CHAPTER 10

The Cult of Ayn Rand

As a teenager, I fell for Ayn Rand.

More precisely, I fell for her novels. Reading The Fountainhead at the age of fourteen, I was overwhelmed by the passionate intensity of Rand’s heroic characters. Who could forget the indomitable Howard Roark? “His face was like a law of nature—a thing one could not question, alter or implore. It had high cheekbones over gaunt, hollow cheeks; gray eyes, cold and steady; a contemptuous mouth, shut tight, the mouth of an executioner or a saint.”1 Roark was defined by his fierce independence: “I do not recognize anyone’s right to one minute of my life. Nor to any part of my energy. Nor to any achievement of mine. No matter who makes the claim, how large their number or how great ...

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