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Editor: Harley Hammerman
St. Louis, Missouri

Volume 0


Alone in the Dark: Isolation in O’Neill’s
Long Day’s Journey into Night

B. Thiessen
Trinity Western University

In Long Day’s Journey into Night, widely regarded as his last and greatest true masterpiece, Eugene O’Neill gambles with his skill as an objective playwright by drawing potentially explosive material from his own life.  Fortunately for both audiences and the author, who knew well the frustration of producing failed experiments, rather than being swallowed in sentimental self-pity and recriminations, the play contains much of O’Neill’s finest writing, and it maintains its reputation as a pinnacle in American theatre.  The highly concentrated work deals with the serious personal issues of four family members as they unsuccessfully grapple with their individual failings and collective deterioration.  Although external agents have introduced corruption into the Tyrone family, O’Neill uses his characters to show that withholding mutual support and efforts to understand one another in times of crisis brings sorrow and further familial decay.  Although they sincerely love each other, the characters in O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey isolate themselves from each other and the reality of their problems, and consequently they are unable to counter the corrupting influence of their personal demons.

The pervasive central image in the play, suggested as early as the very title, is that of the approaching--and finally enveloping--night.  This night, and the fog which accompanies it, physically embody the sense of isolation that smothers the Tyrones’ house.  Although the sun shines through the windows in the morning (12), Mary knows in the first act that the fog will return with the night (41), and by early afternoon the haze is collecting over the nearby water (82).  Mary identifies her loneliness with the fog when she tells her husband, “It’s very dreary and sad to be here alone in the fog with night falling” (112).

In addition to symbolising natural isolation, the fog also comes to represent Mary’s morphine addiction.  She describes the fog as an analgesic: “I really love fog. . . . It hides you from the world and the world from you.  You feel that everything has changed, and nothing is what it seemed to be.  No one can find or touch you any more” (98).  Elsewhere, Edmund likens the morphine-induced barrier of sub-consciousness around his mother to fog: “The hardest thing to take is the blank wall she builds around her.  Or it’s more like a bank of fog in which she hides and loses herself” (139).  This barrier thickens as the play progresses, and Frederic Carpenter notes that as the day fades, Mary “gradually regresses from the sunlight world of reality to the fog-bound world of dope and dreams” (Carpenter 153).

There are indicators besides the fog that reveal the Tyrones’ isolation from the larger world.  O’Neill’s vision of isolation is so comprehensive that it denies even the existence of God: after Tyrone’s desperate prayers failed to save Mary from a regression into addiction, Edmund quotes from Nietzsche, “God is dead: of His pity for man hath God died” (78).  Besides the four Tyrones, only one other character ever appears onstage--Cathleen, the stupid servant girl.  Few other personalities are even mentioned, and of these none--from William Shakespeare to the wily tenant Shaughnessy--is admired by all characters.  (The one possible exception is the great actor Edwin Booth, who is mentioned once, briefly, only to be quoted as saying that Tyrone was a better actor than he.)

At one point, a neighbour family, the Chatfields, are briefly mentioned; and though they are dismissed by Mary as “big frogs in a small puddle” (43), she wistfully muses that “the Chatfields and people like them stand for something.  I mean they have decent, presentable homes they don’t have to be ashamed of.  They have friends who entertain them and whom they entertain.  They’re not cut off from everyone” (44).  The Tyrones’ isolation from the world brings a stifling sense of loneliness, especially to Mary.  Trapped in a house of men, she longs for some female companionship: “If there was only some place I could go to get away for a day, or even an afternoon, some woman friend I could talk to--not about anything serious, simply laugh and gossip and forget for a while--someone besides the servants--that stupid Cathleen!” (46).  Circumstances being what they are, though, Mary grasps at whatever companionship she can find.  She begs Tyrone not to leave her alone when he is about to leave for town (82-3), and when he does leave, she “was so lonesome I kept Cathleen with me just to have someone to talk to” (112).  Although Tyrone encourages her to go for a drive in her car, Mary protests that she has no friend to go with (85) and no one to go see (83), and even when she does resolve to drive to the drugstore she is suspected by her husband of going for more morphine (86).  (He is, of course, justified in his mistrust of her.)

