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Journey into the Night Der Westen hat endlich eine lässige junge Bar

Journey into the night Bar Berlin Charlottenburg-2

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Journey into the Night Else-Ury-Bogen 605 10623 Berlin-Charlottenburg . Anfahrt planen

Bis vor vier Wochen gab es in Charlottenburg und drum herum kaum einen Ort, an dem man sich als U40 am frühen Abend für einen exzellenten After-Work Drink oder zu späterer Stunde für Cocktails bei coolen Beats verabredet hätte. Mit der Bar Journey into the Night hat sich das nun geändert.

Zum Feiern und Trinken an einem jungen lässigen Ort muss man zukünftig nicht mehr zwingend nach Mitte, Neukölln oder Kreuzberg fahren, denn das Team hinter so erfolgreichen Konzepten wie dem Café What do you fancy love? oder der Frühstücks-Location A never ever ending lovestory hat mit dem Journey into the Night einen nächsten Coup im Westen gelandet.

Die Brüder Ritchie und Giacomo Vogel, beide Teil der Patchwork-Familie von Schauspieler Jürgen Vogel, haben sich für dieses Projekt Ritchies Frau Nabila Farah-Vogel mit ins Boot geholt, die auch für das Interieur verantwortlich zeichnet. Gerade haben die beiden ihr erstes Kind bekommen und ganz nebenbei auch noch rasch den neunen abendlichen „place to be“ an den Start gebracht.

Journey into the night Bar Berlin Charlottenburg-4

An einem zunächst skurril anmutenden Ort, einem der S-Bahn-Bögen zwischen Savignyplatz und Bleibtreustraße, hat die gebürtige Mexikanerin Nabila im Journey into the Night ein cooles, exotisches Interieur geschaffen, das einen das eher konservative Charlottenburger Umfeld völlig vergessen lässt. Von der Decke hängendes Grün und eine Tapete mit Palmwedeln sorgen für Urban-Dschungel-Feeling.

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Einer persönlichen Leidenschaft folgend haben zahlreiche ausgestopfte Tiere, die Nabila zum Teil schon seit vielen Jahren begleiten, ein Zuhause zwischen begrünten Wänden, Kunst und leuchtenden Schriftzügen gefunden. Gäste sitzen auf schwarz getünchten breiten Stufen, die sich in drei Ebenen die Wand hinauf reihen oder gleich direkt an der Bar.

Das Licht im Journey into the Night ist schummrig, wie sich das für eine anständige Bar gehört und zu späterer Stunde legt ein DJ live Musik auf. Der Raum ist nicht groß, dafür aber umso mehr Garant für gute Party-Stimmung. Und in den frühen Abendstunden kann man während der Sommermonate sogar auf einer Terrasse vor der Bar sitzen und dort die Drinks genießen.

Für die ist übrigens Bartender Mario Möloth verantwortlich. Alle Signature Drinks hat er selbst entwickelt und wir waren ganz besonders von „Mary June“, einem Cocktail aus Gin, frischem Limettensaft, Agave, Rosmarin und Soda sehr begeistert. Aber selbstredend mixt Möloth auch Classics, alkoholfrei und gemäß individueller Wünsche für eine berauschende Reise in die Nacht. – Prost!

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Journey into the Night

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The bartenders are scientist!! Great drinks and a great atmosphere. Anybody who really loves the art of cocktails should come here.

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Der Anblick von Savignyplatz aus dem Fenster dieser Bar macht einen guten Eindruck. Hier werden euch perfekt zubereitenen berlinen Pfannkuchen angeboten. Höchstwahrscheinlich werdet ihr an Journey into the Night später zurückkehren, um besonders guten Gin zu bestellen.

Hier findet man eine heimelige Atmosphäre. Die guten Bewertungen dieses Ortes wäre unmöglich ohne das ansprechende Personal. Jedes Mal bemerkt ihr eine schnelle Bedienung. Google-Nutzer, die dieses Lokal besucht haben, sagen, dass die am besten geeignete Punktzahl bei 4.5 liegt.

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Literary Theory and Criticism

Home › Drama Criticism › Analysis of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night

Analysis of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night

By NASRULLAH MAMBROL on July 27, 2020 • ( 0 )

The simplicity of the play’s dramatic form; the complexity of its four major characters and the progressive unfolding of their psychological richness; the directness of their presentation without gimmickry or sentimentality; the absorbing emotional rhythm of their interactions; the intensity of their quest for meaning; the natural yet expressive quality of their dialogue; their insights concerning guilt, vulnerability, and the need for family connection—these are among the qualities that have gained the play its status as a world classic. Long Day’s Journey into Night simultaneously marks the pinnacle of O’Neill’s career and the coming of age of American drama.

—Michael Hinden, Long Day’s Journey into Night : Native Eloquence

Long Day’s Journey into Night —the greatest American play by the United States’s greatest playwright—is a harrowing work of personal memory universalized into the great American family tragedy. At the end of a remarkable career that produced more than 50 plays and after a seemingly inexhaustible series of theatrical experimentations that established the baseline and boundaries for a vital new American drama, Eugene O’Neill finally returned to simplicity itself: autobiography and a day-in-the-life repossession of his own family history as a summary statement of his long journey toward self-understanding and self-expression. The urgency and utility of O’Neill’s dramatic version of Remembrance of Things Past (Marcel Proust’s seven-volume epic autobiographical novel) is announced significantly and succinctly by Mary Tyrone, who early on in the play states: “The past is the present, isn’t it? It’s the future too.” O’Neill’s entire past is prelude and preparation for the tragic recognition that animates his masterpiece. Again, it is Mary Tyrone who summarizes the tragic sensibility that informs O’Neill’s plays and finds its best expression in Long Day’s Journey: “None of us can help the things life has done to us. They’re done before you realize it, and once they’re done they make you do other things until at last everything comes between you and what you’d like to be, and you’ve lost your true self forever.”

