Scarlett O'Hara

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

This is one of the most famous lines in Gone With the Wind, when Rhett Butler leaves Scarlett, given that she had exhausted all of his patience. As beautiful and unpredictable as she is, her character development along with the story is fascinating. I love her being raw, even if it means willful—at least she is truthful to nature.

We live in an ungiving and hypocritical society, where the term "love" is flimsy and comes with a price—a luxury that belongs only to the lucky and to fools, as innocence is sometimes a result of being protected.

When a beautiful young woman is told “no” to almost every action, her true self either withers or she develops thick enough skin to move like a chameleon. Whom to fault for this metamorphosis? As the evolution is painful enough, should alteration be loathed or observed carefully for its origin? Judging is easier, just like good deeds are easier said than done. Scarlett displays a ruthless pragmatism she developed from harsh conditions, yet she is the only person who protected the tribe and thrived despite adversities. The urge to survive is what makes her noble as a human being—swallowing the humiliation and hate to prevent a premature death of her nature.

She is a wild and untamed soul who acts according to instinct instead of intention. Surrendering to who you are and your compulsions prevents you from contradicting yourself, for the biggest betrayal is to subjugate your nature. The author shows mercy in describing the heartache Scarlett has to suffer—but the readers might feel it. Those born with beauty and intelligence in an obscure environment, it is almost impossible to dodge challenges and risk being ostracized.

I don’t blame Scarlett for who she is. As a reader, a mere bystander of her life, who am I to judge and whose heart to maim?

Through Scarlett, I learned the sacred formula of love.

For myself, as a being, before the “I” is developed, myself has already been thrown into a long chain of factors. For love coming out from this self, it is not an allegory but a prize from the brave ones—who have the courage to live their own destiny, for love is an excess from a meaningful journey of self-discovery.

Shedding tears oftentimes is a concealment for confusion, as deeper melancholy often doesn't appear in tears. It is the painful realization of things, and one spurts out the line: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”