Ruth Meyer (Essay Date 1968)

Ruth Meyer (essay date 1968) SOURCE: "Language: Truth and Illusion in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?," in Educational Theatre Journal, Vol. XX, No. 1, March 1968, pp. 60-9.

[In this essay on Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Meyer argues that "language is a major device in the play by which the relativity and ambiguity of truth are accomplished. "] As George tries to determine whether guest Nick is "stud" or "houesboy," Martha pleadingly accuses him of the in-ability to judge: "Truth or illusion, George; you don't know the difference" (202).1 And the audience, too, at this point near the end of the play may readily concede that they along with George have lost contact with the neat distinctions be tween truth and illusion. For indeed in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? the distinction between truth and illusion is not readily perceived. If one accepts as truth that which the characters say is true and ignores their later contradictions, he can find a fairly clear-cut differene between truth and illusion. Daniel McDonald seems to distinguish between truth and illusion on merely this literal basis. Such over-simplification leads to statements such as "Honey rejoices in her husband's career and in her own youthful enthusiasm."2 In actuality, the only enthusiasm she exhibits in the play is for "[dancing] like the wind" (126) and drinking brandy. Similarly McDonald's statement that "Martha mortifies her husband by revealing his part in the death of his parents"3 ignores two basic facts: George claims this happened to a friend of his, and he also attributes circumstances similar to the murder to the death of their imaginary son. Truth and illusion is indeed a major theme of the play, but on a more complex level man this. A more perceptive evaluation is given by Robert Brustein: Albee seems less interested in the real history of his characters than in the way they conceal and protect their reality: the conflict is also a kind of game, with strict rules, and what they reveal about each other may not be true. This comedy of concealment reminds me of Pirandello, and even more of Jean Genet. For George and Martha … shift their identities like reptiles shedding skins.4 Language is a principal means by which Albee achieves this "comedy of concealment." The dialogue of the characters which both reveals and conceals identity establishes the ambiguity between truth and illusion and in part accounts for the violent disagreement among the critics as to the "message" of the play. For example, George's use of clichés reveals a characteristic of his personality; at the same time, it protects him from any exposure of real identity. In order to discuss illusion, one should first define and identify truth; to discuss exaggeration, there must first be a norm. "Truth" is generally considered a verifiable fact, "illusion" a false mental image, thus one that is unverifiable. It is from definitions as clear cut as these that difficulties arise, because throughout the play there is a constant interpenetration of truth and illusion; similarly, so many false roles are assumed by the characters during the night's performance that no definite norm can be established. Although language is the principal means of creating the ambiguity, it is not the only means, as seen in the frequent stage directions concerning facial expression and stance. Throughout the play, situations and experiences are hinted at: Did George actually experience the death of his father and mother as related in his novel, the novel Martha claims he said "really happened"? (137) Does Martha's father actually "not give a damn" for her, as George says? (225) Did George sail past Majorca, or for that matter, did the moon, after going down, "pop … back up again"? (199) Has Honey been committing secret abortions, as George hints? (177) Is Nick "stud" or"houseboy," and is liquor the only excuse for his failure to "hump the hostess"? (188,197) Albee's dexterity in creating ambiguity is perhaps best demonstrated by the scene in which George confronts Honey with her fear of having children. The audience is already aware that Nick married Honey during her false pregnancy; it is also aware that she "[gets] sick … occasionally, all by [herself]" (119). Having heard Honey's admission of "I … don't … want … any … children. I'm afraid! I don't want to be hurt … " George sums up the evidence: "I should have known … the whole business … the head-aches … the whining … the.…" He quickly concludes: "How do you make your secret little murders studboy doesn't know about, hunh? Pills?"(177) Honey has admitted fear of having children; she doesn't"want to be hurt." Through the use of "hurt," ambiguity is already created; does she fear the physical pain of childbirth or the psychological pain, unverifiable but nonetheless very real, involved in being a parent? George's quick conclusion furthers the ambiguity; unfortunately, many critics pounce on George's accusation as the revelation of a truth. Alfred Chester, however, has noted a significant factor in this scene: "So the truth is out at last. But what truth?" Chester continues:

