The eroticism is of the novel. Erotic literature is literature in which eroticism is the novel. It focuses on that. It also implies a certain degree of description, a certain hard core. And to find novels in which you have plot, character, literary quality, plus detailed and real moving descriptions of fucking is a rarity.
I would like to see that change. Just because someone writes honestly about sex, or thinking about sex, does not make the book an erotic book, even if one or two passages really make your blood boil.
This is a very different reading experience than something like the arcade scenes in Exit to Eden. What you will find in this book are honest discussions on the topic of sex: sexual freedom, sexual fantasy, sexual repression, sexual confusion. Call me stunted, call me slow, but it has taken me a long time to say these things out loud so to find someone else who has already done it so well is a gift.
For me it was liberating to see these words in print. Sex, I was terrified of the tremendous power it had over me. The energy, the excitement, the power to make me feel totally crazy! What about that? This was my thought as I read though the passages that changed point of view, tense, and fell smoothly into profound or hilarious rumination.
Isadora does lots of fantasizing, especially what I suspect both women and men can relate to--the zipless fuck. Read the book. I would say the purest version of this for me has always been found in books, alone with my authors and their words…After you read the book you can let me know what you think. When I started raving on Facebook a family friend said she hated the book and sent me this review as she said it summed up why.
Isadora comes off to some as whiny to some. Fair enough. I can see this, but I would also argue that we hardly ever nail the guys for the same things when they are angsting about finding their place in the world, droning endlessly about their feelings of isolation, or how trapped they feel at the prospect of a new family or a career change. We might even call them philosophers! Wonderful book, the author eventually won a Nobel prize.
I could have cared less. What I will continue to recommend about this book are all the passages that sum up a particular situation or emotion, frustrations I had felt that someone else had finally legitimized.
What I find morbidly interesting is the fact that this book came out the year Roe v. Wade was passed. Could women in imagine that we would still have to listen to politicians make snide remarks about birth control in the year ? Maybe they could, maybe they were less optimistic than I am. For , none of the situations or thoughts presented should be shocking.
To judge Fear of Flying, without benefit of the same social and political climate has got to be a mistake. All of this surely could not have been as common and as acceptable as it is now. I would love to hear from any women who were adults at the time Fear of Flying came out and get a sense of what you think has changed if anything.
I can understand women who worked for a certain level of equality becoming impatient with Isadora and her angst, they were too busy making changes to stop and worry about anything else. Good for them, I send a sincere thank you and say God Bless. I would almost argue that the frustration the reader may feel with Isadora for making the decisions she does, staying with and listening to all her stupid male analysts, her infatuation with the infuriating Adrian, are part of what made me appreciate the book.
My reactions to her behavior said a lot about me and I learned things about myself from having that experience. Sometimes I was ashamed to admit I had done some of the same things I was frustrated with Isadora for. She struggled with guilt for leaving a man who would in the end equal a lifetime of unhappiness and sacrifice. Someone after all has to look after the kids. Where would we be if everyone were like her? Me, who came to that marriage with three full shelves of books and about ten different projects in mind!
Erica Jong has gone farther in identifying that bullshit female need to make everyone so goddam happy than anyone I have read before. She also did a beautiful job showing us how we force these ideas on our friends and our daughters. Another reason I need to spend more time with the women. Certainly they all matter to me, and certainly I cannot only live for me, or I would cease to be me, but does it have to be one or the other?
It was in these moments that I felt the most grateful. What I did through most of the book was fold down pages and mark passages with my thumbnail until I was able to get ahold of a pencil. Read this book for what is relatable, good and bad. I saw them through the eyes of male writers. I thought of them as writers, as authorities, as gods who knew and were to be trusted completely. Naturally I trusted everything they said, even when it implied my own inferiority. The passage goes on to give examples and when combined with all the men who keep telling her what is wrong with her and the fact that she listens to them makes the point yet again.
