Gina recorded this excerpt from the non-fiction book, \"Fear of Flying, \" by Erica Jong.
North American (General)
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
charley fielding Charles when he signed. His name was tall and stoop shouldered and looked like the wandering jew. His nose was enormously long and hooked, and had flaring nostrils, and his small, downturned mouth always wore a sour expression somewhere between contempt and melancholy. His skin was sallow and unhealthy looking, and had been ravaged by acne, which still troubled him from time to time. He wore expensive tweed sport coats which hung on his shoulders as if on wire hangers, and the knees of his trousers bagged. The pockets of his old chesterfield were distended with paperback books from his worn pigskin briefcase, the point of a conductor's baton protruded charlie lived alone in a one room apartment in the East Village, the same neighborhood. His poor ancestors had lived in two generations before. The venetian blinds were laden with greasy black soot and grit crunched under your feet as you walked across the bare floor. The surroundings were spartan a pullman kitchen, who's cupboards were always bear except for boxes of dried apricots and bags of hard candy, a rented piano, a single bed, a tape recorder, a portable record player, two cartons of records which had never been unpacked since. He brought them from his parents house two years before. Outside the window was a fire escape overlooking a city courtyard, and across it lived two middle aged lesbians who sometimes neglected to draw. The blinds, charlie had that defensive contempt for homosexuals, which people often have when their own sexuality is an embarrassment to them. He was horny all the time, but he was terribly afraid of being vulgar. His Harvard education had been designed to extinguish all vulgarity, glowing deep down in his jeans. And though he wanted to get laid, he did not want to manage it in a way that would make him appear crude, either to himself or to the girls he tried to seduce. I've noticed anyway, that unless a man is a bona fide genius, a Harvard education is a permanent liability, not so much what they learned their, but what they presume about themselves ever after. The albatross of being a Harvard man, the aura, the atmosphere, the pronunciation problems, the tender memories of the river Charles. It tends to infantilized them and cause them to go dashing about the corridors of advertising agencies with their ties flapping behind them. It causes them to endure the dreadful food and ratty upholstery of the Harvard Club for the sake of impressing some sweet young thing with the glorious source of their b A.