Isolated from larger society, then, the Tyrones’ predicament is worsened by their isolation from each other.  O’Neill’s characters display a fundamental inability to understand one another.  Mary draws attention to this deficiency in others--in Jamie: “Don’t you know your father yet?” (62); in Tyrone: “James!  You don’t understand!” (68); and in Edmund: “Yes dear, you’ve had to listen, but I don’t think you’ve ever tried to understand” (117)--but, of course, she doesn’t understand how destructive her own actions are to her family.  Travis Bogard suggests that the characters’ dualistic natures render such an understanding extremely difficult to attain: “The view of human nature set forth in (O’Neill’s) plays is of divided beings--the conception that earlier occasioned O’Neill’s use of masks and other devices to suggest outer and inner lives” (Bogard 158).  The duality in O’Neill’s characters is evidenced in the play’s ambiguous tension between love and hate (Tiusanen 116), sentimentality and irony (Raleigh 133), melodrama and tragedy (Manheim).

In the play, only Jamie recognises the inevitability of contradiction (Manheim 38), yet it is Edmund who realises the limitations imposed on communication: “Stammering is the native eloquence of us fog people” (154).  There is a tension between the realities of the Tyrones’ lonely existence and a verbal attempt to avoid that reality (Williams 294).  The Tyrones use anecdotes, quotations, and spontaneous poetic outbursts to deny the reality of the present.  However, as Egil Törnqvist notes, “the very things that should not be mentioned are mentioned, because the characters cannot get away from themselves; even when talking about other things, they keep thinking about their own fate” (Törnqvist 130).

Although even Edmund observes, “We don’t seem able to avoid unpleasant topics, do we?” (137), the Tyrones struggle to keep uncomfortable or controversial topics out of their conversation.  This is occasionally done in an attempt to keep Mary’s spirits up, as when Tyrone warns Jamie, “The one thing to avoid is saying anything that would get her more upset over Edmund” (29).  Usually, however, characters avoid discussing their faults to avoid personal guilt or conviction.  When Tyrone brings up the topic of Jamie’s expulsions from college, Jamie exclaims, “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t drag up that ancient history” (32).  Similarly, Tyrone avoids discussing his own scandal of years back: “For God’s sake, don’t dig up what’s long forgotten” (86).  Occasionally characters, especially Jamie, are even willing to accept an accusation rather than challenge it: “All right, Papa.  I’m a bum.  Anything you like, so long as it stops the argument” (33).  Even the Tyrones’ actions are careful to avoid confrontation, as when Mary avoids looking at the men’s faces (66), and when Tyrone avoids touching or looking at Mary (71).

When an uncomfortable topic cannot be avoided, the Tyrones tend to deny the veracity of others’ statements to protect themselves from the painful reality.  There are flashes of sincerity, as when Jamie tells Edmund, “It’s a cinch you’re really sick, and it would be wrong dope to kid yourself” (55), but these are few compared to such examples as Tyrone’s early denial of the possibility that Mary has relapsed back into her addiction (38), and Mary’s declared denial that Edmund is seriously ill: “I wouldn’t believe (Doctor Hardy) if he swore on a stack of Bibles.  You mustn’t pay attention to a word he says, Edmund” (74).  More significantly, Mary persistently denies the gravity of her own addiction even to the end of the play: “I don’t know what you’re talking about, James.  You say such mean, bitter things when you’ve drunk too much” (123).  She even denies that she once tried to kill herself when she was denied morphine: “Nothing like that ever happened.  You must have dreamed it” (87).