Born in 1888 in a hotel room in the heart of New York’s theatrical district, O’Neill was the son of matinee idol and onetime distinguished Shakespearean actor, James O’Neill, who made his reputation and fortune by continually touring in a melodrama based on Alexandre Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo. The commercial theater of the day, in which his father squandered his considerable acting talent, consisted of gratifying public taste with the lowest popular denominator. Eugene O’Neill, his disappointed father, his drug-addicted mother, and his alcoholic elder brother were all in various ways products of the theater of the day. O’Neill’s transient childhood was spent touring the United States with his parents and attending boarding schools. He was suspended from Princeton after a year for a college prank and introduced to the bohemian world by his actor-brother, James. O’Neill’s aimless and dissipated youth is succinctly summarized by critic Jordan Y. Miller:

At twenty, almost on a dare, he had married a girl he hardly knew, fathered a child he never saw until nearly twelve years later, went gold prospecting in Honduras, contracted malaria, and was divorced before he was twenty-two. He failed as a newspaper reporter, became intimate with all the more famous New York and Connecticut bordellos, to which he was guided by his brother James; evidence all of fast becoming a hopeless alcoholic; and, after attempting suicide, contracted a severe lung infection to place him in a Connecticut tuberculosis sanitarium at the age of twenty-four.

During his convalescence from 1912 to 1913, O’Neill read widely and decided to become a playwright. His first dramatic work was done for the Province-town Players, of Cape Cod and in New York City’s Greenwich Village, the most influential company in the “little theater” movement. His first stage production, Bound East for Cardiff, based on his experience as a seaman, was followed by Beyond the Horizon and The Emperor Jones, both in 1920, which established O’Neill as a powerful new force in the American theater. For the next 15 years, O’Neill would display an extraordinary range in his restless search for an expressive form that virtually catalogs the various methods of modern drama. As he stated in a 1923 interview, “I intend to use whatever I can make my own, to write about anything under the sun in any manner that fits the subject. And I shall never be influenced by any consideration but one: Is it the truth as I know it—or, better still, feel it?”

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To arrive at truth in the face of a breakdown of traditional beliefs and its crippling effect on the psyche, O’Neill experimented with symbolism, masks, interior monologues, choruses, and realistic and expressionistic styles. His early plays were “slice of life” dramas, focusing on the delusions and obsessions of marginalized characters—seamen, laborers, roust-abouts, prostitutes, and derelicts—who had never before been depicted on the American stage. Most are adrift and deeply divided from their identities and the traditional sources of sustaining values. Increasingly, his plays would dramatize a tragic vision in naturalistic plays such as Anna Christie (1921) and Desire Under the Elms (1924), and a series of expressionistic plays, including The Emperor Jones, The Hairy Ape (1920), and The Great God Brown (1926). In Strange Interlude (1928) O’Neill began dissecting character through interior monologue, never before attempted on stage on such a scale. His work in the 1930s included the monumental Mourning Becomes Electra, in which Aeschylus ’s drama of the house of Atreus is transferred to post–Civil War New England. His single comedy, Ah, Wilderness! (1933), is based on his happiest memories summering at his family’s New London, Connecticut, home, the same setting he would use for his darkest tragic drama, Long Day’s Journey. In 1934 the failure of his play Days without Endbegan a 12-year period in which no new O’Neill plays were staged and initiated a final creative explosion prompted by O’Neill’s commitment to write “plays primarily as literature to be read.” In 1936 O’Neill became the second American (and to date the only American dramatist) to receive the Nobel Prize in literature. The first American Nobel laureate, Sinclair Lewis, praised the playwright as follows:

Mr. Eugene O’Neill, who has done nothing much in American drama save to transform it utterly, in ten or twelve years, from a false world of neat and competent trickery to a world of splendor and fear and greatness . . . has seen life as not to be arranged in the study of a scholar but as a terrifying, magnificent, and often horrible thing akin to the tornado, the earthquake, the devastating fire.

The “horrible thing” that Lewis equates with a natural disaster continually threatens the Tyrone family in Long Day’s Journey , just below the surface of their seemingly placid summer holiday routine in August 1912, at their Connecticut seaside home. O’Neill began work on Long Day’s Journey in the summer of 1939 as war in Europe threatened and his own health was in significant decline from a debilitating nerve disorder. Feeling “fed up and stale” after nearly five years’ work on an immense cycle of plays reflecting American history from the perspective of an Irish-American family, O’Neill decided to turn to private subjects, sketching the outline of two plays that “appeal most.” One was based on his time spent in a bar on the Bowery in New York, which became The Iceman Cometh ; the other, a laceratingly honest portrait of his past, that he identified as the “N[ew]. L[ondon]. family” play, and later called “a play of old sorrow, written in tears and blood”: Long Day’s Journey into Night . Completing work on Iceman first, O’Neill spent most of 1940 on Long Day’s Journey . His wife, Carlotta, recalled:

When he started Long Day’s Journey it was a most strange experience to watch that man being tortured every day by his own writing. He would come out of his study at the end of the day gaunt and sometimes weeping. His eyes would be all red and he looked ten years older than when he went in in the morning. I think he felt freer when he got it out of his system. It was his way of making peace with his family—and himself.

Completing the second draft by his 52nd birthday, in October 1940, O’Neill made the final cuts to the typescript that Carlotta had prepared by the end of March 1941, recording in his diary: “Like this play better than any I have ever written—does the most with the least—a quiet play!—and a great one, I believe.” Due to its autobiographical content, O’Neill stipulated that his play neither be published nor performed until at least 25 years after his death. However, after he died in 1953, Carlotta, claiming that her husband had orally withdrawn his prohibition shortly before his death, allowed the play to be staged by the Swedish Royal Dramatic Theatre in February 1956, to coincide with its American publication. The English-language premiere of the play occurred on Broadway in November 1956 to great acclaim. Reviewer John Chapman called it “O’Neill’s most beautiful play . . . and . . . one of the great dramas of any time,” while critic Brooks Atkinson declared that with Long Day’s Journey “American theater acquires stature and size.” The play has gone on to be recognized as O’Neill’s greatest achievement and a triumph both for U.S. and world theater.

