A nyone who picks up Erica Jong's new book expecting a feminist manifesto or a treatise on the female condition will be disappointed. As it happens, Jong is often at her least interesting when she's wearing her feminist hat. Just as predictable are Jong's reflections on the much-exaggerated vilification of Dr. Deborah Eappen, the mother of the dead baby in the trial of British au pair Louise Woodward. The most interesting pieces in this collection have to do with art and literature. Jong is refreshingly old-fashioned about the need for poetry and prose in our lives.
Words are our antidote to mortality.
My only quibble is with Jong's praise for Adrian Lyne's mediocre film. A more serious problem is that, in her worthy zeal to defend the right of art to be bawdy, Jong gets carried away and suggests that it must be so. But even when you disagree with her, she's hard to dislike. One senses her genuine affection for culture, for language, for sex, for people. And sometimes, that's enough of a cause for gratitude.