Product Description

Margaret Mitchell's epic novel of love and war won the Pulitzer Prize and went on to give rise to two authorized sequels and one of the most popular and celebrated movies of all time.

Many novels have been written about the Civil War and its aftermath. None take us into the burning fields and cities of the American South as Gone With the Wind does, creating haunting scenes and thrilling portraits of characters so vivid that we remember their words and feel their fear and hunger for the rest of our lives.

In the two main characters, the white-shouldered, irresistible Scarlett and the flashy, contemptuous Rhett, Margaret Mitchell not only conveyed a timeless story of survival under the harshest of circumstances, she also created two of the most famous lovers in the English-speaking world since Romeo and Juliet.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #7283 in Books
• Published on: 2007-07-10
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 960 pages

Review
"Beyond a doubt one of the most remarkable first novels produced by an American writer. It is also one of the best."-- The New York Times

"The best novel to have ever come out of the South...it is unsurpassed in the whole of American writing."-- The Washington Post

"Fascinating and unforgettable! A remarkable book, a spectacular book, a book that will not be forgotten!"-- Chicago Tribune

"Gone with the Wind is one of those rare books that we never forget. We read it when we're young and fall in love with the characters, then we watch the film and read the book again and watch the film again and never get tired of revisiting an era that is the most important in our history. Rhett and Scarlet and Melanie and Ashley and Big Sam and Mammy and Archie the convict are characters who always remain with us, in the same way that Twain's characters do. No one ever forgets the scene when Scarlet wanders among the wounded in the Atlanta train yard; no one ever forgets the moment Melanie and Scarlet drag the body of the dead Federal soldier down the staircase, a step at a time. Gone with the Wind is an epic story. Anyone who has not read it has missed one of the greatest literary experiences a reader can have."-- James Lee Burke, bestselling author of The Tin Roof Blowdown

"I first read Gone with the Wind in grade school--a boy of the upper South who'd seen the great movie and felt compelled to learn what lay behind it, all thousand-plus pages worth. No page disappointed me. What other American novel surpasses its eagerness to tell a great story of love and war; what characters equal the cantankerous passions of Scarlett and Rhett? Even Scott Fitzgerald spoke well of it. What more could I ask, even seven decades later?"-- Reynolds Price

"In my own personal life, I find many similarities to Scarlett's: The whole 17-inch waist thing notwithstanding, I do love a barbecue, both for the food and the men--I have been known to "eat like a field hand and gobble like a hawg"--I admit that at least on one occasion I may have feigned interest in some guy to further my own interests--I have fought tooth, toenail and tirelessly for my family--I learn slow but I learn good--and even so, I still adore the prospect of dealing with most things...Tomorrow."-- Jill Conner Browne, The Sweet Potato Queen, bestselling author of The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel

"In 1936 I was in E.M. Daggett Junior High in Ft. Worth, Texas. By some chance I was able to read Gone with the Wind early on. Then and now, I found it one of the great experiences of a young life. I still list it as one of my 10 favorite books."-- Liz Smith, nationally syndicated columnist

"Not just a great love story, Gone with the Wind is one of the most powerful anti-war novels ever written. Told from the standpoint of the women left behind, author Margaret Mitchell brilliantly illustrates the heartbreaking and devastating effects of war on the land and its people." -- Fannie Flagg, Academy Award nominated-author

"Let's say you've read Gone with the Wind at least twice, and seen the movie over and again. So, here's a thought. Buy this handsome paperback edition, just for Pat Conroy's preface. This passionate, nearly breathless love letter is a Song of Solomon to Margaret Mitchell, Scarlett O'Hara, and Conroy's beautiful, GTW-obsessed mother. Indeed, his luminous preface packs a durable wallop, just like the epic Pulitzer prize-winning work that inspires it."-- Jan Karon, author of The Mitford Years series