Its power derives from its relentless honesty linked to the simplicity of its dramatic form. The action is compressed to the events of a single day that progressively reveal the psychological complexity and tragic mutual dependency of the play’s four major characters—James and Mary Tyrone and their sons Jamie and Edmund—along with the secrets that define and doom their family. It is Edmund’s ill health, which his mother insists is only a summer cold but his doctor diagnoses as tuberculosis, that serves as a catalyst for the play’s pounding series of revelations and recognitions. James, Jamie, and Edmund alternately accept and reject their suspicion that Mary has relapsed in her morphine addiction, while each family member is forced to face their guilt and responsibility for the past that haunts the family. Mary, who had abandoned her vocation to become a nun or a concert pianist to marry the handsome actor James Tyrone, ultimately blames her husband and sons for her addiction: specifically, Jamie for the accidental death of another son, significantly named Eugene; Edmund for his difficult birth that required medical care; and James for his stinginess that led to employing a second-rate doctor who started her on morphine. The others, in turn, confront their own complicity in the family’s self-destruction, while each is given an aria of insight into the truth of their situation.

The patriarch, James Tyrone, reviews his acting career in which he exchanged seemingly unlimited artistic promise for financial security, fueled by his early lower-class Irish impoverishment. He confesses:

That God-damned play I bought for a song, and made such a great success in—a great money success—it ruined me with its promise of an easy fortune. . . . It was a great romantic part I knew I could play better than anyone. But it was a great box office success from the start—and then life had me where it wanted me—at from thirty-five to forty thousand net profit a season! A fortune in those days—or even in these. What the hell was it I wanted to buy, I wonder, that was worth—Well, no matter. It’s a late day for regrets.

Edmund, understanding for the first time the cost of his father’s success and the origins of his miserliness, reciprocates his father’s honesty with his own confession in one of the most moving and lyrical passages O’Neill ever wrote. Recalling his time at sea, Edmund admits to a moment of supreme transcendence:

I lay on the bowsprit, facing astern, with the water foaming into spume under me, the masts with every sail white in the moonlight, towering high above me. I became drunk with the beauty and singing rhythm of it, and for a moment I lost myself—actually lost my life. I was set free! I dissolved in the sea, became moonlight and the ship and the high dim-starred sky! I belonged, without past or future, within peace and unity and a wild joy, within something greater than my own life, or the life of Man, to Life itself! To God, if you to put it that way. . . . For a second you see—and seeing the secret, are the secret. For a second there is meaning! Then the hands let the veil fall and you are alone, lost in the fog again, and you stumble on toward nowhere, for no good reason!

Edmund’s ecstasy of affirmation gives way to a deeply tragic self- and existential awareness: “It was a great mistake, my being born a man. I would have been much more successful as a sea gull or a fish. As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must always be a little in love with death!”

The play concludes with Jamie’s confession of his resentment of his brother and his secret delight in his family’s destruction that grants him the consoling role of damned and powerless victim: “The dead part of me hopes you won’t get well. Maybe he’s even glad the game has got Mama again! He wants company, he doesn’t want to be the only corpse around the house!” Jamie’s warning to his brother that he actually desires Edmund’s and the family’s destruction, that he secretly hates them all and himself, is ironically one of the great testaments of love and loyalty in the play. “Greater love hath no man than this,” Jamie declares, “that he saveth his brother from himself.”

These family revelations reach a crescendo with the appearance of Mary, carrying her wedding gown—in the bitter words of Jamie, “The Mad Scene. Enter Ophelia!” Completing the family tableau and individual monologues that probe the causes and costs of the family’s dilemmas, Mary has retreated with the assistance of morphine into the fog that has threatened throughout the day. Escaping from reality, she has reverted to an earlier existence, before the consequences of marriage and motherhood, and ends the play heart-breakingly with her memories as a convent schoolgirl and her intention to become a nun:

But Mother Elizabeth told me I must be more sure than that, even, that I must prove it wasn’t simply my imagination. She said, if I was so sure, then I wouldn’t mind putting myself to a test by going home after I graduated, and living as other girls lived, going out to parties and dances and enjoying myself; and then if after a year or two I still felt sure, I could come back to see her and we would talk it over again. . . . That was in the winter of senior year. Then in the spring something happened to me. Yes, I remember. I fell in love with James Tyrone and was so happy for a time.

Love here is balanced with loss, youthful hopes with crushing disappointment, completing the process by which each of the Tyrones is forced to come to terms with all that is intractable in one’s self, one’s family, one’s existence. The play reaches a terminal point in which there seems no possibility of consolation or regeneration, signaled by O’Neill’s final stage direction: “She stares before her in a sad dream. Tyrone stirs in his chair. Edmund and Jamie remain motionless.”

The play’s final tragic awareness is that we are who we are, condemned by family and history to forever seek transcendence and fail to find it. Yet the play’s title metaphor of a journey toward closure, toward the dark recognition of frustration, disappointment, and mortality also implies a dawn of sorts, if only in the shattering illumination of naked truths.

Long Day’s Journey into Night Ebook PDF (3 MB)

Analysis of Eugene O’Neill’s Plays

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Journey into Night

By David Sedaris

JeanPhilip Delhomme

The night flight to Paris leaves J.F.K. at 7 P.M. and arrives at de Gaulle the next day at about 8:45 A.M. French time. Between takeoff and landing, there’s a brief parody of an evening: dinner is served, the trays are cleared, and four hours later it’s time for breakfast. The idea is to trick the body into believing it has passed a night like any other—that your unsatisfying little nap was actually sleep and now you are rested and deserving of an omelette.

Hoping to make the lie more convincing, many passengers prepare for bed. I’ll watch them line up outside the bathroom, some holding toothbrushes, some dressed in slippers or loose-fitting pajama-type outfits. Their slow-footed padding gives the cabin the feel of a hospital ward: the dark aisles, corridors; the flight attendants, nurses. The hospital feeling grows even stronger once you leave coach. Up front, where the seats recline almost flat, like beds, the doted-on passengers lie under their blankets and moan. I’ve heard, in fact, that the airline staff often refers to the business-class section as “the I.C.U.,” because the people there demand such constant attention. They want what their superiors are getting in first class, so they complain incessantly, hoping to get bumped up.

