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Atlas Shrugged Kindle Edition
Who is John Galt? When he says that he will stop the motor of the world, is he a destroyer or a liberator? Why does he have to fight his battles not against his enemies but against those who need him most? Why does he fight his hardest battle against the woman he loves?
You will know the answer to these questions when you discover the reason behind the baffling events that play havoc with the lives of the amazing men and women in this book. You will discover why a productive genius becomes a worthless playboy...why a great steel industrialist is working for his own destruction...why a composer gives up his career on the night of his triumph...why a beautiful woman who runs a transcontinental railroad falls in love with the man she has sworn to kill.
Atlas Shrugged, a modern classic and Rand’s most extensive statement of Objectivism—her groundbreaking philosophy—offers the reader the spectacle of human greatness, depicted with all the poetry and power of one of the twentieth century’s leading artists.
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherNAL
- Publication dateApril 21, 2005
- Reading age18 years and up
- File size3.6 MB
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NON-CONTRADICTION
Chapter I
THE THEME
“Who is John Galt?”
The light was ebbing, and Eddie Willers could not distinguish the bum’s face. The bum had said it simply, without expression. But from the sunset far at the end of the street, yellow glints caught his eyes, and the eyes looked straight at Eddie Willers, mocking and still—as if the question had been addressed to the causeless uneasiness within him.
“Why did you say that?” asked Eddie Willers, his voice tense.
The bum leaned against the side of the doorway; a wedge of broken glass behind him reflected the metal yellow of the sky.
“Why does it bother you?” he asked.
“It doesn’t,” snapped Eddie Willers.
He reached hastily into his pocket. The bum had stopped him and asked for a dime, then had gone on talking, as if to kill that moment and postpone the problem of the next. Pleas for dimes were so frequent in the streets these days that it was not necessary to listen to explanations and he had no desire to hear the details of this bum’s particular despair.
“Go get your cup of coffee,” he said, handing the dime to the shadow that had no face.
“Thank you, sir,” said the voice, without interest, and the face leaned forward for a moment. The face was wind-browned, cut by lines of weariness and cynical resignation; the eyes were intelligent.
Eddie Willers walked on, wondering why he always felt it at this time of day, this sense of dread without reason. No, he thought, not dread, there’s nothing to fear: just an immense, diffused apprehension, with no source or object. He had become accustomed to the feeling, but he could find no explanation for it; yet the bum had spoken as if he knew that Eddie felt it, as if he thought that one should feel it, and more: as if he knew the reason.
Eddie Willers pulled his shoulders straight, in conscientious self-discipline. He had to stop this, he thought; he was beginning to imagine things. Had he always felt it? He was thirty-two years old. He tried to think back. No, he hadn’t; but he could not remember when it had started. The feeling came to him suddenly, at random intervals, and now it was coming more often than ever. It’s the twilight, he thought; I hate the twilight.
The clouds and the shafts of skyscrapers against them were turning brown, like an old painting in oil, the color of a fading masterpiece. Long streaks of grime ran from under the pinnacles down the slender, soot-eaten walls. High on the side of a tower there was a crack in the shape of a motionless lightning, the length of ten stories. A jagged object cut the sky above the roofs; it was half a spire, still holding the glow of the sunset; the gold leaf had long since peeled off the other half. The glow was red and still, like the reflection of a fire: not an active fire, but a dying one which it is too late to stop.
No, thought Eddie Willers, there was nothing disturbing in the sight of the city. It looked as it had always looked.
He walked on, reminding himself that he was late in returning to the office. He did not like the task which he had to perform on his return, but it had to be done. So he did not attempt to delay it, but made himself walk faster.
He turned a corner. In the narrow space between the dark silhouettes of two buildings, as in the crack of a door, he saw the page of a gigantic calendar suspended in the sky.
It was the calendar that the mayor of New York had erected last year on the top of a building, so that citizens might tell the day of the month as they told the hours of the day, by glancing up at a public tower. A white rectangle hung over the city, imparting the date to the men in the streets below. In the rusty light of this evening’s sunset, the rectangle said: September 2.
Eddie Willers looked away. He had never liked the sight of that calendar. It disturbed him, in a manner he could not explain or define. The feeling seemed to blend with his sense of uneasiness; it had the same quality.
He thought suddenly that there was some phrase, a kind of quotation, that expressed what the calendar seemed to suggest. But he could not recall it. He walked, groping for a sentence that hung in his mind as an empty shape. He could neither fill it nor dismiss it. He glanced back. The white rectangle stood above the roofs, saying in immovable finality: September 2.
Eddie Willers shifted his glance down to the street, to a vegetable pushcart at the stoop of a brownstone house. He saw a pile of bright gold carrots and the fresh green of onions. He saw a clean white curtain blowing at an open window. He saw a bus turning a corner, expertly steered. He wondered why he felt reassured—and then, why he felt the sudden, inexplicable wish that these things were not left in the open, unprotected against the empty space above.
When he came to Fifth Avenue, he kept his eyes on the windows of the stores he passed. There was nothing he needed or wished to buy; but he liked to see the display of goods, any goods, objects made by men, to be used by men. He enjoyed the sight of a prosperous street; not more than every fourth one of the stores was out of business, its windows dark and empty.
He did not know why he suddenly thought of the oak tree. Nothing had recalled it. But he thought of it—and of his childhood summers on the Taggart estate. He had spent most of his childhood with the Taggart children, and now he worked for them, as his father and grandfather had worked for their father and grandfather.
The great oak tree had stood on a hill over the Hudson, in a lonely spot on the Taggart estate. Eddie Willers, aged seven, liked to come and look at that tree. It had stood there for hundreds of years, and he thought it would always stand there. Its roots clutched the hill like a fist with fingers sunk into the soil, and he thought that if a giant were to seize it by the top, he would not be able to uproot it, but would swing the hill and the whole of the earth with it, like a ball at the end of a string. He felt safe in the oak tree’s presence; it was a thing that nothing could change or threaten; it was his greatest symbol of strength.
One night, lightning struck the oak tree. Eddie saw it the next morning. It lay broken in half, and he looked into its trunk as into the mouth of a black tunnel. The trunk was only an empty shell; its heart had rotted away long ago; there was nothing inside—just a thin gray dust that was being dispersed by the whim of the faintest wind. The living power had gone, and the shape it left had not been able to stand without it.
Years later, he heard it said that children should be protected from shock, from their first knowledge of death, pain or fear. But these had never scarred him; his shock came when he stood very quietly, looking into the black hole of the trunk. It was an immense betrayal—the more terrible because he could not grasp what it was that had been betrayed. It was not himself, he knew, nor his trust; it was something else. He stood there for a while, making no sound, then he walked back to the house. He never spoke about it to anyone, then or since.
Eddie Willers shook his head, as the screech of a rusty mechanism changing a traffic light stopped him on the edge of a curb. He felt anger at himself. There was no reason that he had to remember the oak tree tonight. It meant nothing to him any longer, only a faint tinge of sadness—and somewhere within him, a drop of pain moving briefly and vanishing, like a raindrop on the glass of a window, its course in the shape of a question mark.
He wanted no sadness attached to his childhood; he loved its memories: any day of it he remembered now seemed flooded by a still, brilliant sunlight. It seemed to him as if a few rays from it reached into his present: not rays, more like pinpoint spotlights that gave an occasional moment’s glitter to his job, to his lonely apartment, to the quiet, scrupulous progression of his existence.
He thought of a summer day when he was ten years old. That day, in a clearing of the woods, the one precious companion of his childhood told him what they would do when they grew up. The words were harsh and glowing, like the sunlight. He listened in admiration and in wonder. When he was asked what he would want to do, he answered at once, “Whatever is right,” and added, “You ought to do something great . . . I mean, the two of us together.” “What?” she asked. He said, “I don’t know. That’s what we ought to find out. Not just what you said. Not just business and earning a living. Things like winning battles, or saving people out of fires, or climbing mountains.” “What for?” she asked. He said, “The minister said last Sunday that we must always reach for the best within us. What do you suppose is the best within us?” “I don’t know.” “We’ll have to find out.” She did not answer; she was looking away, up the railroad track.
Eddie Willers smiled. He had said, “Whatever is right,” twenty-two years ago. He had kept that statement unchallenged ever since; the other questions had faded in his mind; he had been too busy to ask them. But he still thought it self-evident that one had to do what was right; he had never learned how people could want to do otherwise; he had learned only that they did. It still seemed simple and incomprehensible to him: simple that things should be right, and incomprehensible that they weren’t. He knew that they weren’t. He thought of that, as he turned a corner and came to the great building of Taggart Transcontinental.
The building stood over the street as its tallest and proudest structure. Eddie Willers always smiled at his first sight of it. Its long bands of windows were unbroken, in contrast to those of its neighbors. Its rising lines cut the sky, with no crumbling corners or worn edges. It seemed to stand above the years, untouched. It would always stand there, thought Eddie Willers.
Whenever he entered the Taggart Building, he felt relief and a sense of security. This was a place of competence and power. The floors of its hallways were mirrors made of marble. The frosted rectangles of its electric fixtures were chips of solid light. Behind sheets of glass, rows of girls sat at typewriters, the clicking of their keys like the sound of speeding train wheels. And like an answering echo, a faint shudder went through the walls at times, rising from under the building, from the tunnels of the great terminal where trains started out to cross a continent and stopped after crossing it again, as they had started and stopped for generation after generation. Taggart Transcontinental, thought Eddie Willers, From Ocean to Ocean—the proud slogan of his childhood, so much more shining and holy than any commandment of the Bible. From Ocean to Ocean, forever—thought Eddie Willers, in the manner of a rededication, as he walked through the spotless halls into the heart of the building, into the office of James Taggart, President of Taggart Transcontinental.
James Taggart sat at his desk. He looked like a man approaching fifty, who had crossed into age from adolescence, without the intermediate stage of youth. He had a small, petulant mouth, and thin hair clinging to a bald forehead. His posture had a limp, decentralized sloppiness, as if in defiance of his tall, slender body, a body with an elegance of line intended for the confident poise of an aristocrat, but transformed into the gawkiness of a lout. The flesh of his face was pale and soft. His eyes were pale and veiled, with a glance that moved slowly, never quite stopping, gliding off and past things in eternal resentment of their existence. He looked obstinate and drained. He was thirty-nine years old.
He lifted his head with irritation, at the sound of the opening door.
“Don’t bother me, don’t bother me, don’t bother me,” said James Taggart.
Eddie Willers walked toward the desk.
“It’s important, Jim,” he said, not raising his voice.
“All right, all right, what is it?”
Eddie Willers looked at a map on the wall of the office. The map’s colors had faded under the glass—he wondered dimly how many Taggart presidents had sat before it and for how many years. The Taggart Transcontinental Railroad, the network of red lines slashing the faded body of the country from New York to San Francisco, looked like a system of blood vessels. It looked as if once, long ago, the blood had shot down the main artery and, under the pressure of its own overabundance, had branched out at random points, running all over the country. One red streak twisted its way from Cheyenne, Wyoming, down to El Paso, Texas—the Rio Norte Line of Taggart Transcontinental. New tracing had been added recently and the red streak had been extended south beyond El Paso—but Eddie Willers turned away hastily when his eyes reached that point.
He looked at James Taggart and said, “It’s the Rio Norte Line.” He noticed Taggart’s glance moving down to a corner of the desk. “We’ve had another wreck.”
“Railroad accidents happen every day. Did you have to bother me about that?”
“You know what I’m saying, Jim. The Rio Norte is done for. That track is shot. Down the whole line.”
“We are getting a new track.”
Eddie Willers continued as if there had been no answer: “That track is shot. It’s no use trying to run trains down there. People are giving up trying to use them.”
“There is not a railroad in the country, it seems to me, that doesn’t have a few branches running at a deficit. We’re not the only ones. It’s a national condition—a temporary national condition.”
