I’m genuinely
astonished each time someone tells me they love Ayn Rand. Because these people
are often intelligent and rarely lack imagination. Because it’s unthinkable. Because
last time I checked – Atlas Shrugged
was as unreadable as ever.
Yet I have to admit
that there’s something wickedly magnetic about Ayn Rand. Not her writing (she
couldn’t write), not her philosophy (let’s not even go there), but the image of
this tough Russian lady beating Americans at their own game. Or playing that game
in the first place.
Besides, she has
always been an odd presence in my life. I couldn’t bother, but there she was,
in the articles I read and conversations I overhead. Interestingly, each one of
my former girlfriends took some sort of interest in Ayn Rand. One actually
studied her novels, quite seriously – which never failed to amuse me.
While I never really
got too close. To me, Ayn Rand is like some vaguely powerful and intriguing
wind I can enjoy from my balcony. But stepping down, walking in the street, letting
it rip through my skin and my bones – no, never.