"GWTW is an indelible portrait of a unique time and place, American's greatest political and moral conflict, and the myths that surround it -- an all absorbing spectacle of a read even for postmodern readers. Mitchell vividly portrays the disillusionment and devastation of war, the ignorance of the uninitiated, and the transformation of arrogance into tenacity that shaped the first "new South." All the details of history and place come together as a rich backdrop for those unforgettable characters: shallow and selfish Scarlett, sincere Melanie, moony-eyed Ashley, and the sage, pragmatic, dashing, and rakish Rhett Butler--the most enduring heartthrob of American literature has produced. I'd reread the book for the thrill of Rhett alone!" -- Darnell Arnoult, author of Sufficient Grace

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter Twenty-five

The next morning Scarlett's body was so stiff and sore from the long miles of walking and jolting in the wagon that every movement was agony. Her face was crimson with sunburn and her blistered palms raw. Her tongue was furred and her throat parched as if flames had scorched it and no amount of water could assuage her thirst. Her head felt swollen and she winced even when she turned her eyes. A queasiness of the stomach reminiscent of the early days of her pregnancy made the smoking yams on the breakfast table unendurable, even to the smell. Gerald could have told her she was suffering the normal aftermath of her first experience with hard drinking but Gerald noticed nothing. He sat at the head of the table, a gray old man with absent, faded eyes fastened on the door and head cocked slightly to hear the rustle of Ellen's petticoats, to smell the lemon verbena sachet.

As Scarlett sat down, he mumbled: "We will wait for Mrs. O'Hara. She is late." She raised an aching head, looked at him with startled incredulity and met the pleading eyes of Mammy, who stood behind Gerald's chair. She rose unsteadily, her hand at her throat and looked down at her father in the morning sunlight. He peered up at her vaguely and she saw that his hands were shaking, that his head trembled a little.

Until this moment she had not realized how much she had counted on Gerald to take command, to tell her what she must do, and now -- Why, last night he had seemed almost himself. There had been none of his usual bluster and vitality, but at least he had told a connected story and now -- now, he did not even remember Ellen was dead. The combined shock of the coming of the Yankees and her death had stunned him. She started to speak, but Mammy shook her head vehemently and raising her apron dabbed at her red eyes.

"Oh, can Pa have lost his mind?" thought Scarlett and her throbbing head felt as if it would crack with this added strain. "No, no. He's just dazed by it all. It's like he was sick. He'll get over it. He must get over it. What will I do if he doesn't? -- I won't think about it now. I won't think of him or Mother or any of these awful things now. No, not till I can stand it. There are too many other things to think about -- things that can be helped without my thinking of those I can't help."

She left the dining room without eating, and went out onto the back porch where she found Pork, barefooted and in the ragged remains of his best livery, sitting on the steps cracking peanuts. Her head was hammering and throbbing and the bright sunlight stabbed into her eyes. Merely holding herself erect required an effort of will power and she talked as briefly as possible, dispensing with the usual forms of courtesy her mother had always taught her to use with negroes.

She began asking questions so brusquely and giving orders so decisively Pork's eyebrows went up in mystification. Miss Ellen didn't never talk so short to nobody, not even when she caught them stealing pullets and watermelons. She asked again about the fields, the gardens, the stock, and her green eyes had a hard glaze which Pork had never seen in them before.

"Yas'm, dat hawse daid, layin' dar whar Ah tie him wid his nose in de water bucket he tuhned over. No'm, de cow ain' daid. Din' you know? She done have a calf las' night. Dat why she beller so."

"A fine midwife your Prissy will make," Scarlett remarked caustically. "She said she was bellowing because she needed milking."

"Well'm, Prissy ain' fixing to be no cow midwife, Miss Scarlett," Pork said tactfully. "An' ain' no use quarrelin' wid blessin's, cause dat calf gwine ter mean a full cow an' plen'y buttermilk fer de young Misses, lak dat Yankee doctah say dey'd need."

"All right, go on. Any stock left?"