Eddie stood looking at him silently. What Taggart disliked about Eddie Willers was this habit of looking straight into people’s eyes. Eddie’s eyes were blue, wide and questioning; he had blond hair and a square face, unremarkable except for that look of scrupulous attentiveness and open, puzzled wonder.
“What do you want?” snapped Taggart.
“I just came to tell you something you had to know, because somebody had to tell you.”
“That we’ve had another accident?”
“That we can’t give up the Rio Norte Line.”
James Taggart seldom raised his head; when he looked at people, he did so by lifting his heavy eyelids and staring upward from under the expanse of his bald forehead.
“Who’s thinking of giving up the Rio Norte Line?” he asked. “There’s never been any question of giving it up. I resent your saying it. I resent it very much.”
“But we haven’t met a schedule for the last six months. We haven’t completed a run without some sort of breakdown, major or minor. We’re losing all our shippers, one after another. How long can we last?”
“You’re a pessimist, Eddie. You lack faith. That’s what undermines the morale of an organization.”
“You mean that nothing’s going to be done about the Rio Norte Line?”
“I haven’t said that at all. Just as soon as we get the new track—”
“Jim, there isn’t going to be any new track.” He watched Taggart’s eyelids move up slowly. “I’ve just come back from the office of Associated Steel. I’ve spoken to Orren Boyle.”
“What did he say?”
“He spoke for an hour and a half and did not give me a single straight answer.”
“What did you bother him for? I believe the first order of rail wasn’t due for delivery until next month.”
“And before that, it was due for delivery three months ago.”
“Unforeseen circumstances. Absolutely beyond Orren’s control.”
“And before that, it was due six months earlier. Jim, we have waited for Associated Steel to deliver that rail for thirteen months.”
“What do you want me to do? I can’t run Orren Boyle’s business.”
“I want you to understand that we can’t wait.”
Taggart asked slowly, his voice half-mocking, half-cautious, “What did my sister say?”
“She won’t be back until tomorrow.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
“That’s for you to decide.”
“Well, whatever else you say, there’s one thing you’re not going to mention next—and that’s Rearden Steel.”
Eddie did not answer at once, then said quietly, “All right, Jim. I won’t mention it.”
“Orren is my friend.” He heard no answer. “I resent your attitude. Orren Boyle will deliver that rail just as soon as it’s humanly possible. So long as he can’t deliver it, nobody can blame us.”
“Jim! What are you talking about? Don’t you understand that the Rio Norte Line is breaking up—whether anybody blames us or not?”
“People would put up with it—they’d have to—if it weren’t for the Phoenix-Durango.” He saw Eddie’s face tighten. “Nobody ever complained about the Rio Norte Line, until the Phoenix-Durango came on the scene.”
“The Phoenix-Durango is doing a brilliant job.”
“Imagine a thing called the Phoenix-Durango competing with Taggart Transcontinental! It was nothing but a local milk line ten years ago.”
“It’s got most of the freight traffic of Arizona, New Mexico and Colorado now.” Taggart did not answer. “Jim, we can’t lose Colorado. It’s our last hope. It’s everybody’s last hope. If we don’t pull ourselves together, we’ll lose every big shipper in the state to the Phoenix-Durango. We’ve lost the Wyatt oil fields.”
“I don’t see why everybody keeps talking about the Wyatt oil fields.”
“Because Ellis Wyatt is a prodigy who—”
“Damn Ellis Wyatt!”
Those oil wells, Eddie thought suddenly, didn’t they have something in common with the blood vessels on the map? Wasn’t that the way the red stream of Taggart Transcontinental had shot across the country, years ago, a feat that seemed incredible now? He thought of the oil wells spouting a black stream that ran over a continent almost faster than the trains of the Phoenix-Durango could carry it. That oil field had been only a rocky patch in the mountains of Colorado, given up as exhausted long ago. Ellis Wyatt’s father had managed to squeeze an obscure living to the end of his days, out of the dying oil wells. Now it was as if somebody had given a shot of adrenaline to the heart of the mountain, the heart had started pumping, the black blood had burst through the rocks—of course it’s blood, thought Eddie Willers, because blood is supposed to feed, to give life, and that is what Wyatt Oil had done. It had shocked empty slopes of ground into sudden existence, it had brought new towns, new power plants, new factories to a region nobody had ever noticed on any map. New factories, thought Eddie Willers, at a time when the freight revenues from all the great old industries were dropping slowly year by year; a rich new oil field, at a time when the pumps were stopping in one famous field after another; a new industrial state where nobody had expected anything but cattle and beets. One man had done it, and he had done it in eight years; this, thought Eddie Willers, was like the stories he had read in school books and never quite believed, the stories of men who had lived in the days of the country’s youth. He wished he could meet Ellis Wyatt. There was a great deal of talk about him, but few had ever met him; he seldom came to New York. They said he was thirty-three years old and had a violent temper. He had discovered some way to revive exhausted oil wells and he had proceeded to revive them.
“Ellis Wyatt is a greedy bastard who’s after nothing but money,” said James Taggart. “It seems to me that there are more important things in life than making money.”
“What are you talking about, Jim? What has that got to do with—”
“Besides, he’s double-crossed us. We served the Wyatt oil fields for years, most adequately. In the days of old man Wyatt, we ran a tank train a week.”
“These are not the days of old man Wyatt, Jim. The Phoenix-Durango runs two tank trains a day down there—and it runs them on schedule.”
“If he had given us time to grow along with him—”
“He has no time to waste.”
“What does he expect? That we drop all our other shippers, sacrifice the interests of the whole country and give him all our trains?”
“Why, no. He doesn’t expect anything. He just deals with the Phoenix-Durango.”
“I think he’s a destructive, unscrupulous ruffian. I think he’s an irresponsible upstart who’s been grossly overrated.” It was astonishing to hear a sudden emotion in James Taggart’s lifeless voice.
“I’m not so sure that his oil fields are such a beneficial achievement. It seems to me that he’s dislocated the economy of the whole country. Nobody expected Colorado to become an industrial state. How can we have any security or plan anything if everything changes all the time?”
“Good God, Jim! He’s—”
“Yes, I know, I know, he’s making money. But that is not the standard, it seems to me, by which one gauges a man’s value to society. And as for his oil, he’d come crawling to us, and he’d wait his turn along with all the other shippers, and he wouldn’t demand more than his fair share of transportation—if it weren’t for the Phoenix-Durango. We can’t help it if we’re up against destructive competition of that kind. Nobody can blame us.”
The pressure in his chest and temples, thought Eddie Willers, was the strain of the effort he was making; he had decided to make the issue clear for once, and the issue was so clear, he thought, that nothing could bar it from Taggart’s understanding, unless it was the failure of his own presentation. So he had tried hard, but he was failing, just as he had always failed in all of their discussions; no matter what he said, they never seemed to be talking about the same subject.
“Jim, what are you saying? Does it matter that nobody blames us—when the road is falling apart?”
James Taggart smiled; it was a thin smile, amused and cold. “It’s touching, Eddie,” he said. “It’s touching—your devotion to Taggart Transcontinental. If you don’t look out, you’ll turn into one of those real feudal serfs.”
“That’s what I am, Jim.”
“But may I ask whether it is your job to discuss these matters with me?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Then why don’t you learn that we have departments to take care of things? Why don’t you report all this to whoever’s concerned? Why don’t you cry on my dear sister’s shoulder?”
“Look, Jim, I know it’s not my place to talk to you. But I can’t understand what’s going on. I don’t know what it is that your proper advisers tell you, or why they can’t make you understand. So I thought I’d try to tell you myself.”
“I appreciate our childhood friendship, Eddie, but do you think that that should entitle you to walk in here unannounced whenever you wish? Considering your own rank, shouldn’t you remember that I am president of Taggart Transcontinental?”
This was wasted. Eddie Willers looked at him as usual, not hurt, merely puzzled, and asked, “Then you don’t intend to do anything about the Rio Norte Line?”
“I haven’t said that. I haven’t said that at all.” Taggart was looking at the map, at the red streak south of El Paso. “Just as soon as the San Sebastián Mines get going and our Mexican branch begins to pay off—”
“Don’t let’s talk about that, Jim.”
Taggart turned, startled by the unprecedented phenomenon of an implacable anger in Eddie’s voice. “What’s the matter?”
“You know what’s the matter. Your sister said—”
“Damn my sister!” said James Taggart.
Eddie Willers did not move. He did not answer. He stood looking straight ahead. But he did not see James Taggart or anything in the office.
After a moment, he bowed and walked out.
In the anteroom, the clerks of James Taggart’s personal staff were switching off the lights, getting ready to leave for the day. But Pop Harper, chief clerk, still sat at his desk, twisting the levers of a half-dismembered typewriter. Everybody in the company had the impression that Pop Harper was born in that particular corner at that particular desk and never intended to leave it. He had been chief clerk for James Taggart’s father.
Pop Harper glanced up at Eddie Willers as he came out of the president’s office. It was a wise, slow glance; it seemed to say that he knew that Eddie’s visit to their part of the building meant trouble on the line, knew that nothing had come of the visit, and was completely indifferent to the knowledge. It was the cynical indifference which Eddie Willers had seen in the eyes of the bum on the street corner.
“Say, Eddie, know where I could get some woolen undershirts?” he asked. “Tried all over town, but nobody’s got ’em.”
“I don’t know,” said Eddie, stopping. “Why do you ask me?”
“I just ask everybody. Maybe somebody’ll tell me.”
Eddie looked uneasily at the blank, emaciated face and white hair.
“It’s cold in this joint,” said Pop Harper. “It’s going to be colder this winter.”
“What are you doing?” Eddie asked, pointing at the pieces of typewriter.
“The damn thing’s busted again. No use sending it out, took them three months to fix it the last time. Thought I’d patch it up myself. Not for long, I guess.” He let his fist drop down on the keys. “You’re ready for the junk pile, old pal. Your days are numbered.”
Eddie started. That was the sentence he had tried to remember: Your days are numbered. But he had forgotten in what connection he had tried to remember it.
“It’s no use, Eddie,” said Pop Harper.
“What’s no use?”
“Nothing. Anything.”
“What’s the matter, Pop?”
“I’m not going to requisition a new typewriter. The new ones are made of tin. When the old ones go, that will be the end of typewriting. There was an accident in the subway this morning, their brakes wouldn’t work. You ought to go home, Eddie, turn on the radio and listen to a good dance band. Forget it, boy. Trouble with you is you never had a hobby. Somebody stole the electric light bulbs again, from off the staircase, down where I live. I’ve got a pain in my chest. Couldn’t get any cough drops this morning, the drugstore on our corner went bankrupt last week. The Texas-Western Railroad went bankrupt last month. They closed the Queensborough Bridge yesterday for temporary repairs. Oh well, what’s the use? Who is John Galt?”
She sat at the window of the train, her head thrown back, one leg stretched across to the empty seat before her. The window frame trembled with the speed of the motion, the pane hung over empty darkness, and dots of light slashed across the glass as luminous streaks, once in a while.
Her leg, sculptured by the tight sheen of the stocking, its long line running straight, over an arched instep, to the tip of a foot in a high-heeled pump, had a feminine elegance that seemed out of place in the dusty train car and oddly incongruous with the rest of her. She wore a battered camel’s hair coat that had been expensive, wrapped shapelessly about her slender, nervous body. The coat collar was raised to the slanting brim of her hat. A sweep of brown hair fell back, almost touching the line of her shoulders. Her face was made of angular planes, the shape of her mouth clear-cut, a sensual mouth held closed with inflexible precision. She kept her hands in the coat pockets, her posture taut, as if she resented immobility, and unfeminine, as if she were unconscious of her own body and that it was a woman’s body.