As further examples of denial, characters repeatedly call each other’s statements nonsense (e.g. 16, 17), or outright lies (e.g. 31, 141).  Mary’s duality even pushes her to the point where she accuses herself, as when she feels lonely when the men leave the house: “You’re lying to yourself again.  You wanted to get rid of them.  Their contempt and disgust aren’t pleasant company.  You’re glad they’re gone” (95).  Mary realises that her addiction has made her untrustworthy, but her need for deception accompanies her need for pain-killers: “How could you believe me--when I don’t believe myself?  I’ve become such a liar.  I never lied about anything once upon a time.  Now I have to lie, especially to myself” (93).

As well as being loaded with exclamations of denial, Long Day’s Journey is peppered liberally with statements of dismissal.  For example, Tyrone tells Edmund to disregard his mother’s babbling: “Now, now, lad.  You know better than to pay attention--” (110); “Don’t mind her, lad.  It doesn’t mean anything” (116).  The Tyrones are nearly constantly admonishing each other to “shut up,” “be quiet,” etc.  Edmund protests throughout Jamie’s confession, desperate not to hear the awful truth of his brother’s jealousy (165-7).  Mary is repeatedly told to stop talking when her babbling draws attention to her addiction and resulting lack of restraint (48, 90, 109).  And in one instance, after Edmund has called Tyrone a “stinking old miser,” O’Neill enthusiastically exaggerates the patriarch’s objection: “Be quiet!  Don’t say that to me!  You’re drunk!  I won’t mind you” (145).

In an effort to communicate and make the gravity of issues known--always the shortcomings of others, of course; never one’s own--O’Neill’s characters repeat and have repeated themselves seemingly endlessly.  Limited as the English language is with exhortations to be quiet, phrases such as “Shut up” are frequently reused by necessity.  Characters express their disgust with worn-out phrases and arguments, revealing that the issues dealt with in the play are not new to the Tyrones.  Edmund stems Jamie’s taunting their father with, “Oh, shut up, will you?  I’ve heard that Gaspard stuff a million times” (158), and Mary resignedly concludes her complaints about the summer servants with, “But you’ve heard me say this a thousand times.  So has (Tyrone), but it goes in one ear and out the other” (61).  Edmund defends Jamie from Tyrone’s criticism by saying, “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Papa!  If you’re going to start that stuff, I’ll beat it” (26, 129).  Appropriately, he says this twice during the play.  John Henry Raleigh explains the repetition of the Tyrone’s conversations as a cultural phenomenon: “The motto of the Irish, especially the drinking Irish, is that a thing is not said unless it has been repeated almost ad infinitum” (Raleigh 130).

As well as highlighting the insufficiency of language, O’Neill recognises other blocks to communication that bar the Tyrones from understanding and mutuality.  There is, for example, a sense of hostility in the household.  Tyrone’s love for Jamie, his “first-born, who (sic) I hoped would bear my name in honor and dignity” (167), is so strong that it can turn easily to an oppressive hostility (Bogard 162).  Elsewhere, Edmund is pushed to hit his brother for his biting remarks as Jamie’s discretion diminishes with drunkenness (162, 170).

Accompanying a sense of hostility among the men, there is also an overwhelming sense of suspicion surrounding Mary, which she notices: “You really must not watch me all the time, James.  I mean, it makes me self-conscious” (17).  This suspicion, intended to keep Mary from her morphine, only serves to increase her anxiety and her need for a drug-induced escape: “It makes it so much harder, living in this atmosphere of constant suspicion, knowing everyone is spying on me, and none of you believe in me, or trust me” (46).

Ironically, even though conversation fails to reveal the characters to each other, Travis Bogard states that “whiskey and morphine effectively remove all disguise” (Bogard 158).  Jamie abandons his cynicism, and drunkenly confesses his secret hatred to Edmund (165).  Tyrone drops his dramatic posturing and reveals the character behind the actor: “I’ve never admitted this to anyone before, lad, but tonight I’m so heartsick I feel at the end of everything, and what’s the use of fake pride and pretense” (149).  Edmund reveals his discomfort with his existence as a man: “I would have been much more successful as a sea gull or a fish” (153).  And Mary, of course, acts out the searching, nostalgic confusion that has always been her essence (171-6).

