Alchemist — Plague-Era Grifters Still Running the Same Con

"I'll be no cozener; I'll be cozened first."

Somewhere around the forty-minute mark, one of the LibriVox volunteers delivers this line with such wounded dignity that I actually laughed out loud. My wife Denise looked up from her book—we were on the couch, Sunday afternoon, rain against the windows—and asked what was so funny. How do you explain that a four-hundred-year-old play about con artists just nailed the eternal human condition of wanting to be the clever one, not the mark?

This is why we still read the classics. My Brilliant Friend gave me that same jolt of recognition—centuries and continents apart, but the same human messiness.

The Prose Deserves to Be Heard, Not Just Read

I've taught Renaissance drama exactly twice in twenty years. Both times, students glazed over faster than they do during my Faulkner units. Jonson's language on the page looks intimidating—dense, archaic, packed with alchemical jargon that was already becoming obsolete when he wrote it in 1610. But here's what I'd forgotten: this was meant to be performed. The words need air. They need voices.

The LibriVox production understands this instinctively. Multiple volunteers take on different roles, and while the quality varies—some readers are clearly more comfortable with verse than others—the effect is theatrical in a way that honors Jonson's intentions. When Subtle launches into his elaborate pseudo-scientific babble about the philosopher's stone, the narrator commits fully to the pomposity. You can hear the con. You can hear the pleasure the character takes in his own verbal gymnastics.

At three hours and seven minutes, this is a brisk listen. Perfect for a rainy Sunday, or—let's be honest—for pretending to pay attention during those interminable curriculum committee meetings. (Principal Martinez, I was definitely engaged in your assessment rubric discussion. Definitely.)

Sir Epicure Mammon Is Every Student Who Thinks They'll Get Rich Quick

If you loved Volpone, this is its spiritual successor—same satirical DNA, same gleeful skewering of greed. But where Volpone feels like watching a predator at work, The Alchemist is more democratic in its cruelty. Everyone here is a fool. The con artists. The marks. The wealthy knight Sir Epicure Mammon, who dreams of the elixir of youth and "fantastic sexual conquests" with the desperate hunger of a man who's never examined his own appetites.

The narrator understands that pause is punctuation. When Mammon describes his fantasies of wealth and power, there's a beat—just a breath—before the next character responds. It lets the absurdity land. My students would hate this. I love it.

What strikes me, listening in 2024, is how little has changed. Jonson wrote this during an actual plague outbreak. His characters are exploiting crisis for profit, selling miracle cures to the desperate. We've all seen that movie before, haven't we? The play's satire of "advertising and miracle cures" hits different after the last few years. This reminds me of what Hemingway said about all good books being about the same thing—human nature, endlessly repeating itself.

The LibriVox Gamble (And Why It Mostly Pays Off)

Let's talk about what you're actually getting here. LibriVox is volunteer-driven, which means the production quality is... variable. Some readers project beautifully; others sound like they're reading in a closet. (Because they probably are.) The transitions between voices can be jarring—you're in seventeenth-century London one moment, then suddenly aware you're listening to someone in their living room in Ohio.

But here's the thing: the energy is right. The chaotic, overlapping greed of Subtle, Face, and Dol Common—the trio of con artists at the play's center—benefits from having multiple voices. You feel the cramped, frantic atmosphere of that London townhouse, everyone scheming against everyone else, alliances shifting by the minute. A single narrator might have given you a more polished experience. This gives you something messier and more alive.

Worth pausing the faculty meeting for? Yes. Worth your full attention? Also yes—the plot moves fast, and if you drift, you'll lose track of who's conning whom.

Who Should Press Play (And Who Should Keep Walking)

This is for you if: you've ever wondered what Shakespeare's contemporaries were doing while he hogged all the glory. If you teach literature and need a reminder that the classics can be genuinely funny. If you want something short, sharp, and surprisingly relevant.

Skip it if: you need professional-grade audio production. If archaic language frustrates rather than delights you. If you're looking for something to half-listen to while grading—this one demands engagement.

Final Grade

I finished this walking the lakefront with Denise, the last twenty minutes playing as the rain finally stopped and the city went golden in that particular late-afternoon Chicago light. Jonson would've appreciated the timing—his play ends with the con artists undone by their own greed, the house restored to its rightful owner, order reasserted. It's a comedy, technically. But like all the best satire, it leaves you wondering who the real fools are.

Forty-seven podcast listeners. That's my audience. But I think I'll do an episode on Jonson anyway. Mom might stay awake for this one.