Fear of flying erica jong pdf download

Isadora Wing sooooo envies the fact that German streets are cleaner than those in the US. In case you missed that info the first time don't worry, she will rub it in your face till you learn to chant it like a mantra. She won all her college poetry writing contests, edited Shelves: too-sexy-for-maiden-aunts, no-redeeming-social-importance, parody-homage, story-review, pooh-dante.

I decided to choose 6 for the beginning of the ones waiting on my shelves for a long time or that I do not know if I would like, read 50 pages and decide if I want to continue with them or send them away. This week and the next I will share with you the results. I bought this novel almost 10 years ago because, well, I was afraid of Shelves: fiction, favorites, own, just-like-a-woman, the-power-of-love, women-writers, wheres-the-bedroom, golden-years, in-a-land-far-away, not-by-a-white-guy.

For whatever reason possibly because someone I recommended it to wasn't that thrilled by it , I feel a bit like I need to defend this book lately, and since I reviewed it when I first joined this site and most people were writing shorter reviews, I'd like to give it a better write-up. The premise of Fear of Flying is fairly simple: Isadora White Wing is in a marriage she isn't exactly happy with.

Her husband isn't especially warm to her, nor is he incredibly supportive of her career like Jong, He starts to sweat immediately at the man's request, but stays outwardly calm as he puts down the coffee cup and follows the editor into his office. The editor m Rather neglectful of reading duties I shall admit to this very vulgar crime for the lethargic days of summer, it was truly a rare treat to sporadically go back to this, a sly and sinful read. That '50 Shades' is such a success should not be surprising-- it's just that the reminder that other people are having sex while you are or are not is.

I've been quoted before as saying that 'sexual non-adventure is Jong writes insightfully about the between-a-rock-and-a-hard-place that women resided in during the early s, and at times still do. The protagonist isn't what I consider terribly likable, yet her bold intelligence, self-awareness, and wit carry her through myriad messy bits. Jong states in the author interview at the end that she'd like this book to be considered a modern classic - which it is!

I found myself walking round this book and poking it nervously instead of reading it. This went on for days. Fear of Flying - famously feisty, fearless, feminist and full of fucking.

Also well known to be zipless. It was like having a landmine on the table, if I opened it I could lose a leg, or some other fleshly part. When I did summon up the courage I was a little bit — well, deflated.

As opposed to being flated, which I had been. It was like pages of sta Earlier on this evening I was talking to my sainted mother on the telephone, and she noted that I seemed to be 'reading a lot of intellectual books lately,' to which I reacted with vehemently indignant daughterly rage: 'I am NOT, Mom! A seminal feminist classic? I am nothing short of incredulous. Thank God for his crew cut and middle-America diction.

Arthur Feet, Jr. I saw Dr. 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. 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. Centuries ago, wars ago, in , Freud fled his famous consulting room on the Berggasse when the Nazis threatened his family.

During the years of the Third Reich any mention of his name was banned in Germany, and analysts were expelled if they were lucky or gassed if they were not. Now, with great ceremony, Vienna was welcoming the analysts back. They were even opening a museum to Freud in his old consulting room. The enticements included free food, free Schnaps, cruises on the Danube, excursions to vineyards, singing, dancing, shenanigans, learned papers and speeches and a tax-deductible trip to Europe.

The people who invented scmaltz and crematoria were going to show the analysts how welcome back they were. Welcome back! At least those of you who survived Auschwitz, Belsen, the London Blitz and the cooptation of America.

Austrians are nothing if not charming. Holding the Congress in Vienna had been a hotly debated issue for years, and many of the analysts had come only reluctantly. Anti-Semitism was part of the problem, but there was also the possibility that radical students at the University of Vienna would decide to stage demonstrations.

I began my research by approaching Dr. Smucker near the galley, where he was being served coffee by one of the stewardesss. He looked at me with barely a glimmer of recognition. Smucker seemed taken aback by the shocking intimacy of the question. He looked at me long and searchingly. I should have known. Why do analysts always answer a question with a question? And why should this night be different from any other night—despite the fact that we are flying in a and eating unkosher food?