She sat listening to the music. It was a symphony of triumph. The notes flowed up, they spoke of rising and they were the rising itself, they were the essence and the form of upward motion, they seemed to embody every human act and thought that had ascent as its motive. It was a sunburst of sound, breaking out of hiding and spreading open. It had the freedom of release and the tension of purpose. It swept space clean, and left nothing but the joy of an unobstructed effort. Only a faint echo within the sounds spoke of that from which the music had escaped, but spoke in laughing astonishment at the discovery that there was no ugliness or pain, and there never had had to be. It was the song of an immense deliverance.
She thought: For just a few moments—while this lasts—it is all right to surrender completely—to forget everything and just permit yourself to feel. She thought: Let go—drop the controls—this is it.
Somewhere on the edge of her mind, under the music, she heard the sound of train wheels. They knocked in an even rhythm, every fourth knock accented, as if stressing a conscious purpose. She could relax, because she heard the wheels. She listened to the symphony, thinking: This is why the wheels have to be kept going, and this is where they’re going.
She had never heard that symphony before, but she knew that it was written by Richard Halley. She recognized the violence and the magnificent intensity. She recognized the style of the theme; it was a clear, complex melody—at a time when no one wrote melody any longer. . . . She sat looking up at the ceiling of the car, but she did not see it and she had forgotten where she was. She did not know whether she was hearing a full symphony orchestra or only the theme; perhaps she was hearing the orchestration in her own mind.
She thought dimly that there had been premonitory echoes of this theme in all of Richard Halley’s work, through all the years of his long struggle, to the day, in his middle-age, when fame struck him suddenly and knocked him out. This—she thought, listening to the symphony—had been the goal of his struggle. She remembered half-hinted attempts in his music, phrases that promised it, broken bits of melody that started but never quite reached it; when Richard Halley wrote this, he . . . She sat up straight. When did Richard Halley write this?
In the same instant, she realized where she was and wondered for the first time where that music came from.
A few steps away, at the end of the car, a brakeman was adjusting the controls of the air-conditioner. He was blond and young. He was whistling the theme of the symphony. She realized that he had been whistling it for some time and that this was all she had heard.
She watched him incredulously for a while, before she raised her voice to ask, “Tell me please what are you whistling?”
The boy turned to her. She met a direct glance and saw an open, eager smile, as if he were sharing a confidence with a friend. She liked his face—its lines were tight and firm, it did not have that look of loose muscles evading the responsibility of a shape, which she had learned to expect in people’s faces.
“It’s the Halley Concerto,” he answered, smiling.
“Which one?”
“The Fifth.”
She let a moment pass, before she said slowly and very carefully, “Richard Halley wrote only four concertos.”
The boy’s smile vanished. It was as if he were jolted back to reality, just as she had been a few moments ago. It was as if a shutter were slammed down, and what remained was a face without expression, impersonal, indifferent and empty.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I’m wrong. I made a mistake.”
“Then what was it?”
“Something I heard somewhere.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did you hear it?”
“I don’t remember.”
She paused helplessly; he was turning away from her without further interest.
“It sounded like a Halley theme,” she said. “But I know every note he’s ever written and he never wrote that.”
There was still no expression, only a faint look of attentiveness on the boy’s face, as he turned back to her and asked, “You like the music of Richard Halley?”
“Yes,” she said, “I like it very much.”
He considered her for a moment, as if hesitating, then he turned away. She watched the expert efficiency of his movements as he went on working. He worked in silence.
She had not slept for two nights, but she could not permit herself to sleep; she had too many problems to consider and not much time: the train was due in New York early in the morning. She needed the time, yet she wished the train would go faster; but it was the Taggart Comet, the fastest train in the country.
She tried to think; but the music remained on the edge of her mind and she kept hearing it, in full chords, like the implacable steps of something that could not be stopped. . . . She shook her head angrily, jerked her hat off and lighted a cigarette.
She would not sleep, she thought; she could last until tomorrow night. . . . The train wheels clicked in accented rhythm. She was so used to them that she did not hear them consciously, but the sound became a sense of peace within her. . . . When she extinguished her cigarette, she knew that she needed another one, but thought that she would give herself a minute, just a few minutes, before she would light it. . . .
She had fallen asleep and she awakened with a jolt, knowing that something was wrong, before she knew what it was: the wheels had stopped. The car stood soundless and dim in the blue glow of the night lamps. She glanced at her watch: there was no reason for stopping. She looked out the window: the train stood still in the middle of empty fields.
She heard someone moving in a seat across the aisle, and asked, “How long have we been standing?”
A man’s voice answered indifferently, “About an hour.”
The man looked after her, sleepily astonished, because she leaped to her feet and rushed to the door.
There was a cold wind outside, and an empty stretch of land under an empty sky. She heard weeds rustling in the darkness. Far ahead, she saw the figures of men standing by the engine—and above them, hanging detached in the sky, the red light of a signal.
She walked rapidly toward them, past the motionless line of wheels. No one paid attention to her when she approached. The train crew and a few passengers stood clustered under the red light. They had stopped talking, they seemed to be waiting in placid indifference.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
The engineer turned, astonished. Her question had sounded like an order, not like the amateur curiosity of a passenger. She stood, hands in pockets, coat collar raised, the wind beating, her hair in strands across her face.
“Red light, lady,” he said, pointing up with his thumb.
“How long has it been on?”
“An hour.”
“We’re off the main track, aren’t we?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
The conductor spoke up. “I don’t think we had any business being sent off on a siding, that switch wasn’t working right, and this thing’s not working at all.” He jerked his head up at the red light. “I don’t think the signal’s going to change. I think it’s busted.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Waiting for it to change.”
In her pause of startled anger, the fireman chuckled. “Last week, the crack special of the Atlantic Southern got left on a siding for two hours—just somebody’s mistake.”
“This is the Taggart Comet,” she said. “The Comet has never been late.”
“She’s the only one in the country that hasn’t,” said the engineer.
“There’s always a first time,” said the fireman.
“You don’t know about railroads, lady,” said a passenger. “There’s not a signal system or a dispatcher in the country that’s worth a damn.”
She did not turn or notice him, but spoke to the engineer. “If you know that the signal is broken, what do you intend to do?”
He did not like her tone of authority, and he could not understand why she assumed it so naturally. She looked like a young girl; only her mouth and eyes showed that she was a woman in her thirties. The dark gray eyes were direct and disturbing, as if they cut through things, throwing the inconsequential out of the way. The face seemed faintly familiar to him, but he could not recall where he had seen it.
“Lady, I don’t intend to stick my neck out,” he said.
“He means,” said the fireman, “that our job’s to wait for orders.”
“Your job is to run this train.”
“Not against a red light. If the light says stop, we stop.”
“A red light means danger, lady,” said the passenger.
“We’re not taking any chances,” said the engineer. “Whoever’s responsible for it, he’ll switch the blame to us if we move. So we’re not moving till somebody tells us to.”
“And if nobody does?”
“Somebody will turn up sooner or later.”
“How long do you propose to wait?”
The engineer shrugged. “Who is John Galt?”
“He means,” said the fireman, “don’t ask questions nobody can answer.”
She looked at the red light and at the rail that went off into the black, untouched distance.
She said, “Proceed with caution to the next signal. If it’s in order, proceed to the main track. Then stop at the first open office.”
“Yeah? Who says so?”
“I do.”
“Who are you?”
It was only the briefest pause, a moment of astonishment at a question she had not expected, but the engineer looked more closely at her face, and in time with her answer he gasped, “Good God!”
She answered, not offensively, merely like a person who does not hear the question often:
“Dagny Taggart.”
“Well, I’ll be—” said the fireman, and then they all remained silent.
She went on, in the same tone of unstressed authority. “Proceed to the main track and hold the train for me at the first open office.”
“Yes, Miss Taggart.”
“You’ll have to make up time. You’ve got the rest of the night to do it. Get the Comet in on schedule.”
“Yes, Miss Taggart.”
She was turning to go, when the engineer asked, “If there’s any trouble, are you taking the responsibility for it, Miss Taggart?”
“I am.”
The conductor followed her as she walked back to her car. He was saying, bewildered, “But . . . just a seat in a day coach, Miss Taggart? But how come? But why didn’t you let us know?”
She smiled easily. “Had no time to be formal. Had my own car attached to Number 22 out of Chicago, but got off at Cleveland—and Number 22 was running late, so I let the car go. The Comet came next and I took it. There was no sleeping-car space left.”
The conductor shook his head. “Your brother—he wouldn’t have taken a coach.”
She laughed. “No, he wouldn’t have.”
The men by the engine watched her walking away. The young brakeman was among them. He asked, pointing after her, “Who is that?”
“That’s who runs Taggart Transcontinental,” said the engineer; the respect in his voice was genuine. “That’s the Vice-President in Charge of Operation.”
When the train jolted forward, the blast of its whistle dying over the fields, she sat by the window, lighting another cigarette. She thought: It’s cracking to pieces, like this, all over the country, you can expect it anywhere, at any moment. But she felt no anger or anxiety; she had no time to feel.
This would be just one more issue, to be settled along with the others. She knew that the superintendent of the Ohio Division was no good and that he was a friend of James Taggart. She had not insisted on throwing him out long ago only because she had no better man to put in his place. Good men were so strangely hard to find. But she would have to get rid of him, she thought, and she would give his post to Owen Kellogg, the young engineer who was doing a brilliant job as one of the assistants to the manager of the Taggart Terminal in New York; it was Owen Kellogg who ran the Terminal. She had watched his work for some time; she had always looked for sparks of competence, like a diamond prospector in an unpromising wasteland. Kellogg was still too young to be made superintendent of a division; she had wanted to give him another year, but there was no time to wait. She would have to speak to him as soon as she returned.
The strip of earth, faintly visible outside the window, was running faster now, blending into a gray stream. Through the dry phrases of calculations in her mind, she noticed that she did have time to feel something: it was the hard, exhilarating pleasure of action.
With the first whistling rush of air, as the Comet plunged into the tunnels of the Taggart Terminal under the city of New York, Dagny Taggart sat up straight. She always felt it when the train went underground—this sense of eagerness, of hope and of secret excitement. It was as if normal existence were a photograph of shapeless things in badly printed colors, but this was a sketch done in a few sharp strokes that made things seem clean, important—and worth doing.
She watched the tunnels as they flowed past: bare walls of concrete, a net of pipes and wires, a web of rails that went off into black holes where green and red lights hung as distant drops of color. There was nothing else, nothing to dilute it, so that one could admire naked purpose and the ingenuity that had achieved it. She thought of the Taggart Building standing above her head at this moment, growing straight to the sky, and she thought: These are the roots of the building, hollow roots twisting under the ground, feeding the city.
When the train stopped, when she got off and heard the concrete of the platform under her heels, she felt light, lifted, impelled to action. She started off, walking fast, as if the speed of her steps could give form to the things she felt. It was a few moments before she realized that she was whistling a piece of music—and that it was the theme of Halley’s Fifth Concerto.
She felt someone looking at her and turned. The young brakeman stood watching her tensely.
She sat on the arm of the big chair facing James Taggart’s desk, her coat thrown open over a wrinkled traveling suit. Eddie Willers sat across the room, making notes once in a while. His title was that of Special Assistant to the Vice-President in Charge of Operation, and his main duty was to be her bodyguard against any waste of time. She asked him to be present at interviews of this nature, because then she never had to explain anything to him afterwards. James Taggart sat at his desk, his head drawn into his shoulders.
“The Rio Norte Line is a pile of junk from one end to the other,” she said. “It’s much worse than I thought. But we’re going to save it.”
“Of course,” said James Taggart.
“Some of the rail can be salvaged. Not much and not for long. We’ll start laying new rail in the mountain sections, Colorado first. We’ll get the new rail in two months.”
“Oh, did Orren Boyle say he’ll—”
“I’ve ordered the rail from Rearden Steel.”