"No'm. Nuthin' 'cept one ole sow an' her litter. Ah driv dem inter de swamp de day de Yankees come, but de Lawd knows how we gwine get dem. She mean, dat sow."

"We'll get them all right. You and Prissy can start right now hunting for her."

Pork was amazed and indignant.

"Miss Scarlett, dat a fe'el han's bizness. Ah's allus been a house nigger."

A small fiend with a pair of hot tweezers plucked behind Scarlett's eyeballs.

"You two will catch the sow -- or get out of here, like the field hands did."

Tears trembled in Pork's hurt eyes. Oh, if only Miss Ellen were here! She understood such niceties and realized the wide gap between the duties of a field hand and those of a house nigger.

"Git out, Miss Scarlett? Whar'd Ah git out to, Miss Scarlett?"

"I don't know and I don't care. But anyone at Tara who won't work can go hunt up the Yankees. You can tell the others that too."

"Yas'm."

"Now, what about the corn and the cotton, Pork?"

"De cawn? Lawd, Miss Scarlett, dey pasture dey hawses in de cawn an' cah'ied off whut de hawses din' eat or spile. An' dey driv dey cannons an' wagons 'cross de cotton till it plum ruint, 'cept a few acres over on de creek bottom dat dey din' notice. But dat cotton ain' wuth foolin' wid, 'cause ain' but 'bout three bales over dar."

Three bales. Scarlett thought of the scores of bales Tara usually yielded and her head hurt worse. Three bales. That was little more than the shiftless Slatterys raised. To make matters worse, there was the question of taxes. The Confederate government took cotton for taxes in lieu of money, but three bales wouldn't even cover the taxes. Little did it matter though, to her or the Confederacy, now that all the field hands had run away and there was no one to pick the cotton.

"Well, I won't think of that either," she told herself. "Taxes aren't a woman's job anyway. Pa ought to look after such things, but Pa -- I won't think of Pa now. The Confederacy can whistle for its taxes. What we need now is something to eat."

"Pork, have any of you been to Twelve Oaks or the MacIntosh place to see if there's anything left in the gardens there?"

"No, Ma'm! Us ain' lef' Tara. De Yankees mout git us."

"I'll send Dilcey over to MacIntosh. Perhaps she'll find something there. And I'll go to Twelve Oaks."

"Who wid, chile?"

"By myself. Mammy must stay with the girls and Mr. Gerald can't -- "

Pork set up an outcry which she found infuriating. There might be Yankees or mean niggers at Twelve Oaks. She mustn't go alone.

"That will be enough, Pork. Tell Dilcey to start immediately. And you and Prissy go bring in the sow and her litter," she said briefly, turning on her heel.

Mammy's old sunbonnet, faded but clean, hung on its peg on the back porch and Scarlett put it on her head, remembering, as from another world, the bonnet with curling green plume which Rhett had brought her from Paris. She picked up a large split-oak basket and started down the back stairs, each step jouncing her head until her spine seemed to be trying to crash through the top of her skull.

The road down to the river lay red and scorching between the ruined cotton fields. There were no trees to cast a shade and the sun beat down through Mammy's sunbonnet as if it were made of tarlatan instead of heavy quilted calico, while the dust floating upward sifted into her nose and throat until she felt the membranes would crack if she spoke. Deep ruts and furrows were cut into the road where horses had dragged heavy guns along it and the red gullies on either side were deeply gashed by the wheels. The cotton was mangled and trampled where cavalry and infantry, forced off the narrow road by the artillery, had marched through the green bushes, grinding them into the earth. Here and there in road and fields lay buckles and bits of harness leather, canteens flattened by hooves and caisson wheels, buttons, blue caps, worn socks, bits of bloody rags, all the litter left by a marching army.

She passed the clump of cedars and the low brick wall which marked the family burying ground, trying not to think of the new grave lying by the three short mounds of her little brothers. Oh, Ellen -- She trudged on down the dusty hill, passing the heap of ashes and the stumpy chimney where the Slattery house had stood, and she wished savagely that the whole tribe of them had been part of the ashes. If it hadn't been for that nasty Emmie, who'd had a bastard brat by their overseer -- Ellen wouldn't have died.