There are only two classes on the airline I normally take between France and the United States—coach and something they call Business Elite. The first time I sat there, I was flown to America and back for a book tour. “Really,” I kept insisting, “there’s no need.” I found the whole “first-to-board” business a little embarrassing, but then they brought me a bowl of hot nuts and I began to soften. Pampering takes some getting used to. A flight attendant addresses me as “Mr. Sedaris,” and I feel sorry that she’s forced to memorize my name rather than, say, her granddaughter’s cell-phone number. On this particular airline, though, they do it in such a way that it seems perfectly natural, or at least it does after a time.

“May I bring you a drink to go with those warm nuts, Mr. Sedaris?” the woman looking after me asked—this as the people in coach were still boarding. The looks they gave me as they passed were the looks I give when the door of a limousine opens. You always expect to see a movie star, or, at the very least, someone better dressed than you, but time and time again it’s just a sloppy nobody. Thus the look, which translates to “Fuck you, Sloppy Nobody, for making me turn my head.”

On all my subsequent flights, the Business Elite section was a solid unit, but on this particular plane it was divided into two sections: four rows up front and two in the back. The flight attendant assured everyone in my section that although we were technically in the back, we shouldn’t think of it as the back. We had the same rights and privileges as the passengers ahead of us. Yet still they were ahead of us, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d been somehow favored.

On the way to New York, I sat beside a bearded Frenchman, who popped a pill shortly after takeoff and was out until we landed. On the leg back, there was no one beside me, at least not for the first half hour. Then a flight attendant knelt in the aisle beside my seat and asked if I might do her a favor—that’s how they talk in Business Elite. “I’m wondering, Mr. Sedaris, if you might do me a favor?”

Chipmunk-like, my cheeks packed with warm nuts, I cocked my head.

“I’ve got a passenger a few rows up and his crying is disturbing the people around him. Do you think it would be O.K. if he moved and sat here?”

The woman was blond and heavily made up. Glasses hung from a chain around her neck, and as she gestured to the empty window seat beside me I got a pleasant whiff of what smelled like oatmeal cookies. “I believe he’s Polish,” she whispered. “That is to say, I think he’s from Poland. The country.”

“Is he a child?” I asked, and the flight attendant told me no. “Is he drunk?” It didn’t matter one way or the other. I was just curious.

Again, she said no. “His mother just died and he’s on his way to her funeral.”

“So people are upset because he’s crying over his dead mother ?”

“That’s the situation,” she told me.

I’d once read where a first-class passenger complained—threatened to sue, if I remember correctly—because the blind person next to him was travelling with a Seeing Eye dog. He wasn’t allergic, this guy. Labrador retrievers on the street didn’t bother him, but he hadn’t paid thousands of dollars to sit next to one, or at least that was his argument. If that had seemed the last word in assholiness, this was a close second.

I said that of course the man could sit beside me, and the flight attendant disappeared into the darkness, returning a few minutes later with the grieving passenger.

“Thank you,” she mouthed.

And I said, “No problem.”

The Polish man might have been in his mid-forties but seemed older, just as people in my parents’ generation had. Foreign blood, or an abundance of responsibility, had robbed him of the prolonged adolescence currently enjoyed by Americans of the same age, so his face, though unlined, seemed older than mine, more used. His eyes were red and swollen from crying, and his nose, which was large and many-faceted, looked as if it had been roughly carved from wood and not yet sanded smooth. In the dim light, he resembled one of those elaborate, handcrafted bottle stoppers—the kindly peasant or good-natured drunk who tips his hat when you pull the string. After settling in, the man looked out the darkened window. Then he bit his lower lip, covered his face with his remarkably large hands, and proceeded to sob, deeply. I felt that I should say something, but what? And how? Perhaps it would be better, less embarrassing for him, if I were to pretend that he wasn’t crying—to ignore him, basically. And so I did.

The Polish man didn’t want dinner, just waved it away with those king-size mitts of his, but I could feel him watching as I cut into my herb-encrusted chicken, most likely wondering how anyone could carry on at a time like this. That’s how I felt when my mother died. The funeral took place on a Saturday afternoon in November. It was unseasonably warm that day, even for Raleigh, and returning from the church we passed people working on their lawns as if nothing had happened. One guy even had his shirt off. “Can you beat that?” I said to my sister Lisa, not thinking of all the funeral processions that had passed me over the years—me laughing, me throwing stones at signs, me trying to stand on my bicycle seat. Now here I was eating—and it wasn’t bad, either. The best thing about this particular airline is that after dinner they offer you a sundae. The vanilla ice cream is in the bowl already, but you can choose from any number of toppings. I order the caramel and chopped nuts and the flight attendant spoons them on before my eyes. “Is that enough sauce, Mr. Sedaris?” she’ll ask, and “Are you sure you don’t want whipped cream?” It would be years before I worked up the courage to ask for seconds, and, when I finally did, I felt like such a dope. “Do you think, um . . . I mean, is it possible to have another one of those?”

“Well, of course it is, Mr. Sedaris. Have a third, if you like!”

That’s Business Elite for you. Spend eight thousand dollars on a ticket and, if you want an extra thirteen cents’ worth of ice cream, all you have to do is ask. It’s like buying a golf cart and having a few tees thrown in, but it still works. “Golly,” I say. “Thanks!”

In the years before I asked for seconds, my sundae would be savored—each crumb of cashew or walnut eaten separately, the way a bird might. After those were gone, I would recline a bit and start in on the caramel. By the time the ice cream itself was finished, I’d be stretched out flat, watching a movie on my private screen. The control panels for the seats are situated on a shared armrest and it would take me a good three or four flights before I got the hang of them. On this trip, for instance, I kept mashing the buttons, wondering why they failed to work: feet up, feet down, head back, head forward. I was two seconds from calling the flight attendant when I looked to my right and saw the Polish man keening and bucking against his will. It was then that I realized I had the wrong control panel. “Sorry about that,” I said. And he held up his pan-size hand, the way you do when you mean “No hard feelings.”

