Guilt is probably the default state of mind of any woman. We have this inherited ability of believing ourselves responsible for all the evils in the world, the negative feelings of others (funnily enough, not the positive ones), their misfortunes (but not their successes) and so on. The myths of Pandora, Eva, Lilith, and all the other sinful women who supposedly got in the way of supposedly righteous men are so embedded in the female psyche that they impact our perception of things —in spite of ourselves.

When the feminists of the 70s came to liberate us from these automatic culpability of ours, they did not expect that it could turn against them the way it did. For now we have the added layer of guilt of not being “feminist enough”. In a way, they only made it worse for women. It’s 2021 and the idea of being in a monogamous heterosexual relationship still fills me with guilt-ridden anxiety. Am I not a strong independent woman? What do I need a man for?, my feminist voice tells me. I know that there’s nothing unfeminist in being attracted to men or being in a couple with one, yet, in choosing the “traditional” pairing structure, am I not conforming to a conservative idea of love? To an old-fashion oppressive commitment? Have I fallen for the romantic love crap? And so goes the endless battle of self-reproach.

This guilt, this constant self-questioning which is explored throughout Fear of Flying, is probably the reason why Erica Jong’s character of Isadora is so appealing. A rambling and somewhat inconsistent mind, she presents all the features of the feminist prototype. On the outside we see her as this sexy, smart and self-assured writer who is in control of her life and body. But on the inside we discover that she’s all nerves and insecurity, afraid of “practically everything”, plagued with dichotomies and contradictions; a complex individual.

We access her inner conflict best when she is confronted with the unexpected possibility of living out her fantasy: an unbinding sexual encounter with an alluring stranger; the “zipless fuck”. This intrusion of fantasy into the reality of her dull but reliable marriage causes a maelstrom of emotions in Isadora’s spirit. Her certainty of wanting a passionate, short-lived affair wears off as she starts to think of the security offered by her husband, and the remains of their affection. Isadora’s conscience starts to override her desire. But does it prevail? None of the scenarios is fulfilling. In both she will win something she wants, and will have to forsake something she needs. Ever doubting herself, ever full of guilt, Isadora embarks on a deplorable trip of dissatisfaction and remorse.

For its portrayal of an erratic and imperfect woman, I believe this book to be a masterpiece of feminist literature. Through Isadora’s experiences and thoughts, the reader is presented with an intimate view of what it’s like to be inside the mind of a progressive woman in 1970, and also today. Most of Isadora’s worries and concerns are my own, her vulnerability and strength equal mine, and our desires do not differ that much. Alongside her we discover that freedom is an illusion, that we might mistake for love what is actually dependency, and that women are sexual too. Only the fear of flying is real. And guilt is to blame for that.