It was one of my goals for the summer to finish what I started. That is to say, I was determined to complete the mammoth 1100-page-dictionary-print odyssey of a philosophical novel that I had started and given up two summers ago. The brick (er,
book) in question being Ayn Rand's
Atlas Shrugged - the story of a dystopian American society in which all of the truly great minds have gone on strike, refusing to come out of hiding to fix the crumbling world. Years ago I had read Rand's
The Fountainhead, having been drawn to its architect protagonist, but not having any other clue as to what lay in store. What I found was an intriguing philosophy which, at the time, was groundbreaking for me, and eventually led to a great deal of research on Rand, her works, and her way of thinking. While
The Fountainhead remains among my top favorite books, I began to realize, through my research, that something was amiss with the ideology.
Atlas Shrugged ultimately drove home those doubts.
Nevertheless, I continued reading - both out of a mounting curiosity and the determination to
finish the darn thing. Oh, and also I plan on writing an essay to submit to the Ayn Rand Institute for the annual Atlas Shrugged essay contest; which is partially the reason for this post: to practice. Of course, ARI expects a well-constructed essay that conveys a sound understanding of the book and its implications, and I intend to give one to them. But I have no intentions of giving them an essay that spews praise and admiration of the book or its implications, because I have none to give. Of course, the book is incredibly well-written and interesting (or else I would've stopped reading a long time ago), but I can't consciously bring myself to agree with the crux of Rand's philosophy: the virtue of selfishness.
Through her novels and formal work, Rand espouses her philosophy, which she calls Objectivism. Despite my research of years past (which, I'll admit, was for a high school paper, and thus was shoddy at best), I had been confused about the name
Objectivism. I understood that the "objective" - as opposed to the "subjective" - embodies that which lies in observable fact; for which right and wrong are distinct entities (i.e. sandwich-crafting). And I went ahead and made the intellectual leap to the connection between the "objective" and Rand's reality-as-reality philosophy. But I didn't really complete the circuit until reaching the climactic 50-page speech towards the end of
Atlas Shrugged. In said speech, the underpinnings of Objectivism are made crystal clear within the first two pages, and are continuously reiterated over and over forever and ever for the next forty-eight. "A is A", repeats John Galt - the book's hero and orator of the speech [hereafter "Galt" and "Rand" are interchangeable] - meaning that a thing can be nothing other than itself. "Man is Man," he says. Through this logic comes the idea that man is bound to objective fact, which is the standard to which he must rise.
The characteristic that separates man from animal is his ability to reason. It is what has allowed him to climb out of the jungle and into the modern world. His mind is thus his ultimate possession, and his ultimate purpose is to use it. Logic, therefore, is the moral law, and as such, rules the actions and beliefs of the main characters. Nothing is said or done that defies the logic of survival. "Rational self-interest" is the lifestyle - that is - "the rational pursuit of my own rational goals is the meaning of my existence." What, you might ask, is the difference between "rational self-interest" and "reckless greediness"? Why not just rob a bank, do a bunch of drugs, kick your boss, and generally do whatever the heck you want? The answer is simple: these things ultimately are
not in your own self-interest. Jail is decidedly not the "rational goal" of any person. In a factual world of pure, natural, logic, the only "rational goal" can be that of achieving the highest possible standard of living; in other words, material success.
Atlas Shrugged projects this idea through an industrial screen. The heroes (Dagny Taggart, Hank Rearden, Ellis Wyatt, etc.) are individuals who build their respective industrial empires (transcontinental railroad, steel, oil, etc.) on their own merit: hard work, dedication, and - most notably - their own brilliance. The villains (James Taggart, Orren Boyle, The State Science Institute, etc.), on the other hand, have gained their industrial power through favors, inheritance, and dishonest means. In the end, who is the better businessman; the one who built his company by his own power, or the one to whom it was given? Galt refers to the latter as the "looters" - men who prey upon the achievements of others, claiming them for themselves in the name of "the good of mankind". She regards unearned wealth (physical or otherwise) as the paramount of evil. Wealth is exchanged - properly - by means of
trading: one service equally for another. Every action must benefit the self. This is how Galt views industry...
[So far, so good. There shouldn't be too many grievances so far with the philosophy (which is - so far, essentially - conservative economics), outside of simple political differences of opinion. But as we continue, things start getting hairy.]
...This, in Galt's "A is A" world, holds true in every facet of the hero's life. Trade. Every action must benefit the self. Self-sacrifice is the purest form of evil. What does this do for love? Brotherly love is out of the question, because it, in essence, is self-sacrifice. Certainly supernatural love, too, is unmentionable for the simple logic that it is beyond logic, and therefore nonexistant. We're left with romantic love, which really becomes "vicarious self-exaltation". Romantic love and its related acts are nothing more than very personal trade. Protagonists claim to love one another for the right reasons, but their love is conditional as long as the other keeps up his/her end of the bargain. Unconditional love is impossible because, after all, my lover might fail me, or I could find someone better. The villains in the book make the argument that the heroes love unfairly, saying that one should love another not for their good qualities (which is simply a love that they have already earned), but that true love is love for a person's bad qualities. Here I agree with Galt, though for a very different reason. It's true that nobody in their right mind would love someone for their bad qualities. Love of evil is a great evil. However, we are called to love in spite of bad qualities. Galt insists that Original Sin is man's most malicious illusion, because it dooms him to eternal servitude to those better than him. Yet, inevitably, every single person will mess up at least once in their lifetime, effectively removing the possibility of a perfect human. So, no matter what the case, all love is love in spite of bad qualities. The difference arises when we consider the worth of other people to us. Again, in the case of romantic love, nobody would choose a partner who meant little or nothing to them; rather they choose a partner that means everything to them! But for whose sake do they mean everything? Does a loving husband look at his wife and say to her, "I love you because you represent an achievement which I, through my moral living, deserve"? Not unless he's John Galt, whose thinking brings a whole new meaning to the term "trophy wife". No, a relationship cannot last unless each person is willing to love for the sake of the relationship - not for self's sake, or even for the other's sake, because each is a form of slavery. Rather, it is the union of two imperfect people striving for perfection that is to be loved.
