The Journals of Ayn Rand (99 page)

No progression here (as Roark had none). He is what he is from the beginning—integrated (indivisible) and perfect. No change in him, because
he has no intellectual contradiction and, therefore, no inner conflict.

His important qualities (to bring out):

Joy in living
—the peculiar, deeply natural, serene, all-pervading joy in living which he alone possesses so completely in the story (the other strikers have it in lesser degree, almost as reflections of that which, in him, is the source). His joy is all-pervading in the sense that it underlies all his actions and emotions, it is an intrinsic, inseparable part of his nature (like the color of his hair or eyes). It is present
even when
he suffers (particularly in the torture scene)—
that
is when the nature and quality of his joy in living is startling and obvious, it is not resignation or acceptance of suffering, but a denial of it, a triumph over it.
(This
is extremely important to convey—clearly, unmistakably.) And this quality of his is
particularly
what is lacking in the parasites and in their whole world, in the world as it has become. (He laughs, as answer to the crucial question of the torture scene.)

(The worship of joy as against the worship of suffering.)

Self-confidence, self-assurance, the clear-cut, direct, positive action, no doubts or hesitations.

The magnificent innocence—the untroubled purity—a pride which is serene, not aggressive—“the first man of ability who refused to feel guilty.”

Progression from enthusiastic activity, joy in working, brilliant self-confidence and belief in the triumph of the right (of intelligence and competence) —to a helpless bewilderment in the face of the parasites’ behavior and motives—to a teeth-clenched determination to go ahead, ignoring them (end of Part I, beginning of Part II)—to a slow realization of the truth, with a slow anger growing with the steps of this realization.

Her full understanding of the issue and of the parasites is retarded because, as her anger grows, she comes to a stage of bitter contempt for them and refuses to think about them any longer. Her attitude becomes: “To hell with all of them—they are not worth considering or examining—I am not interested in them and never have been—so I will live for and think about my only interest: my work. I will deal with them only as I need them for my work, and I will use them for that.
I
can use them, not vice versa, because I am intelligent and they’re not. They’ll serve my purposes, not I theirs.” And this is true, so long as she does not accept their terms or compromise with their principles anywhere in her work and in her relations with them. When she does—
they
win and
they
use
her,
because they are more consistent in the application of their own principles and because she has placed her intelligence in
their
service, in the furtherance of their aims and principles, and thus she has turned her great and only weapon—her intelligence—against herself.

Thus, it is she who defeats herself—who makes it possible for her enemies to destroy her, to win. This is the pattern of the creators’ destruction of themselves through cooperation with parasites. You do
not
cooperate with parasites at any time. When and if you cooperate with a man, you can properly do so only to the degree that he can or is willing to act on the principles and terms of a creator in the particular activity or exchange involved.
And no more than that.
No further. And the terms of a creator are: “Man as an end in himself,” therefore every action must have a personal,
selfish
purpose or advantage for every man involved in it, recognized and accepted as such by the others involved in it.

Does this mean that you depend on them, on waiting for their recognition of your rights? No. You don’t
have to
deal with them; never
primarily
—only secondarily. So you merely refuse to deal with them, if they do not accept your terms. (Your attitude is: “Take it or leave it.”)

Those who can really be of help in the execution of your interests are only those who share your terms (or only to the extent that they do); they are the only ones capable of being of value to you. The others are of no use to you whatever.
But you are
of use to them (on
your
terms).
(Their
mistake is in thinking that they can make you of use to them—on
their
terms.) Hold out—and they will accept your terms to the extent to which they can survive at all. But give in, compromise—and you destroy your work, aims, desires, happiness, and life—you help them to last a while on the terms of evil, you postpone the justice of [reality‘s] retribution against them, you serve as their shield—and the end is only total destruction for you and for them.

