Tomorrow Is Another Day
Looking over my reading list for last summer leaves me with a sense of all the honor that accompanies an astounding lack of accomplishment. Not only is that entry of well over a year ago a mere nine entries removed from the current one, which evidences what you, dear reader, already know: that I am an abysmal correspondent; but also, I have made little, almost imperceptible, progress in the admittedly hefty reading tasks I assigned myself. Perhaps the finesse with which I manipulated the syntax of the previous sentence redeems me slightly, however; it at least bolsters my spirits enough to continue.
Rather than play up my early, scant successes, let us turn to more recent reading endeavors. In the week before I returned to Berkeley for Hall Staff training, I bought and read Gone With the Wind, by Margaret Mitchell. Although this work was not strictly on my reading list, I am admittedly unpredictable with regard to the books that pique my interest. I sometimes buy titles that strike me only to feel disenchanted with the prospect of beginning them, and proceed to read an older "new book" that has been lying untouched on my bookshelf for months or years. On the other hand, it sometimes transpires that I immerse myself in a novel at once and refuse to surface until the last page is turned; this was the case with Gone With the Wind.
Like most people, I had been perfunctorily and culturally aware of this novel for as long as I could remember. Knowing what I did of the premise and the conclusion (from the most unfortunate experience of catching the last 20 minutes or so of the film on TV), I was rather loath to take the plunge. Could an American novel, a novel moreover that was written about events that preceded, comprised, and succeeded the Civil War from a distinctly Southern perspective, which amassed about a thousand pages only to arrive at a most ambiguous ending, be a compelling and satisfying read?
Quite. If one manages to overcome the initial shock of casual racism, so jarring to the modern reader, Gone With the Wind is a deftly crafted and involving work. As I read, it first struck me as a popular entertainment rather than an intellectual one, full of memorable characters who spar in situations that might be better suited to a soap opera. Scarlett O'Hara is certainly a heroine for the ages, simultaneously ruthless and arresting as she claws and charms her way through the difficult times. I suspect that most of the novel's enduring appeal arises either from her admirable characterization or the romance aspect: Scarlett's periodic interactions with the equally unscrupulous Rhett Butler can be counted upon to rejuvenate the text whenever it is in danger of flagging.
On the thematic level, however, Gone With the Wind is first and foremost a sweeping testament to survival. The novel's complex treatment of loss and nostalgia leaves one convinced, if not quite contented, that endurance demands an offering, that some surrender of oneself and one's past is necessary to proceed into the future. Ultimately, while we feel for those characters who cling to the graceful shadows and quiet echoes of the lost South, our admiration belongs wholeheartedly to Scarlett, who sacrifices her morals, family and love, confident that she can get everything back in the morning, so long as she survives another day.