By the end of the play, Mary is no longer herself--no longer a real, thinking, caring person.  With this she has also lost her ability to feel pain, which is what she has been seeking.  However, in the morning she will be no better than she was in the first act: nervous, lonely, and craving her morphine.  Ironically, for all their isolation, the Tyrones cannot cut themselves off absolutely through death or sleep.  Jamie complains that he’s had enough whiskey “to sink a ship, but can’t sink” (156), and both Mary and Edmund have unsuccessfully tried to kill themselves (86, 147).  Instead of finding reprieve, they are compelled to continue their tormented existence.

Rather than address the factors that perpetuate their misery, and collectively combat them, the Tyrones move in endless cycles of guilt and evasion.  John Henry Raleigh argues, “Social forces, as such, do not exist and, as in Greek tragedy, we are face to face with guilty-innocent humanity on the purely personal level” (Raleigh 125).  Robert Brustein agrees that, unlike most naturalistic characters, “O’Neill’s characters are suffering from spiritual and psychological ailments rather than biological and social ones (society, for O’Neill, hardly seems to exist)” (Brustein 350).  To escape the reality of their own culpability, then, the Tyrones must shift the blame for their misery to each other, or they are faced with the responsibility of facing it themselves.

Mary’s return to her morphine addiction, after two months of independence, is the central crisis of the play (if, indeed, there is such an isolated element) in much the same manner that Mary is the hub of her family.  Mary and her sons largely blame Tyrone for both her initial addiction and recent regression.  Edmund erupts to his father, “I know damned well she’s not to blame!  And I know who is!  You are!  Your damned stinginess! . . . Because you’ve never given her anything that would help her want to stay off it!” (140-1).  Mary complains that she was forced to live in town, in a shabby house that she cannot think of as “home”: “I’ve never felt it was my home. It was wrong from the start.  Everything was done in the cheapest way.  Your father would never spend the money to make something right” (44).

Although Tyrone’s penuriousness aggravates Mary, it is Edmund that brings the immediate pain that she feels she needs to escape.  His birth caused the pain that brought Mary’s initial prescription for morphine (166), and Edmund suspects that it is the possibility of his having consumption that has pushed her to relapse (93).  Mary’s animosity for Edmund is ambiguous: she babies him, but blames him for her addiction (Bogard 161).  Mary’s abhorrence of Jamie’s cynicism is less ambiguous (Bogard 161).  Jamie is never specifically targeted as an agent contributing to Mary’s regression, but there is no doubt that his constant disrespect, suspicion, and nihilism are such factors.  Further, Mary blames both Jamie and Tyrone for the death of her second son, Eugene (87-8).

Although they blame each other, the men also lay at least partial blame on Mary for her own addiction.  When Mary declaims against doctors as the source of her addiction, the men protest (74), and, early in the play, Tyrone expresses faith in his wife’s will power: “Yes, it will be hard for her.  But she can do it!  She has the will power now!” (37).  Tyrone begins to argue that it’s Mary’s own fault that she has no friends, but gives up helplessly (84).  Judith Barlow argues that Mary is required by her family to possess powerful maternal virtues: “nurturance, forgiveness, and renunciation of her dreams for theirs.  Insofar as she fails in these obligations, both her family and the playwright condemn her” (Barlow, “Mothers” 9).  Through Mary’s marginalised position, Long Day’s Journey reveals the limitations of a materialistic patriarchal society and its need for maternal figures (Hall 35-6).

