An Accomplishment of Sorts

Because it's listed as one of the best novels of all time, I felt obliged to read Gone with the Wind. I've never wanted to read it. I never watched more than bits and pieces of the movie and never felt that my life was missing anything. But I set out to read it, encouraged a bit by the very elegant forward by Pat Conroy. So I read it. Screaming and cussing all the way.

In the end, if I read it as a story of survival of a strong female protagonist, then it was mostly a good soap opera. If I read it as an apology for the South and the "glorious cause" for which it seceded, then I'm not convinced. In fact, I came away even more convinced that the right side won the War and proud to be Yankee--after all, they won the War.

There wasn't a single likeable character. Not Scarlett, that conniving, self-centered witch. Not "Miss Melly" (who would have been "Miss Smelly" if she'd grown up around real people). Melanie, that gracious "great lady," who cheered the murder of a Union soldier. Not Prissy, who is portrayed as being the dumbest person who ever walked the earth. Not Ashley, who had about as much spirit as cold oatmeal, a weakling, willing to hide behind the skirts of Miss Smelly (I mean Melly). Not Rhett, just as Machiavellian as Scarlett. Perhaps, Mammy came closest to being likeable, but even she, critical of the "free issue n ," who were at least willing to support themselves rather than continuing on as a willing slave, had little to recommend her.

To the extent the book gave me some insight into so-called "Sourthern Pride" I suppose that is a merit of the book.

But it's done.

Now reading: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, by Rebecca Skloot.