rather thinly drawn and somewhat generic. If this book were made into a movie like most of Leonard’s novels, some quirky or charismatic actors could bring some interesting life to these characters, but on the page they come across as pretty bland. It’s also disappointing that only a few of the supporting characters are Cubans or Spaniards. All of the leads—the hero, the best friend, the leading lady, the villain—are white Americans. You learn more about the sugar industry and the American military’s part in the Spanish-American War than you do about Cuban culture or the revolution.

What Leonard is consistently good at is writing clever and lively dialogue and creating crime schemes that pit multiple parties against one another in configurations that keep the reader guessing as to the outcome. Both of those qualities are evident in Cuba Libre, but to a lesser extent than I recall from other books of his that I’ve read. The plot here feels safer and more predictable than the gritty realism of many of his Westerns or even the less serious contemporary adventures of his Raylan Givens novels. It’s still Elmore Leonard, though, and although Cuba Libre is unlikely to show up on any top ten list of his works, it’s still better than 90 percent of the crime fiction that’s out there.

Sound Man by Glyn Johns

Career retrospective of a record producer extraordinaire

Though I appreciate all kinds of music, the bulk of my listening time tends to be devoted to rock music of the 1960s and ‘70s (I was born in the middle of that period). With few exceptions, I generally don’t pay a whole lot of attention to who produces or engineers a recording. I have come to learn over the years, however, that if the name Glyn Johns is attached to an album, I’m probably going to like it and maybe even love it. Through his work as producer or sound engineer on such landmark albums as Who’s Next, Abbey Road, Let It Bleed, Led Zeppelin I, Slowhand, The Eagles, and many more, Johns did much to shape the sound of rock and roll during its formative and peak years. In his 2014 autobiography Sound Man, Johns recalls his stellar career recording some of the biggest names in popular music. If, like me, you’re a fan of Johns’s work, you’ll want to read this.

In Sound Man, Johns offers up a little bit of information about a lot of different people he’s worked with, so the approach could be characterized as broad in scope but shallow in depth. Johns has contributed his production, engineering, and/or mixing skills to hundreds of albums over the course of his career, and here he discusses about fifty of the most important projects and artists with whom he’s worked, so you get a few pages on each. As a result, the chapters are short, and the reading is brisk. At times, Johns seems to have compiled the narrative from his old appointment calendars. It’s not unusual for him to rattle off the names of a half dozen artists in a single paragraph: I worked on this, this, and this project; hopped on a plane to somewhere; had a meeting with so-and-so; than went back to mixing that album.

If you’re a fan of classic rock of the ‘60s and ‘70s, you will enjoy Johns’s perspective on the music business. His narrative does extend to 2014, but the bulk of the book deals with the classic bands of rock’s glory days. Johns has interesting stories to tell about the artists with whom he’s worked, but there aren’t really any major revelations here. This is very much a career memoir about the recording industry. Most of Johns’s anecdotes of his interactions with rock stars take place within the recording studio. There aren’t a lot of personal stories here. Johns never did any drugs, which probably kept him from penetrating the inner circle of many rock artists. The exception might be his relationship to the Rolling Stones. He worked on several of their records, accompanied them on tour, and formed a close friendship with Bill Wyman. Johns gives you a behind-the-scenes look at the personality dynamics within the band. If you’re a big fan of the Rolling Stones, however, you’ve probably read other books about them, so what Johns has to say here won’t surprise you. Beyond the Stones, Johns gives a fair amount of coverage to the Beatles, the Steve Miller Band, and the Eagles. Many of the moments that Johns recalls have since become familiar nuggets of rock-and-roll lore that most fans are already aware of, but Johns was actually present at these important turning points in music history.

In addition to the Hall of Fame-level artists that Johns discusses, he also mentions many musicians and bands that will be unfamiliar to those who aren’t British and didn’t grow up in the 1960s. That’s part of the fun of this sort of book, however—discovering previously unknown bands and nuggets of music history. Knowing Johns was behind the helm of their recordings makes me want to look up some of these artists who were previously unknown to me. I may not have learned a whole lot about the Rolling Stones or the Beatles from reading this book, but I did learn a lot about Johns and about how rock records were made in the good ol’ days. That, for me, made Sound Man a worthwhile read.

The Confidence-Man by Herman Melville

Philosophical dialogues with a riverboat grifter

Herman-Melville’s satirical novel The Confidence-Man: His Masquerade was published in 1857. A “confidence man” was the term used in Melville’s day for what we now refer to by the abbreviated designation of a con man—“confidence” in this case meaning “trust”—one who preys on the trusting souls of others. The story takes place on a Mississippi River steamboat traveling from St. Louis to New Orleans. The novel takes the form of a series of dialogues between two or three characters, different in each chapter, one of whom is a con man seeking money through various deceptive mean such as outright begging (with a feigned disability), soliciting investments for an imaginary business, collecting alms for a faux charity, or practicing ineffective medicine as an “herb doctor.” The title and subtitle of the book tell you that all of these con man are the same person who has adopted various disguises, but there’s nothing in the text to indicate that, and it really doesn’t matter to the story, thin as it is.