She moaned as a sharp pebble cut into her blistered foot. What was she doing here? Why was Scarlett O'Hara, the belle of the County, the sheltered pride of Tara, tramping down this rough road almost barefoot? Her little feet were made to dance, not to limp, her tiny slippers to peep daringly from under bright silks, not to collect sharp pebbles and dust. She was born to be pampered and waited upon, and here she was, sick and ragged, driven by hunger to hunt for food in the gardens of her neighbors.

At the bottom of the long hill was the river and how cool and still were the tangled trees overhanging the water! She sank down on the low bank, and stripping off the remnants of her slippers and stockings, dabbled her burning feet in the cool water. It would be so good to sit here all day, away from the helpless eyes of Tara, here where only the rustle of leaves and the gurgle of slow water broke the stillness. But reluctantly she replaced her shoes and stockings and trudged down the bank, spongy with moss, under the shady trees. The Yankees had burned the bridge but she knew of a footlog bridge across a narrow point of the stream a hundred yards below. She crossed it cautiously and trudged uphill the hot half-mile to Twelve Oaks.

There towered the twelve oaks, as they had stood since Indian days, but with their leaves brown from fire and the branches burned and scorched. Within their circle lay the ruins of John Wilkes' house, the charred remains of that once stately home which had crowned the hill in white-columned dignity. The deep pit which had been the cellar, the blackened field-stone foundations and two mighty chimneys marked the site. One long column, half-burned, had fallen across the lawn, crushing the cape jessamine bushes.

Scarlett sat down on the column, too sick at the sight to go on. This desolation went to her heart as nothing she had ever ex...

Customer Reviews

a whole different book.
This book is definitely worth the read. Although long, Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell has a lot going on in it. Mitchell develops the characters so well that you can almost see them. It is also great for history. This is because I always learned about the civil war through the northerners eyes. In this book you see it all through the eyes of a southerner. As the story progresses you build up more and more grudges against Scarlet, who is not your best friend. Scarlet is rude and takes on too "manly" duties. Close to the end, though, she finally gets kicked back. When hard times hit she becomes more sweet, gentle and womanly. However, that does not last long enough. When her marital status changes she regains money and again, she gives up her sweetness and goes back to her old self. This book would be good for those who enjoy romantic, historical and classic novels about the civil war. Stick with it through the slow parts and you can easily enjoy the rest. If you have not read this yet, buy in now, it will not be like any other book you've ever read.

This is More Than Five (5) Stars [24][26][36]
Margaret Mitchell's requiem of the South succeeds to embrace both the reader and her topic because of the tremendous blend of themes which resound throughout this masterful novel.

First, she introduces us to the concept of peace versus war: "All wars are sacred, to those who have to fight them. If the people who started them did not make wars sacred, who would be foolish enough to fight?" And, of course business pragmatist Rhett Butler concludes, "All wars are in realty money squabbles. But so few people ever realize it. Their ears are too full of bugles and drums . . . " This dialogue of sanctity of war versus business pragmatism constantly resounds in the book.

Secondly, is how men treat other men. And, within this theme are numerous subtopics. The most obvious is the North versus the South. "Arrogance and callousness for the conquerors, bitter endurance and hatred for the conquered." When you start a war - know that at the end you still have an enemy, and that enemy's feelings toward you may be stronger and more bitter! The other obvious theme is white versus black. Slavery versus freedom for the "darkies." And, although that serfdom appears to symbiotically exist in the Camelot of the Georgian south, Ashley Wilkes tells Scarlett O'Hara at one time that had there been no war and had his father died with slavery still intact, he would have freed his slaves as his methodically conceived logical conclusion was to do the right thing : free men.