Although it is a factor feeding Mary’s demons, Tyrone’s overbearing stinginess is a flaw in itself, which isolates him from the love and respect of his family.  Frederic Carpenter asserts that Tyrone “embodies the qualities of petty dictator characteristic of all O’Neill’s fathers” (Carpenter 153).  Mary tells Cathleen that “Mr. Tyrone never is worried about anything, except money and property and the fear he’ll end his days in poverty.  I mean, deeply worried.  Because he really cannot understand anything else” (101).

To explain his tight-fistedness, Mary, Jamie, and Edmund accuse Tyrone of selfishness.  Mary points out his self-indulgent alcoholism, excessive to the point where he has often needed help getting to his room after a night of drinking (113), and Tyrone is seen as so land-hungry that he’d rather send his son to a third-rate sanatorium than spend money that could otherwise be used to buy more property (31, 145).  Tyrone, however, blames his thriftiness on a fear of poverty caused largely by his own father’s desertion (146-8).  In addition, Tyrone believes that money spent on his family is usually a waste because of their faults.  His money has not saved Mary from morphine: “I’ve spent thousands upon thousands in cures!  A waste.  What good have they done her?  She always started again” (141), and even after he has bought her a car, she never drives in it (84).  Even when he gives money to Edmund, who in turn gives half to Jamie, Jamie promptly wastes his share: “If he’s ever had a loftier dream than whores and whiskey, he’s never shown it” (129).

Jamie, more than the other Tyrones, is both completely mired in his cynical condition and yet conscious of his pain.  Bogard graphically likens his agony to “the howl of a lost soul in hell” (Bogard 163).  As is the case with the other Tyrones, there is a host of explanations for his condition.  Jamie’s father repeatedly blames and criticises his son’s libidinous Broadway lifestyle and laziness: “You never wanted to do anything except loaf in barrooms!  You’d have been content to sit back like a lazy lunk and sponge on me for the rest of your life!” (32).  Tyrone also denounces his subversive preference in poets as “morbid filth! . . . Filth and despair and pessimism” (134).  Mary, however, blames Tyrone for turning Jamie into an alcoholic (110).

Jamie, for his part, credits his “worldly wisdom” to hard experience and disappointment.  In reality, it is a result of his parents’ aloofness; and, having been denied his mother’s love, he seeks a corrupted substitute rather than pursuing meaningful relationships.  Jamie seeks to unburden himself on a maternal figure, but the only women available to him are whores: “By the time I hit Mamie’s dump I felt very sad about myself and all the other poor bums in the world.  Ready for a weep on any old womanly bosom” (159).  Mary’s addiction has so degraded her in her son’s perception that he identifies Mary with prostitutes (Barlow, “Mothers” 9).  Jamie remembers the first time he caught his mother injecting herself with morphine: “I’d never dreamed before that any women but whores took dope!” (O’Neill 163).

Edmund’s consumption, a physical ailment that he can potentially beat, is not nearly as crucial as his ongoing despair, which is much the same in nature as Jamie’s defensive cynicism.  Much of it is due, naturally, to the constant stress of seeing his beloved mother addicted to drugs: “It’s pretty hard to take at times, having a dope fiend for a mother!” (120).  In fact, Mary even believes that Edmund hates her for it (122).  Tyrone blames Edmund’s partiality to atheistic poets for the same reasons that he objects to Jamie’s selections--they are, after all, mostly the same writers.  Edmund’s despair is also partially due to Jamie’s “putting you wise” (165).  Jamie recognises his influence--indeed, has exploited it: “Hell, you’re more than my brother.  I made you!  You’re my Frankenstein!” (164); “Mama and Papa are right.  I’ve been a rotten bad influence” (165).  Jamie is portrayed as a Mephistophelian character (Carpenter 153), and even his face has a “Mephistophelian cast” (19).