When my empty bowl was taken away, I leafed through the in-flight magazine, biding my time until my neighbor’s dizziness wore off and he could fall asleep. In an effort to appear respectful, I’d already missed the first movie cycle, but I didn’t know how much longer I could hold out. Up ahead, in the cheerful part of Business Elite, I heard someone laugh. It wasn’t the practiced chuckle you offer in response to a joke but something more genuine, a bark almost. It’s the noise one makes when watching stupid movies on a plane, movies you’d probably never laugh at in the theatre. I think it’s the thinness of the air that heightens your reactions—and not just to comedy, either.

Take my seatmate. The man was crying again, not loudly but steadily, and I wondered, perhaps unfairly, if he wasn’t overdoing it a bit. Stealing a glance at his blocky, tear-stained profile, I thought back to when I was fifteen and a girl in my junior high died of leukemia, or “ ‘Love Story’ disease,” as it was often referred to then. The principal made the announcement and I, along with the rest of my friends, fell into a great show of mourning. Group hugs, bouquets laid near the flagpole. I can’t imagine what it would have been like had we actually known her. Not to brag, but I think I took it hardest of all. “Why her and not me?” I wailed.

“Funny,” my mother would say, “but I don’t remember you ever mentioning anyone named Monica.”

My friends were a lot more understanding, especially Barbara, who, a week after the funeral, announced that maybe she would kill herself as well.

None of us reminded her that Monica had died of a terminal illness, as, in a way, that didn’t matter anymore. The point was that she was gone, and our lives would never be the same: we were people who knew people who died. This is to say that we had been touched by tragedy, and had been made special by it. By all appearances, I was devastated, but in fact I had never been so happy in my life.

The next time someone died, it was a true friend, a young woman named Dana, who was hit by a car during our first year of college. My grief was genuine, yet still, no matter how hard I fought, there was an element of showmanship to it, the hope that someone might say, “You look like you just lost your best friend.”

Then I could say, “As a matter of fact, I did,” my voice cracked and anguished.

It was as if I’d learned to grieve by watching television: here you cry, here you throw yourself upon the bed, here you look in the mirror and notice how good you look with a tear-stained face.

Like most seasoned phonies, I roundly suspect that everyone is as disingenuous as I am. This Polish man, for instance. Given the time it would take him to buy a ticket and get to J.F.K., his mother would have been dead for at least six hours, maybe longer. Wasn’t he over it yet? I mean, really, who were these tears for? It was as if he were saying, “I loved my mother a lot more than you loved yours.” No wonder his former seatmate had complained. The guy was so competitive, so self-righteous, so, well, over the top.

Another bark of laughter from a few rows up and it occurred to me that perhaps my sympathy was misplaced. Perhaps those tears of his were the by-product of guilt rather than sorrow. I envisioned a pale, potato-nosed woman, a tube leaking fluids into her arm. Calls were placed, expensive ones, to her only son in the United States. “Come quick,” she said, but he was too caught up in his own life. Such a hectic time. So many things to do. His wife was getting her stripper’s license. He’d been asked to speak at his son’s Alateen meeting. “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll come at the end of dog-racing season.” And then . . . this. She rides to her death on a lumpy gurney and he flies in Business Elite to her funeral. The man killed his mother with neglect and because of that I can’t watch a movie on a plane?

I pulled my private screen from its hiding place in my armrest, and had just slipped on my headphones when the flight attendant came by. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat, Mr. . . . ?” She looked down at her clipboard and made a sound like she was gargling with stones.

The Polish man shook his head no, and she regarded me with disappointment, as if it had been my job to stoke his appetite. I thought you were different, her eyes seemed to say.

I wanted to point out that at least I hadn’t complained. I hadn’t disrespected his grief by activating my screen, either, but I did once she’d retreated back into the darkness. Of the four movies playing, I had already seen three. The other was called “Down to Earth,” and starred Chris Rock as an aspiring standup comic. One day, he gets hit and killed by a truck and, after a short spell in Heaven, he’s sent back among the living in the body of an elderly white man. The reviews had been tepid at best, but I swear I’ve never seen anything funnier. I tried not to laugh, but that’s a losing game if ever there was one. This I learned when I was growing up. I don’t know why it was, exactly, but nothing irritated my father quite like the sound of his children’s happiness. Group crying he could stand, but group laughter was asking for it, especially at the dinner table.

The problem was that there was so much to laugh at, particularly during the years that our Greek grandmother lived with us. Had we been older, it might have been different. “The poor thing has gas,” we might have said. For children, though, nothing beats a flatulent old lady. What made it all the crazier was that she wasn’t embarrassed by it—no more than our collie, Dutchess, was. Here it sounded like she was testing out a chainsaw, yet her face remained inexpressive and unchanging.

“Something funny?” our father would ask us, as if he hadn’t heard, as if his chair, too, had not vibrated in the aftershock. “You think something’s funny, do you?”

If keeping a straight face was difficult, saying “No” was so exacting that it caused pain.

“So you were laughing at nothing?”

“Yes,” we would say. “At nothing.”

Then would come another mighty rip, and what was once difficult would now be impossible. My father kept a heavy serving spoon next to his plate, and I can’t remember how many times he brought it down on my head.

“You still think there’s something to laugh about?”

Strange that being walloped with a heavy spoon made everything seem funnier, but there you have it. My sisters and I would be helpless, doubled over, milk spraying out of our mouths and noses, the force all the stronger for having been bottled up. There were nights when the spoon got blood on it—nights when hairs would stick to the blood—but still our grandmother farted, and still we laughed until the walls shook.