The slight, choked sound from Eddie Willers was his suppressed desire to cheer.
James Taggart did not answer at once. “Dagny, why don’t you sit in the chair as one is supposed to?” he said at last; his voice was petulant. “Nobody holds business conferences this way.”
“I do.”
She waited. He asked, his eyes avoiding hers, “Did you say that you have ordered the rail from Rearden?”
“Yesterday evening. I phoned him from Cleveland.”
“But the Board hasn’t authorized it. I haven’t authorized it. You haven’t consulted me.”
She reached over, picked up the receiver of a telephone on his desk and handed it to him.
“Call Rearden and cancel it,” she said.
James Taggart moved back in his chair. “I haven’t said that,” he answered angrily. “I haven’t said that at all.”
“Then it stands?”
“I haven’t said that, either.”
She turned. “Eddie, have them draw up the contract with Rearden Steel. Jim will sign it.” She took a crumpled piece of notepaper from her pocket and tossed it to Eddie. “There’s the figures and terms.”
Taggart said, “But the Board hasn’t—”
“The Board hasn’t anything to do with it. They authorized you to buy the rail thirteen months ago. Where you buy it is up to you.”
“I don’t think it’s proper to make such a decision without giving the Board a chance to express an opinion. And I don’t see why I should be made to take the responsibility.”
“I am taking it.”
“What about the expenditure which—”
“Rearden is charging less than Orren Boyle’s Associated Steel.”
“Yes, and what about Orren Boyle?”
“I’ve cancelled the contract. We had the right to cancel it six months ago.”
“When did you do that?”
“Yesterday.”
“But he hasn’t called to have me confirm it.”
“He won’t.”
Taggart sat looking down at his desk. She wondered why he resented the necessity of dealing with Rearden, and why his resentment had such an odd, evasive quality. Rearden Steel had been the chief supplier of Taggart Transcontinental for ten years, ever since the first Rearden furnace was fired, in the days when their father was president of the railroad. For ten years, most of their rail had come from Rearden Steel. There were not many firms in the country who delivered what was ordered, when and as ordered. Rearden Steel was one of them. If she were insane, thought Dagny, she would conclude that her brother hated to deal with Rearden because Rearden did his job with superlative efficiency; but she would not conclude it, because she thought that such a feeling was not within the humanly possible.
“It isn’t fair,” said James Taggart.
“What isn’t?”
“That we always give all our business to Rearden. It seems to me we should give somebody else a chance, too. Rearden doesn’t need us; he’s plenty big enough. We ought to help the smaller fellows to develop. Otherwise, we’re just encouraging a monopoly.”
“Don’t talk tripe, Jim.”
“Why do we always have to get things from Rearden?”
“Because we always get them.”
“I don’t like Henry Rearden.”
“I do. But what does that matter, one way or the other? We need rails and he’s the only one who can give them to us.”
“The human element is very important. You have no sense of the human element at all.”
“We’re talking about saving a railroad, Jim.”
“Yes, of course, of course, but still, you haven’t any sense of the human element.”
“No. I haven’t.”
“If we give Rearden such a large order for steel rails—”
“They’re not going to be steel. They’re Rearden Metal.”
She had always avoided personal reactions, but she was forced to break her rule when she saw the expression on Taggart’s face. She burst out laughing.
Rearden Metal was a new alloy, produced by Rearden after ten years of experiments. He had placed it on the market recently. He had received no orders and had found no customers.
Taggart could not understand the transition from the laughter to the sudden tone of Dagny’s voice; the voice was cold and harsh: “Drop it, Jim. I know everything you’re going to say. Nobody’s ever used it before. Nobody approves of Rearden Metal. Nobody’s interested in it. Nobody wants it. Still, our rails are going to be made of Rearden Metal.”
“But . . .” said Taggart, “but . . . but nobody’s ever used it before!”
He observed, with satisfaction, that she was silenced by anger. He liked to observe emotions; they were like red lanterns strung along the dark unknown of another’s personality, marking vulnerable points. But how one could feel a personal emotion about a metal alloy, and what such an emotion indicated, was incomprehensible to him; so he could make no use of his discovery.
“The consensus of the best metallurgical authorities,” he said, “seems to be highly skeptical about Rearden Metal, contending—”
“Drop it, Jim.”
“Well, whose opinion did you take?”
“I don’t ask for opinions.”
“What do you go by?”
“Judgment.”
“Well, whose judgment did you take?”
“Mine.”
“But whom did you consult about it?”
“Nobody.”
“Then what on earth do you know about Rearden Metal?”
“That it’s the greatest thing ever put on the market.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s tougher than steel, cheaper than steel and will outlast any hunk of metal in existence.”
“But who says so?”
“Jim, I studied engineering in college. When I see things, I see them.”
“What did you see?”
“Rearden’s formula and the tests he showed me.”
“Well, if it were any good, somebody would have used it, and nobody has.” He saw the flash of anger, and went on nervously: “How can you know it’s good? How can you be sure? How can you decide?”
“Somebody decides such things, Jim. Who?”
“Well, I don’t see why we have to be the first ones. I don’t see it at all.”
“Do you want to save the Rio Norte Line or not?” He did not answer. “If the road could afford it, I would scrap every piece of rail over the whole system and replace it with Rearden Metal. All of it needs replacing. None of it will last much longer. But we can’t afford it. We have to get out of a bad hole, first. Do you want us to pull through or not?”
“We’re still the best railroad in the country. The others are doing much worse.”
“Then do you want us to remain in the hole?”
“I haven’t said that! Why do you always oversimplify things that way? And if you’re worried about money, I don’t see why you want to waste it on the Rio Norte Line, when the Phoenix-Durango has robbed us of all our business down there. Why spend money when we have no protection against a competitor who’ll destroy our investment?”
“Because the Phoenix-Durango is an excellent railroad, but I intend to make the Rio Norte Line better than that. Because I’m going to beat the Phoenix-Durango, if necessary—only it won’t be necessary, because there will be room for two or three railroads to make fortunes in Colorado. Because I’d mortgage the system to build a branch to any district around Ellis Wyatt.”
“I’m sick of hearing about Ellis Wyatt.”
He did not like the way her eyes moved to look at him and remained still, looking, for a moment.
“I don’t see any need for immediate action,” he said; he sounded offended. “Just what do you consider so alarming in the present situation of Taggart Transcontinental?”
“The consequences of your policies, Jim.”
“Which policies?”
“That thirteen months’ experiment with Associated Steel, for one. Your Mexican catastrophe, for another.”
“The Board approved the Associated Steel contract,” he said hastily. “The Board voted to build the San Sebastián Line. Besides, I don’t see why you call it a catastrophe.”
“Because the Mexican government is going to nationalize your line any dAy now.”
“That’s a lie!” His voice was almost a scream. “That’s nothing but vicious rumors! I have it on very good inside authority that—”
“Don’t show that you’re scared, Jim,” she said contemptuously.
He did not answer.
“It’s no use getting panicky about it now,” she said. “All we can do is try to cushion the blow. It’s going to be a bad blow. Forty million dollars is a loss from which we won’t recover easily. But Taggart Transcontinental has withstood many bad shocks in the past. I’ll see to it that it withstands this one.”
“I refuse to consider, I absolutely refuse to consider the possibility of the San Sebastián Line being nationalized!”
“All right. Don’t consider it.”
She remained silent. He said defensively, “I don’t see why you’re so eager to give a chance to Ellis Wyatt, yet you think it’s wrong to take part in developing an underprivileged country that never had a chance.”
“Ellis Wyatt is not asking anybody to give him a chance. And I’m not in business to give chances. I’m running a railroad.”
“That’s an extremely narrow view, it seems to me. I don’t see why we should want to help one man instead of a whole nation.”
“I’m not interested in helping anybody. I want to make money.”
“That’s an impractical attitude. Selfish greed for profit is a thing of the past. It has been generally conceded that the interests of society as a whole must always be placed first in any business undertaking which—”
“How long do you intend to talk in order to evade the issue, Jim?”
“What issue?”
“The order for Rearden Metal.”
He did not answer. He sat studying her silently. Her slender body, about to slump from exhaustion, was held erect by the straight line of the shoulders, and the shoulders were held by a conscious effort of will. Few people liked her face: the face was too cold, the eyes too intense; nothing could ever lend her the charm of a soft focus. The beautiful legs, slanting down from the chair’s arm in the center of his vision, annoyed him; they spoiled the rest of his estimate.
She remained silent; he was forced to ask, “Did you decide to order it just like that, on the spur of the moment, over a telephone?”
“I decided it six months ago. I was waiting for Hank Rearden to get ready to go into production.”
“Don’t call him Hank Rearden. It’s vulgar.”
“That’s what everybody calls him. Don’t change the subject.”
“Why did you have to telephone him last night?”
“Couldn’t reach him sooner.”
“Why didn’t you wait until you got back to New York and—”
“Because I had seen the Rio Norte Line.”
“Well, I need time to consider it, to place the matter before the Board, to consult the best—”
“There is no time.”
“You haven’t given me a chance to form an opinion.”
“I don’t give a damn about your opinion. I am not going to argue with you, with your Board or with your professors. You have a choice to make and you’re going to make it now. Just say yes or no.”
“That’s a preposterous, high-handed, arbitrary way of—”
“Yes or no?”
“That’s the trouble with you. You always make it ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ Things are never absolute like that. Nothing is absolute.”
“Metal rails are. Whether we get them or not, is.”
She waited. He did not answer.
“Well?” she asked.
“Are you taking the responsibility for it?”
“I am.”
“Go ahead,” he said, and added, “but at your own risk. I won’t cancel it, but I won’t commit myself as to what I’ll say to the Board.”
“Say anything you wish.”
She rose to go. He leaned forward across the desk, reluctant to end the interview and to end it so decisively.
“You realize, of course, that a lengthy procedure will be necessary to put this through,” he said; the words sounded almost hopeful. “It isn’t as simple as that.”
“Oh sure,” she said. “I’ll send you a detailed report, which Eddie will prepare and which you won’t read. Eddie will help you put it through the works. I’m going to Philadelphia tonight to see Rearden. He and I have a lot of work to do.” She added, “It’s as simple as that, Jim.”
She had turned to go, when he spoke again—and what he said seemed bewilderingly irrelevant. “That’s all right for you, because you’re lucky. Others can’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“Other people are human. They’re sensitive. They can’t devote their whole life to metals and engines. You’re lucky—you’ve never had any feelings. You’ve never felt anything at all.”
As she looked at him, her dark gray eyes went slowly from astonishment to stillness, then to a strange expression that resembled a look of weariness, except that it seemed to reflect much more than the endurance of this one moment.
“No, Jim,” she said quietly, “I guess I’ve never felt anything at all.”
Eddie Willers followed her to her office. Whenever she returned, he felt as if the world became clear, simple, easy to face—and he forgot his moments of shapeless apprehension. He was the only person who found it completely natural that she should be the Operating Vice-President of a great railroad, even though she was a woman. She had told him, when he was ten years old, that she would run the railroad some day. It did not astonish him now, just as it had not astonished him that day in a clearing of the woods.
When they entered her office, when he saw her sit down at the desk and glance at the memos he had left for her—he felt as he did in his car when the motor caught on and the wheels could move forward.
He was about to leave her office, when he remembered a matter he had not reported. “Owen Kellogg of the Terminal Division asked me for an appointment to see you,” he said.
She looked up, astonished. “That’s funny. I was going to send for him. Have him come up. I want to see him. . . . Eddie,” she added suddenly, “before I start, tell them to get me Ayers of the Ayers Music Publishing company on the phone.”
“The Music Publishing Company?” he repeated incredulously.
“Yes. There’s something I want to ask him.”
When the voice of Mr. Ayers, courteously eager, inquired of what service he could be to her, she asked, “Can you tell me whether Richard Halley has written a new piano concerto, the Fifth?”
