Why is it that the one of us who wants to live the most, who deserves to live the most, dies? And the ones that deserve to die, keep on living?
In our society we feel we must be happy. If we're not happy we feel hopeless. We feel like failures.
— But, Ashley, what are you afraid of?
— Mostly of having life suddenly become too real.
I do mind, very much, the loss of the beauty of the old life I loved. And I am fitted for nothing in this world, for the world I belonged in has gone. When the war came, life as it really is thrust itself against me. I saw my boyhood friends blown to bits and heard dying horses scream and learned the sickeningly horrible feeling of seeing men crumple up and spit blood when I shot them. Scarlett, before the war, life was beautiful.
And now it is gone and I am out of place in this new life, and I am afraid.
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
Well, reality is what the majority deem it to be. Not necessarily the best or the most logical, but the one that has become adapted to the desires of a society as a whole. Some things are governed by common sense, and others become fixed until more and more people believe that's the way it should be.