… we realize that, after all, Honey has said nothing, and George's mind has said it all.… But somehow George has hit home … We begin to realize that the"truth" about Nick and Honey's reproductive di-lemma will never be revealed as an objective fact.5 Even at the start of the play the focus is on the language of the characters. With the first lines, Albee establishes a device he will use throughout the play. Martha's drunken "Jesus H. Christ" is not only shocking but is also distorted. The "H."—a good old American middle initial, no doubt—is sufficiently unfamiliar to draw attention to itself. Walter Kerr points out that Albee "peppers us with them [Jesus Christ's and God damn's] as a kind of warning rattle, to make sure that our ears will be attentive when he decides really to burn them—with something else."6 This may be evidenced by the incongruity of George's term "Chastity" (199) applied with knowing inaccuracy to Martha after her attempted adultery with Nick or his "Whatever love wants" (19, italics mine) as she badgers him to greet their guests. Calling Martha "Chastity" does not make her chaste; refer-ring to her as "love" does not make her loved. But her adultery attempt has been unsuccessful, and there is some sort of mutual concern, a rather distorted love, existing between George and Martha. Through the use of a term which in context seems highly inappropriate, Albee focuses on the fine distinction between truth and illusion. As has already been noted, the ambiguity between truth and illusion is a major concern of the play. The occupation of the characters is significant: college professors and their wives have achieved a level of education that would imply precise and fluent use of language and also an awareness of the use of clichés. Albee exploits both of these factors, principally through George, who early in the play evidences an exaggerated concern for precise diction and later retreats from painful reality by assuming a false role, the falseness of which is indicated mainly by dialogue. Litany- like repetitions support the ambiguity, since a litany is an artificially structured response and may not represent the truth of the moment. The false roles and the litany-like repetitions culminate in the oldest and most universal of rituals—the Mass, but even this in the context of the play furthers rather than resolves the ambiguity. In the play the characters themselves acknowledge a concern with language. They are aware that certain levels of speech belong to certain groups. As George warns Martha not to start in on the "bit" (about their "child") (18), Martha replies, "The bit? The bit? What kind of language is that?" and then, "You imitating one of your students, for God's sake?" George warns Nick and Honey that "Martha's a devil with language" (21). Martha defends her intellect by clarifying her statement that biology is less "abstruse" than math and taunts George with "Don't you tell me words" (63). As George recovers from their round of Humiliate the Host, he badgers them with "I mean, come on! We must know other games, college-type types like us … that can't be the … limit of our vocabulary, can it?" (139) By emphasizing the importance of "vocabulary" to "games," George acknowledges the centrality of language to their existence, since much of their existence consists in playing games. At the same time, since their games involve mainly the concealment of the truth about themselves, through the assumption and abandonment of false dialogue and false roles, George's statement comes very near to identifying Albee's technique in creating the ambiguity between truth and illusion. It thus seems fairly evident that George and Martha are quite aware of the language they use. And there is, particularly on George's part, a willingness to haggle over vocabulary and to search for the accurate word. George argues with Nick over whether a bunch of geese are a "gaggle" or a "gangle" (113), bickers again with him over whether Honey is "slim-hipped" or "frail" (89), points out the inadequacies of "courting" (23) when used to refer to his time spent with Martha prior to their marriage, and uses "Life" because of "lack of a better word" (100). His exaggerated precision in use of language becomes for him the norm, or as near to a norm as we will find amid the slippery truth presented in the play. Nevertheless, he is amused that Nick will admit to being "testy" (99), but resents being told that he is "upset." He knows that "Got the ice" is correct, albeit a bit archaic—like Martha (166). His awareness of the stupidity of conventional euphemisms comes to a peak when he tells Martha to show Honey "where we keep the … euphemism" (20), a phrase totally lost on Honey's liquor-fogged brain. Despite the fact that she tells George he doesn't need to "tell her words," Martha is much less precise in her use of them. Almost in a manner reminiscent of Holden Caulfield, she adds an "or something" to her phrases. She says that Nick is "in the math department, or something" (9). As Nick points out the error in her quotation of her father's favorite phrase, she admits, "Well, maybe that isn't what he says … something like it" (55). Similarly, she accuses Nick that he "Plucked [her] like a goddamn … whatever-it-is … creeping vine" (185), and then calls, "What are you doing: hiding or something?" (185) Martha "swings wild" (193), as Nick observes; she hits her target, but she frequently takes in the surrounding area as well. She shoots, but frequently with buckshot—the whole area, or something, is riddled with her fire. Never does she evidence George's concern with precision in speech. Her references to Bette Davis, who is married to Joseph Cotton or something, is merely a result of her carelessness with language; her reference to Nick and Honey (prior to their