G
Gordon_Sims
Guest
While I agree, that doesn’t take anything away from the movie. We watch it at least once a year. I was thrilled by this news.
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S
Seeker1961
Guest
My father would have loved that. It was his favorite book and favorite movie.
A
aicirt
Guest
“As God is my witness, I’ll never go hungry again” (raising turnip).
C
CaptFun
Guest
Oh man! I thought it was a radish! Turnips are bland but doable!
Figured radishes on an empty stomach accounted for 10 years of dedicated MEAN.
A
aicirt
Guest
Chapter XXV…It was radishes!! You were right.Oh man! I thought it was a radish! Turnips are bland but doable!
Figured radishes on an empty stomach accounted for 10 years of dedicated MEAN.
T
TheRealJuliane
Guest
But radishes are too small to hold up in a dramatic scene in a movie, so I’m sure she didn’t hold up a bunch of radishes, but a turnip. Or a parsnip. Some nasty-tasting root vegetable, not a radish.Chapter XXV…It was radishes!! You were right.
A
aicirt
Guest
Scarlett was one for drama, bless her heart. She had just left the kitchen where Mammy was making yams, another was shelling peanuts, and she had blasted him and Prissy for not getting out in the swamp after a sow and her piglets(.Obviously, she had her mind on bar-b-que.) So she didn’t have to go gettin her stomach upset with that radish. But she sure did know how to make an ending and an entrance…bless her heart.
T
TheRealJuliane
Guest
Dang, you know that movie very well! I’ve only seen it twice, so I can only remember the “big” scenes and not all the little details. Scarlett is one of those characters that you love to hate, or hate to love. Bless her heart, indeed.
J
JustaServant
Guest
For your reading enjoyment, a poem written by Louis L’Amour in the mid-1930s, prior to the film. When EVERYONE was talking about GWTW.
I Haven’t Read Gone With the Wind
Louis L’Amour
I have read Shakespeare, Shelley, and Poe
What profit is in these?
I sit alone wherever I go
And strive to look at ease.
I crouch alone beside the wall
To avoid their eager look -
But no matter how I stall
They’ll ask about that book.
I cannot check my sheepish blush,
My color comes and goes,
I redden to my finger-tips
And sometimes to my nose.
But they will leer and sneer at me -
Their eyes triumphant shine,
Tho for every book they’ve read
I’ve read forty-nine.
I wish I had their awful cheek -
I’d let them have their fling
Then stories I’d tell of Boccaccio
Not quite the proper thing;
Of Homer and Horace and Catullus
Hudson and Halleck and Hoffenstein -
For every single book they’ve read
I’ve read forty-nine.
No other title do they know,
The refrain is scarcely new -
Tho the chances are their knowledge
Came from a book review;
They ask me if I’ve read it -
I humbly whisper “No”
(Thank God, again I’ve said it!)
They clap their hands and glow.
I’ve read John Donne - I like to drift
Thru Plato, Plutarch, and Euripides;
I know Spinoza - I’ve read Dean Swift,
And Stendhal, or Sterne, or Maimonidies.
I’ve read Wycherley, and read Sam Pepys
Not quite so funny, but subtler -
In spite of all that I’m down in the deeps
I know nothing about Rhett Butler!
I’m familiar with Falstaff, Dido, and Puck
But no one gives me a tumble -
I’ve done my reading - I’ll have no truck
With the thousands who chortle and rumble,
And talk about Butler and Scarlett O’Hare.
Did she right? Did she wrong? they gasp and exclaim -
If she’d morals or not, I don’t seem to care
But I’m plucking the coverlet over that name.
I’m almost a social outcast now
For no matter where I go,
They crowd around and ask me
Be it concert, party, show -
I hesitate as in a dream
One would almost think I’d sinned
But if another asks me, I will scream
NO! I haven’t read Gone With the Wind
I Haven’t Read Gone With the Wind
Louis L’Amour
I have read Shakespeare, Shelley, and Poe
What profit is in these?
I sit alone wherever I go
And strive to look at ease.
I crouch alone beside the wall
To avoid their eager look -
But no matter how I stall
They’ll ask about that book.
I cannot check my sheepish blush,
My color comes and goes,
I redden to my finger-tips
And sometimes to my nose.
But they will leer and sneer at me -
Their eyes triumphant shine,
Tho for every book they’ve read
I’ve read forty-nine.
I wish I had their awful cheek -
I’d let them have their fling
Then stories I’d tell of Boccaccio
Not quite the proper thing;
Of Homer and Horace and Catullus
Hudson and Halleck and Hoffenstein -
For every single book they’ve read
I’ve read forty-nine.
No other title do they know,
The refrain is scarcely new -
Tho the chances are their knowledge
Came from a book review;
They ask me if I’ve read it -
I humbly whisper “No”
(Thank God, again I’ve said it!)
They clap their hands and glow.
I’ve read John Donne - I like to drift
Thru Plato, Plutarch, and Euripides;
I know Spinoza - I’ve read Dean Swift,
And Stendhal, or Sterne, or Maimonidies.
I’ve read Wycherley, and read Sam Pepys
Not quite so funny, but subtler -
In spite of all that I’m down in the deeps
I know nothing about Rhett Butler!
I’m familiar with Falstaff, Dido, and Puck
But no one gives me a tumble -
I’ve done my reading - I’ll have no truck
With the thousands who chortle and rumble,
And talk about Butler and Scarlett O’Hare.
Did she right? Did she wrong? they gasp and exclaim -
If she’d morals or not, I don’t seem to care
But I’m plucking the coverlet over that name.
I’m almost a social outcast now
For no matter where I go,
They crowd around and ask me
Be it concert, party, show -
I hesitate as in a dream
One would almost think I’d sinned
But if another asks me, I will scream
NO! I haven’t read Gone With the Wind
J
JimG
Guest
Last time I tried to read the book, one thing became clear to me. People just had longer attention spans when Margaret Mitchell was writing!
Today, she would have to write in a much breezier style, to get any readers!
Today, she would have to write in a much breezier style, to get any readers!
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