Analysts all seem to be Talmudists who flunked out of seminary in the first year. He had none of the flat-footed literal-mindedness which makes even the most brilliant psychoanalysts sound so pompous. The horse you are dreaming about is your father. The kitchen stove you are dreaming about is your mother. The piles of bullshit you are dreaming about are, in reality, your analyst.

This is called the transference. You dream about breaking your leg on the ski slope. You have, in fact, just broken your leg on the ski slope and you are lying on the couch wearing a ten-pound plaster cast which has had you housebound for weeks, but has also given you a beautiful new appreciation of your toes and the civil rights of paraplegics. And forget about your mother the oven and your analyst the pile of shit. What do we have left except the smell?

You, him, your analyst, his analyst. Four in a bed. This picture is definitely rated X. We had been in this state for at least the past year. Every decision was referred to the shrink, or the shrinking process. Should we move into a bigger apartment? Should we have a baby? Something seemed very wrong in our marriage. Our lives ran parallel like railroad tracks.

Bennett spent the day at his office, his hospital, his analyst, and then evenings at his office again, usually until nine or ten. I taught a couple of days a week and wrote the rest of the time. My teaching schedule was light, the writing was exhausting, and by the time Bennett came home, I was ready to go out and break loose. I had had plenty of solitude, plenty of long hours alone with my typewriter and my fantasies. And I seemed to meet men everywhere. The world seemed crammed with available, interesting men in a way it never had been before I was married.

What was it about marriage anyway? Even if you loved your husband, there came that inevitable year when fucking him turned as bland as Velveeta cheese: filling, fattening even, but no thrill to the taste buds, no bittersweet edge, no danger.

And you longed for an overripe Camembert, a rare goat cheese: luscious, creamy, cloven-hoofed. I was not against marriage.

I believed in it in fact. But what about all those other longings which after a while marriage did nothing much to appease? The restlessness, the hunger, the thump in the gut, the thump in the cunt, the longing to be filled up, to be fucked through every hole, the yearning for dry champagne and wet kisses, for the smell of peonies in a penthouse on a June night, for the light at the end of the pier in Gatsby.

The sardonic, bittersweet vocabulary of Cole Porter love songs, the sad sentimental Rogers and Hart lyrics, all the romantic nonsense you yearned for with half your heart and mocked bitterly with the other half. Growing up female in America.

What a liability! You grew up with your ears full of cosmetic ads, love songs, advice columns, whoreoscopes, Hollywood gossip, and moral dilemmas on the level of TV soap operas. What litanies the advertisers of the good life chanted at you! What curious catechisms! And the crazy part of it was that even if you were clever, even if you spent your adolescence reading John Donne and Shaw, even if you studied history or zoology or physics and hoped to spend your life pursuing some difficult and challenging career—you still had a mind full of all the soupy longings that every high-school girl was awash in.

Only the surface trappings were different. Only the talk was a little more sophisticated. Underneath it all, you longed to be annihilated by love, to be swept off your feet, to be filled up by a giant prick spouting sperm, soapsuds, silks and satins, and of course, money. Nobody bothered to tell you what marriage was really about. You expected not to desire any other men after marriage. And you expected your husband not to desire any other women. Then the desires came and you were thrown into a panic of self-hatred.

What an evil woman you were! How could you keep being infatuated with strange men? How could you study their bulging trousers like that? How could you sit at a meeting imagining how every man in the room would screw?

How could you sit on a train fucking total strangers with your eyes? How could you do that to your husband? Did anyone ever tell you that maybe it had nothing whatever to do with your husband? And what about those other longings which marriage stifled? Those longings to hit the open road from time to time, to discover whether you could still live alone inside your own head, to discover whether you could manage to survive in a cabin in the woods without going mad; to discover, in short, whether you were still whole after so many years of being half of something like the back two legs of a horse outfit on the vaudeville stage.

Five years of marriage had made me itchy for all those things: itchy for men, and itchy for solitude. Itchy for sex and itchy for the life of a recluse. I knew my itches were contradictory—and that made things even worse. I knew my itches were unAmerican—and that made things still worse.