arrival) as "What's their name" is, as she puts it, the result of meeting"fifteen new teachers and their goddamn wives" (63). The contrast between Martha's disregard for precision and George's meticulous and exaggerated insistence upon the right word seems clear. And yet at times George, too, pretends to slip. As he tells Nick that "since I married … uh, What's her name … uh, Martha" (32) it is not because of the forgetfulness or confusion which causes Martha to use "What's their name" in reference to Nick and Honey. How better to show detachment and disregard of someone or something than either to forget the name or to get it wrong. As he discusses the proposed scientific advances with Nick, he says,"You're the one's going to make all that trouble … making everyone the same, rearranging the chromozones, or whatever it is" (37). Contempt could scarcely be more clearly expressed. When we consider George's occasional disregard for precision in light of his usual even though exaggerated concern for accuracy, we see Albee's device of presenting a masked truth—for example, George's contempt for science. Because the norm is an exaggerated one, and therefore not an unquestionable norm, the ambiguity between truth and illusion remains. Much of the dialogue of the play consists of clichés, and Albee uses them in a manner that contributes to the truth/illusion situation. Albee, like Ionesco, is a master of the cliché, but while Ionesco demonstrates the inadequacies of language to describe phenomena, Albee demonstrates the adequacy and power of words. The power of words is perhaps best demonstrated by their ability to both reveal and conceal truth, frequently at the same time. In Virginia Woolf, Albee often reveals a significant facet of his characters through a slanted cliché, one that has been tampered with in order to indicate a special meaning. The effectiveness of this device rises out of the contrast between what one expects to hear and the significantly pointed distortion. But since any cliché by its very nature is seldom considered a particular and applicable truth, even the distortion of one has an air of ambiguity about it. Albee, nonetheless, comes closer to presenting unambiguous truth through the use of clichés than in any other instance in the play. This use of clichés may be seen in the following incidents. As Martha taunts George at the beginning of the play with "Georgie-Porgie, put-upon pie" (12), the slanted cliché reveals George's position; he is made the unwilling host for a 2:00 A.M. after- party party. Similarly by switching from "musical chairs" in George's statement to Nick that "Musical beds is the faculty sport" (34), Albee foreshadows the night's activities. A slanted cliché appears again as Martha assures Nick that a "friendly little kiss" won't matter since "It's all in the faculty" (163). And as Martha recalls her life at the opening of Act III, she bemoans the fact that she was "left to her own vices" (185), a fairly appropriate statement considering her action just prior to this. One other slanted cliché is particularly important to the play, George's accusation that Martha is a "child mentioner" (140). "Child molester" is what an audience would anticipate, and for a flesh-and-blood child it would be the appropriate term. But just as appropriate to an illusion is the word "mentioner," for talking of ideas corresponds to touching objects. Thus the illusion that some critics7 feel has been sprung at the end of the play has been foreshadowed by Albee's slanted cliché only halfway through the play. Albee also uses clichés as they are normally used, but attaches great importance to them by showing that, rather than being devoid of meaning because they are usually not a consciously thought out expression, they express, because of their very spontaneous composition, significant meaning. Personalities are revealed by balancing a cliché with a responding literal application of it. As Martha says that George's Dylan Thomas-y quality "gets [her] right where [she] lives," George applies this quite literally and comments on Martha's obsession with sex by responding, "Vulgar girl!" (24) In the same manner, a few moments later Martha, in ridiculing George for not taking advantage of being the son-in-law of the president of the college, says "some men would give their right arm for the chance!" (28) Taking the cliché literally again, George corrects her by remarking, "Alas, Martha, in reality it works out that the sacrifice is usually of a somewhat more private portion of the anatomy." As George and Martha bicker over why Honey got sick—neither of them acknowledges that the brandy she's been downing all night might have something to do with it—Martha nags at George to apologize for making Honey throw up. George rejects his responsibility for this: "I did not make her throw up." As Martha continues her assault, "Well, who do you think did … Sexy over there? You think he made his own little wife sick?" To which George—"helpfully," Albee directs—concludes, "Well, you make me sick" (118). The cliché goes both ways: figuratively, he is "sick" of Martha; literally, Nick might have made Honey physically ill. In a similar situation, George is able to turn Nick's threat of "You're going to regret this [telling the real basis for Nick and Honey's marriage]" to futility by admitting, "Probably. I regret everything" (150). In these instances, by taking literally and giving specific application to a cliché which usually functions in a figurative