Well what the fuck are you listening to them for? Makes you want to slap her and then hug her for finally coming to her senses.
Ever since I read this book I have had even more reason to hate The Princesses. Read this book. I also guess that everyone who reads it will take away something different and am eager to hear from anyone willing to discuss the book.
My word, there were a few scenes in there that really worked for me, though the book is classified as a historical romance. I love Henry Miller, but I never found much of his writing all that erotic either. I found this very dated and not relevant to women today. Not only because the zipless fuck is less likely to happen but because the book dosen't seem to approach realtionships with any equality.
The psychology of the book seemed like the most outdated part. For me the writting was not good enough to overcome the shortcomings of the story. I appreciate that the the book for the impact it made on women's sexual liberation and freedom, but not relevant in today's sexual practices or norms. More int I found this very dated and not relevant to women today. More intresting as a historical artifact then as a novel.
Jul 10, Traci Medeiros rated it it was amazing. I wish I could have a more natural visceral reaction to this book but I read it from a state of being all too aware of it's controversy and place in feminism and time. I wish I had discovered a dusty copy in a grandmother's attic or untouched corner of a used bookstore because that is really how it should be read It had been mentioned too many times as an example and I had to read it for myself. I did instantly feel a c I wish I could have a more natural visceral reaction to this book but I read it from a state of being all too aware of it's controversy and place in feminism and time.
I did instantly feel a connection with Isadora, actually a pretty intense one, "damn someone already wrote the book I've always wanted to write," and it wasn't even all that stimulating sexual misadventure but rather what some critics would call Isadora's dime a dozen "neurotic tendencies.
As I read it I too questioned myself, with all the context I knew about the book glaring back at me with a criticizing eye. Was this just an excuse to enjoy porn under the guise of being an intellectual? Was this feminism or were we attempting a "if we can't beat em' join em'" mentality? Was this self-empowerment or loss of self-respect? Let's Change The World Together. Pdfdrive:hope Give books away. It used to play over and over again as I shuttled back and forth from Heidelberg to Frankfurt, from Frankfurt to Heidelberg:.
A grimy European train compartment Second Class. The seats are leatherette and hard. There is a sliding door to the corridor outside. Olive trees rush by the window. Two Sicilian peasant women sit together on one side with a child between them. They appear to be mother and grandmother and granddaughter.
Across the way in the window seat is a pretty young widow in a heavy black veil and tight black dress which reveals her voluptuous figure. She is sweating profusely and her eyes are puffy. The middle seat is empty. The corridor seat is occupied by an enormously fat woman with a moustache. Her huge haunches cause her to occupy almost half of the vacant center seat. She is reading a pulp romance in which the characters are photographed models and the dialogue appears in little puffs of smoke above their heads.
This fivesome bounces along for a while, the widow and the fat woman keeping silent, the mother and grandmother talking to the child and each other about the food.
And then the train screeches to a halt in a town called perhaps corleone. A tall languid-looking soldier, unshaven, but with a beautiful mop of hair, a cleft chin, and somewhat devilish, lazy eyes, enters the compartment, looks insolently around, sees the empty half-seat between the fat woman and the widow, and, with many flirtatious apologies, sits down.
He is sweaty and disheveled but basically a gorgeous hunk of flesh, only slightly rancid from the heat. The train screeches out of the station. Of course, he is also rubbing against the haunches of the fat lady—and she is trying to move away from him—which is quite unnecessary because he is unaware of her haunches. It hits one moist breast and then the other. It seems to hesitate in between as if paralyzed between two repelling magnets.
The pit and the pendulum. He is hypnotized. She stares out the window, looking at each olive tree as if she had never seen olive trees before. He rises awkwardly, half-bows to the ladies, and struggles to open the window. She appears not to notice. He rests his left hand on the seat between his thigh and hers and begins to wind rubber fingers around and under the soft flesh of her thigh.
