Fear of Flying

Fear of Flying

Erica Jong

Language: English

Pages: 480

ISBN: 0451209435

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Fear of Flying

Erica Jong

Language: English

Pages: 480

ISBN: 0451209435

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


The 30th Anniversary special!

Originally published in 1973, the ground-breaking, uninhibited story of Isadora Wing and her desire to fly free caused a national sensation—and sold more than twelve million copies. Now, after thirty years, the iconic novel still stands as a timeless tale of self-discovery, liberation, and womanhood.

 

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expect. We’re supposed to have a little holiday in Brittany.” I stare at him, calmly consulting his watch. The enormity of his betrayal leaves me speechless. Here I am—drunk, unwashed, not even knowing what day it is—and he’s keeping track of an appointment he made over a month ago. “You mean you’ve known this all along?” He nods. “And you let me think we were just being existentialists while you knew all along you had to meet Esther on a certain day?” “Well—have it your way. It wasn’t as

going up high into the ceiling. Old fur coats, English children’s coats with leather leggings, ski parkas, rain capes, trench coats, autographed slickers from our camp days, school blazers with name tapes in the necks and forgotten skate keys in the pockets, velvet evening coats, brocade coats, polo coats, mink coats … thirty-five years of changing fashions and four grown daughters … thirty-five years of buying and spending and raising kids and screaming … and what did my mother have to show for

on a new footing. No more groveling. No more manipulating each other with guilt all the time. You can’t lose a thing. And meanwhile, we’ll have a great time.” I pretended to Adrian that I wasn’t tempted, but in fact I was. And sorely. When I thought about it, it did seem as if Bennett knew everything about life except that having fun ought to be part of it. Life was a long disease to be cured by psychoanalysis. You might not cure it, but eventually you’d die anyway. The base of the couch would

knock an empty beer can to the ground, and the sound of the hollow tin on the pavement would echo through the room. In the beginning our romance was fine and spiritual and adolescent. (In later times we were to sound more like the dialogue from a Strindberg play.) We used to read poetry to each other in bed, discuss the difference between life and art, ponder whether or not Yeats would have become a great poet if Maud Gonne had, in fact, married him. Spring found us taking a Shakespeare course

some reason that “little sister” sent chills through me. “You know I always think of you as my little sister, don’t you?” “Actually I didn’t, but thanks anyway, I’ll be OK. Don’t worry. I’m thinking of going back home and stopping in Italy again for a few days on the way. My ticket gives me a free stop in Rome. I don’t think the climate here agrees with me. Lalah and Chloe are supposed to fly to New York next week anyway and it keeps getting hotter and hotter. …” I was babbling on out of

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