and general manner, Albee comes closest to presenting unambiguous truth. Although Martha still considers herself the Earth Mother, ironically since she is beyond menopause, it is George who is the Creative Force in the play. One might call him a director who attempts to set things in motion yet remain detached. In the movie, he openly announces: "I'm running this show." His attempt to assume the role of director is an integral part of the truth/illusion situation, for as he vacillates between detachment and involvement, his statements attain their ambiguity. He is presented with his audience—the new biology professor and his wife. As the guests wait at the door, George assumes his controlling roll by admonishing Martha not to "start in on the bit [about their "son"]" (18). Obviously he intends to run the show, to direct the conversation. Despite his attempts to remain an outside creator, from time to time he is involuntarily drawn into the action itself. There are four major painful confrontations for George, all times during which he contributes to the ambiguity between truth and illusion by adopting a false stance. Involved in the false stance is not only language, but gesture and action as well; all function in George's attempt to remain a director, and each interacts and supports the others. The first is the revelation that Martha beat him in a boxing match, a revelation made more painful and more personally degrading by the fact that Nick was "inter- collegiate state middleweight champion." Just prior to this, George has resisted Martha's goading to gush over Nick's having received his masters when he was "twelve-and-ahalf." Albee notes that George is to strike "a pose, his hand over his heart, his head raised, his voice stentorian" and announce: "I am preoccupied with history" (40-50). Under the guise of an actor, using words which in another context would seem normal, not pretentious, he states the truth. But because it is obviously an act, he can admit the truth with no involvement. (Later, p. 178, he admits, sincerely this time, that he has turned to a contemplation of the past.) After being able to admit the truth, he is confronted with Martha's "Hey George, tell 'em about the boxing match we had." His only response when caught without the defense of role-playing is to exit "with a sick look on his face" (57). But he is not gone long. He returns, as an actor with a gun. His "Pow!! You're dead! Pow! You're dead!" is again his assumption of a role, because he had been pushed to involvement and disgrace. To understand the Chinese parasol which substitutes for a bullet, we need only to consider his stentorian pose for the admission of his life's focus; the "Pow! You're dead!" is as much of a reality—in his mind and intention—as his preoccupation with history. Both are masked in false dialogue and action. His role as director has been challenged, he is forced to involvement, and he meets this challenge by ostentatiously playing a part. He retreats to the realm of illusion in the face of what is for him a painful truth. But the degree to which this is an illusion is difficult to determine because, as has already been pointed out, the norm is by no means clearly established. As in the first conflict, Martha is the instigator in the second conflict. During George and Nick's get-acquainted session while Martha and Honey were upstairs, George has told of an experience that happened to one of his friends during their youth. Now Martha brings up the fact that George has written a novel dealing with this experience, one which elicited from her father the judgment: "You publish that goddamn book and you're out … on your ass!" (135) George's pained "Desist! Desist!" gets only laughter from Martha and a mocking "De … sist!" from Nick. His equally false formal dialogue, "I will not be made mock of!" again gets only a mocking response from Nick. George is pushed to the breaking point as Martha concludes, supposedly quoting George's statement to her father, "No, Sir, this isn't a novel at all … this is the truth … this really happened … to me!" (137) He lunges at Martha, grabbing her by the throat. His threat, "I'll kill you," now is carried out; the Chinese parasol is replaced by grasping hands. In both instances, however, George has first relied on or been pushed to dialogue which is unnatural for him, which both masks and reveals his intention. Similarly in the third crisis, the one in which Martha challenges George to intervene in her proposed adultery with Nick, George retreats to the most obvious of all detached roles—reading a commentary on the situation. This retreat is preceded by a reliance on making literal application of a cliché, the humor of which allows him to remain a director, a detached person controlling or at least only viewing the antics of the others. Consider the scene near the end of Act II as Martha seeks to get George: Martha: I'm entertaining. I'm entertaining one of the guests. I'm necking with one of the guests. George: Oh, that's nice. Which one? (170) Grammatically, Martha's speech has left her vulnerable for George's bitter question. It also affords him a chance to be "seemingly relaxed and preoccupied" as the directions indicate. Humor becomes his shield. And later, as he reads: Martha: Oh, I see what you're up to, you lousy little. George: I'm up to page a hundred and … again he finds refuge behind a humorous literal application of her statement. By taking the cliché referring abstractly to anticipated, frequently unorthodox action and applying it literally to the present situation, George does reveal the truth—he is "up to page a hundred and .