“A fifth concerto, Miss Taggart? Why, no, of course he hasn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, Miss Taggart. He has not written anything for eight years.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Why, yes—that is, I can’t say for certain, he has dropped out of public life entirely—but I’m sure we would have heard of it if he had died.”
“If he wrote anything, would you know about it?”
“Of course. We would be the first to know. We publish all of his work. But he has stopped writing.”
“I see. Thank you.”
When Owen Kellogg entered her office, she looked at him with satisfaction. She was glad to see that she had been right in her vague recollection of his appearance—his face had the same quality as that of the young brakeman on the train, the face of the kind of man with whom she could deal.
“Sit down, Mr. Kellogg,” she said, but he remained standing in front of her desk.
“You had asked me once to let you know if I ever decided to change my employment, Miss Taggart,” he said. “So I came to tell you that I am quitting.”
She had expected anything but that; it took her a moment before she asked quietly, “Why?”
“For a personal reason.”
“Were you dissatisfied here?”
“No.”
“Have you received a better offer?”
“No.”
“What railroad are you going to?”
“I’m not going to any railroad, Miss Taggart.”
“Then what job are you taking?”
“I have not decided that yet.”
She studied him, feeling slightly uneasy. There was no hostility in his face; he looked straight at her, he answered simply, directly; he spoke like one who has nothing to hide, or to show; the face was polite and empty.
“Then why should you wish to quit?”
“It’s a personal matter.”
“Are you ill? Is it a question of your health?”
“No.”
“Are you leaving the city?”
“No.”
“Have you inherited money that permits you to retire?”
“No.”
“Do you intend to continue working for a living?”
“Yes.”
“But you do not wish to work for Taggart Transcontinental?”
“No.”
“In that case, something must have happened here to cause your decision. What?”
“Nothing, Miss Taggart.”
“I wish you’d tell me. I have a reason for wanting to know.”
“Would you take my word for it, Miss Taggart?”
“Yes.”
“No person, matter or event connected with my job here had any bearing upon my decision.”
“You have no specific complaint against Taggart Transcontinental?”
“None.”
“Then I think you might reconsider when you hear what I have to offer you.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Taggart. I can’t.”
“May I tell you what I have in mind?”
“Yes, if you wish.”
“Would you take my word for it that I decided to offer you the post I’m going to offer, before you asked to see me? I want you to know that.”
“I will always take your word, Miss Taggart.”
“It’s the post of Superintendent of the Ohio Division. It’s yours, if you want it.”
His face showed no reaction, as if the words had no more significance for him than for a savage who had never heard of railroads.
“I don’t want it, Miss Taggart,” he answered.
After a moment, she said, her voice tight, “Write your own ticket, Kellogg. Name your price. I want you to stay. I can match anything any other railroad offers you.”
“I am not going to work for any other railroad.”
“I thought you loved your work.”
This was the first sign of emotion in him, just a slight widening of his eyes and an oddly quiet emphasis in his voice when he answered, “I do.”
“Then tell me what it is that I should say in order to hold you!”
It had been involuntary and so obviously frank that he looked at her as if it had reached him.
“Perhaps I am being unfair by coming here to tell you that I’m quitting, Miss Taggart. I know that you asked me to tell you because you wanted to have a chance to make me a counter-offer. So if I came, it looks as if I’m open to a deal. But I’m not. I came only because I . . . I wanted to keep my word to you.”
That one break in his voice was like a sudden flash that told her how much her interest and her request had meant to him; and that his decision had not been an easy one to make.
“Kellogg, is there nothing I can offer you?” she asked.
“Nothing, Miss Taggart. Nothing on earth.”
He turned to go. For the first time in her life, she felt helpless and beaten.
“Why?” she asked, not addressing him.
He stopped. He shrugged and smiled—he was alive for a moment and it was the strangest smile she had ever seen: it held secret amusement, and heartbreak, and an infinite bitterness. He answered:
“Who is John Galt?”
From AudioFile
Product details
- ASIN : B003V8B5XO
- Publisher : NAL
- Accessibility : Learn more
- Publication date : April 21, 2005
- Edition : Centennial
- Language : English
- File size : 3.6 MB
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Print length : 1115 pages
- ISBN-13 : 978-1101137192
- Page Flip : Enabled
- Reading age : 18 years and up
- Best Sellers Rank: #21,546 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #24 in Classic American Fiction
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Ayn Rand's first novel, We the Living, was published in 1936, followed by Anthem. With the publication of The Fountainhead in 1943, she achieved spectacular and enduring success. Rand's unique philosophy, Objectivism, has gained a worldwide audience and maintains a lasting influence on popular thought. The fundamentals of her philosophy are set forth in such books as Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology, The Virtue of Selfishness, Capitalism: the Unknown Ideal, and The Romantic Manifesto. Ayn Rand died in 1982.
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Top reviews from the United States
- 5 out of 5 stars
Atlast Shrugged, but you won't
Reviewed in the United States on November 17, 2013Non-libertarian here.
Wow. This book took me 3 years (and one re-start 1/4 way in) to read.
But it was worth it!
I enjoy the forcefulness and certainty of Rand's writing, and the sheer scale of this book with its many characters and big ideas.
Yes, this book does have many shallow 2-dimensional characters -- they're typically more "caricatures" than "characters," particularly the characters who stand for the type of people Rand clearly hated with almost vicious cynicism in the real world. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the decisiveness and conviction of the leads. It's refreshing, in fact, to have a book so hell-bent on its ideas and narrative without a hint of shades of gray, without any patience for human weakness or intellectual murkiness, and with endless joy and celebration of the drive and decisiveness that make some people so admirable. Rearden, Francisco, [kinda-obvious-but-still-a-spoiler character], and especially Dagny were people you could root for... assuming you're not one of the "looters" Rand has so much hate for. If you're a selfish, sneaky, dishonest, needy person, well, this book will be like a 1000-page whipping for you.
That hatred of weak human beings is probably what I liked least about the book. Man, the hatred, it drips from the pages like a poison. The villains of this book aren't just dumb or misguided... They're portrayed as utterly hopeless and irredeemable in every way, useless lumps of flesh that are best destroyed under the wheels of their iron-willed betters. And in the real world, while the traits Rand hated exist in abundance and I understand and often share her dislike, people are not all such simple caricatures who should be discarded without any consideration for the qualities they DO have, or at least the potential they have. Rand seems to consciously ignore the idea that the world does "take all kinds" to function, and in doing so, misses out on some opportunities for her characters to find other ways to realize and express their intellectual and material values. You'll notice that nobody in this book has cancer. There are no children whom parents have to sacrifice for and love for no reason other than that the children are their own. There are no old men or women who are dying. The only children are Dagny and her friends who think like little adults, the only injuries are not terminal (i.e., minor injuries after airplane crash) and easily overcome with willpower and force of mind. Grappling with some of these things (like, I don't know, Dagny having leukemia) wouldn't necessarily have undermined Rand's philosophy (maybe); they could have made for some nuance to the way her characters' intellects and willpowers are exerted. People DO have a debt to others around them, whether it be someone stricken with a deadly disease being helped by their friends, or a toddler who needs protection and unpaid service from a parent. Again, these don't undermine Rand's philosophy necessarily, but she leaves a big gap for others to poke holes in her grand vision by not addressing such real-world issues. With a mind like hers, her narrative could have showed us how to make these things fit into her vision and philosophy, gave us some hint at an answer for how to deal with these things in a responsible way. She offers solutions to many things and maybe you can extrapolate some more... But for me, I don't see an answer to who will care for Dagny when she is old and feeble but still wants to be useful rather than shuttered, or who will clean toilets when everyone is trying to be a a fountain of intellect and creativity, or how the retarded and the simply dumb will find use for themselves in a world where everyone else is too busy pouring steel and being productive to notice. I wanted the book to provide some sense of these nuances, or at least express awareness that such nuance exists in real life, rather than just being a rally call to an absolute philosophy.
Regardless, this is a grand book filled with things worth thinking about, whether you come to Rand's conclusions or not. I am not a libertarian or a conservative at all (and definitely didn't walk away thinking anything crazy like, "down with government! let the capitalists govern indirectly through their brilliance! Taxes are evil!"). Yet I still found much to admire and emulate in her characters, much to celebrate about the drive and power of people doing the things they are good at with conscious and determined effort. Many of us could learn a lot about how to work hard to best use our personal talents for our own good, and in so doing benefit everyone; many of us could learn a lot about the joy of working hard and being responsible for our own destinies. Don't read this book as a libertarian bible (a terrible misreading, I think), but instead...... Take it as a rally call for each of us to demand as little of one another as possible and instead demand as much from ourselves as possible, and have love for your own ability to do both of those things consciously. It's a powerful novel and I enjoyed even the parts that I consciously knew were attacks on societal systems I support in the real world.
Come with an open mind and see the world from an absolute and infinitely self-assured perspective. I think you'll learn some good values even if Atlas Shrugged doesn't change your view of how to implement those values in your own life or society.
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A lot of baggage, but still one of the most relevant works of all time
Reviewed in the United States on July 14, 2011This is one of them most intriguing works I've read in years and it can provoke vigorous reaction on a variety of levels. There's easily enough meat here to justify considering this one of the most important writing in Western Civilization, but unfortunately, it's weighed down by more than enough baggage to prevent many from seeing it in that light. Even so, the ideas are so powerful, I'll give it five stars and point out flaws only to help you recognize and avoid being distracted by them.
For starters, this book is a disaster if viewed purely in novelistic terms. I cannot recall having ever seen more stilted characters nor can I recall having seen worse dialogue. I understand what Rand was going for when she sought to present her objectivist philosophy in the context of a novel, but I wish she wouldn't have tried to do that. A philosophical tract is a philosophical tract, and a novel is a novel. Perhaps it is possible to join the two, but I don't think it was done effectively here.
I also think Rand's philosophy itself took an unfortunate turn as she settled into life as a U.S. celebrity and became more prone toward playing to her crowd. If you take the core plot elements of "Atlas Shrugged" and set them against the backdrop of Rand's formative years (in Russia at the time of the Bolshevik revolution and on the wrong side, so to speak) and the subsequent history of planned economies, you'd see that Rand has much to say that is extremely relevant to us. Had she stuck to being a pure novelist, as she seemed to be with "We the Living," the message might have gotten through quite well. Unfortunately, as she pushed the philosophy further and further, perhaps based on the need to play to her core audience, I think she took it to places where it didn't really need to go and which detracted from her core ideas. Example: John Galt, the hero of "Atlas Shrugged," is being pressed by government leaders to become Economic Dictator and fix the mess into which society has plunged. Were this to happen, one of the things Galt says he'd do is to abolish all taxes. Among readers, that clearly resonates with political extremists on the right, and objectivists do like to argue for this sort of thing. But there's a problem. In the book, it comes completely from out in left field. There is nothing in the story to suggest John Galt, Hank Reardon, Francisco D'Anconia or any other vanishing industrialist was oppressed by taxes or even the sort of government regulations we deal with today. Nothing in the book suggests they'd have a problem with the EPA, with OSHA, with the FTC, with providing health insurance for their employees, etc. A bad line like that probably did much to play to the Rand groupies but it cheapens the fiction because when we shake our heads at its absurdity, we focus away from the substantial kinds of oppression the industrialists did face in the novel.
As you read the boom, it really is vital that you develop a knack for filtering out the junk that's been put in there to please the groupies many of who, by the way, seem just-plain crazy. I'm still perplexed at the absurdity of an interview with a Rand-follower in connection with the recent Atlas Shrugged movie who ranted hysterically about how taxes and regulation had destroyed our ability to innovate. Interestingly, though, the diatribe was delivered through Yahoo! Finance on-demand streaming video easily accessible via tablet or even pocket-sized smart phone. Tell me again about the lack of innovation!
