Start with a cup of half-understood Nietzsche, add a slavering devotion to wealth and a refusal to acknowledge history, finish with a dash of sexual bitterness, and you’ve got yourself some Ayn Rand. Like a lot of nerds, I was deep into The Fountainhead during high school. Then I went to college and started an education; ten years later, I’m–like a lot of nerds–embarrassed by my youthful affection for this crank.
There’s a new biography out, reviewed here by Sam Anderson of New York Magazine. If I didn’t think Halloween is silly child’s holiday, I might dress up as Howard Roark–you know, be an asshole toward everyone who doesn’t think like I do, and maybe end up with a babe in the end. Ladies, according to Ayn Rand, you all worship imperious men. Didn’t work out so well for her, though.