Edward Albee is awful. He wrote a play called Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? It stinks. It's all about some professor and his wife, the university president's daughter. They despise each other. Then they have a young couple over to visit, whom they aren't friendly to at all. The visiting dude, Nick, has intercourse with Martha, the president's daughter. Nick's wife Honey throws up a lot. Then George "kills" a son that doesn't exist, so Martha cries. I laugh at anyone who views this as a serious piece of literature, because it's about people and things that don't exist in the real world. Isn't that the point of art? To reveal things about reality? Some advice for Albee: find some reality, THEN write a play. Or just don't write any plays.