We're not home-and-hearth people. We're the adventurers, the buccaneers, the blockade runners. Without challenge, we're only alive.
I am like a mariner born and bred on board a buccaneer brig whose soul has become so inured to storm and strife that if cast ashore he would weary and languish no matter how alluring the shady groves and how bright the gentle sun.
You belong with me, Scarlett, haven't you figured that out? And the world is where we belong, all of it. We're not home-and-hearth people. We're the adventurers, the buccaneers, the blockade runners. Without challenge, we're only half alive. We can go anywhere, and as long as we're together, it will belong to us. But, my pet, we'll never belong to it. That's for other people, not for us.
The government are behaving like a bevy of maiden aunts who have fallen among buccaneers.
Why couldn't there be even a western slasher, or why couldn't there be a serial killer in a kind of pirate buccaneer Caribbean, just someone that's just doing terrible, terrible things in the ports, the sexy ports of Jamaica during the Pirate Renaissance.
Why is it possible to rescue S&L buccaneers in the early '90s and provide guidance to levered Wall Street investment bankers during the 1998 long-term capital management crisis, yet throw 2 million homeowners to the wolves in 2007?
The Buccaneers was an Edith Wharton novel, and she never finished it, and a screenwriter adapted it for television.
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