It is heresy in America to embrace any way of life except as half of a couple. Solitude is un-American. But a woman is always presumed to be alone as a result of abandonment, not choice. And she is treated that way: as a pariah. There is simply no dignified way for a woman to live alone. Oh, she can get along financially perhaps though not nearly as well as a man , but emotionally she is never left in peace.

Her friends, her family, her fellow workers never let her forget that her husbandlessness, her childlessness— her selfishness, in short—is a reproach to the American way of life. Even more to the point: the woman unhappy though she knows her married friends to be can never let herself alone. She lives as if she were constantly on the brink of some great fulfillment. The solitude of living inside her own soul?

The certainty of being herself instead of half of something else? My response to all this was not not yet to have an affair and not not yet to hit the open road, but to evolve my fantasy of the Zipless Fuck. The zipless fuck was more than a fuck. It was a platonic ideal. Zipless because when you came together zippers fell away like rose petals, underwear blew off in one breath like dandelion fluff. Tongues intertwined and turned liquid. Your whole soul flowed out through your tongue and into the mouth of your lover.

For the true, ultimate zipless A-1 fuck, it was necessary that you never get to know the man very well. I had noticed, for example, how all my infatuations dissolved as soon as I really became friends with a man, became sympathetic to his problems, listened to him kvetch about his wife, or ex-wives, his mother, his children.

After that I would like him, perhaps even love him—but without passion. And it was passion that I wanted. I had also learned that a sure way to exorcise an infatuation was to write about someone, to observe his tics and twitches, to anatomize his personality in type.

After that he was an insect on a pin, a newspaper clipping laminated in plastic. I might enjoy his company, even admire him at moments, but he no longer had the power to make me wake up trembling in the middle of the night. I no longer dreamed about him. He had a face. So another condition for the zipless fuck was brevity. And anonymity made it even better. During the time I lived in Heidelberg I commuted to Frankfurt four times a week to see my analyst. The ride took an hour each way and trains became an important part of my fantasy life.

Much as I hate to admit it, there are some beautiful men in Germany. One scenario of the zipless fuck was perhaps inspired by an Italian movie I saw years ago.

As time went by, I embellished it to suit my head. 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. 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, halfbows 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.

She continues staring at each olive tree as if she were God and had just made them and were wondering what to call them. Meanwhile the enormously fat lady is packing away her pulp romance in an iridescent green plastic string bag full of smelly cheeses and blackening bananas. And the grandmother is rolling ends of salami in greasy newspaper. The train screeches to a stop in a town called perhaps PRIZZI, and the fat lady, the mother, the grandmother, and the little girl leave the compartment.

Then the train begins to move again. Then the fingers are sliding between her thighs and they are parting her thighs, and they are moving upward into the fleshy gap between her heavy black stockings and her garters, and they are sliding up under her garters into the damp unpantied place between her legs.

The train enters a galleria, or tunnel, and in the semi-darkness the symbolism is consummated. She crosses the tracks, stepping carefully over them in her narrow black shoes and heavy black stockings. He stares after her as if he were Adam wondering what to name her. Then he jumps up and dashes out of the train in pursuit of her. At that very moment a long freight train pulls through the parallel track obscuring his view and blocking his way. Twenty-five freight cars later, she has vanished forever.

One scenario of the zipless fuck. The zipless fuck is absolutely pure. It is free of ulterior motives. There is no power game. No one is trying to prove anything or get anything out of anyone. The zipless fuck is the purest thing there is.

And it is rarer than the unicorn. And I have never had one. Alessandro, my Florentine friend, came close. But he was, after all, one clown in a unicorn suit. Consider this tapestry, my life.

We waited an hour there while the refueled. All the analysts sat stiffly on molded fiberglass chairs arranged in inflexible rows: gray, yellow, gray, yellow, gray, yellow. Most of them were carrying expensive cameras, and despite their longish hair, tentative beards, wire-rimmed glasses and wives dressed with an acceptably middle-class whiff of bohemia: cowhide sandals, Mexican shawls, Village silversmith jewelry , they exuded respectability. The sullen essence of squareness. That was, when I thought about it, what I had against most analysts.

