Plot
Lawrence begins the play, delivering a lesson on astronomy, in particular the Pleiades. In the course of describing the effects of universal expansion (see Hubble's law) he becomes excited and jumps around the room, imitating the stars being flung in every direction. Eventually he gets tired and starts muttering to himself about Joanna's return from the grocery store, and what she has in the 'Surprise Box,' a brightly colored box that Lawrence and Joanna use to give surprise gifts to each other.
Joanna enters in a huge panic, having been seen by some frightening 'outside' entity called Pruneface, Wienerface or both. She is pregnant. They engage in a number of strange conversations seemingly at random, in a playful manner. Joanna tells of an encounter she had on a subway with a college-age boy, and Lawrence accuses her of having sex with him. They play various games, including one where Joanna is a queen and Lawrence commands Edna and Claypone to fetch her various things. All of a sudden, however, he halts the game with the line: "You're not a queen, you're a whore."
Eventually Joanna collapses, seemingly unable to walk. She screams at Lawrence to get a doctor, but he is afraid of the outside world and refuses to go outside, preferring to send Edna instead. Her pains (possibly the result of pre-eclampsia) persist, and eventually she falls, unmoving, on the bed. Lawrence leans over her and begs her to return, falling into a futile stutter as the play ends.
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Famous quotes containing the word plot:
“After I discovered the real life of mothers bore little resemblance to the plot outlined in most of the books and articles I’d read, I started relying on the expert advice of other mothers—especially those with sons a few years older than mine. This great body of knowledge is essentially an oral history, because anyone engaged in motherhood on a daily basis has no time to write an advice book about it.”
—Mary Kay Blakely (20th century)
“The plot was most interesting. It belonged to no particular age, people, or country, and was perhaps the more delightful on that account, as nobody’s previous information could afford the remotest glimmering of what would ever come of it.”
—Charles Dickens (1812–1870)
“Trade and the streets ensnare us,
Our bodies are weak and worn;
We plot and corrupt each other,
And we despoil the unborn.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)