Language: Truth and Illusion in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

"
Author(s): Ruth Meyer
Source: Educational Theatre Journal, Vol. 20, No. 1, 20th-Century American Theatre Issue
(Mar., 1968), pp. 60-69
Published by: The Johns Hopkins University Press
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/3204876
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 RUTH MEYER

Language: Truth and Illusion

in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

AS GEORGE TRIES TO DETERMINE WHETHER GUEST NICK IS "STUD" OR "HOUESBOY,"

Martha pleadingly accuses him of the inability 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 between truth and illusion. For
indeed in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? the distinction be-
tween 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 com-
plex level than 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 Piran-
dello, 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 con-

cealment." The dialogue of the characters which both reveals and conceals
identity establishes the ambiguity between truth and illusion and in part ac-
counts for the violent disagreement among the critics as to the "message" of the

Miss Meyer is an assistant professor of English at Morningside College, Sioux City, Iowa.
1 Edward 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.
2Daniel 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.

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Language: Truth and Illusion in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? 61

play. For example, George's use of cliches reveals a characteristic of his person-
ality; 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 dis-
cuss 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 through-
out 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 headaches . . . the whining
... the ...." He quickly concludes: "How do you make your secret little mur-
ders stud-boy 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 child-
birth or the psychological pain, unverifiable but nonetheless very real, involved
in being a parent? George's quick conclusion furthers the ambiguity; unfortun-
ately, 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 dilemma 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 un-
familiar 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

5"Edward Albee: Red Herrings and White Whales," Commentary, XXXV (April 1963),
299.

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62 RUTH MEYER

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; referring to her as "love" does not make her loved. But her
adultery attempt has been unsuccessful, and there is some sort of mutual con-
cern, 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: col-
lege 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
cliches. 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),

6"Along Nightmare Alley," Vogue, CXVI (April i, 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 2o, 1962), 85.

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Language: Truth and Illusion in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? 63

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" (ioo). 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 remi-
niscent 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 some-
thing 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. Be-
cause 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 cliches, and Albee uses them in
a manner that contributes to the truth/illusion situation. Albee, like Ionesco,
is a master of the cliche, 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,

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64 RUTH MEYER

Albee often reveals a significant facet of his characters through a slanted clichE,
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 cliche by its very
nature is seldom considered a particular and applicable truth, even the distor-
tion of one has an air of ambiguity about it. Albee, nonetheless, comes closer to
presenting unambiguous truth through the use of cliches than in any other in-
stance in the play.
This use of cliches 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 cliche 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 cliche 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 cliche is particularly important to the play, George's ac-
cusation 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 cliche only halfway through the play.
Albee also uses cliches 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 cliche 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 cliche 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 some-
thing 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

7 Richard Schechner, "Who's Afraid of Edward Albee?" Tulane Drama Review, VII
(Spring 1963), 8.

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Language: Truth and Illusion in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? 65

cliche 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
cliche 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 de-
tached. 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 admonish-
ing 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 re-
main 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 cham-
pion." 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 involve-
ment 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

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66 RUTH MEYER

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 up-
stairs, 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 judg-
ment: "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 ob-
vious of all detached roles-reading a commentary on the situation. This retreat
is preceded by a reliance on making literal application of a cliche, 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 cliche 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.
Georgia: 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

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Language: Truth and Illusion in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? 67

with which George is able to shatter the moral illusion under which the others
operate while protecting his own:
Nick: You're disgustingl
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. . . eventual-
ly ... 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 ambig-
uity 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 Al-
bee'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 birth-
day! 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 "houseboy." 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 con-
cerning 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

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68 RUTH MEYER

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 indi-
cates 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 unantici-
pated at this point in the play. There has been no switch from the revenge mo-
tive; 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 con-
secrated, 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 off-
stage (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 interpenetration 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

8 Columbia Records No. DOL 287.

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Language: Truth and Illusion in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? 69

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 situa-
tion, 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 humor-
ous 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 Martha to be non-existant,
the "son" is nevertheless 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.

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