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My Life So Far Hardcover – April 5, 2005
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Fonda divides her “life so far” into three “acts,” writing about her childhood, first films, and marriage to Roger Vadim in Act One. At once a picture emerges: a child born to the acting legend Henry Fonda and the glamorous society princess Frances Seymour. But these early years are also marked by profound sadness: her mother’s mental illness and suicide when Jane is twelve years old, her father’s emotional distance, and her personal struggle to find her way in the world as a young woman.
By her second act, Fonda lays the foundation for her activism, even as her career takes flight. She highlights her struggle to live consciously and authentically while remaining in the public eye as she recounts her marriages to Tom Hayden and Ted Turner, and examines her controversial and defining involvement with the Vietnam War. As her film career grows, Fonda learns to incorporate her roles into a larger vision of what matters most in her life–and in the process she wins two Academy Awards, for Kluteand for Coming Home.
In Fonda’s third act, she is prepared to do the work of a lifetime–to begin living consciously in a way that might inspire others who can learn from her experiences. Surprising, candid, and wonderfully written, Jane Fonda’s My Life So Far is filled with universal insights into the personal struggles of women living full and engaged lives.
- Print length624 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherRandom House
- Publication dateApril 5, 2005
- Dimensions6.5 x 1.7 x 9.3 inches
- ISBN-100375507108
- ISBN-13978-0375507106
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Editorial Reviews
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From Publishers Weekly
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
From Bookmarks Magazine
Copyright © 2004 Phillips & Nelson Media, Inc.
Review
–Los Angeles Times
“[A] sisterly, enveloping memoir . . . an intimate, haunting book that might as well be catnip from its ever controversial author.”
–Janet Maslin, The New York Times
“Terrific . . . rich . . . unexpectedly quite moving.”
–San Francisco Chronicle
“Fiercely intelligent, detailed, probing, rigorously revealing.”
–O: The Oprah Magazine
“Fonda possesses a raw and affecting candor. . . . Her honesty [is] a force.”
–The Philadelphia Inquirer
“A fearless book . . . fascinating.”
–Chicago Sun-Times
“Truly compelling.”
–The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Riveting.”
–Seattle Post-Intelligencer
From the Trade Paperback edition.
About the Author
Fonda revolutionized the fitness industry with the release of Jane Fonda’s Workout in 1982, which remains the top-grossing home video of all time. She then produced twenty-three home exercise videos, thirteen audio recordings, and five bestselling books. She now focuses her time on activism and philanthropy, in such areas as adolescent reproductive health, pregnancy prevention, school reform through arts, and building resiliency in girls and boys by addressing destructive gender stereotypes. In 1995 she founded the Georgia Campaign for Adolescent Pregnancy Prevention (G-CAPP), which she chairs. In 2002, she opened the Jane Fonda Center for Adolescent Reproductive Health at Emory University's School of Medicine. She lives in Atlanta.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Stay near me—do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
—William Wordsworth,
“To a Butterfly”
I sat cross-legged on the floor of the tiny home I’d created out of cardboard boxes. The walls were so high that all I could see if I looked up was the white-painted tongue-and-groove ceiling of the glassed-in porch so common in Connecticut in the 1940s. The porch ran the entire length of the house and smelled of mildew. Light from the windows bounced off the ceiling down to where I sat, so I didn’t need a lamp as I worked on the saddle. I was eleven years old.
It was an English saddle, my half sister Pan’s, from the time before she’d gotten married, sold her horse, and moved to New York City—from the time when we still believed things would work out all right.
I held the saddle on my lap, rubbing saddle soap into the beautiful, rich leather, over and over. . . . Make it better. I know I can make it better. The smell of saddle soap was comforting. So was the smallness of my home. This was a place where I could be sure of things. No one was allowed in here but me—not my brother, Peter, not anyone. Everything was always arranged just so—the saddle, the soap, the soft rags folded carefully, and my book of John Masefield poems. Neatness was important . . . something to count on.