To appreciate "Atlas Shrugged," you really have to edit the philosophy to adjust for stupidity thrown in by Rand to please the whackos, whether or not she eventually believed in the nonsense herself.
Perhaps the best way to appreciate the bona fide substance of this novel is to use one of the reading strategies taught today to kids in elementary and middle school: look for text-to-life associations. Right from the earliest chapters, I found countless situations, attitudes, etc. that were EXACTLY like those I encountered many times in the corporate world, where ideas of thinkers are routinely "looted" not by government officials seeking social re-distribution but by legions of high-salaried PowerPoint jockeys devoid of talent or ideas but highly adept at perpetuating their positions. As James Taggart spoke, I constantly heard it as the voice of a business development person at my former company. As Wesley Mouch did his thing and as the Unification Boards strutted, I constantly saw in my mind the legions of what my company referred to as "business owners" (vapid twenty- and thirty-something kids who were put in charge of things they didn't care about or understand causing many a great idea to wither). As to the strike, the withdrawal of the industrialists, I did something like that at my company when I walked away from a product I struggled to launch. I finally yielded it to the business owner (as a result of "Atlas Shrugged," I re-named her Orren Boyle since she was exactly like that character) by quitting the division. The product collapsed within a couple of months. Actually, Orren Boyle, a politically-connected by incompetent steelmaker was better than the lady with who I worked. He wanted to latch onto profits produced by dynamic innovative Reardon Steel (hence his advocacy for a unification scheme that would distributes all profits produced by all steelmakers based on the number of boilers owned regardless of whether the boilers are actually operational). But when Reardon refused to produce at a loss to feed profits to Boyle and instead proposed that the government simply seize his company and give it to Boyle, the latter had a fit; he knew he'd screw it up. The business owners at my former company had no such self-awareness. They were happy to doers exit, and if an idea subsequently collapsed, as often happened, they'd simply look to loot another one. There are countless more precious scenes like this, far too many to enumerate here.
Forget the right-wing extreme propaganda. Forget the objectivist whackos. If you are able to filter that out and really make the text-to-life associations as taught to school kids, you will see, here, the penultimate novel of our modern corporate world, the battle between those who generate ideas and those who live to loot them. This is a novel that exalts individual thought, individual initiative, individual accomplishment, individual creativity, individual responsibility, etc. and exposes the legions of parasites, shirkers ("It's won't!"), whiners ("I don't know how it can be done; I just know you have to do it!"), looters, etc. for what they are. It's a novel we badly need not just in dealing with the public sector but in dealing with the private sector (perhaps more since we are, in fact, a capitalist economy) and maybe even in our personal lives (wait till you meet Hank Reardon's brothe; Does you family have one of those!).
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Noteworthy Page Turner
Reviewed in the United States on January 10, 2014The Objectivists may dislike my review because it criticizes philosophical elements of the novel and progressives may dislike my review because it praises the book as a work of fiction. So go ahead and stamp your forms, sonny, and stop wasting my time
I tried to read Atlas Shrugged with a sympathetic eye, which as I understood it put me at a considerable disadvantage. It was worth the effort. This is an outstanding novel. In my mind it is only effective as such, and not as a manifesto.
I have to say I was very pleasantly surprised at how engaging and satisfying it was. Anyone who wishes to understand American politics in a nutshell and libertarian or fiscal conservative cyphers like ‘job creators’, ‘business friendly’, ’hand-outs’, ‘47%’, ‘entitlements’ and ‘the American dream’ owes it to themselves to read this book. I would also recommend it to anyone who would like an engaging read with business, biology , philosophy and sociological themes. Her diction in her intrapersonal ruminations is praise-worthy.
First I must define sociopathy in how I use it. To me sociopathy is the lack of sympathy for the intrinsic value of other people. Not only that but it is even the inability to understand other people as anything other than physical tools of obstruction or enrichment.
In a nutshell Atlas Shrugged is a preachy objectivist manifesto couched in a stunningly entertaining narrative. It posits that not only is sociopathy the only moral framework by which men are to govern their lives but the only framework by which anything of value can be produced in the economy or the personal sphere. That’s kind of the long and the short of it. If you want more detail, read on.
The books main characters (in my opinion):
Dagny Taggart-A steel minded, ambitious, passionate industrialist with a strong command of herself and her direction in life. She has no concept of anyone’s value except as they relate to her own personal benefit. Highly successful and a model businesswoman in many respects. A loner. It’s very easy to admire and respect her drive and commitment to excellence.
Francisco D’Anconio-A man who comes from money but “lives up to it” genuinely by being the best in all his endeavors. Strongly morally motivated like Dagny and Hank. Extremely skilled.
Jimmy Taggart-Dagny’s hand wringing ‘socially conscious’ brother who is president of the Taggart railroad. Utterly incompetent, idiotic, corrupt, lazy and possesses the reasoning skills of a drunk
Hank Rearden-Owner of Rearden steel. Almost a male mirror of Dagny. He finds his family worthless and his society’s social contract disgusting. He has a great deal of admiration for Dagny but is in danger of capitulating to the destructive collectivist ideology hammered into him by his family over the years
John Gault- Who is this guy? One of the least fleshed out characters. He is more sure of himself than Hank.
SPOILERS BELOW: (Though not much more than what’s contained in novel’s summary)
The Randian world is populated solely by superior creators and inferior leaches who contribute nothing. The plot consists of one of the “prime movers” and “creators” of the world putting a stop to the ‘motor of the world’. The railroad enterprise (especially Taggart Rail) is used as a proxy for enterprise in general and the novel consists of the perceived effects of what would happen when the minority competent retreat to an area where every man is an island and no moochers can benefit from their excellence, except themselves. It is a vilification of evolutionary cooperation and an exaltation of competition alone as the desired engine of human society both implicitly and explicitly stated throughout.
The plot is exciting and I do it little justice in saying that essentially Taggart Transcontinental is trying to build a superior railroad. The leaches a.k.a. ‘the public’ and ‘the government’ try to bring it down through various corrupt obstructionary tactics because they fear the excellence of others. Our objectivist heroes take their ball and go home and society collapses because only superior sociopaths can make society function. The idiotic leachers (consisting the only other segment of the population) are left to breathe through their mouths and behold how wrong and silly they are. John Gault appears and gives a 61 page speech which was done more succinctly in Wall Street’s Gordon Gecko ‘greed is good’ speech.
Atlas Shrugged is initially a world that rewards stupidity and collectivism and punishes achievers. The achievers of the novel vaguely hope that a mysterious Uebermensch will one day appear and turn the world upside down. That man is John Gault. Throughout the novel “Who is John Gault?” is used as a retort to an unanswerable question similar to “What is the Matrix?”. You’ll have to be patient to see him as he doesn’t show up until the 3rd section of the novel. Personally I liked the suspense of that.
Although Rand’s stated objective is to write a novel, not an ideological screed, this book is clearly a vehicle for expounding her Objectivist philosophy. Her characters and dialogue are extremist straw men and not reflective of the dynamics of the real world. That having been said it is a thoroughly entertaining novel with excellent prose especially when describing intra-personal feelings and objects. In the arena of the interpersonal her characterizations fall flat and seem to be describing an alien ersatz world. If you want to have an intimate view of the inner world of a textbook sociopath I imagine this novel is more useful than all the characters printed in the DSM-5. In this specific case I say that without contempt, as it is illuminating and interesting to understand her thinking style. One characterization I had of sociopaths is that they are luddites in terms of intrapersonal contemplation but Rand’s novel and her characters strongly rebut my prior belief.
Rand divides people into a false dichotomy of individualists/capitalists and collectivists/socialists. She ascribes to the former with only positive character traits (according to her world view) and the latter with only negative character traits. She makes some age-old virtues (like altruism) into vices, and some vices (like anti-social behavior) into virtues with some impressive mental gymnastics. In crafting her characters she divides the world into intelligent, ambitious and competent sociopaths and incompetent, corrupt, uncompetitive, moocher, irrational wishy-washy collectivists. Atlas Shrugged is a vision of a world of perfect meritocracy where people who exhibit desirable character traits are finally rewarded and people who exhibit undesirable character traits are finally punished. Seeing as we have never seen such a society function as such, it is a little much to hope for, but if we take her work as merely a novel it becomes quite satisfying and fitting for fiction. You truly come to hate the collectivists because as she describes them, they truly are leaches and completely useless. As a German I loathe inefficiency and lack of ambition so Dagny’s brother went into my bad books from the moment he opened up his obstructionist cake-hole.
Corporations and individuals compete, but they also cooperate, in the former case in terms of price fixing and union busting etc so there’s a case to be made that individuals and corporations have a poor survival probability if they fail to compete *AND* cooperate. This is not possible in Atlas Shrugged universe because the ‘cooperators’ are not only useless but collude to destroy any kind of meaningful capital.
A deliciously ironic example of her dichotomization of character (onto 2 poles) is when Dagny is rebuked early in the novel for “missing the human element”. The irony being that the cipher for demonstrating it is itself a straw man in that she implies that those who consider the human element must be both also irrational in conceptualizing what that element is and also useless in producing anything of value. Anyone who lauds the benefits of compassion and cooperation is immediately dismissed in her novel as also possessing only negative character traits. Personally I believe Dagny is a stand in for Rand who must have been told countless times that she is “missing the human element” and her frustration from not understanding what that term meant resulted in part in this book.
The founder of the railroad in question also threw someone down a flight of stairs for offering a government (a.k.a evil) loan when the company was short on capital. While this could potentially happen it seems very odd behavior for a believable character and almost made me laugh out loud. When the flip side of the individualist coin, “the moochers/collectivists” ever express any concern for social ramifications of their business decisions their navel gazing is always portrayed to be wildly ludicrous and incompetent suggesting that those concerned with the public good are also all idiots of the highest order. While yes, I may disagree with this philosophically I would have liked to see Ayn Rand to make her points with these characters in a more believable way. She certainly has a point that government often (maybe always?) fails to solve our problems but the grade-school straw men she paints are so facile that it takes away from the enjoyment of the novel. She could still have made a strong case with richer more complex characters even if those characters are metaphorical representations of ideological purism.
There are also instances in which characters self-contradict, which lends credibility to the believability of the characters. For instance when Dagny and Hank are speaking about the future of both of their businesses they initially speak as if they mean to outcompete each other and try to kill each other’s businesses. They do so with pleasure as they both love competition and respect each other’s drive. However later in this same exchange Hank (intentionally or not) gives Dagny valuable information by which she would be able to save her business by switching to airlines, giving her an informational advantage that might reduce Hank’s revenue in train steel. And the notorious anti-looters of the book contradict themselves like when Dagny steals liquor from an employee or when they do favors for each other. That’s the kind of thing I like to see in a good novel but I’m not sure Rand intended it as such because such a move would either show incompetence (whereas individualists are 100% competent) or cooperation (which individualists loathe).
The sociopath is not willfully ignorant of what the human element means but is unable to comprehend it at all. As such her portrayal of it is badly formed and then having been malformed, rightly destroyed. Her objection that love should only be given to people who can render one a personal service is again a hallmark of sociopathy. Not only is this implied but explicitly stated when Hank Rearden is criticized for being anti-social and the book later rationalizes love away as a condition of the weak and of the leechers. Naturally someone incapable of feelings of love would exasperatedly claim it is irrational since it makes no sense to them. To those of us who are able to feel it, much like those who can’t we find post-hoc rationalizations to explain why we feel it or not.