Could that really have been forty years ago? The thought of my sisters and me, so young then and so untroubled, was sobering, and within a minute, Chris Rock or no Chris Rock, I was the one crying on the night flight to Paris. It wasn’t my intention to steal anyone’s thunder; a minute or two was all I needed. But, in the meantime, here we were: two grown men in roomy seats, each blubbering in his own élite puddle of light. ♦

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OSHKOSH, Wis. (WBAY) - The trial for the man accused of crashing into a cruise boat on the Fox River begins its second week Monday. Prosecutors plan to rest their case, but they told the judge they’ll need the entire day to present their final witnesses against Jason Lindemann.

Several people on board the powerboat driven by Jason Lindemann took the stand Monday, describing the night it struck the On the Loos paddleboat with 44 people on board. They were asked if they saw Lindemann drinking before he took the wheel at the bar he owns, Dockside Tavern, where the group gathered before going out.

Matt Vienola, a passenger on Lindemann’s powerboat, took the stand.

“Did you see the defendant drinking at all?” the Prosecutor asked.

“I just remember giving him [expletive] for drinking water,” said Vienola.

Prosecutors have submitted video from the bar, showing Lindemann stumbling around, and previous witnesses told the jury last week that they saw Lindemann with alcoholic beverages, suggesting it was the reason Lindemann didn’t provide aid, and spent the night on Lake Winnebago after the crash, with the lights on the boat turned off. One witness was asked about that decision process.

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“No,” Walton-Kumbier said.

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“Nothing, that I can remember,” answered Walton-Kumbier.

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“No,” the witness answered.

“So why did you end up spending the night on the boat?” asked the prosecutor.

“I’m not sure,” Walton-Kumbier said.

One passenger on board Lindemann’s boat, Troy Daun, was injured. His wife Shelly says Lindemann asked if everyone was okay, before taking them to shore by the Leach Amphitheater. However, prosecutors wanted to know if Lindemann offered to help anyone on the paddleboat.

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Lindemann, 53, is on trial for more than a dozen charges, including Second-Degree Recklessly Endangering Safety and Failing To Render Aid.

Copyright 2024 WBAY. All rights reserved.

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The Fight Over the Next Pandemic

The deadline for a new international pandemic plan was last week. so far, negotiations have failed..

This transcript was created using speech recognition software. While it has been reviewed by human transcribers, it may contain errors. Please review the episode audio before quoting from this transcript and email [email protected] with any questions.

From The New York Times, I’m Michael Barbaro. This is “The Daily.”

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Today, at the height of the COVID pandemic, nearly 200 countries started negotiating a plan to ensure they did better when the next pandemic inevitably arrives. Their deadline for that plan was last week.

My colleague Apoorva Mandavilli explains why so far, those negotiations have failed.

It’s Thursday, June 6.

So, Apoorva, something that was supposed to happen and happen right now that I think most of us didn’t even was ever in the works hasn’t happened. And that’s a global plan for the next pandemic. So tell us this entire story.

Think back to 2021, the very worst days of COVID when we had thousands of people dying in the US and in the rest of the world. There was just so much confusion about whether to wear masks or not, whether to close schools. And it was very difficult to think what any country should do.

And so in the middle of that chaos and confusion —

The Eagle has landed.

Carrying the hopes of a country, the first shipment of coronavirus vaccines reach Australian skies.

— we did get the vaccines.

You’re watching right now history being made, one of the first people in the entire country right here to get dose number two of the Pfizer vaccine.

Then all of a sudden, there was this hope. But the thing is that those vaccines were really mostly available in the richer countries.

Parts of Asia and Latin America have recorded a spike in COVID fatalities amid medical supply and vaccine shortages.

Few people in Africa have been vaccinated. Some countries don’t have any vaccines at all.

So we in the United States and a lot of countries in the European Union and some of the other high and middle income countries had the vaccines.

Rich countries have enough doses to vaccinate everyone nearly three times over, whilst poor countries don’t have enough to even reach health workers and people at risk.

But elsewhere in the world, there were no vaccines really. It became obvious to some low and middle income countries that they were not going to do very well in this pandemic. There were all these advanced purchase orders from the richer countries. And they were having some very tough negotiations with pharma companies that were charging them more than they were charging the rich countries.

And by the end of that horrible, horrible year, more than 90 percent of people in the richer countries had had two doses of vaccine. But 2 percent of people in low income countries had had any vaccines. So that really just striking inequity made people realize this was just a mess. We did not know how to deal with the pandemic.

The time to act is now.

So in December 2021, by the end of this year of inequity —

We must not allow the memories of this crisis to fade and go back to business as usual.

— the World Health Organization brought together all the countries —

The impacts on our societies, economies, and health, especially for the poor and the most vulnerable, are too significant.

— and launched this process to come up with a playbook to really think about how all the countries of the world need to prevent and respond to the next pandemic and do it in a way that would protect everybody, rich and poor, across the world. And the WHO decided that this discussion could not be just an informal conversation between health ministers, that this needed to be an international treaty, a legally binding treaty so that every country has to take this very seriously and everybody agrees on how to do this next time.

Hmm. So at the very height of COVID’s awfulness, these countries in the WHO are saying, we know you all are very, very busy fighting this pandemic. It is taking up all your time and energy. But we need you to now start to think about how badly this is going and not just fight the current pandemic but start planning on a better way to fight the next one. That’s kind of a big ask.

It is a big ask, but what is the alternative? That we come to the next pandemic and have a repeat of all of the chaos and confusion we saw during COVID? So I think it was an acknowledgment that we needed it. We needed to come up with a plan. And it became obvious that part of that plan needed to be a way to repair the mistrust that had formed between low income countries and high income countries and that without repairing that, we just did not really stand a good chance of fighting the next pandemic.

Right. And, of course, the thing about a global pandemic is that any weak link, any country that’s not doing its part or getting what it needs, becomes a problem for every other country. That’s the nature of a pandemic. We need — we talked about this with you, we talked about this with our colleagues throughout the pandemic — a system where there’s a strong program and plan in every country so that the virus can be stamped out.

Exactly. I mean, in the United States, more people died because of variants than they did because of the original virus. And a lot of those variants started in countries that did not have access to vaccines.

OK, so what do these talks start to actually look like? And just how many countries end up being involved in them?

