O’ Henry Revisited
’Is O. Henry still relevant today?’ It’s a question that three friends—I the youngest by nearly two decades, they the seasoned veterans—decided to test during the strange stillness of Covid. On May 1st, 2021, we set ourselves a rather reckless mission: to reread every word O. Henry ever wrote, slowly and deliberately, over the course of a year. And we did. What follows are the reflections and reviews born from that long, unusual experiment—an O. Henry revisited, re-examined, and re-imagined for a modern age.
The first thing that hits you when you return to ‘Cabbages and Kings’ in the 2020–21 lockdown era is how wildly, almost cheekily, contemporary it feels—like the past is smuggling you confidential documents through a crack in time.
This wasn’t just O. Henry’s first book; it was his experiment with narrative architecture, a kind of literary Rube Goldberg machine where characters wander in and out of each other’s stories, each carrying a fragment of a joke, a motive, a heartbreak, a political blunder, or a secret that refuses to stay still.
It is a novel only in the sense that a mosaic is a single image: a hundred tiny pieces that only make sense when you step back far enough to see the shape they form.
The setting—Ah, Anchuria. On the surface, it’s a fictional Central American republic with a name that sounds like something dreamed up by a hungover geography teacher. But once you step inside it, the place comes alive with a sharpness that borders on prophetic. If you read it during Covid, as the world seemed to shift beneath your feet every few days, Anchuria’s blend of political absurdity, bureaucratic improvisation, and comic instability feels terrifyingly recognizable.
The country hums with the anxious rhythm of people who have grown accustomed to unpredictability: ministers who can’t plan more than two days ahead, citizens who barter gossip like currency, exiles hovering at the edge of America like moths near a porch light, and con men who thrive because the line between “official government action” and “personal hustle” is drawn in chalk on a dusty street.
And this is what O. Henry understood before most American writers dared: politics and comedy are natural siblings. They share DNA.
They breathe the same absurd air. Power structures survive not because they’re efficient, but because people are inventive in the ways they navigate incompetence. What’s astonishing is how gently he applies this critique. Instead of the anger or cynicism that colours modern political satire, O. Henry approaches his banana republic with something closer to affectionate exasperation—the same tone one uses when watching a toddler insist that gravity is optional.
The cast is enormous, and yet every single character feels like someone you’ve met in your own life—or, more worryingly, someone you’ve blocked on WhatsApp. They drift through port towns, embassies, cafés, verandas, bars, and alleyways, carrying stories on their backs like overstuffed sacks.
A wandering troubadour spins tales that don’t quite add up, diplomats scramble to look important while knowing nothing, accidental revolutionaries stumble into heroism they never asked for, and Americans—so many Americans—float through Anchuria with the calm certainty of people who believe the universe must be run according to their hometown’s municipal bylaws.
The magic is that O. Henry never mocks them. He lets them live. He lets them be foolish, earnest, idealistic, conniving, hopeful, arrogant, and lost. And because he gives them that freedom, their stories land with surprising emotional force. Even the most comic figure can suddenly glow with humanity if you tilt your head at the right angle.
Covid reading rewires your sensitivity to that humanity. After months of isolation, every tiny sliver of human absurdity takes on the weight of a revelation. A minor anecdote about a man trying to outrun a rumour becomes a metaphor for the way fear spread across continents in 2020.
A moment of miscommunication between two bureaucrats feels eerily like the early pandemic government briefings where no one seemed to know who was in charge of what. And the stories of exile—the quiet ache of people who can’t go home, or don’t know what awaits them when they do—sting a little more fiercely because lockdowns taught us how geography can suddenly become a trap.
One of the uncanny pleasures of the book is its structure. The stories loop into each other like the threads of a tapestry. Characters leave and return, conversations echo across chapters, and small details become large mechanisms later on. But O. Henry does not build this with the meticulousness of a modernist. He builds it like a man juggling flaming torches just to see if he can make the crowd gasp. And somehow—miraculously—it all ties together.
This looping structure feels incredibly postmodern when read now. It’s almost Calvino-like in the way narratives peek into each other’s windows. It’s almost Pynchon-esque in the way conspiracies bloom from coincidences. But instead of paranoia or existential dread, O. Henry gives us mischief. He gives us flawed humans stumbling into meaning.
