Ayn Rand

In place of a love made by the brilliant fire of hero worship, she was left with the gnawing drabness of pity.

The month behind her had gone, leaving nothing but the blank of dead time.

You knew it—she had told herself severely—you knew what it would be like when you made your choice. And dragging her body, like an unwilling weight, out of bed to face an unwelcome day, she would whisper: All right, even this.

“It was an accident,” said a young man with a staccato voice and an odor of public payroll.

He knew that this house was a monument of guilt—of his guilt toward himself.

. I am here to complete it: Existence is Identity, Consciousness is Identification.

shaped by the ruthless discipline of a purpose

“Will you tell me just one thing: if you’re able to pretend that you haven’t heard a word I said on the radio, what makes you think I’d be willing to pretend that I haven’t said it?”

She had seen the brief pause of his glance, which no one else could notice; the glance had been more than a kiss, it had been a handshake of approval and support.

Celebrations—she remembered her own words, with a stab of longing—should be only for those who have something to celebrate.