By this time, Gone With the Wind is better known as a movie than as a book. But on the principle that the book is usually better than the movie, I picked up the novel.

As big as the movie was it seems that when the book arrived, it was even bigger. Some books take on an importance that’s hard to explain after the fact. Uncle Tom’s Cabin, as any student that’s had to read it can attest, is not really great literature. But it resonated with the readers of its time in such a profound way that it changed history. I thinkGWTW was similarly recieved.

First of all, it’s a pretty good book. The story is exciting, and the Scarlett is really an interesting hero. It fits nicely into the genre of historical romance. Mitchell pays careful attention to the historical timeline, and the battles and strategies portrayed are really accurate.

But it’s not beautiful prose. For gorgeous writing about the civil war, I much prefer Cold Mountain. They were both made into movies. But GWTW got a Pulitzer and was a much bigger deal when it came out.

So, what’s going on?

Mitchell published the book in 1936, seventy-one years after the Civil War ended. The Civil War has had an astonishing half-life. Mitchell knew that, but It took 15 years and another Southern author, Faulkner, to put it unforgettably:

The past is not dead. In fact, it’s not even past.

I look at the story of this book from two perspectives. First, I see it through the eyes of the characters in it. Scarlett, her father Gerald, Ashley, Melanie, and Rhett–we meet all these people in the impossibly gorgeous plantation lifestyle in Georgia. Oh! The balls and the dresses!

I cannot help but think of those other ball-and-dresses books by Jane Austen. Austen lived in the time that these were the norm, and she cast her ironic eye at the whole proceeding. She wrote in the early 1800s, and GWTW begins in 1861. Although Scarlett is not a reader of literature, many others in the story are. In their balls, social conventions and obsession with propriety I see an America once again desperate to emulate Europe. The chaperoning, the marrying off for social advantage is all very well-known territory.

The desire to be like the Old County begins even before the start of the story. Gerald O’Hara came over from Ireland with a dream of becoming landed. He wanted to be like the landed nobility of his despised Ireland. The culture and aspirations of the fathers and the children were plucked and planted into this new world.

But it crumbled. The lifestyle of luxury could not be maintained after the Civil War. In the timeline of the novel, the culture falters almost immediately. All the eligible young men are off to war, and the rest of society is left to fend as best they can.

Fending gets harder and harder. But for the people caught in the nightmare, there is a sustaining thought: how very good they used to have it. The possibility of having it that good again fades further and further beyond reach. The Southern gentry are left without the gorgeous dresses. They salvage what they can. If they can’t be rich and waited upon by scores of servants, at least they will maintain the morays and propriety.

Her friends and family cling to the memories. Scarlett, however, knows what she wants. Propriety was never that interesting to her; she wants the dresses back. She succeeds, but in the end discovers that her heartlessness has a cost.

Mitchell wrote about the origin of the customs of the South because she learned them growing up in Georgia. The customs were cherished and passed down with fondness. There is a romantic nostalgia for the plantation life that still lingers on for many. Mitchell learned from people who lived through the hard times of the war and the aftermath.

Now I come to my second perspective on the book: the times that the first readers were living through. Mitchell was born in 1900. She was in her 20s during the roaring 20s. When the Depression arrived, she felt all the lack of her former times. When Black Tuesday hit in 1929, all of America got a chance to feel the grinding hardship of survival. And pretty much everybody knew what it was like to be nostalgic for better times.

When GWTW came outin 1936, the Depression had been going on for 7 long years. It is easy to see how the story of Scarlett, belle of the county but reduced to scrambling for food in the ground and vowing “I will never be hungry again!”, would resonate with the people who watched the hobos and maybe stood in the soup lines.

It’s been a long week,  full of thoughts. As you can see, I’ve been caught up in that interesting maelstrom of politics.

Chris reminded me, since he’s such an old hand at paying attention to politics, that it’s only four years. And that as excited as everyone tends to get, not much changes. Checks and Balances, you know?

That’s true, generally.