…" But he also creates for himself an escape from the truth of Martha's proposed adultery. As Martha's fury rises, she says: Martha: Why, you miserable … I'll show you. George: No … show him, Martha, he hasn't seen it. As in the preceding quotation, George protects himself from the threat of Martha's statement. At the same time, he caustically degrades Martha's sexual attractiveness, the very things she is trying so desperately to prove to him and to herself. And George's final deadly, revealing reversal of accusation shows the skill with which George is able to shatter the moral illusion under which the others operate while protecting his own: Nick: You're disgusting! George: Because you're going to hump Martha, I'm disgusting? (172) As with humor, so the quotation from the book serves as a screen for his emotions. " 'And the west, encumbered by crippling alliances, and burdened with a morality too rigid to accomodate itself to the swing of events, must … eventually … fall' " (174). This, by the context surrounding it, should be a sort of thesis statement of the play. But who actually has the "crippling appliances," whose morality is"too rigid"? George, because the circumstances of his novel really happened and he cannot ignore or depreciate them? Martha, because she is the president's daughter and is bound to the college, the faculty, and its sports? Or perhaps does it have application only in the literal, the universal—the West? Once again, a "great truth" has been presented— almost. And again, the ambiguity is a direct result of the language. Finishing the quotation, George "gathers all the fury he has been containing within himself … he shakes … with a cry that is part growl, part howl, he hurls [the book] at the chimes" (174). Once again, false dialogue has masked temporarily his involvement and pain. The final encounter is one manipulated by George: the death of and Mass for their "son." George begins the action by appearing in the kitchen doorway, snapdragons covering his face; Albee notes that he should speak in a "hideously cracked falsetto": "Flores; flores para los muertos. Flores" (195) (Flowers; flowers for the dead. Flowers), he announces to Martha and Nick. Here is Albee's most complete interposing of dialogue which in another context would not be unusual, but which in this context again both reveals and conceals. As with the reading, so with the foreign language; George can say exactly what he means without being involved. George shifts roles at this point; his face "gleeful," he opens his arms to Nick and says, "Sonny! You've come home for your birthday! At last!" A moment later, "Affecting embarassment" Albee directs, "I … I brung ya dese flowers, Mart'a, 'cause I … wull, 'cause you'se awwwwww hell. Gee" (196). George is therefore able, actor that he is, to argue quite convincingly—concrete examples and all—with great logic that the "moon may very well have gone down … but it came back up" (199). The argument is no more superficial than any other transactions at this point. From this Martha moves to a taunting jibe about George's parents and the novel; next they focus on whether Nick is a "stud" or"house-boy." The main elements of conflict are thus reinstated in the drama; the stage is ready for the battle—and George again assumes a role to escape the pain, this time the role of a priest. Albee's "message," if indeed the play gives one, is largely determined by the attitude George assumes in reciting the Mass. Is the murder of the son an act of revenge, as the conclusion of Act II would lead us to believe? Or is it, on the contrary, an act of compassion, the act of an uninvolved director freeing his actors of their illusions? If Virginia Woolf elicits disagreement from critics concerning dialogue, the motivation for George's action has called forth a stand from nearly everyone writing about the play; an account of their opinions would be little more than a list under "Revenge" and "Compassion." Rather than merely tally up the votes, let us look at two performances of the play. In the recording8 of the New York play, George's (Arthur Hill's) voice indicates a determined, almost angry attempt to kill, once and for all time, this cherished illusion. "Requiescat in Pace" sounds as though it were to be followed by the stomp of a foot and perhaps a quick "Damn it!" not altogether unanticipated at this point in the play. There has been no switch from the revenge motive; this is the thing that will "get" Martha; therefore George does it, does it well, does it determinedly, does it almost with glee. In a presentation of the play by the Repertory Theatre at the University of Nebraska a rather striking difference was apparent. Martha's rendition of the "child's" life was not merely a defense or a justification of his existence; it was a confession: "I have tried, O God, I have tried … through one failure after another.