The Romantic movement was just beginning, and Mary and Percy Bysshe Shelley were to become two of its greatest avatars. However, Shelley died extremely young—drowned off the coast of Lerici in Italy, leaving Mary with orphans and a writing desk.
She was the keeper of his flame—while also having managed to write the book that started the entire Frankenstein tradition.
Mary Shelley has kept publishers and movie studios in the black for centuries. No book is born out of solid rock. It has precursors and parents. All women writers in English stand on the backs of two Marys, whether we know it or not. But my novel was hardly a treatise on the rights of women, though some readers have seen it as that. My rule was always: Make the reader turn the page. So I wrote a funny, outrageous novel about rebellion and sex. Readers thought the book so real that they showed up at my doorstep after leaving their husbands.
I became the writer as sexual guru—the advisor to the lovelorn and frustrated—both female and, later, male. Fear of Flying was despised by prudes, beloved by rebels and rabble-rousers. It was claimed by Henry Miller to be the female answer to Tropic of Cancer.
It was said by John Updike to be another Catcher in the Rye. Through the years, it was blamed and praised in equal measure. It was said to be the book that gave women a wandering eye and made adventurous rogues get lucky.
Even today readers stop me in the street to thank me. When I give readings, I see copies of my own book so marked with asterisks and stars that they are almost unreadable. This is perhaps the best compliment an author can get. Now Fear of Flying will appear for the first time in zeroes and ones. It is about to take me on another journey and teach me new things.
I certainly hope it does the same for you when you are old enough to read it. Because you are blood of my blood and bone of my bone, I hope it inspires you to seize your own life. Everyone makes them. It teaches us more than safety. Be proud of all the great women who came before you. And remember you are the daughter of a daughter of a woman who made her own luck—even when she had no idea what on earth or heaven she was doing.
And married a seventh. A mood of cautious optimism should prevail. But actually my mood is better described as cautious pessimism. This is, in fact, the most perilous patch of air. Right here over Jamaica Bay where the plane banks and turns and the No Smoking sign goes off. This may well be where we go screaming down in thousands of flaming pieces. So I keep concentrating very hard, helping the pilot a reassuringly midwestern voice named Donnelly fly the passenger motherfucker.
Thank God for his crew cut and middle-America diction. Arthur Feet, Jr. Raymond Schrift who is hailing a blond stewardess named Nanci as if she were a taxi. I saw Dr. He kept insisting that the horse I was dreaming about was my father and that my periods would return if only I would ackzept being a vohman. Harvey Smucker whom I saw in consultation when my first husband decided he was Jesus Christ and began threatening to walk on the water in Central Park Lake.
Ernest Klumpner, the supposedly brilliant theoretician whose latest book is a psychoanalytic study of John Knox. Arnold Aaronson pretending to play chess on a magnetic board with his new wife who was his patient until last year , the singer Judy Rose. Judy Rose became famous in the fifties for recording a series of satirical ballads about pseudointellectual life in New York. In a whiny and deliberately unmusical voice, she sang the saga of a Jewish girl who takes courses at the New School, reads the Bible for its prose, discusses Martin Buber in bed, and falls in love with her analyst.
She has now become one with the role she created. Their sons were mostly sullen-faced adolescents in bell bottoms and shoulder-length hair who looked at their parents with a degree of cynicism and scorn which was almost palpable. I tried to lose them in the Louvre! To avoid them in the Uffizi! I was pretending, you see, to be a Lost Generation exile with my parents sitting three feet away. And here I was back in my own past, or in a bad dream or a bad movie: Analyst and Son of Analyst.
A planeload of shrinks and my adolescence all around me. Stranded in midair over the Atlantic with analysts many of whom had heard my long, sad story and none of whom remembered it. An ideal beginning for the nightmare the trip was going to become. We were bound for Vienna and the occasion was historic. Also by Erica Jong. Product Details.
Inspired by Your Browsing History. Join our community. Originally published in , the groundbreaking, uninhibited story of Isadora Wing and her desire to fly free caused a national sensation.