They were such unquestioning acceptors of the social order. Their mildly leftist political views, their signing of peace petitions and decorating their offices with prints of Guernica were just camouflage.

When it came to the crucial issues: the family, the position of women, the flow of cash from patient to doctor, they were reactionaries. As rigidly self-serving as the Social Darwinists of the Victorian Era. It was just a few weeks before the trip to Vienna that we had our final blow-up. Why should I listen to you about what it means to be a woman? Are you a woman? And to other women? I talk to them. I was hating myself for sounding so damned much like some sort of tract and for being forced into simple-mindedly polarized positions.

I knew I was neglecting the subtleties. Who needed that? You could get that out of a fortune cookie. I can take it. I know it must be tough on you to be only five foot four—but supposedly you were analyzed and that should make it easier to bear. He had regressed all the way to second grade. He thought he was being very witty. Walk out. Slam the door. Tell me to go to hell. I mean maybe you can write it off that way—but I have a somewhat greater stake in deluding myself that something positive went on here.

You make the process like some sort of Catch So I can only reiterate what I said before. I closed it gently. No Nora-slamming-the-door routine to undercut the effect.

Goodbye Kolner. For a moment in the elevator I nearly cried. No more wondering was-it-helping as I wrote out the gargantuan check each month! No more arguing with Kolner like a movement leader! I was free! They made me feel as good as fifty minutes with Kolner ever had.

It was a start anyway. I was wearing the sandals on the flight to Vienna, and I looked down at them as we trooped back into the plane. Was it stepping on with the right foot or with the left that kept the plane from crashing?

She named me Isadora Zelda, but I try never to use the Zelda. I understand that she also considered Olympia, after Greece, and Justine, after Sade. In return for this lifetime liability, I call her Jude. Her real name is Judith. Nobody but my youngest sister ever calls her Mommy. The very name is like a waltz. But I never could stand the place. It seemed dead to me.

We arrived at 9 A. We shuffled in through customs dragging our suitcases and feeling dopey from the missed night of sleep. The airport looked scrubbed and gleaming.

I thought of the level of disorder, dirt, and chaos New Yorkers get used to. The return to Europe was always something of a shock. The streets seemed unnaturally clean. The parks seemed unnaturally full of unvandalized benches, fountains, and rose bushes. The public flowerbeds seemed unnaturally tidy.

Even the outdoor telephones worked. The customs officials glanced at our suitcases, and in less than twenty minutes we were boarding a bus which had been booked for us by the Vienna Academy of Psychiatry.

We boarded with the naive hope of making it to our hotel in a few minutes and going to sleep. Getting to the hotel was like one of those dreams where you have to get somewhere before something terrible happens but, inexplicably, your car keeps breaking down or going backward. Anyway I was dazed and angry and everything seemed to irritate me that morning.

It was partly the panic I always felt at being back in Germany. I lived longer in Heidelberg than in any city except New York, so Germany and Austria, too was a kind of second home to me.

I spoke the language comfortably—more comfortably than any of the languages I had studied in school—and I was familiar with the foods, the wines, the brand names, the closing times of shops, the clothes, the popular music, the slang expressions, the mannerisms.

But I was born in and if my parents had been German—not American—Jews, I would have been born and probably would have died in a concentration camp—despite my blond hair, blue eyes, and Polish peasant nose.

I could never forget that either. Germany was like a stepmother: utterly familiar, utterly despised. More despised, in fact, for being so familiar. I looked at their lumpy legs and lumpy asses. I hated them. I hated their fanatical obsession with the illusion of cleanliness.

Illusion, mind you, because Germans are really not clean. It has a cute little porcelain platform for the shit to fall on so you can inspect it before it whirls off into the watery abyss, and there is, in fact, no water in the toilet until you flush it.

As a result German toilets have the strongest shit smell of any toilets anywhere. I say this as a seasoned world traveler. Fast Download speed and ads Free!

Therapists who have found this phobia difficult to treat will find everything they need to give their clients success. This approach begins by explaining how anxiety, claustrophobia, and panic are caused when noises, motions—or even the thought of flying—trigger excessive stress hormones. Then, to stop this problem, Captain Bunn takes the reader step-by-step through exercises that permanently and automatically control these feelings.