…" (227) On her knees, in a voice of restrained agony, she becomes the figure of man tormented with sudden awareness of his condition. But to the confession there can be no Absolution. Martha the confessant receives counsel but no pardon. And this it seems is central to understanding the character of George throughout the play. To give Absolution, the Confessor must be consecrated, set apart, uninvolved. This George would like to be, tries to be, but is not. Creator he is: his novel, though unpublished and scorned by "respectable" New Carthage standards, is the mark in the academic jungle of a creative mind. The past histories (Nick and Honey's marriage and the part played by "Jesus money, Mary money," for example) originate in his mind (143). The actions offstage (Honey's being curled up fetus-like on the bathroom floor, for example) reach us through George's reports (167). Therefore he can function at times as a director. But as we have seen, he does not have the ability to remain separate from his creation; his retreat behind false dialogue does not protect him from the slings and arrows which plague the others. He is not set apart; he is not, therefore, able to give Absolution to Martha. Significantly he can only say, "We couldn't [have children]" (238). It seems, considering the pattern that Albee has established in the play itself, that the presentation of George as a compassionate, but deeply involved person is more consistent with the whole. George's action is no longer one of revenge, nor is it solely one of freeing Martha from illusion, illusion which she may or may not be better off without. He is painfully involved; the altar upon which he celebrates the Mass holds a part of him: "There are very few things in this world that I am sure of … but the one thing in this whole stinking world that I am sure of … is my partnership, my chromosomological partnership in the … creation of our … blond eyed, blue haired … son" (72). He is director become actor in a play he had hoped to control, an unconsecrated priest playing one more painful game. The interpen-tration of truth and illusion is nowhere more vividly presented: he did create the "son," but paradoxically the"son" does not exist. Just as we cannot separate the discussion of language in the play from the characters, so can we not separate Albee's manipulation of language from the overall meaning of the play. Repeatedly Albee pounces on the word "know," showing how little we really do know of another's experience. Communication is frequently a theme of Albee's works, and Virginia Woolf is no exception. The fact that there may be a discrepancy between what someone says happened and what did happen, as well as our inability to appreciate an unexperienced situation, receives attention in the play. Truth for the person merely observing a particular situation may not be truth for the one experiencing it; what is truth for one may seem illusion to the other. Early in Act I George clears up a humorous confusion of pronoun references by reminding Nick that George's wife is Martha. "Yes … I know," Nick responds. George counters: "If you were married to Martha you would know what it means. (Pause) But then, if I were married to your wife I would know what that means, too … wouldn't I?" (36) This scene is picked up later as Nick reminds George, "… your wife is Martha.""Oh, yes … I know (with some rue)" (89). Similarly, as Martha sums up the story of her quick marriage to the "lawn mower" with "It was very nice," Nick is quick to agree: "Yes. Yes." Martha's response,"What do you mean, yes, yes? How would you know?" (78) again focuses on the inability of one to know another's experience, and hence to know the"truth." There is, then, no clear cut distinction between truth and illusion in the play. Although non-existant and known by George and Marma to be non-existant, the "son" is never theless a reality in their lives, a reality by which they define their relationship to each other. Similarly George's "murder" of his parents may be real in his mind only, but it, too, is a reality which shapes his life. The same could be said of Honey's hysterical pregnancy or Nick's "potential." Although we have seen the exorcism of an illusion, there is no truth revealed in its place. Reality, Albee seems to be saying, is a painful interpenetration of verifiable fact and imagination, with the "fact" of the mind often far more real than that of the body. When Martha accuses George of not knowing the difference between truth and illusion, he admits, "No: but we must carry on as though we did." In this play, set in one room which becomes a world in itself with its own games, its own rules, "All truth," as George admits, "[becomes] relative" (222). And language is a major device in the play by which the relativity and ambiguity of truth are accomplished. Notes 1Edward Albee, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (New York: Pocket Books, Inc., 1962). Subsequent references in the text to the play will be designated Virginia Woolf and page number. 2 Daniel McDonald, "Truth and Illusion in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" Renascence, XVII, 64. 3Ibid, p. 65. 4"Albee and the Medusa Head," New Republic, CXLVII (November 3, 1962), 29. 5"Edward Albee: Red Herrings and White Whales," Commentary, XXXV (April 1963), 299. 6"Along Nightmare Alley," Vogue, CXVI (April 1, 1963), 119. Certainly not all critics share Mr. Kerr's evaluation of the dialogue. For example, John McCarten, who assesses the play as "vulgar mishmash," writes: "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? could be cut in half by the elimination of the 'God-damn's,' 'Jesus Christ's,' and other expressions designed, presumably, to show us that this is really modern stuff." See "Long Night's Journey Into Daze," The New Yorker, XXXVIII (October 20, 1962), 85. 7Richard Schechner, "Who's Afraid of Edward Albee?" Tulane Drama Review, VII (Spring 1963), 8.

8Columbia Records No. DOL 287.