I haven't read any of Jong's other books and I don't know I'd want to. Probably a strange thing to do; read her memoir of sorts and not really have idea of who she is or what she's written but recently I was going through my bookshelves and was disgusted at how many books I own that I haven't yet read. Jong's "Fear of Fifty" being one of them. So before I get to read one of my tasty new books that are sitting on my nightstand, I had to force myself to read one of the neglected ones on my shelves, so I read this. I did agree with most of what she had to say, and some of it made me giggle or nod my head with glee. Things such as, "Men are very simple creatures. Feed 'em, fuck 'em, but withhold the keys to the castle. Territorial to the core, they're sweetest when they don't park their shoes under the bed." She screwed a lot of dudes, got what she wanted and sent them home to their wives. I dig that. Or maybe I dig her admtting that. Anyway, I'm one page from finishing and she mentions something about taking pills "last year" to curb her appetite and lose weight. I wish I'd read more of her inner tortures and failings instead of having to hear about who's she was banging or how much she loves writing, blah blah, I neglected my daughter to write, I love writing, I would die without writing, I am a writer hear me roar. Boring. And I hate her poetry, it's shit. I wish she hadn't peppered her boring text with her sappy lame poems, it hurt my head. Jong, you aren't Nin, or anywhere near being anyone of that calibre. Thank fuck you didn't call yourself "Erica Orlando" as threatened in the pages of this book, I would have disliked you even more. I mean, love or hate Woolf but she was still ten times the tortured genius that Jong is.But she's sometimes funny, like when she brought her daughter Molly home, she writes that her dog "Poochkin left turds of outrage in the corners of every room." Turds of outrage! That's some funny shit right there. Maybe I'd had too many wines when I underlined that with an ecstatically, wobbly line but still. Turds of outrage! Poochkin, you're my hero!She seemed a bit vapid, self-obsessed and high-and-mighty. She name dropped. She thought everything was a phallic symbol (pens, drawings of snakes, the list goes on), she talked about "fatties" condescendingly. If I could be arsed, I'd write a more critical analysis but as it stands, she rubbed me the wrong way for too many little reasons. This review is as shallow as her shitty memoir. What am I trying to say. I think she wanted to be a tortured genius artist/poet/writer and just kind of failed. Is this too harsh a judgment considering I've never read her other books? Regardless, her memoir sucked so I'm judging her on that. == I like memoirs but tend to only fall in love when the person is actually interesting. Or genuinely fucked up. Or has something unique to say. Jong failed in all regards.
The four months before my fiftieth birthday I spent in what would be our new home, alone. And not only alone in the sense of being the only one living in the house, but also in the sense of human life around me, for our new home lies deep in the forest in a tiny village of (now 8, (but then 5). No shops, no restaurants, no cinema, no trappings of 'civilization', or at least not without driving an hour and a quarter or more. My goals were two-fold: Could I survive in such an environment, and could I learn the language?I am happy to say 'yes' to both. Not that it wasn't difficult at times, scary, depressing, lonely, but I could stand my own company, and not only survive but thrive. And I got the language.Due to a mix-up at the airport, I could only take about a third of stuff I had packed for such a venture. The hurried reorganization of everything resulted in flying underwear (and the loss of my coat just before traveling to the far north in mid-winter, but that's a story for another time), but the book chosen for this epic period of my life Fear of Fifty manage to get on board.Amazingly, I didn't fear the coming half century. Crossing the thirty mark was far more difficult. My fortieth my partner made fun by throwing a completely unusual party and instigating a tradition: doing something new and different each birthday, especially the decade ones. So I didn't fear the up-coming Five-O but I brought the book just in case there was something I should know or learn from it.My notes from that reading, the spring of 2007 in my tiny village, goes like this: Not always easy to get through, but well, WELL worth the effort.Skimming it for this review seven years later, I discovered I had marked a lot (and I mean A LOT) of passages, most of which I still find relevant. I have added them to my quotes if anyone is interested. The odd thing I did find is that although Jong and I are technically in the same 'generation' -- i.e., Baby Boomers, we come from different ends of the spectrum, thus explaining our very different life experiences. By the time I reached adulthood, many more doors were open and I didn't see marriage as my only option. I still don't though I have been married twice, both long-term. The four-month period mentioned at the beginning of this review, confirmed for me that I can if I must live happily on my own. Marriage is a choice, I am happy to say.But what about the book? Jong is much less whiny in this than in Fear of Flying, much more mature, as one would expect. I found the tone a relief. She is somewhat repetitive, but again not nearly as much so as in Fear of Flying, again a relief. There is so much to be gained by reading this book or even in skimming it to revisit passages, that I would recommend it to anyone.
Do You like book Fear Of Fifty (2006)?
No, they are still very chauvinistic but they just cover it up more IMO. What do you think? My mother was an extreme feminist to the point I think she really hates men. Sometimes it was very hard to cope with her. She was married to my father 50 years and hated him about the whole time. I kept telling her to get a divorce but it took her forever to finally do it. She used to read Betty Friedan and all that.
—Jessica