So all of the countries that are member states of the World Health Organization were involved in this. 194 countries.

And they all sent delegates to meet to draft something and then to discuss every aspect of it and try to come to a consensus. And the goal was to get that to a point where all the countries were ready to sign off on it by May 2024. They had meetings over a period of two and a half years to talk through this. Some sections they all agreed on pretty easily. You can imagine the general goals like, yes, we should have a good plan to fight a pandemic. Or yes, we should have good research on vaccines and drugs, things like that, the general sort of philosophical goals everybody agrees on.

Right. Principles are always the easiest thing to negotiate.

The easiest thing to negotiate. But then you start getting into how this happens, right? And it’s actually kind of interesting. In the draft, if you look at the drafts, they have areas that are green, which means everybody sort of agreed, and yellow, which means they’re starting to come to an agreement, their sort of general consensus, and then white, which means it’s really no agreement. They’re just not even on the same page. And when you look at what’s green across all of these drafts, the philosophical goal is green from the start, no problem.

The yellow started to come slowly, these areas of consensus, things like, for example, safety measures in the labs that work with dangerous viruses. And that’s not just because one of the theories about COVID is that the virus leaked from a lab. We know from long before COVID that lab safety is very important for making sure that those dangerous viruses don’t get out into the world. There is also agreement around how countries should do surveillance to see what outbreaks might be emerging. And some of that stuff is tricky.

Why is it tricky? I mean, isn’t there a pretty standard playbook for trying to detect a virus and what to do once you detect it?

Sure. But there are some things that are big sticking points like money. Not all countries have the resources to do the kind of surveillance that they need to do. And so who funds that? And then some countries have vested interests, like Argentina wouldn’t want any rules that forbid export of certain kinds of meat products because that’s a big part of their economy.

There are countries where live animal markets are a thing, and not just in China, which we’re all familiar with, is another origin theory for COVID. Lots of other countries rely on these markets. And they don’t want to have very strict rules about which animals can be held together and how densely packed they can or can’t be. So when you start to get into the details there, it is actually difficult to reach consensus on some of these things.

But they have made a lot of progress. And they have come to yellow and green on some important things like that every country should have a health care workforce trained to respond to a pandemic, that they should make best efforts to have local production of things like vaccines and drugs, and that they should provide all of these resources to their own citizens. Things like that, those are all under agreement. They’re all green now.

So what exactly is holding these negotiations back? What ends up being the biggest remaining conflict?

It won’t surprise you to hear, Michael, that the biggest conflict is exactly what all of this began with, which is the lack of access that low income countries have to things like vaccines.

There have been interesting proposals in the drafts and one in particular that would solve at least some of this issue. But it’s been very difficult to convince rich countries, middle income countries, and low income countries that that proposal would be of great benefit to everybody involved.

We’ll be right back. So, Apoorva, tell us about this particular proposal that could do a lot of work to solve the inequities at the center of these negotiations and why that proposal has created so much conflict.

The heart of the section that has really created the most conflict is whether low income countries get access to vaccines in a timely manner and at a cost that is affordable to them. And all the low income countries recognize that they don’t have a lot of bargaining power. They were treated pretty poorly by pharma companies during this past pandemic. And so they’ve been thinking about setting things up so that that does not happen again, that the next time around, they are not left behind.

Right. But like you said, they don’t have a lot of power to bargain.

They don’t. But there have been times when poor countries have come up with a way to make everybody else realize that they’re essential to this whole process. So let me give you an example of this that really, I think, illustrates how much everybody else needs the low income nations during an outbreak.

So in 2006, Indonesia was battling a bird flu outbreak. And they had been very dutifully sending samples of the virus that they had in their country to the World Health Organization labs to analyze. And that information helps pharma companies develop things like vaccines.

Or tests, right.

Or tests. And in this particular case, the Indonesian Health Ministry approached the World Health Organization to say, look, we’ve given you these samples. We have people dying in our country. And we need access to vaccines and drugs. And the WHO told them, sorry, we don’t directly distribute any of that. You have to talk to the manufacturers.

And this is where that leverage becomes really important because Indonesia did not actually have leverage with these pharma companies. And so the vaccine manufacturer told them that they would sell them vaccines but at commercial prices that that country cannot afford. And then a drug manufacturer told them that they did not have enough drugs to give Indonesia because richer countries had placed enough purchase orders that there was a delay of two years. So [LAUGHS]: Indonesia was so angry about all of this that they declined to share any more samples with the WHO.

So Indonesia basically says, we will never again make the mistake of promptly sharing information about a potentially deadly pathogen because we learned that we get nothing in return.

Right. And understanding that realization also has driven a lot of the conversation in the drafting of this treaty where low income countries have essentially said, we recognize that you need us to share these samples. But we are not going to do that unless you can promise to us that we will get some access to vaccines and drugs that you make based on the samples we give you. So we want something in return for the information we provide to you.

What is the specific proposal that comes from this realization?

Yeah, this proposal has created a lot of controversy, so there are versions of it. But the most recent one says essentially that if the low income countries share their samples with the WHO that pharma companies have to give the WHO 10 percent of the vaccines they make as a donation and then 10 percent either at a non-profit cost or just a deeply discounted rate also to the WHO. And then the WHO would distribute that 20 percent of vaccines that they get from the pharma companies to the countries that are in most need.

Hmm. So this proposal, which feels very innovative, is the ultimate manifestation of poor countries’ power in this dynamic. If they don’t get vaccines, then the big countries will never get the information about a virus that’s necessary for there to have ever been a vaccine. It’s really interesting.

It is. And this is the biggest chip that low income countries have. So they are not willing to budge on this. But guess who doesn’t like this? Pharmaceutical companies and the countries that really support the interests of the pharmaceutical companies. And that includes the United States, Germany, Switzerland, some of the big players, places where these companies are a big presence and a very powerful lobby.

What specifically have these pharmaceutical companies and the countries like the US that have so many of them said about this proposal?