Edmund believes that he has a consciousness which transcends human existence, and his disdain for human life results from this.  He wants to be part of nature, not simply living in it:

The peace, the end of the quest, the last harbor, the joy of belonging to a fulfillment beyond men’s lousy, pitiful, greedy fears and hopes and dreams! . . . For a second there is meaning!  Then the hand lets the veil fall and you are alone, lost in the fog again, and you stumble on toward nowhere, for no good reason! (153)

Although he fears the threat of consumption, Edmund’s illness may be a manifestation of his death-wish, his desire to escape from his human body.

The deepest desire of each of the Tyrones is revealed through a precious memory, or transcendental moment.  This is the point to which each character returns in his or her mind to escape the reality of the present time.  Ironically, the Tyrones ultimately realise that they cannot remove themselves from the community of the present.  Mary observes the unity of time that will not allow for such isolation: “The past is the present, isn’t it?  It’s the future, too.  We all try to lie out of that but life won’t let us” (87).  Edmund asserts, “The right way is to remember.  So you’ll always be on your guard.  You know what’s happened before” (45), but the reality is that remembering brings pain: “That’s what makes it so hard--for all of us.  We can’t forget” (48).  Rather than confront the pain directly, the four Tyrones each turn nostalgically to some lost memory.

Most of the Tyrones’ transcendental moments are associated with other people.  Tyrone remembers Edwin Booth’s remark, “That young man is playing Othello better than I ever did!” and remembers it as “the high spot in my career.  I had life where I wanted it!” (150).  However, whether or not he had the potential he claims to have had is uncertain.  Ann C. Hall argues that “James (Sr.) appears to have a remarkable capacity for denial and revisionist readings of the past” (Hall 40), and, in a deconstructive study of inconsistencies and uncertainties in Long Day’s Journey, Michael Manheim further questions Tyrone’s promise as a great Shakespearean actor (Manheim 36).

Mary, obviously, remembers her girlhood, and even her behaviour is reverting to that of a schoolgirl.  She convinces herself, “You were much happier before you knew (Tyrone) existed” (107), and so seeks not only to return to that memory, but to live that past life again.  O’Neill’s stage directions reveal that Mary “has hidden deeper within herself and found refuge and release in a dream where present reality is but an appearance to be accepted and dismissed unfeelingly--even with a hard cynicism--or entirely ignored” (97).  At Mary’s final appearance, even her physical appearance suggests girlhood: “The uncanny thing is that her face now appears so youthful.  Experience seems ironed out of it.  It is a marble mask of girlish innocence” (170).  Of course, this is an unnatural and therefore unaesthetic effect of the anodyne.

Mary simultaneously lives out two transcendental moments--living with her father and praying to the Virgin Mary--synthesised into one blissful state of being based on her dreams: “I had two dreams.  To become a nun, that was the more beautiful one.  To become a concert pianist, that was the other” (104).  Mary “worshipped” her father (37), and remembers an idyllic life in his home before she married Tyrone: “In a real home one is never lonely.  You forget I know from experience what a home is like.  I gave one up to marry you--my father’s home” (72).  In her memories, even Mary’s friends lived comfortably: “At the convent I had so many friends.  Girls whose families lived in lovely homes.  I used to visit them and they’d visit me in my father’s home” (86).  However, Tyrone doubts Mary’s reminiscences: “You must take her memories with a grain of salt.  Her wonderful home was ordinary enough.  Her father wasn’t the great, generous, noble Irish gentleman she makes out” (137).

Mary’s dreams of becoming a nun are similarly suspect.  Cathleen drunkenly blurts, “Well, I can’t imagine you a holy nun, Ma’am.  Sure, you never darken the door of a church, God forgive you” (102).  Still, Mary looks to the ultimate mother, the Virgin Mary, in an attempt to regain her lost faith (107).  Mary Tyrone, especially her younger, virginal incarnation, is linked to the innocence and purity of the Holy Virgin (Carpenter 153), and in fact, Doris Alexander argues that young, innocent Mary was ultimately misled into marriage (Alexander 69, 98).  However, although she longs for a restoration of faith, Mary will not help herself, and waits for divine intervention (Barlow, “Edmund” 164).

