Gone With The Wind is an utterly delicious book, and probably one of my favourites in a trashy, romantic sort of way. Over one thousand pages long, it is a bit of a lengthy tome, but it is entirely worth it – every page is dredged with emotion and drama on an epic scale, and it is gloriously easy to read. Written some years after the American Civil War it depicts, this novel was an enormous bestseller, and is still vastly popular today - it has sold over 30 million copies worldwide. I can see why - there is a charm and candour to the way Margaret Mitchell writes, and the simplicity of the linear storyline pushes her sometimes very beautiful and lyrical language on centre stage, and leaves room for her immensely rich characters to grow.
For those of you unfortunate enough to have avoided the story thus far, even in its (entirely glorious) film form (who doesn’t adore Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh?), I shall summarise in the shortest way possible. The year is 1861, the place: the graceful plantations of the South - rural Georgia, to be precise. Scarlett O’Hara is the most flirtatious, pretty and outspoken girl in the county, and boys are absolutely falling over themselves to marry her, but she only has one man in mind – Ashley Wilkes, who promptly marries somebody else. However, war breaks, and the gentle, old-fashioned Southern life is utterly destroyed – it becomes a civilisation gone with the wind, in fact. The story follows the headstrong Scarlett as she battles the trials and obstacles life throws at her, in love with the one man she cannot have, and desperate to save, above all else, her beloved plantation home, Tara. Rhett Butler (forever Clark Gable in my mind) is the debonair blockader – immoral, charming, and Scarlett’s perfect match, and yet their happiness together is not as easy to reach as one might predict. Nor is it as Mills-and-Boon-esque as the front cover of the paperback copies seems to suggest – it is filled with the grim harshness of war and hardship, as well as being bitingly funny, and sometimes frustrating.
The novel’s protagonist, Scarlett, is such an intriguing character that I don’t really know whether I like her or not. Initially flighty and shallow, Mitchell reveals her bullheadedness and “gumption” as it becomes obvious the war is here to stay. However “smart” Scarlett becomes, however, I love and admire the way Mitchell keeps her shallow and a little stupid throughout the novel. Many times the more intelligent characters attempt to convey the turmoil of their hearts and minds to her, or express consternation as to the morals of the war – and it is always incomprehensible to her, it either goes straight over her head, or she vaguely grasps the wrong meaning. The reader, however, thanks to the craft of Mitchell’s writing, understands perfectly what is trying to be said, and it is this that lends such depth to the characters. We see the world through Scarlett’s eyes, so we know her character inside and out, and yet we understand more of the other characters, something the self-centredness of Scarlett’s own mind does not allow.
The way the South is represented makes me, even though I am in no way American, feel nostalgic for the antebellum days of rural Georgia. The chivalric and gallant boys, the pretty girls, the gentle and gentlemanly elders, and the slow, happy, life of barbeques and balls seem to represent a perfect life. This life was built, however, on slavery, something Mitchell chooses not to comment upon in moral terms. It made me a little uncomfortable to read how slaves are portrayed – sympathetically indeed, some shown as having dignity and loyalty, but nevertheless as vastly inferior, reduced to childlike glee when praised, or whiny and complaining when unhappy. I suppose since it is written from a Southern perspective, this is how it should be, but nevertheless, it was something I had difficulty accepting.
Overall, I urge you to read it. Yes, it’s long, but it doesn’t feel long. It was with a sense of sorrow and triumph that I finished it, as it had been my companion for such a long time (well, a week) – something that almost inspired me to read one of the awful-looking sequels. Almost, but not quite.
