I find it hard to distinguish between my self-disgust and my disgust with others,” wrote Edward Albee in his 1983 play The Man Who Had Three Arms. The sentiment, or confession, is delivered by the title character as he reflects on his curious, but temporary, life as a celebrated freak. Years ago, he suddenly discovered an arm growing out of his back, then used it to launch himself to fame and riches before the arm gradually subsided and disappeared, leaving him a miserable and ordinary ex-freak. The character, identified only as “Himself” in the text, continues

. . . and I worry about that; I really, truly do. I mean, I’m a nice person or at least I used to be. It occurs to me: look here, old man, you really ought to be able to distinguish between self-disgust and your disgust with others. Give it a good try! Don’t mix ’em up like that. I mean, you have no trouble with pity—you can tell self-pity from the Christlike a mile away—well, a hundred yards.

Albee, who died September 16 aged eighty-eight, was, The New York Times had it, the successor to Eugene O’Neill and Arthur Miller—the signature American playwright of his era. By contrast, in The Wall Street Journal, Terry Teachout less fulsomely pointed out that Albee was the author of one great play. Can both The Times and The Journalbe correct? I think it probable that they are, albeit with a polite