In her about the author she states “I trust that no one will tell me that men such as I write about don’t exist. That this book has been written—and published—is my proof that they do”. The little fact that Hank Rearden was a chemist, chemical engineer, civil engineer, procurement specialist, CEO, CTO, head of operations of a tremendously successful national corporation and Rand was only an author never having ran even a small business seems to have escaped her. Her reductionism and straw man representation of people expressing social concerns are the books biggest weaknesses. She states she accomplished everything by herself which is a ‘cool story bro’ considering she went to a state funded university and collected social security. It’s also delightful that the Ayn Rand institute was looking for volunteers and the Atlas Shrugged movie enterprise went to kickstarter to beg for handouts, but I digress.
Objectivism may be attractive to those who believe the economy is a meritocracy and make the assumption that poor people are poor simply because they are not trying. In such a world I too would be an objectivist. At my age after all I’ve seen and done I don’t believe that a true meritocracy exists anywhere on earth. Force, deception and inefficient markets will always exist. Perhaps publically funded academic institutions can be meritocracies but even then some people will simply be unable to compete due to disabilities or lesser abilities. Furthermore I only need to look at my personal life to disprove that the world is a perfect meritocracy. I used to earn $2.50/hr delivering newspapers in the rain, sleet, snow and tornadoes. A few years ago I earned $120k plus bonus potential for essentially hitting a button at 6pm every day. Such is life.
Her work makes perfect sense when viewed through her lenses. Rand I believe after reading her works was a sociopath with origins in Russia. In my opinion she had an inability (not willful rejection) of compassion. Furthermore those who proclaimed collectivism in her country of origin implemented a system rife with injustice, so it comes as no surprise that her economic pendulum swung so heavily towards the hyper-capitalist extreme. It concerns me somewhat that this flawed and juvenile manifesto informs contemporary leaders but I’m also disappointed that more people don’t give this book a chance. Yes it’s long but it’s also informative politically, psychology and wonderfully entertaining.
I respect Rand for writing a very strong and praiseworthy female character fully in charge of her mind and body. She is also to be lauded for steamy erotic scenes that are downright scintillating with heat without the unbuttoning of a blouse taking place. I nearly got a chubber on the train and then how would I explain that situation while holding Atlas Shrugged?
There’s a reason this book has such staying power and I think it is because it is well written and presents a just-world motivation to strive for excellence and to reject mediocrity. I get her point. We should all be ambitious about being the best and not be moochers. I think we can all agree on that. To over or underestimate this work is doing yourself a disservice in my humble opinion
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Feed Your Soul With This Book
Reviewed in the United States on January 4, 2011This is one of the most profound books I've read. It lays out for you everything you always knew, but didn't know how to put into words. It explains the basic idea that you can't have something for nothing, and when you take from the productive and give to the unproductive, everyone loses.
If you ever felt the world was headed for destruction with unsustainable, high tax rates and debt, this book addresses it. Yes, it's a work of fiction, but at the same time it's so very true. We're seeing it play out right now.
Just look at Venezuela. As I write this, the great leaky eyed fool Chavez was just granted, by his lame duck congress, the power to rule by decree for 18 months. Directive 10-289 is roughly the same thing. You can see the very vision Ayn Rand laid out come to fruition in Venezuela today, where the ultimate end for socialism, wealth redistribution, and the tyranny of the left, is destruction. It can only be destruction. Why? Because it's never enough for them. There will always be a bum to save, or a bunny to save, or a made up global crisis (global warming anyone).
Global warming is a perfect example of the left's thinking. They have a made up, completely unprovable, yet impossible to disprove through anything but time, theory. The temperature of the Earth goes up? Global warming is the cause. The temperature of the Earth goes down? Global warming is the cause. That's literally what they are saying today. Never mind the sun. Never mind physics. Never mind that their models, which are the basis for the theory, are completely wrong. If your models don't account for cooling, then they never worked in the first place, which means their theory is completely broken.
Why am I going on about this? Last month at the UN's climate change meeting, all of the poor, socialist, communist, tyrannical countries met in Cancun, where the topic of discussion was how they were going to redistribute wealth from the productive parts of the world, to the unproductive. IE, take money from the US, Europe, Canada, Japan, Australia, and give it to the disgusting fools in Venezuela, Africa, and every other cesspool, where their socialism or other form of tyranny has left them flat broke, out of money, and with nobody left to tax. This is precisely the world Ayn Rand built with Atlas Shrugged.
If you want to see nearly every social and economic problem we face laid out, the cause, the effect, and the reason why we have money and the looters at the UN's climate conference don't, read Atlas Shrugged. You'll get it then. If you want to see why America is in such a precarious spot because of Obama's insane spending and wealth redistribution programs, read this book. If you want to understand why people are fighting so hard against Obamacare, tax increases, and the evil public sector unions, read this book.
When we want to discourage a behavior, we tax it. Smoking is a good example. The taxes on cigarettes are through the roof. Why? Because politicians want to discourage smoking. The left is able to grasp that taxing something is punitive and harms the subject with that issue, yet when it comes to our wealth generators, our job creators, and the very engine of our prosperity, our corporations and small businesses, they seem to think they can just reach in and grab the loot, without doing damage. We sit at 10% unemployment BECAUSE the corporate tax rate is insanely high in this country. We sit at anemic 1% average growth in America BECAUSE of high taxation and punitive social programs that have the twisted morality of saying the productive, wealth and job creators are the evil in the world, and sponging slew reaching their hand into the pockets of the wealth creators are the good. That's messed up.
Nobody does more for America than the job creators. Nobody. The politicians have no power, and no money to dole out without them. No wealth to redistribute. No money to hand food out. It all comes from business. From good, quality people, who create wealth, jobs, and the American way. You would think that in the most prosperous land the world has ever seen, these would be obvious facts. Of course we're wealthy because we've honored people of great ideas who put them into motion and create great businesses. Of course we're wealthy because we've honored individual freedom. Of course we're wealthy because we've limited what our government can do. This is Atlas Shrugged.
If anything I've said speaks to you, Atlas Shrug will be an eye opening, soup for the soul read. It's one of the best pieces of fiction I've ever read.
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It's odd, but the negative and positive reviews are both mostly right
Reviewed in the United States on May 1, 2009It is easy to review this book negatively. I cannot think of another novel that employs a similar format--it devotes far too much time to what turn out to be minor characters, it is overtly didactic in the extreme, the plot devices and revelations are extremely easy to foresee, and secrets are often needlessly kept from the reader. The narrative is divided somewhat arbitrarily into what I came to think of as two parts, which seemed to have little to do with each other. The book itself is as much an exposition of a philosophy as a novel, and the novel aspect suffers accordingly. The philosophical posturing can at times be burdensome and repetitive. It takes too long at the beginning to involve the reader in the central conflict or in what turn out to be the main characters.
Then is it a terrible book or a good one? Certainly the philosophy alone couldn't be good enough to overcome the book's many storytelling faux pas, could it? Again, Rand's central philosophy (later termed Objectivism, of which this book is the defining manifesto) has its flaws, which are indeed numerous.
So why the 5-star rating? It may sound trite, but this book is the best example I could offer of a whole being greater than the sum of its parts.
Yes, the characters can in many ways be considered two-dimensional, but they do change in subtle ways. Their struggles are wholly believable; their triumphs are real ones. And the world, society itself, is raised almost to a level of "character-hood" by the way the story unfolds. And this character undergoes a profound transformation indeed.
Yes, the philosophy is rammed down your throat a bit ham-handedly. But the author has made no effort to disguise it; it is not as if, quietly and by degrees, one is made to believe something abhorrent simply by reading; as you read, you learn what she believes and why, and you either take it or leave it. Either way, it is a singular accomplishment. There are many philosophies that are simple, original, or profound. Rand's is all three. I offer specifically Francisco's "money" speech, or Jeff Allen's description of the decline and fall of the Twentieth Century Motor Company.
I found myself caught up in this book far more than perhaps I would have thought it deserved, had I merely had it described to me. It swallowed me whole for two weeks. I knew the philosophy was being presented with all the subtlety of a firehose; I let it wash over me. In points, I agreed with it completely; in others, I found it repulsive. But I could not ignore it. The book has something to say about love, sex, politics, economics, history, human nature, happiness, greed, shame, courage, selfishness, art, and exceptionalism. Every idea presented may or may not be true, but each is worthy of consideration.
Perhaps most importantly, the book is timely beyond almost anyone's ability to predict. I read it while traveling, and hearing the occasional newscast in an airport left me thinking "haven't they read Ayn Rand?" I have thought this many times since. Reading the book in the 80's or 90's might have left a reader feeling like the author set up a straw man and then let Dagny Taggart and Hank Rearden (among others) knock him down. Today we see that, as deeply contradictory and dishonest as the antagonists' credo seemed, it holds an incredible amount of sway over our own world. But only after reading Atlas Shrugged do I fully recognize it.
As a novel, this book does in fact overcome its flaws in above average fashion. As a philosophical treatise, it is interesting and well worth reading. As a warning, it is nothing short of fascinating, frightening, and motivating. In a word: indispensable.
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review in contrast
Reviewed in the United States on May 24, 2014Granted this is a lengthy book. For those that find reading it a chore, then I would highly recommend the audio unabridged version read by Scott Brick produced by Blackstone Audio. The audio reader does such a good job at making the story flow in a beautiful rhythm, almost poetic. He does an amazing job revealing Ms. Rand's vivid descriptions of how her characters feel and what they see allowing the listener live the story not just listen to it.
Those that criticize her philosophy and feel she does not qualify in the psychology she presents may not realize her thinking draws heavily on the ancient Greek philosophers of Aristotle and Plato, who are universally recognized as valued and studied by philosophers and scientists alike the world over for many past generations. I don't think it is realized by those that criticize her that additionally many prominent people commend her works politically or religiously. Prominent Rand proponents include House Budged Committee chair Paul Ryan, Republican presidential candidate Ron Paul, Nobel-Laureate Milton Friedman, Wall Street Journal editorialist Stephen Moore, baseball's "Iron Man" Cal Ripken and commendations by Art Lindsley, Ph.D. the Vice President of Theological Initiatives at the Institute for Faith, Work and Economics as well as a fascinating article by David S. Kotter who by the way, serves as Affiliate Faculty for Economics for Indiana Wesleyan University.
Those interested in a wonderful critique from a Bible perspective would find the article by David S. Kotter through the Institute for Faith, Work & Economics very enlightening. There in lists the remarkable parallels with the Bible as well as it's variances. I present a quote from the author that best reflects this anomaly..."While Ayn Rand's atheism is antithetical to the biblical worldview, there are remarkable areas of overlap, and her projection of an ideal man bears an uncanny resemblance to Jesus Christ."
These facts hardly reflect a dry, boring, uneducated biased singular view. Those that do not realize that our society is truly based on a fairly straightforward black and white reality should re-look their world view and the history of what brought past great societies down to the dust and ruin.
Just a scant few of many quotes from Ayn Rand herself:..."Throughout the centuries there were men who took first steps down new roads armed with nothing but their own vision. Their goals differed, but they all had this in common: that the step was first, the road new, he vision unborrowed, and the response they received---hatred. The great creators---the thinkers, the artists, the scientists, the inventors---stood alone against the men of their time. Every great new thought was opposed. Every great new invention was denounced. The first motor was considered foolish. The airplane was considered impossible. The power loom was considered vicious. Anesthesia was considered sinful. The unborrowed vision went ahead. They fought, they suffered and they paid. But they won."
"When I disagree with a rational man, I let reality be our final arbiter: if I am right, he will learn; if I am wrong, I will; one of us will win, but both will profit..."
"The hardest thing to explain is the glaringly evident which everybody has decided not to see..."
"The smallest minority of earth is the individual. Those who deny individual rights cannot claim to be defenders of minorities..."
So in closing, Ms. Rand has at the very least opened a vast area for discussion from the politically "left" or "Right" and everything in between. It is so hard to encapsulate a brief synopsis of Ayn Rand writings as one can see by the pros and cons of her works.. An incomparable work that deserves to be read and contemplated by anyone who is concerned where this great country is going, where it has been and why.