Mother was home for a while and if I leaned forward ever so slightly, I could look out my “door” down the length of the porch, to where she sat at an oilcloth-covered table on which stood a Mason jar. A butterfly would be beating its wings frantically against the glass walls of the jar, and I could see my mother pick up a cotton ball with tweezers, dip it into a bottle of ether, unscrew the top of the jar, and carefully drop in the ether-soaked ball. After a minute, I could see the butterfly’s wings begin to slow their mad fluttering, until gradually they would stop moving altogether. Peace. A whiff of ether drifted down to where I sat, making me think of the dentist. I knew just what the butterfly felt, because whenever I went to have my braces tightened, the nurse would put a mask over my nose and tell me to breathe deeply. In no time the edges of my body would begin to disappear. Sound would come to me from far away and I would feel a wonderful, cosmic abandon as I fell backward down a dark hole, like Alice to Wonderland. Oh, I wished that I could make that sensation last forever. I didn’t feel sorry at all for the butterfly.
After a while, mother would unscrew the lid; gently remove the butterfly with the long tweezers; carefully, lovingly, pierce its body with a pin; and mount it on a white board on the wall above the table. There were at least a dozen of them up there, different kinds of swallowtails, a southern dogface, a red admiral, a clouded sulphur, and a monarch. I never could decide which one was my favorite.
Once she took me with her to a meadow full of wildflowers and tall grasses where she went to catch her butterflies. There was still an abundance of wild places—swamps, unexplored forests, and meadows—in Greenwich, Connecticut, in the 1940s. I watched as she moved through the grass—her blond, sun-blushed hair blowing in the wind—swooping down with her green net, then flipping the net quickly to close off the butterfly’s escape route. I would help her get it safely into a jar and quickly screw the top on.
It puzzled me a little why Mother had decided to take up butterfly collecting. I don’t remember her ever doing this when we lived in California. I was the one fascinated with butterflies. I was always painting pictures of them. When I was ten, right before we’d moved from California, I gave my father a drawing for his birthday. “Butterflies by Jane Fonda” was written up in the right-hand corner, and then two rows of them with their names written underneath in my tight, straight-up-and-down-careful-not-to-reveal-anything handwriting. My letter said:
May 19, 1948.
Dear Dad,
I did not trace these drawings of butterflies. I hope you had a happy birthday. I heard you on the Bing Crosby program. Every two days I will send you another picture of butterflies.
Love, Jane.
By the time Mother took up the butterfly hobby, I had turned eleven, Peter was nine, and we were living in our second rented house in Connecticut. It was a rambling two-story wood house perched atop a steep hill overlooking a tollgate on the Merritt Parkway. I could look out my bedroom window and count the cars. Prior to the move east, we’d grown up in California’s Santa Monica Mountains and, instead of a tollgate, we looked out onto the vast, shimmering Pacific Ocean. Maybe that is why my childhood fantasies of conquering all the enemies of the world were so expansive. Had I grown up overlooking the tollgate, I might have seen myself as an accountant.
This new house was on a large piece of property bordered to the west by an immense hardwood forest that, in the winter, became a leafless gray fortress. Then in the spring, dogwood would bloom, hopeful and white through the layered forest gray, and redbud would add slashes of magenta. By May, an array of greens would transform the woods once again. For someone who had spent the first ten years of her life seasonless in California, this ever-changing palette seemed miraculous.
The house had an uncomfortable Charles Addams–y quality about it, always too dark and chilly, and it had far more rooms than there were people living there, which added a sense of impermanence and awkwardness to its hilltop perch. There was Grandma Seymour (Mother’s mother), Peter, me, and a Japanese-American maid named Katie. Peter says Katie’s familiar presence with us after three years was comforting to him. I, on the other hand, barely remember her. But then Peter got more attached to people than I did. I was the Lone Ranger.
Mother wasn’t with us much anymore, though I didn’t know why. It was during one of the periods when she was back from wherever it was she went that the butterfly collection was started. Maybe someone had suggested that she get herself a hobby. Peter and I had stopped paying much attention to her being away, or at least I had. It had simply become a fact of our lives: Mother would be there, and then she wouldn’t. When she wasn’t there, and even when she was, Grandma Seymour would be in charge of us. Grandma was a strong woman, a constant presence in our early lives. But though I loved her, I don’t remember ever running joyfully into her arms the way my own grandchildren do with me. I don’t remember her ever imparting grandmotherly wisdom or even being fun to be with. She was a more formal, stalwart presence. But she was always there to meet our external needs.
