A writer being good at upper level math might make for more interesting writing: “mathematical precision and imagination can be a salve to a literature that is drowning in vagueness of language and theme.” It would also make said writer a—wait for it—polymath.
Gone With The Wind has found new popularity in what might seem like a very unlikely place: North Korea. Though it’s hard not to feel a very particular something for Margaret Mitchell’s only novel. Something akin to romance, but strangley held apart from that specific genre of fiction, as Brian Ted Jones investigated earlier this year. Some would hold that the work is best appreciated in costume, near Mitchell’s grave, though Rachael Maddux is uncertain about that. Myself, I think the book, and the 1939 film, both pair best with a li’l kissing.
But then again: “After the death of God in the nineteenth century, the death of beauty in the twentieth century (what Arthur Danto has called “kalliphobia”), are we ready, now, for the death of love, too?”
I sure hope not.