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Good novel, weak political-economic model
Reviewed in the United States on October 12, 2014This book needs to be evaluated from two points of view. From the literary point of view, as a novel, and from the political/philosophical one as an expression of the author's personal philosophy, Objectivism in the case of Ms Ayn Rand.
Written in the early 1950's, the plot deals with the takeover of the US and most other country's governments by a communist-type bureaucracy that imposes a system of government quite similar to the one extant in Russia at that period of time. The plot navigates through the lives of a set of highly successful industrialists whose common trait is a superior intelligence, unmatched ability to produce the best products and boundless energy focused on creating, producing, competing and leading.
One of the industrial leaders is a very special lady, Dagny Taggart, who in addition to the common traits of the group, brings the feminine touch to that unique profile. The author does an excellent job by making her femininity add strength to her persona. The plot is engaging and Dagny Taggart is its central figure; through her the reader can experience at first the highs of leading critical projects where high risk decisions must be taken at heart-stopping speeds and later the hard task of fighting an absurd government bureaucracy obsessed with control at any cost. It is easy to fly through the pages of the book through its action-packed evolution.
One aspect that takes away from the excitement of the plot is the frequent appearance of lengthy reflections by the characters or about the characters or the situations. This is the author's way of introducing her philosophy but unfortunately it is done with a fractal approach where the same concept is repeated over and over with different words. The book would have gained with a more succinct presentation of the ideas.
Ms Rand lived through the Bolshevik revolution in Russia and the subsequent implantation of the communist regime. This experience obviously left a profound mark and shaped her political/philosophical views that, in her own words, are: “My philosophy, in essence, is the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute.”
At the time this book was written, what is known today as neoliberalism did not exist as a movement. One can say that the economic and political ideas proposed in this book are the core of such philosophy. The author presents money as the highest achievement of the productive individual; her view is that a model citizen, applying the best of his intellect and his productive ability, produces goods that meet the needs of a segment of society and in exchange for them gets money. This money therefore represents the best an individual can produce and he should be proud of owning it and he should strive to acquire more. What Ms Rand had in mind was an economic model that was prevalent in the 1950's in which people made money through productive investment. She was unable to project the extremes to which this philosophy could lead as we have seen in the early 21st century. Today money is loved and pursued, as she defended, but not through productive investment; it is made through speculation via the modern mechanisms of financial capitalism. Today many people love money as she proposed but they get it not by producing but through the manipulation of financial schemes that allow them to multiply their capital without ever having to produce anything. Her admiration of productive work is great but her elevation of money to the best goal for man has led to the mess we have today.
Ms Rand also presents a distorted view of the industrial world. Her model of a successful enterprise revolves around a heroic individual who knows it all, has boundless energy and skills and leads a mass of generic workers who follow his directives and produce the best. It is true that in her time the information age had not arrived, there was no Silicon Valley, Apple or Google, but even then there existed major enterprises that did not follow her model. General Electric was one of those and what made it great was an army of highly skilled engineers and technical people who worked together with capable administrators. Henry Ford came close to her model but he was displaced by General Motors that won precisely because it did not follow her model. Even today, leaders like Steve Jobs have demonstrated that her model does not reflect reality; Jobs changed the world with his vision yet Apple could not have succeeded without the myriad of technical and commercial staff that made his dream possible.
Ms Rand shows a profound disdain for workers. In her view if you remove the heroic elite, the world is left headless and will soon collapse. She would not conceive of economic models like decentralized worldwide enterprises, micro-enterprises in Dharavi, Mumbai or modern phenomena like crowd-sourcing or crowd-funding. In her mind creativity is the province of the creative elites and no one else. Reality has shown otherwise; if she were here today this would present a serious conflict given the prominence that reality plays in her objectivism.
In conclusion, a good book worth reading with a critical eye.
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I Shurgged.....
Reviewed in the United States on August 11, 2012This year, in light of the current political climate, I took the challenge to read Atlas Shrugged. I had been meaning to read the novel since 2008, and finally decided to make the commitment to read it. For accessibility's sake, I downloaded it to my Kindle. I just love my Kindle's portability.
I must say, the book had me hooked at the beginning! It was very engaging and pardon the cliche, thought provoking.
It is not necessarily an easy read for most people. If you are craving a thrill packed adventure as the type of which movies with the flavor of the month actors are starring, this is not your book. If you are wanting a book that will challenge your political, economical, and ethical views, this is the book for you.
The first two thirds of the book were my favorite. Rand weaves an excellent mystery surrounding the enigmatic John Galt.
The last third of the book lost a little something for me, particularly with John Galt's manifesto.
Not wanting to spoil the book for those of you who have not read the book, I won't reveal the answer to the question, "Who is John Galt?"
Speaking in general terms, Galt as a character represents Rand's philosophy on many subjects, economics, government, and religion.
On the subject of government and economics, I am quite the admirer of Rand. On the topic of the existence of God, Rand having been an atheist, I must simply agree to disagree with her. I can't rely on man being the final arbiter of right and wrong. I hold to the adage that absolute power corrupts absolutely, letting history provide evidence for that statement. Rand held the Constitution in high regard, but not agreeing with the Creator endowed rights of the document. She believed in the rights, but not the Creator. If man be the highest authority, then when man changes his mind that the Constitution is no longer relevant, then to whom is man accountable? In my estimation, man must look to a power higher than himself to have a solid foundation for morals and ethics. The framers of the Constitution obviously thought the same.
To Rand, man is inherently good. In my lifetime, brief though it has been to this point, history and modern times has shown me too much evidence to the contrary.
I look at and admire Rand, to some degree, as she looked at Aristotle, "I most emphatically disagree with a great many parts of his philosophy-but his definition of the laws and logic and of the means of human knowledge is so great an achievement that his errors are irrelevant by comparison".
Atlas Shrugged, for being half a century old, is prophetic on many levels. So many of the characters I could almost identify in the current news today. It is a timeless tale on the importance of the individual and the dangers of collectivism. A tale of mystery and reality. A solid defense of Capitalism, and a solid rebuke of Socialism. If you want to understand Capitalism and Socialism and why the philosophies are at enmity with one another, this book explains it.
I once heard a man say that two books changed his life, one being the Bible, the other being Atlas Shrugged. I now understand fully his statement and find myself in agreement.
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Top reviews from other countries
pranav5 out of 5 starsBest book, must read
Reviewed in India on August 10, 2025Best book I have ever read.
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Antony Guss2 out of 5 starsFont Size
Reviewed in the United Arab Emirates on December 25, 2024Fabulous Book However this copy font too small
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Vera Bekin5 out of 5 starsPoderia ser hoje ...
Reviewed in Brazil on October 29, 2017Embora escrito há mais de 50 anos, o mundo não aprendeu nada. A leitura de 'Atlas Shrugged' é sensacional !
Dizem que Ayn Rand era feminista, mas acho que é só porque ela colocou como heroína da história uma mulher. Mas uma mulher bem feminina.
E isso é o de menos, diante da preocupação de todos de um mundo se corrompendo. Os muçulmanos uma vez disseram que iriam dominar o mundo e sem dar um tiro, porque achavam que o mundo ocidental iria se implodir. E o livro mostra os países americanos e europeus morrendo, o que estamos vendo hoje.
Tentei assistir ao filme, mas o livro de 10 a 0, nos seus detalhes sobre pensamentos e filosofias de vida, que são cortados do filme.
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Ruzuki5 out of 5 starsIncroyable, une grosse claque
Reviewed in France on July 2, 2021Ce roman est vraiment impressionnant, c'est un chef d’œuvre totalement inconnu en France. La France étant socialisme depuis plus de 100 ans, ce livre est vu comme le diable. Il permet d'apporter un autre point de vue à un français qui est gangrené par le socialisme/communisme depuis des décennies.
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Paul T Horgan5 out of 5 starsDon't mention the S-word
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on June 10, 2009The author saw the Russian revolution of 1917 at first-hand. She experienced its economic effects directly when her father's business was nationalised by force.
The Russian revolution took place as a result of the country's military defeats during the First World War. It is interesting to note that there was also a revolution in 1905, after the national humiliation experienced in the Russo-Japanese war. It is open to speculation as to whether the autocratic Czar would have survived with a reformist government (Perestroika 1917?) if it has not rushed to the aid of Serbia in 1914 as part of its ill-fated pan-slavic foreign policy. However that debate is for another day.
Ayn Rand depicts a socialist takeover of the United States, one that is as drastic but not as dramatic as Russia's. She also shies away from actually using the word 'socialism' or 'communism' in her novel. To her this would be shorthand and what she wants to do is describe the effects of collectivism without resorting to labels. The descent into socialism is depicted as the non-violent triumph of ideas, where the political, media and some of the business elites gradually come to accept the principle of 'from each according to their abilities, to each according to their needs' as a consequence of legally sanctioned industrial cartelisation, until it becomes national policy and full state control of the economy takes place, ostensibly to mitigate the effects of the cartels. Unlike Russia, this takes place in a democracy with an ostensibly free media so the changes that take place are gradual and more or less consensual amongst the majority. Somewhere along the way the US Constitution has been amended out of existence and the President is now known as the Head of the State. He works with a Politburo in all but name consisting of business cronies and power brokers. Rand maps the effect of the political and social changes throughout the novel in an intelligible fashion that people in a free country would understand and demonstrates how this socialism utterly depends on people to whom this concept is anathema.
As the novel opens the economic collapse is under way, but no-one understands why. Rand depicts in her story the theory that collectivist economies only survive by coercing the most productive to continue to produce while at the same time denying them the true rewards of their labours by redistributing all the value they create while providing subsistence. One man, John Galt, realises this and organises a strike of the mind, of the creative entrepreneurs who drive or sustain progress through their creativity, innovation and organisational and management skill. As the skilled and competent disappear (this is done by having them choose 'voluntary simplicity', working in low-paid, menial positions that require no thought, or retreating to a valley concealed by a cloaking device) their successors find themselves unable to maintain the technological civilisation and the country regresses into a new stone age as supplies of raw materials and food diminish.
The country also slides into dictatorship, as force replaces the price mechanism as the only way to drive the economy. State terror and the threat of unleashing WMDs on the populace are contemplated, but by then it is too late. The only people left to terrorise are simply not productive enough to sustain the economy.
The novel was published in 1957 and it is interesting to note that a 'strike of the ablest' was actually under way in East Germany, where the young and the skilled were making use of an open border in Berlin to escape to West Germany. It was in response to the impending economic collapse (the only people left in the country was rapidly becoming the old, infirm and very young) that the Berlin Wall was constructed.
Ayn Rand's motivation? Well she saw the rise of socialism in otherwise free countries like Britain and revolutionary movements in Cuba and South America. Soviet domination of Eastern Europe was a fact and perhaps she felt that a cautionary tale, in line with her developing philosophy, was necessary to prevent the growth of 'People's States' as she depicts taking over the world except the USA in her novel. She may have been worried that Free-Market Capitalism was in fact in decline.
There has been a lot of criticism of the writing style of the novel. It is not generally fast-paced or dramatic and a lot of space is given over to philosophic thinking and speeches, especially John Galt's speech, which runs to several pages.
However it has to be recognised that this is a book of ideas and these ideas are presented very well indeed. I have not read Mein Kampf or Das Kapital and nor do I intend to. I do however suspect that they do not project their ideas in such a concise and entertaining manner. This book defends and justifies free-market capitalism and gives commerce a soul. It has enhanced my understanding of the socio-economic environment I was brought up in and is arguably the only book I sincerely wish I had read in my teens.
Although the book rejects altruism and self-sacrifice, it is my strong opinion that if you know anyone with a mind who is 15-20, this is the best present you can get them as it will give them something that is life-improving and life-affirming. However this is a book that can by people of all ages as it does not target a specific age range.
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