Around the house there’d be an occasional murmured mention of a hospital or of an illness, and right after we’d moved to Greenwich, Mother had been in Johns Hopkins Hospital for a long time, for an operation on a dropped kidney. Grandma took Peter and me to visit her there once, and I remember Mother telling me they’d almost cut her in half. But she’d been “ill” and in hospitals so much that it had lost any real meaning. Hospitals were supposed to make you well so you could come home and stay.
Ever since we had moved to Greenwich I had spent a lot of time in hospitals myself—me, the healthy one. I’d developed blood poisoning, then chronic ear infections; then I started breaking bones. My arm was broken the first time during a wrestling match with a boy, Teddy Wahl, the son of the man who ran the nearby Round Hill Stables and Riding Club. Teddy threw me against a stall door. It hurt, but I walked home and didn’t say anything—between Peter and Mother, we had enough hypochondriacs in the house. I was not going to complain. Instead, I sat in front of the black-and-white TV to watch The Howdy Doody Show, my favorite because it regularly included a short Lone Ranger film.
I sat carefully on my hands, as I always did when Dad was home, because I was scared he would see that I was still biting my fingernails. As we sat down to eat, Dad asked me if I’d washed my hands, and when I told him I hadn’t, he exploded in anger, pulled me out of my seat and into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, took the broken arm (which I’d been holding limply by my side), and thrust it under the water. I passed out. He’d no idea that I was hurt and was very apologetic as he rushed me to the hospital, where my arm was X-rayed and put into a cast. The worst part was that all this happened right before school started, my first year at the all-girls Greenwich Academy—just at the time when everybody would be checking out who was cool (we called it “neat” back then), who was good at field hockey, and whom they wanted to be friends with, I had to show up with my arm in a cast.
At the time, Dad was starring in the Broadway smash hit Mister Roberts. I now realize that I must have sensed that something was very wrong between my parents. Palpable tension was in the air: Dad’s anger and black moods; Mother’s increasing absences. Even if I had had the words to express what I “knew,” I’d already learned that no one would listen to words that spoke about feelings. So instead, my body was sending out distress signals.
There’s a set of photos of us taken around that time. Just after we left California, Harper’s Bazaar had come out to interview Dad and take pictures of the family “picnicking”—one of those setup jobs that make the children of movie stars feel like props. The pictures show us sitt...
Product details
- Publisher : Random House; First Edition (April 5, 2005)
- Language : English
- Hardcover : 624 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0375507108
- ISBN-13 : 978-0375507106
- Item Weight : 2.15 pounds
- Dimensions : 6.5 x 1.7 x 9.3 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #569,705 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #4,779 in Actor & Entertainer Biographies
- Customer Reviews:
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She has always been essentially a very modern actress. There was never any question about her being very gifted, but like all big stars, it was always pretty obvious that elements of her own persona were visible in every character she played. Rather than a shortcoming, this was a fantastic asset, one that made it possible to see the difference between what the late David Shipman called "great movie stars" and run-of-the-mill leading players. She was a fabulous actress and a fascinating woman who could easily carry a film on her own. In other words, she was the biggest star of the American cinema of the 1970s.
As an actor, I went to drama school at the time when, in my country, directors and drama teachers were obsessed with the American approach to Stanislavski's "method," to the point of some of them going to New York to study with Lee Strasberg. At that particular moment, knowing that Jane Fonda was a "method" actress who had been a student of Lee Strasberg's added immensely to the fascination she exercised over my generation.
I never missed anything she did on film. It was immensely rewarding to see an actress reach with so much accomplishment the ultimate goal of playing with as much intensity as restraint scenes in which the emotional demands on her were so high. She went very deep into the emotions she was unearthing. There were times when it could be disturbing, especially because she never overacted. She was always impeccable. A truly great actress in full control of her craft.
Some of her movies were not pleasant. "Klute," for example. But in all of them she managed to make us understand that no one can go through life without being aware of the movements in the imaginary chess board in which we are the pawns.
