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 liquorfogged 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.