Ashley Wilkes, who displays another great theme of old antebellum South's gentlemen in the new world of the Reconstruction South, is both hero and goat. Rhett Butler always tells Scarlett that Ashley's days of importance ended when his environs were burnt to ashes at the war's end. She never agrees, at least until the end. And, while she disagrees with Rhett about Ashley, they gang up on her on yet another masterful man versus man theme: employment of convict labor. Treated worse than slaves, convicts are the backbone to cheap labor after the war. But, for their hard work they are beaten and fed little and paid less. Ashley, in her post-starvation period, will do almost everything to avoid experiencing hunger again - including hiring white northerners to be her conscripted laborers.

Thirdly, we learn about truth versus appearance. Rhett and most of the old South depict the wonderment of southern civility - never say a bad thing about anyone, and always show respect and manners to those about you. This applies to many slaves as well. Ashley and his wife, Melanie (Melly), are embodiments of such gentile mannerisms. Scarlett's mother Helen was another. Scarlett's father, Gerald O'Hara, and Scarlett are not. But, Scarlett and her father were truthful. The Irish in father and daughter refused to fub, they refused to be concerned about the foderol scurried about by gossip - holding such lack of care when the idle gossip festered to outright defamatory lies. Rhett, who loves the lack of deception in Scarlett's character, often criticizes his peers for their hypocrisy. Rhett admits to engaging in the same for purposes of business; but, as a man he refuses to be known as another who says what he does not mean. But, Rhett, as time progresses in the book, succumbs to the gossip and engages in the very hypocrisy he despises.

Fourthly, the issue of uneven playing field resounds. Rich versus poor. Slave owner versus slave. Business owner versus convict labor. South versus North. And, hidden within these themes is Mitchell's greatest announcement: feminism. Scarlett who owns businesses after the war, is criticized by all men and societal women for engaging in a man's world. Even with her success, she is snubbed by the hob nob crowd. But, perhaps greatest in this theme is the concept of men having rights which women cannot. Rhett gallivants with the local prostitute Belle without concern, while one emotional hug held by life-long friends and neighbors Scarlett and Ashley is identified as "adultery." When Rhett confronts her about this, Scarlett retaliates, "You are nothing but a drunken beast who's been with bad women so long that you can't understand anything else but badness. You've lived in dirt too long to know anything else. You are jealous of something you can't understand. Good night."

Other themes also exist: building versus destroying; growing up versus growing old; Catholics versus Christians; love for family versus love for spouses; raising children versus burying children . . .

As these themes ebb and flow and occasionally eddy in this ocean-sized novel, the characters' personalities grow and become embodiments of many stereotypical Southern mainstays. And, to add to the characters, Mitchell uses incredibly detailed phonetic spellings for the crackers' and slaves' dialogues. Her detailed description of people's clothing and household interiors (and exteriors) brand indelible images into the readers' minds. This is writing!

Mitchell, whose own life is a mixture of angelic Melly and defiant Scarlett, had three marriages and worked (as a journalist) in a man's world. She knew that her publication would be much more difficult than a man's work - especially one of such largess. But, like Scarlett, she persevered and triumphed. Mitchell's name remains among the most known in the American literary world - not bad for a small girl from Atlanta.

So many passages of this book flow with delicate prose that make it an incredibly easy 960-page read. In Pat Conroy's preface, that great southern writer states, "This is The Illiad with a Southern accent, burning with the humiliation of Reconstruction. . . Gone with the Wind was not just a book, it was an answer, a clenched fist raised to the North, an anthem of defiance. If you could not defeat the Yankees on the battlefield, then by God, one of your women could rise from the ashes of humiliation to write more powerfully than the enemy and all the historians and novelists who sang the praises of the Union."

Love the book, maybe not this version
First of all, Gone With the Wind is my favorite book ever. But this edition was not well done. Although the little red one I have read countless times smears newspaper-like smudges all over me, at least it had all the pages. That's right, my version was missing a page. It had the wrong page there instead, so I had to go look at my other version. Plus it had a few typos. This made me sad, as I had such high hopes for this version.