All along, she was constantly on the front page of newspapers all over as an activist fighting for people in her own country and in the whole world to see the dishonesty with which the system sold the idea that the Vietnam war was justifiable. Her enemies tried to discredit her, but she was so consistent in her anti-establishment attitude, so ferociously intelligent in the way she defended her ideas, that they couldn't harm her.
I followed her work as an activist with great interest. So in the end my admiration for Jane Fonda was of the let-me-count-the-ways type. There were rumors about her being temperamental. The story went round that she was very unhappy when her brother Peter published a memoir ("Don't Tell Dad"). Also, they said she wasn't at all happy about the appearance of a newcomer with a delectable figure named Bridget Fonda, who was Peter's daughter and a fine actress in her own right.
They said all sorts of things, as they always do, good and bad, about Henry Fonda's daughter. It was to be expected that sooner or later she would want to write her own version of the story. Curiously enough, I wasn't interested in the book when it first came out eight years ago. A lot of my own story had to do with it. I started to work as an actor in 1974. Since then I did lots of things. I loved being an actor and I wanted to go on doing it to the end. But in 2006 I was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease and in 2010 there was no choice other than applying for and being granted early retirement. I couldn't act anymore. It was very painful and I had a very hard time adjusting to my new reality. In the process, I didn't want to read about actors and acting, or talk about the actor's life with anyone. I didn't even want to go to the theater. Only recently I have started again reading about the profession I am no longer part of.
I decided to buy "My Life So Far" after watching the amazing interview Jane gave to Barbara Walters on the Charlie Rose program (Walters was replacing Rose who was ill), which I saw on YouTube as a result of having been absolutely fascinated with the way she and Lily Tomlin interracted in "Grace and Frankie."
Jane Fonda is a brave woman. It's her foremost quality. When it comes to autobiographical writings, being brave is no small achievement. It's always very easy to write about your own life fleetingly, using each episode to be witty, say something surprising here and there, gossip a little, make it look as if you are in peace with the universe, and then type "the end." What isn't easy in the least is to do what this bravest of women did in this absolute gem of an autobiography.
The reason why she has always been one of the greatest actresses of her time is that she doesn't make it easy for herself when she has to build a character. She is implaccable. Nothing must remain hidden. Every single element that makes it worth to bring this person to light must be perfectly clear so that the whole makes as much sense as it's possible for any human being to do.
Whenever she plays a character it becomes visible how far she went in the journey, a journey that is as wonderful as it is terrifying, into the human being it is her job to make live in front of an audience. She never takes short cuts, never eschews the darkness. She never uses the automatic pilot. The only way she knows how to face a character is making the whole of it come to light. That's the way she faced this amazing character named Jane Fonda.
I believe "My Life So Far" will be treasured in the distant future as a masterpiece among autobiographies. Jane (I permit myself to call her Jane rather than Ms Fonda because after all these years I feel so close to her as if she were my big sister) has written a classic, of which she can be very proud. We can be very proud too, of being on this planet at the same time as an extraordinary human being named Jane Fonda.
First, the most controversial subject, Vietnam and Hanoi Jane. Fonda gives a detailed description of her side of the Vietnam controversy where she believed fervently the USA was in the wrong. Clearly, this was a bad war in which we should not have participated. However, as much as she quotes from the Pentagon Papers and tells of her meetings with soldiers who changed their mind and now understand she position, it still doesn't feel right to me to openly oppose America and cavort with the enemy IN THEIR COUNTRY. I had no real opinion of her on this issue and took no real offense to her visit. Now, reading her side of the story, it just doesn't feel right to carry demonstrations to the enemy's country and flaunt your position. She tries to justify that she wasn't speaking against the soldiers, just the administration. She tries to build a case that the POWs that said they were tortured due to her visit must be lying because others said they weren't tortured. Disagreeing with America is an Americans privilege. Disagreeing while in other countries borders on treason to me. Even she earlier admitted while in France that it felt inappropriate in a foreign country to demonstrate against her country.
