1- I couldn’t be a hippy because my mother already dressed like a hippy (while believing in territoriality and the universality of war).
2- I couldn’t rebel against Judaism because I hadn’t any to rebel against.
3- I couldn’t rail at my Jewish mother because the problem deeper than jewishness or mothers.
4- I couldn’t be an artist on pain of being painted over
5- I couldn’t be poet on pain of being crossed out
6- I couldn’t e anything else because that was ordinary
7- I couldn’t be a communist because my mother had been there ….
What possibility remained open to me? In what cramped corner could I act out what I so presumptuously called my life? I felt rather like those children of post smoking parents who become raging squares. I could perhaps take off across Europe whit Andiran Goodlove and never come home to NewYork at all…..
From the book I am reading right now “fear of flying by Erica Jong”
“The most uninhibited delicious erotic novel a woman ever wrote” John Updike from New Yorker.