Looking ahead to “where it all began” in Provincetown, Massachusetts, we are reminded of the reciprocal dynamic between the past  and present. Certainly, we’re aware of how the past shapes our current perceptions, but it’s equally true that the moment in which we find ourselves also molds our interpretations of the past. It is as if time roots all understanding, not in the firm ground of immutable facts, but in shifting sands of discovery and doubt in which the landscape continually changes. The image of O’Neill’s home at Peaked Hill Bars sliding into the sea provides a literal example of this phenomenon. Almost a century later, we look for the site, study the terrain, rebuild the home in our minds, and restore the entire scene of what once was but is no more. And what do we have when we’re finished with this restoration project? The original? A vision of the past, perhaps, but one constructed with a contemporary perspective in search of metaphor, allusion, and deep significance.

Almost everything we know about O’Neill lies upon similar shaky ground. We’ve heard for years about his lack of taste, his clumsiness with language, his lack of a sense of humor, his needless repetitions, and his obvious themes. We don’t believe these things. We know that his language, particularly in the late plays, can be eloquent, that O’Neill can be funny when he chooses, even in his most powerful dramas, that there’s great music in a play such as The Iceman Cometh, that his repetitions are purposeful. There’s no point, really, in arguing with folks who say those other bad things—they simply don’t like O’Neill. When we refuse to accept blanket statements, though, we continue to look for nuance, subtlety, and complexity in all matters, not just the ones we want to defend. Such inquisitiveness permeates the essays in this issue. We know, for example, that the original production of A Moon for the Misbegotten never made it to Broadway and we also know that the legendary trio of Quintero, Robards, and Dewhurst rehabilitated the play beginning in 1973. Yet Laura Shea’s investigation suggests that the first production might not have been as bad as later scholars and theater people needed it to be for the propagation of their own mythologies. We know that O’Neill wrote the blurb on the back of Hart Crane’s White Buildings, but Robert Combs shows us much more to see in that relationship, particularly regarding O’Neill’s Romanticism. We know that O’Neill based Mourning Becomes Electra upon Aeschylus’s Oresteia, yet William Davies King sees much more of the Greek play in The Iceman Cometh. We can argue for O’Neill’s sense of humor, but we can’t say he wrote many comedies. Still, Glenda Frank makes a case for comic structures augmenting the tragedies and offers an offset reading to the case Michael Manheim made for melodrama in a series of articles a few years ago. We know that O’Neill is a great American dramatist, even the greatest, but we also recognize, as Judith Barlow does, that he did not flower alone and without help in the desert of American drama.

The tides of history continue to shore up a few little timely treasures. We are particularly pleased to publish for the first time a couple of letters and three poems O’Neill wrote to Louise Bryant in 1916 and 1918. Those of us who believe in happy accidents will enjoy reading Paul Roazen’s account of how he discovered them in the archives at Yale. As for the letters, we are particularly startled by their intensity, although we also enjoy the irony that time passing and critical distance affords. We take note, for example, of O’Neill’s kindly considerations for his soon-to-be wife Agnes Boulton and his declarations not to hurt her for the world. He alludes to an agreement that he may leave Agnes for Louise, virtually the same letter he writes ten years later when dumping Agnes for Carlotta.

Paul Cornwell’s essay on the Cambridge Festival Theatre whets our desire to read his new book, Only by Failure (Salt 2004), a biography of that theater’s exciting founder Terence Gray. O’Neillians are quite familiar with the theories of Kenneth Macgowan, but Gray, also deeply influenced by Gordon Craig, practiced the art and renovated a theatrical space for his ideas. His choices among O’Neill’s plays to produce, including The Dreamy Kid twice, give us much to think about non-realistic production possibilities.

Will any of the discoveries herein stand the test of time? Maybe that’s not the point. Perhaps we’re not supposed to build lasting monuments, impervious to gusting ideologies and new technologies, but to build a community of understanding and goodwill right now, right here. We do, after all, live in the moment and we enjoy O’Neill insomuch as his plays enrich our lives. But we also profit from the fellowship of others who form a community around that body of work. We can always, thankfully, return to read O’Neill’s complete works or the many excellent critical studies about them. Each time we go back we discover something new and gain fresh insights to help find our way in the world. We’ll react differently when next we pull out from our shelves O’Neill in Ireland or Down the Nights and Down the Days. Going forward, we will miss Ed Shaughnessy. As we reflect on his legacy, we shall try to advance his many kindnesses and his caring among a new group of friends and colleagues.