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.