|
I Feel Bad About My Neck by Nova Ephron |
||||||
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
|
|
|
|
|
|
Book Reviews |
|
| [Signature]Reviewed by Toni BentleyThe honest truth is that it's sad to
be over sixty," concludes Nora Ephron in her sparkling new book about aging.
With 15 essays in 160 pages, this collection is short, a thoughtful concession
to pre- and post-menopausal women (who else is there?), like herself, who "can't
read a word on the pill bottle," follow a thought to a conclusion, or remember
the thought after not being able to read the pill bottle. Ephron drives the
truth home like a nail in your soon-to-be-bought coffin: "Plus, you can't wear a
bikini." But just as despair sets in, she admits to using "quite a lot of bath
oil... I'm as smooth as silk." Yes, she is. This is aging lite—but that might be
the answer. Besides, there's always Philip Roth for aging heavy.Ephron, in fact,
offers a brief anecdote about Roth, in a chapter on cooking, concerning her
friend Jane, who had a one-night stand, long ago, with the then "up-and-coming"
writer. He gave Jane a copy of his latest book. "Take one on your way out," he
said. Conveniently, there was a box of them by the front door. Ephron refuses to
analyze—one of her most refreshing qualities—and quickly moves on to Jane's
céleri remoulade.Aging, according to Ephron, is one big descent—and who
would argue? (Well, okay—but they'd lose the argument if they all got naked.)
There it is, the steady spiraling down of everything: body and mind, breasts and
balls, dragging one's self-respect behind them. Ephron's witty riffs on these
distractions are a delightful antidote to the prevailing belief that everything
can be held up with surgical scaffolding and the drugs of denial. Nothing, in
the end, prevents the descent. While signs of mortality proliferate, Ephron
offers a rebuttal of consequence: an intelligent, alert, entertaining
perspective that does not take itself too seriously. (If you can't laugh, after
all, you are already, technically speaking, dead.) She does, however, concede
that hair maintenance—styling, dyeing, highlighting, blow-drying—is a serious
matter, not to mention the expense. "Once I picked up a copy of Vogue
while having my hair done, and it cost me twenty thousand dollars. But you
should see my teeth." Digging deeper, she discovers that your filthy, bulging
purse containing numerous things you don't need—and couldn't find if you did—is,
"in some absolutely horrible way, you." Ephron doesn't shy away from the truth
about sex either, and confesses, though with an appropriate amount of shame,
that despite having been a White House intern in 1961, she did not have an
affair with JFK. May Ephron, and her purse, endure so she can continue to tell
us how it goes. Or, at least, where it went. Toni Bentley is the author, most
recently, of Sisters of Salome and The Surrender, an Erotic
Memoir. She is writing about Emma, Lady Hamilton, for the Eminent Lives
series. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
and/or