Jamie’s transcendental memory is more broad than Tyrone’s or even Mary’s.  He simply longs for a time before he was isolated from his mother by his knowledge of her addiction.  He reminds Edmund, “I’ve known about Mama so much longer than you.  Never forget the first time I got wise.  Caught her in the act with a hypo.  Christ, I’d never dreamed before that any women but whores took dope!” (163).  Jamie had harboured a typically O’Neillian idealised conception of his mother, and this revelation cost Mary his respect.  Having been hurt by what he considered a breach of trust on her part, Jamie began to form what was to become an isolating cynical defence.

Unlike those of the other Tyrones, Edmund’s transcendental memory is solitary, isolated not only from his family but from each individual living person, even himself, so that he can be united with all people through Nature (Porter 89)--specifically the sea, the great symbolic mother (Hall 41).  His is also the only memory that can ever be repeated.  Edmund remembers moments near the ocean when “. . . I became drunk with the beauty and the singing rhythm of it, and for a moment I lost myself--actually lost my life.  I was set free!  I dissolved in the sea . . .” (153).  Edmund tries to recreate this moment by wandering alone in the fog: “The fog was where I wanted to be. . . . That’s what I wanted--to be alone with myself in another world where truth is untrue and life can hide from itself” (131).

Despite their isolation, and even despite their hatred and contempt, the Tyrones genuinely do love each other.  Even after thirty-six difficult years, Tyrone and Mary declare their love for one another, “in spite of everything” (112), and in his most sincere moment, Jamie assures his brother, “I love you more than I hate you” (166).  Although--or possibly because--he is the most removed from his family, it is Edmund, the character based on the playwright himself, who comes to understand other characters.  As Frederic Carpenter has explained, Edmund’s tragedy “is not that of defeat, but of a suffering which leads to illumination” (Carpenter 156).  After learning of his father’s poverty and sacrifice, for example, he appreciatively says, “I’m glad you’ve told me this, Papa.  I know you a lot better now” (151).

Love alone is not enough to overcome the afflictions that beleaguer the tragic Tyrone family; and without conscious and continued effort to overcome their isolation from society, each other, and their present situations, the Tyrones can only fall deeper and deeper into dark despair.  Yet, although the play is predominantly pessimistic, O’Neill implies hope, especially through Edmund.  In composing this “play of old sorrow, written in tears and blood” (7), O’Neill surely came to understand his own family better, and by basing the play on his own life, O’Neill ensures that the story does not end with the fall of the curtain, and there is hope that the long night will not last forever.

Works Cited

Alexander, Doris.  The Tempering of Eugene O’Neill.  New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc., 1962.

Bagchee, Shyamal, ed.  Perspectives on O’Neill: New Essays.  No. 43.  English Literary Studies Monograph Series.  Victoria, B.C.: University of Victoria Press, 1988.

Barlow, Judith E.  “O’Neill’s Many Mothers: Mary Tyrone, Josie Hogan, and their Antecedents.”  Bagchee 7-16.

---.  “Edmund in the Final Act.”  1985.  Berlin 164-7.

Berlin, Normand, ed.  Eugene O’Neill: Three Plays.  London: Macmillan, 1989.

Bogard, Travis.  “The Door and the Mirror.”  1972.  Berlin 157-64.

Brustein, Robert.  The Theatre of Revolt.  Boston: Little, Brown and co., 1964.

Carpenter, Frederic I.  “The Climax of O’Neill’s Development.”  1979.  Berlin 152-6.

Griffin, Ernest G., ed.  Eugene O’Neill.  New York: McGraw-Hill, 1976.

Hall, Ann C.  “A Kind of Alaska”: Women in the Plays of O’Neill, Pinter, and Shepard.  Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1993.

Manheim, Michael.  “The Transcendence of Melodrama in Long Day’s Journey into Night.”  Bagchee 33-42.



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