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But she knew that no matter what beauty lay behind, it must remain there. No one could go forward with a load of aching memories.
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I don't see how it could possibly be made into a movie unless the entire book was scrapped and Shirley Temple cast as 'Bonnie,' Mae West as 'Belle,' and Stepin Fetchit as 'Uncle Peter.'
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I won't think of it now. I can't stand it now. I'll think of it later.
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If! If! If! There were so many ifs in life, never any sense of security, always the dread of losing everything.
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Why will people persist in reading strange meanings into the simplest of story? Is it not enough that a writer can entertain for a few hours with narrative without being suspected of 'significances' or symbolism or 'social trends'?
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The Irish are the damnedest race. They put so much emphasis on so many wrong things.
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Say you’ll marry me when I come back or, before God, I won’t go. I’ll stay around here and play a guitar under your window every night and sing at the top of my voice and compromise you, so you’ll have to marry me to save your reputation.
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Anyone as selfish and determined as you are is never helpless.
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Babies, babies, babies. Why did God make so many babies? But no, God didn't make them. Stupid people made them.
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All she wanted was a breathing space in which to hurt.
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Yes, as Rhett had prophesied, marriage could be a lot of fun. Not only was it fun but she was learning many things. That was odd in itself, because Scarlett had thought life could teach her no more. Now she felt like a child, every day on the brink of a new discovery.
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It's a curse - this not wanting to look on naked realities. Until the war, life was never more real to me than a shadow show on a curtain. And I preferred it so. I do not like the outlines of things to be too sharp. I like them gently blurred, a little hazy.
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I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow.
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Perhaps - I want the old days back again and they'll never come back, and I am haunted by the memory of them and of the world falling about my ears.
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The way to get a man interested and to hold his interest was to talk about himself, and then gradually lead the conversation around yourself—and keep it there.
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Some mistakes are too much fun to make only once.
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I'll think of it tomorrow, at Tara. I can stand it then. Tomorrow, I'll think of some way to get him back. After all, tomorrow is another day.
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I'm tired of saying "How wonderful you are!" to fool men, who haven't got one half sense I've got.
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What will the South be like without all our fine boys? What would the South have been if they had lived?
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All wars are sacred to those who have to fight them. If the people who started wars didn't make them sacred, who would be foolish enough to fight?