 

 

To illustrate the preceding: Dagny’s whole problem is that she cannot find able men to work on the railroad she runs. Her very predicament disproves her idea that she needs others, the stupid or inferior ones, for her purpose, and therefore she must find some way to deal with them, must consider them or compromise with them (she does not really believe it, only wonders about it, is bewildered on this point—but so many others do believe it, particularly the professor). The fact is that she
cannot
do anything with inferiors—the “cooperation” she wants can be achieved only with men of
intelligence
(to the extent of intelligence she needs from them).

Cooperation can be done only on
a level;
if one attempts to do it “down,” one fails. If a person’s attitude is: “My superior intelligence has a great goal or project in mind, but unfortunately I need dumbbells to carry out my orders, so I must adjust myself to them in some way, scale down my ideas, principles and methods”—that person is doomed to fail. If your project requires the services or cooperation of others, your only chance is to find those equal to the particular task it requires of them; adjusting the great project down to those inferior to their proposed part in it does not raise them, but merely destroys the project.

Dagny needs men with whom she can deal on her own terms, the terms of the creator, the terms of intelligence, capacity and independence—or she can do nothing. What, then, is the proper interrelationship of men working on a project, such as the building of a great skyscraper? They cooperate through and are held together by their various capacities—
not
their inferiorities. The bricklayer
has
contributed his ability—but the architect has contributed a much greater ability: [he has provided] the opportunity for the exercise of the abilities of the others involved, and this must be acknowledged.

What is the message to all men, implied in this? Live honestly and honorably within the limits and to the limits of your own ability—and give thanks to the men whose greater ability has made such a magnificent world possible for you (but remember that
you
were not the great man’s goal or motive).

 

 

Progression: He works fiercely, enthusiastically—then feels guilty about it; he attempts to make up in the altruistic sense; he gives in to every accusation of his family. He loves Dagny and considers this his sin, his guilty passion—while his forced love for his wife he thinks to be virtuous, pure, idealistic.

Part II: his slow awakening to the truth—his understanding of the parasites (his family) and their motives—his understanding of his own value and that his sins had been virtues. His realization that his love for Dagny was his best emotion (after he loses her). His anger against his family then becomes implacable, cold, set, merciless—with the same sense of justice which he had earlier turned against himself.
[This is AR’s first note on the romance between Rearden and Dagny.
]

Progression: from a smug, yet uneasy, satisfaction with his parasitical “top position”—to bewilderment—to malicious restlessness (with people and in business)—to a growing fear (Part II)—to panic, hysteria, and collapse.

Progression: From a righteous (if slightly forced) idealism—to an attempt to drown himself in his work and shut out his uneasiness about the world—to the gradual, growing surrender to the parasites’ authority (spiritually and in his work)—to a growing fear of Galt (Part II)—to the cold viciousness of “self-protection,” accepting anything to justify his fatal mistake—to disaster.

 

The valley—John Galt.

The “transportation pull” deal—TT gives its last grain cars to a soybean project in the south, instead of to the desperately awaited wheat harvest in Minnesota. The deal is arranged by Cuffy Meigs, TT’s new executive (the looter), who receives huge, secret rake-off from the head of the project, his friend, one of his own kind. (Chester is involved in this and is behind the project. Its announced aim—“teach people to sacrifice,” to live on a lower standard.)

James Taggart, by now, does anything Meigs tells him to. Taggart’s growing fear. Cherryl’s attempts at self-improvement. Dagny breaks with Rearden; she tells him she loves another man—she does not say who. (“It was my fate to love the impossible.”)

Dagny fights desperately, ferociously against the southern deal—but undertakes, personally, to see that the soybean freight is delivered. Here is her crucial mistake—she does it to save the railroad; she contributes to its destruction, instead.

The ride of the soybean freight: the tragic irony of magnificent energy and competence wasted on doing well a worthless and vicious undertaking. (Dagny, her best engineers, Eddie Willers. The weather, the bad track, the last of the rail reserves wasted to fix a useless line.) This is the last run of a train shown in the story—showing a dying system, all the difficulties, impossibilities, inefficiencies involved. The next one—“The Comet”—cannot finish its run.