Atlas Shrugged

"What is morality?" she asked.

"Judgment to distinguish right and wrong, vision to see the truth, courage to act upon it, dedication to that which is good, integrity to stand by the good at any price. But where does one find it?"

They were offering Galt the best that their view of existence could offer, they were trying to tempt him with that which was their dream of life’s highest fulfillment: this spread of mindless adulation, the unreality of this enormous pretense—approval without standards, tribute without content, honor without causes, admiration without reasons, love without a code of values.

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

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.

“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?”

shaped by the ruthless discipline of a purpose

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

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

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

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.