So the countries, they are willing to give in principle and say that the pharmaceutical companies will voluntarily give some of the vaccines to the WHO, but they don’t want it mandated. Whereas the low income countries, they want it to be really codified so that there is no loophole. And the conversations have gone round and round on that one word, “voluntary.”

Apoorva, is it safe to assume that a country like the US, which, of course, has a booming and very profitable pharmaceutical industry, won’t sign on to these proposals unless that word “voluntary” is in the deal, that they cannot abide by one where it’s mandatory that these big pharmaceutical companies have to give up so much of their vaccine to poorer countries?

They are not going to say that in so many words, but yes. And the United States actually has come up with some very nice plans to help some of these low income countries set up infrastructure and be prepared for pandemics. But I think crossing pharmaceutical companies is not a place they will go.

Hmm. So is that really the only big obstacle left in these negotiations? Or is there anything else?

Oh, there’s lots more.

There has been so much misinformation and disinformation around this whole issue just like there has been about every aspect of COVID. And a lot of it centers around the hesitation and the opposition that many populist leaders have expressed. In the US, for example, there are Republican senators and governors who have come out against the treaty. And they say that this is a power grab by the WHO, that it is going to allow the director general of the WHO to tell the US what to do, whether to have mask mandates, whether to have vaccine mandates, none of which is true, by the way.

And in a bid to counter some of that misinformation, there is actually an explicit line in the treaty saying that the treaty respects the sovereignty of all the individual nations. They’ve tried to address that head on. But it hasn’t really made all of that chatter go away.

Mm-hmm. How much does this practically matter, the fact that a handful or perhaps more than a handful of Republicans in the US are skeptical of this and think ideologically speaking that it oversteps the bounds of what a treaty should do? I mean, ultimately, do they have any power over whether the US signs this treaty?

They do because delegates can agree to this treaty at the WHO, but everybody has to bring it back to their home countries. And in the US, the treaty then has to be approved for ratification by the Senate. You have to have a two thirds majority in the Senate say, yes, we agree to this treaty. So if you have a number of Republican senators who are absolutely opposed to it, it may not pass.

Mm. So it very much feels like so many of the issues that made everyone think this treaty was necessary, inequities between rich countries and poor countries and misinformation and ideological skepticism of how to handle a pandemic to begin with that really defined COVID for us, that those forces are now making it very hard for this treaty to actually be reached. They never really went away.

They never went away. It felt like there was about five seconds when everyone was united in thinking that we needed something different, and there was a lot of goodwill. But a lot of that has evaporated. And we’re getting very quickly to a point where people have forgotten what COVID looked like and felt like and what the devastation was like and have gone back to old positions on we don’t want to share. We don’t want to give anything away. Everything for us first. All of the thinking that led to the problems during COVID.

So what realistically happens now? And do you based on your reporting think that this treaty has any real chance of being completed and passed by the 194 countries involved in it?

Well, the draft was supposed to be finalized at the meeting last week of the World Health Assembly. And that didn’t happen. But they did set a deadline to say that the negotiations will continue. And then they’ll hope to have something done by next year’s meeting.

But there’s just so much in flux right now. There are elections all over the world. Who knows what Donald Trump will do if he gets elected? We know that he withdrew from the WHO the last time around. And he has even said that he may shut down the pandemic preparedness office in the White House. So he’s not particularly invested in this whole topic, this whole issue.

And in the meantime, we already have so many threats that are really picking up. For global health experts and for reporters like myself who watch all this stuff, it’s a bit alarming that we now have bird flu right here in the United States. And the next pandemic, pretty much every expert I talk to agrees it’s not a question of if, but when. And if we had had this treaty ready, if we can ever have this treaty ready, we would be so much better prepared for something like that to happen. But it just doesn’t seem all that likely right now.

Well, Apoorva, thank you very much. We appreciate it.

We’ll be right back.

Here’s what else you need to know today. In a last minute about face, New York Governor Kathy Hochul said she would block a long awaited tolling plan known as congestion pricing that was set to begin at the end of the month. The program, the first of its kind in the US, would have charged as much as $15 for cars entering the busiest parts of Manhattan. The goal was to alleviate traffic, reduce pollution, and raise money for the city’s aging subway system. But Hochul argued that the tolls threatened the city’s fragile economic recovery after the pandemic.

And on Thursday, former romantic partners of Hunter Biden, the president’s son, testified in a Delaware courtroom about the depths of his drug addiction and the toll that it took on them. The testimony, including how much Hunter Biden spent on drugs and the type of drugs he used, was designed to establish that he was a chronic drug abuser who lied when he claimed to be sober on an application for a handgun in 2018.

Today’s episode was produced by Alex Stern, Carlos Prieto, and Stella Tan with help from Will Reid and Rikki Novetsky. It was edited by Lexie Diao and Devon Taylor, contains original music by Marion Lozano, Pat McCusker, and Diane Wong, and was engineered by Chris Wood. Our theme music is by Jim Brunberg and Ben Landsverk of Wonderly.

That’s it for “The Daily.” I’m Michael Barbaro. See you tomorrow.

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Hosted by Michael Barbaro

Featuring Apoorva Mandavilli

Produced by Alex Stern ,  Carlos Prieto ,  Stella Tan ,  Will Reid and Rikki Novetsky

Edited by Lexie Diao and Devon Taylor

Original music by Marion Lozano and Pat McCusker

Engineered by Chris Wood

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At the height of the Covid pandemic, nearly 200 countries started negotiating a plan to ensure they would do better when the next pandemic inevitably arrived. Their deadline for that plan was last week.

Apoorva Mandavilli, a science and global health reporter for The Times, explains why, so far, the negotiations have failed.

On today’s episode

bar journey into the night

Apoorva Mandavilli , a science and global health reporter for The New York Times.

Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus seated in front of a World Health Organization flag.

Background reading

Countries failed to agree on a treaty to prepare the world for the next pandemic before a major international meeting.

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Apoorva Mandavilli is a reporter focused on science and global health. She was a part of the team that won the 2021 Pulitzer Prize for Public Service for coverage of the pandemic. More about Apoorva Mandavilli

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