The Confidence-Man is not a novel in the traditional sense of a narrative with a beginning, a middle, and an end. It is more a patchwork of scenes, most of which take the form of philosophical dialogues. The theme of the con man is often abandoned entirely in favor of extended digressions on varied topics such as Native American rights, the reliability of boys (as young employees), whether one should loan money to a friend, and the difference between a loan and a gift. Some of Melville’s stylistic choices make for difficult reading: Very few of the characters in the book have names. Most are referred to by generic appellations such as “the stranger,” “the cosmopolitan,” “the merchant,” etc. Sometimes in the middle of a long chapter it’s difficult to remember who’s even talking to whom. Is the stranger in this chapter the same stranger as in the last chapter? Which one of these characters is the confidence man in disguise? To whom are these ubiquitous “he” pronouns referring? Most annoying is the way the characters utter the word “Confidence!” over and over again throughout the text as if it were some kind of mantra.

The characters in The Confidence-Man call to mind the caricaturesque figures in a John Caleb Bingham painting (a Missouri artist who painted a few riverboats in his time). They come from all backgrounds, classes, and walks of life. In Melville’s dialogues, however, they all speak with the flowery, erudite speech of characters in a Shakespearean play. Speaking of which, I’ve always found it rather amazing that Melville evolved from a sailor who wrote about his personal travels to America’s premier man of letters. Much like Shakespeare, however, most of today’s readers would need a bevy of explanatory footnotes to really understand all of Melville’s antiquated lingo and historical and literary references. The Confidence-Man is a comic novel, but only someone with a master’s degree in 19th-century literature would laugh out loud at the humor. Literary critics love The Confidence-Man because its hodgepodge amalgamation of fiction, dialogues, essays, and poetry makes for a precocious work of modernism that maybe even shows inklings of postmodern metafiction. Most nonacademic readers, however, will likely find that although the book has its insightful moments, the sum of its disparate ingredients adds up to something less than its individual parts. Even Melville admitted that The Confidence-Man was a vehicle for publishing short works that were rejected elsewhere.

I’m generally an admirer of Melville’s work, but I hated this. Every once in a while I would think “good point” or “that’s clever,” but I can’t say that at any point in reading The Confidence-Man I ever enjoyed it. Melville is one of America’s greatest authors, but this book is far from the Great American Novel, and one could argue that it’s not a novel at all, just a dumping ground for thoughts.

Balkan Ghosts: A Journey Through History by Robert D. Kaplan

Eye-opening political history of Southeastern Europe

Robert D. Kaplan is an American journalist who writes on foreign affairs. In his book Balkan Ghosts, first published in 1993, Kaplan relates his experiences working and traveling in Romania, Bulgaria, and Greece, and the former Yugoslavia. Kaplan wrote Balkan Ghosts after the fall of the Berlin Wall and before the Bosnian War. The 2005 ebook contains some supplemental material that Kaplan wrote more recently, but the book is largely about the state of the Balkans circa 1990.

To fully understand the state of affairs in the 1990s, however, Kaplan looks much farther back in history, sometimes as far as the Middle Ages, and provides a quite comprehensive overview of the 19th and 20th century history of the region. This historical background goes far in explaining how the Balkans ended up at the end of the 20th century. This region didn’t just become an explosive powder keg in the 1990s. The fire of sectarian hatred and violence has been simmering for centuries. It is common knowledge that World War I started with the Balkans (a Serbian assassin). Kaplan also makes the case that the Balkans influenced the origins of Nazism and World War II. His examination of recent dictators in Serbia, Romania, Greece, and elsewhere should serve as a cautionary tale of where America might be headed if we continue to dispense with our constitutional system of checks and balances.

Though Balkan Ghosts is advertised as a travel memoir, the bulk of the book is really history rather than travel writing. A travel writer would try to convince you to visit these places. As a journalist, Kaplan seems set on convincing you to stay away from them. He does want you to understand them, however, and does a very good job of helping you do so. Kaplan is a journalist and a war correspondent with the knowledge base of a geographer in Balkan Studies. His look at these Balkan nations is deeper than what you’d get in say, National Geographic, which would give you an inkling of the political climate, war trauma, and societal woes interspersed with scenes of hopeful resilience like a wedding ceremony or a newly opened museum. Kaplan, on the other hand, takes a more journalistic “if it bleeds, it leads” view that writing about anything other than politics and war would be frivolous. With the exception of visits to a few medieval monasteries, the text focuses almost entirely on ethnic violence, fascism, anti-Semitism, genocide, torture, and other atrocities. His perspective on the Balkans is more real and visceral than what you’d get in any popular media venue. Kaplan has almost nothing good to say about Romania, which from his account sounds like a horror show. He expresses a bit more warmth for Bulgaria and Greece.

In addition to his own observations and research, Kaplan gives the reader a literature review into the Western writers who traveled the region before him. In particular, he frequently makes reference to John Reed’s The War in Eastern Europe (1916) and Rebecca West’s Black Lamb and Grey Falcon (1941), and even delves as far back as Byzantine historians Procopius (AD 500-565) and Michael Psellus (c. 1018-c. 1096). While you feel like you’re getting a pretty thorough study of the Balkans from Kaplan, he also makes you want to seek out some of these earlier writings on the region.

This region of the world is not covered much in the American news media or our modern history books. Understanding the Balkans, however, is necessary to forming a compete picture of European history in recent centuries. Those looking for a travel memoir of the region might be disappointed in Kaplan’s approach to the subject, but those looking for an education in world history and politics will find Balkan Ghosts to be an eye-opening and rewarding read.