But it's not that black and white an issue. Jane makes very good points of why she disagreed and where all the administrations, Republican and Democrat, lied to the public. In my life this is the biggest controversy in our country for this generation. I respect and honor our soldiers. But I also respect and honor Jane Fonda's right to disagree and protest the war. But there is a limit to where the damage is too great. And an apology for sitting on an Anti-aircraft gun doesn't quite cover the damage in my opinion. You will learn a lot of the specific issues that so inflamed her particularly apparent secret bombing of dikes. Form your own opinion but don't let this critical part of the book lessen your enjoyment of the whole book.
Now, to fascinating book parts that are not as controversial. She describes the initial idea of the controversial film "Coming Home", the first major film to deal with Vietnam and the emotional trauma. Reading the evolution of how the film started and evolved is fascinating and I applaud her and her producing partner Bruce, director Hal Ashby, and fellow actors Jon Voight and Bruce Dern on a cinematic masterpiece. And specifically, Jane, thanks for the story behind the scenes on how this masterpiece was made.
And this applies to "On Golden Pond" also. Dare I say maybe the ultimate cinematic accomplishment of our generation? How many Americans my age watched this movie and cried at the touching human story portrayed by some of the greatest actors ever! The back story of Katherine Hepburn is nothing short of fascinating as Jane takes us inside what a real actor is like and how Hepburn both helped her and fought her. This movie is really a synopsis of the relationship of Jane and father Henry's relationship and how wonderful is it to have this raw emotion splayed on the screen!
I'm not just a movie lover as I found the history of her marriage to Tom Hayden fascinating. It just goes to show that what you see in public is not what goes on in all relationships as her "storybook" marriage disintegrates before her eyes. Her famous exercise videos are also covered in depth showing how it slowly started, how she hurt relationships to have the business finance her political causes, and the extent to which it becomes enormously profitable.
For most of this book we have an extreme left-leaning privileged actress who lives her life in a fascinating manner. But in her 50s she's hit by a tornado from the south, Ted Turner, a man that clearly would not be considered a feminists first choice. But this is where the book is even more appealing as this avowed Democrat who admits to not being around religious people unless they were Jewish, suddenly is thrust into a life in the deep South around conservative, Christian people. Maybe the greatest statement I can make of Jane is that unlike a lot of people, many of who will read this book and dislike it, she learned from these new friends and altered her life completely becoming an advocate concerning teenage pregnancy and a devoutly religious person. Life is to be learned from and this later chapter of her life shows that she was willing to grow and continue to learn. I find it fascinating that after living around New York, Los Angeles and France, she has chosen to make Atlanta her home!
I've left out so many parts of this book that are enjoyable like parental skills, her childhood and first marriage. She left out many parts such as any discussion of her romance with Donald Sutherland and I'm sure there are many others. How many Americans knew that her left-leaning, while learned from her father, were cultivated in the six or so years she lived in France in her 20s? Or the fascinating story of how the movie "Fun with Dick and Jane" is made to demonstrate our society living above its means in the 70s?
This is a magnificent book of growing up in the last half of the 20th century. I applaud Jane for allowing me to learn from her, even when I may strongly disagree with her stands. Read this book with an open mind and learn about Jane Fonda, American values, and who you are and who you can be.
To those who dismiss Fonda as "just an actress," tell that to those veterans who still hate her. Meryl Streep is sublimely talented, but I can think of nothing she did in her role as public citizen that still resonates with the public 30 years later. I don't agree with everything Ms. Fonda has done during her life, but I admire the way she admits her missteps and tries to atone for them. To those who claim that she whines and blames her father, sorry, but I didn't read the same edition you did. My book has her forgiving her father (as well as Vadim and her mother) time and again, with a generosity of spirit I also genuinely admire.
Thank you, Jane. And welcome back to the Big Screen.
Top reviews from other countries
I highly recommend reading it.
I hope she continues to encourage change for the better in the education of gender equality and actively pursues all the good causes she is involved with, as it’s good to see someone wanting to make a difference who is in a great position to do so.
An memoir where the use of the first person singular is not abused and is not irritating.
The writing is good and well-edited (thank you, Kate Medina).
It would be a mistake to dismiss Jane Fonda as someone whose insights are not worth considering.
The candor of the woman is amazing.