Covid-era readers craving some sense of interconnectedness—some hint that our own scattered narratives might eventually coalesce into coherence—find comfort in this chaotic narrative ecosystem. It’s fiction as a social network, long before the algorithms were born.
The language carries O. Henry’s signature sparkle: playful, swift, and sly, with sentences that turn corners like a lizard darting between sunlit stones. But during lockdown, that humour hits differently. It becomes a salve. When the real world was a spreadsheet of infection graphs, O. Henry’s jokes—light, sharp, and mischievously observant—felt like reminders that wit is one of the last human freedoms. There’s something medicinal about the way he wields irony. It’s never bitter, never cruel. It’s a way of saying, “Look how ridiculous we are, and yet how beautiful.”
And the romance—oh, the romance. Unexpected, fragile, and always slightly off-kilter. O. Henry never writes love with grand gestures or sweeping declarations. His romantic threads often start as misunderstandings, detours, and collisions of personality. But there is warmth in that awkwardness, a sense that love thrives not in heroic settings but in the odd corners of life—behind a marketplace, in a dusty courtyard, in a whispered joke shared during a tense political moment. Covid-heightened emotional vulnerabilities make these small intimacies feel even more luminous.
Yet beneath the comedy and romance is a quiet thread of exile, displacement, and longing. Many of the book’s characters feel unmoored—geographically, emotionally, and morally. They are floating between worlds, waiting for letters that don’t arrive, dependents of chance rather than agency. Covid intensified this sensation globally, making it impossible not to read these characters as kindred spirits in their uncertainty.
We too were suspended in midair, expecting news every day that would shift the ground. ‘Cabbages and Kings’ becomes, unexpectedly, a pandemic allegory: a portrait of people attempting to live meaningful lives while history keeps tripping over its shoelaces.
What stands out most in the Covid reread is how O. Henry handles power. The people who wield it are often absurd, bumbling, or dangerously confident in their own limited competence. But the people who live under that power are resilient, clever, adaptable, and occasionally brilliant in the way they manipulate the chaos to survive.
The book becomes a study in the absurdity of leadership and the ingenuity of ordinary people. It feels—let’s just say it—like a documentary of 2020 with better punchlines.
The stories grow into each other like vines. Each new chapter makes you re-evaluate what came before, and Covid-trained brains, used to scrolling through contradictory news reports and piecing meaning from fragments, are especially attuned to this kind of narrative patterning. You start to delight in the small crossovers: a passing mention, a familiar hat, a rumour that reveals its origin two chapters later.
The pleasure of reading becomes archaeological. You brush dust off old lines and discover hidden bones underneath.
And then there is the book’s relationship with chance. Everything in Anchuria is determined not by reason but by timing, coincidence, overheard conversations, misplaced letters, and people accidentally standing in the wrong place at the wrong hour. Fate seems less like a cosmic judge and more like a drunk uncle steering events with chaotic enthusiasm.
But this too feels strangely comforting after the pandemic, which trained us to understand that history is often driven by randomness: one mutation, one handshake, one miscommunication. O. Henry’s universe says: yes, the world is absurd, but humans—messy, hopeful humans—find ways to adapt.
By the time you reach the final pages, you realise the entire book has been one long joke about the nature of narrative itself. Stories tangle, characters lie, fate improvises, and the reader is pulled along with a sense of delighted suspicion. Nothing resolves neatly, but everything resolves satisfyingly. It’s that rare narrative trick: closure without confinement.
Reading ‘Cabbages and Kings’ today feels like reading the world in miniature: chaotic, comic, tender, corrupt, hopeful, unpredictable, and resilient. It’s a book that forecasts the 21st century while pretending to be nothing more than an amusing tangle of tropical escapades.
It laughs at power, elevates human absurdity, cherishes connection, and winks at you across a hundred years of history.
It’s the perfect pandemic reread because it reminds you that uncertainty is not new, absurdity is not fatal, humans have always been reckless and lovable, and the world—no matter how tangled—keeps spinning stories out of its contradictions.
Most recommended.