He also explains how flying works, why it is safe, and teaches flyers how to strategically plan their flight, choose the right airlines, meet the captain, and so on. Through this program, Captain Bunn has helped thousands overcome their fear of flying. Now his book arms readers with the information they need to control their anxiety and fly comfortably.

Fear of flying is a distressing condition that can have a devastating effect on your life. FOFs - people with fear of flying - either put themselves through hell every time they take a flight, or else they avoid flying altogether. Luckily, help is at hand. The Allen Carr Easyway method has helped millions of people to quit smoking, alcohol and other drugs as well as to stop gambling, overeating and going into debt. This book unravels the misconceptions that make you believe flying is dangerous.

All you need to do is follow all the instructions and you cannot fail to cure your fear of flying. A stunning success. A retired professional pilot and authority on the flying phobia presents a program of motivational support, simple, effective exercises, and factual data designed to help individuals alleviate anxieties about flying.

Even in a time when women are still sexually repressed, Isadora Wing wishes to "fly free" with a man who completes her every fantasy. This book teaches how to work constructively with your brain so you can address your anxiety in different ways that truly help you let go of the fear.

Research indicates about 35 of every people develop a fear of flying at some point in their life. Almost everyone knows someone who has it. If you've ever mentioned to others that you aren't comfortable with air travel, you've probably already discovered just how common is the fear of flying.

Fear of flying is a condition that merits proper attention, and which we are increasingly in a better position to deal with, particularly thanks to clinical research. We now know that fear of flying is similar to other phobias, and that it cannot be dismissed simply as fear of the unknown, and that telling someone to "pull yourself together" just isn't likely to be an effective way to deal with the problem.

Gaining your freedom to expand your enjoyment of life is the purpose of this book. The book covers a number of areas, including valuable information about flying and everything to do with flying safety. Does the thought of flying fill you with dread? Do panic attacks leave you feeling scared and vulnerable? If so, this book could change your life. In easy-to-follow sections, you'll learn how to recognise cabin noises, manage turbulence and fly in bad weather conditions.

As your knowledge grows, so will your confidence, with the fear of the unknown removed. This is the first authoritative work to examine the psychological determinants and effects associated with the 'fear of flying'.

It is an up-to-date and wide-ranging handbook, covering theory, research and practice. The international panel of authors are all experienced researchers and clinicians, and are leaders in their respective fields. FOFs - people with fear of flying - either put themselves through hell every time they take a flight, or else they avoid flying altogether. Luckily, help is at hand. The Allen Carr Easyway method has helped millions of people to quit smoking, alcohol and other drugs as well as to stop gambling, overeating and going into debt.

This book unravels the misconceptions that make you believe flying is dangerous. All you need to do is follow all the instructions and you cannot fail to cure your fear of flying. A stunning success. The good news is that this is one of the most treatable psychological problems.

Overcome Your Fear of Flying, written by two psychologists and a pilot, looks at effective skills and techniques you can use to help reduce the anxiety commonly associated with flying. Now you are alone, and perhaps feeling unlovable? Is being single again overwhelming, scary, and totally not what you want? Are you freaked out about ever getting your life back together?

She guides them through asking for support, what to do or not do about sex and dating, how to begin anew, and what practices carry them forward into their new life. You are in good company. Statistics are of no help. What can help, though, is a better understanding of exactly what is happening during a typical flight from the only vantage point that counts, your passenger seat.

This eBook uses friendly language and terminology to clearly explain the sounds and noises you hear that may worry you and it tells you the truth about turbulence and adverse weather. Rest assured. The format is simple. You are guided through a complete flight from boarding an aircraft, through taxiing to take-off, climb, cruise, descent and finally to landing. Along the way you will become familiar with the different stages of flight and what sounds and sensations you may expect.

You will learn about an aircrafts capabilities, crew training, air traffic control and the systems in place to ensure your safety.

More importantly you will learn that you do not need to concern yourself with the discomfort of a bumpy flight. Flying without fear It can happen. Download Game Metal Slug Ps 1.