I wanted to write a bit about my weird week. Monday I had my PMP test, and I passed it (YAY!). So I came home and went to bed early.

After I had fallen asleep, someone rang the doorbell. Dog was barking like mad,and I sleepily thought that Chris must have locked himself out somehow. I got up to answer it, but looked to see who it was. It wasn’t Chris. Had to grab my bathrobe and answer.

Big pasty white guy asked me if I “knew this man” and shoved a mug shot at me. I looked at the mug shot and looked at the guy. He was wearing some kind of police badge. I hadn’t seen mugshot man.

“Really? He’s your neighbor.”

No, I hadn’t seen him.

“He’s a child pedophile and we’re trying to get him off the street. Are you sure?”

many many things wrong with this statement. I looked at pasty man again. His badge said BAIL, not police. Trying to get someone off the streets is a job for the POLICE.

“It’s late.” I said.

“What time is it?” pasty said.

“ninethirty” Hey, I didn’t say that. THERE WAS ANOTHER GUY OUT OF SIGHT!

“oh, I’m sorry.” pasty said. and they left.

Now, I’m freaked out. I wish I hadn’t opened the door. I found chris and told him what heppened. He found the number for the police and I called them. They said they would send a car to see what was up.

Chris said I should have gotten him and not answered the door. I could see that now. We looked up megan’s law website and no such mugshot was listed in our city, so my first reaction–that they said guy was a pedophile just to get my sympathy and cooperation–was right. They were lying.

Took me a while to get back to sleep.

Tuesday, I had to get up way early, and drive to San diego for work. Super sleepy, but was booking along on the 5 in orange county when I ran over something. What was that? Barely had time to figure it out, when my tire blew out. Going 70 MPH on the 5. I had to stop, and persuade the other drivers to finally let me over to the shoulder. No collisions, and everyone is fine but the tire.

Staring at Disneyland exit, I call roadside assistance. In the end  they change the tire, I find a Sears to buy a new replacement tire and then go home. It took a long time to get the repair done.

SO! next day I accomplish the original San Diego visit, and all was well. Driving back on the 15, I am on a stretch of highway between two mountains and far from any exits. Motorcycle on my right pops a wheelie.

Well. Isnt’ he a daredevil. Shouldn’t be doing that on the highway. He speeds ahead of me, and then he starts driving with no hands. Yikes!

I lost trackof him for a second, but then I see him on my right. He’s moving around on his seat, and before I know it, he is

STANDING UP ON HIS BIKE SEAT WITH HIS ARMS FLAT DOWN ON HIS SIDE

all this while traveling abou 75 miles an hour. In traffic.

This alarms me. I think he’s going to kill himself. He gets back down, and sits on his cycle the way he is supposed to again, but I’m looking for an exit. If this man wants to spread his body organs across the highway, I don’t want to be there to watch.

But there were no exits. I thought about Chris’s advice for avoiding crazy drivers. My inclination has always been to slow down and drive more carefully myself, but he says ‘get ahead of them. Damage happens behind them, not in front.’

I thought about speeding to get ahead of dangerman. But he was going pretty fast.

In the end, I slowed down and didn’t see him again. I did encounter a few more motorcyclists and gave them the evil eye til I figured out they weren’t dangerman.

Now, when thursday arrived, I was kinda worried about what would happen next. That was thursday, September 11th.

But nothing did happen. I sat at my desk and did very not dangerous things.

The towers fell 7 years ago, so long ago. And still, it is kind of like yesterday

I haven’t shared this poem I began composing that day before, but this will be the day to do it:

Murphy Horner

9/13/01

WTC

Where did this rubble come from?

The sky has fallen, every bit

Landing on our mothers and brothers and fiancées.

Pillars holding the heavens tipped;

Hell billows forth unbound.

Beat your breast! Our heads are

Anointed in ashes. Rend your clothes!

Fall on your knees and let the tears

Track paths across the face of destruction.

Weep! A new season of regret begins.