Brotherly love, as forbidden by the principles of Objectivism, is nothing like it is portrayed as in the book. Does "for the good of mankind" necessarily have to be equivalent to the Marxist slogan "from each according to his ability, to each according to his need"? I think not. In a perfect world, perhaps so. But in a world of dishonesty, waste, and vice, each man can only be expected to pull his own weight. One cannot require his brother to pick up his own slack. However, one should always be prepared to help his brother. This is a biblical tenet: "Anyone who has been stealing must steal no longer, but must work, doing something useful with their own hands, that they may have something to share with those in need." (Ephesians 4:28 NIV) Galt bisects humanity into what she calls the "producers" and the "looters"; or "those who create" and "those who take". And there is constant tension between the two factions. The looters want to keep taking, and the producers don't want to keep giving. Truly, it isn't right that a producer should have to provide for a lazy bum ("A sluggard's appetite is never filled, but the desires of the diligent are fully satisfied" - Proverbs 13:4 NIV), but he should be prepared to. Self-sacrifice - condemned as evil by Galt - isn't black and white. I hold that there are two kinds of sacrifice: receptive self-sacrifice, which is an act performed that does not benefit the self in any way, but is nonetheless beneficial to others (charitable donations, etc.); and needless self-sacrifice, which benefits nobody (jumping off a bridge, etc.). The former is virtuous, and the latter, lacking benefit, is necessarily iniquitous. But why do we love our brother in the first place, that we would give of ourselves to him? The answer isn't logical. It can't be proven, and in fact, it goes against what we observe in nature: We love our brother because he, too, is a creature with a soul, struggling to figure life out just as we are. We help him because we pity him. It's a feeling, not a fact, and Ayn Rand would disapprove greatly of it. Yet everyone - even Rand's heroes - feels it.
Of course, if we take a look at Jesus' Golden Rule, "love your neighbor as yourself" (Matthew 22:39 NIV), we come to the answer straight away. But even then we see that our love for our brothers is not an act of slavery by him. We are to love him as we love our own selves. We are all equals - not to take or be taken advantage of, but to work together for the glory of He who defies logic and reason.
Perhaps the most abhorrent form of love, according to Galt, is the completely unfounded love for the supernatural. "A is A" and nothing else. "A" is not sometimes "B", and "A" cannot be "G". "A is always A". There is no room in Galt's universe for the non-absolute; the inexplicable. If the human mind cannot possibly fathom it, it cannot exist. So goes the "logic". Yet it is faulty logic - a bold accusation against John Galt, who declares himself "a man of the mind". Unless a thing can be "absolutely" proved non-existent, there still remains the possibility of its existence. By definition, the "non-absolute" cannot be "absolutely" proven either way, so one cannot "absolutely" deny its existence. Therefore, it's not so easy to write the supernatural off as imaginary. In as "absolute" terms as I can muster, I see two paths to follow from here:
1. Believe, without "absolute" foundation, that God does not exist, that the universe is nothing but really cool random matter, and that there is no meaning to life other than to survive in the best way possible.
2. Believe, without "absolute" foundation, that God does exist, that there is a higher meaning to life, and that when our physical bodies die, something happens to our souls; for better or for worse.
Even (and especially) the strictest of logical thinkers has to admit that, of the two choices, the second has a much greater potential reward. When faced with this mandatory gamble, the choice seems easy - put faith in God, and if you're wrong... Well, it doesn't really matter after all... This is supernatural belief in its elemental form. Either way, there is no "absolute". A leap of faith is required in every single conceivable circumstance. So why not make a leap of faith that's worth something? Believers of every religion, cult, faith - regardless - have gone through this process in their minds. This is basically as far as human logic can reach into the supernatural: Since I can't really be absolutely sure one way or the other, it seems that I stand a better chance of having my eternal soul (which I may or may not have) live forever (which my instinct tells me would be best for me) if I put my belief in a higher being and do what he/she/it tells me to do. Of course, our faith is infinitely more complex than that, but face it; you've thought that very same thought. Probably a number of times. The great thing, however, about our logic is that though it cannot prove God's existence one way or another, it drastically enhances our perception of Him. If we were stupid or if we were programmed robots, we wouldn't have any clue (even less than we have now) of the grandeur of God. This is why we love God: because, despite our self-perceived high-and-mighty intellects, we are faced with the incredibly undeniable conclusion that we don't know squat. But we believe that Somebody does, and that that Somebody has taken a mystifying interest in us relative nobodies. We love Him - in spite of Galt's 50-page speech on the contrary - because our minds are unable to do anything meaningful otherwise.
"Romantic" is one of the words that most accurately describes Rand's writings. (Romanticism is, in fact, the subject of one of her nonfiction works - aptly entitled The Romantic Manifesto.) Her characters are more like legendary heroes than normal people. She uses them as a standard rather than an illustration. Of course, this is hard to avoid when she's trying to endorse a very specific philosophy, and we'll find that most philosophical literature speaks of its characters in terms of perfection. However, these characters inevitably have an air of being shockingly un-human (with the biased exception of Jesus Himself - even though he, too, was shockingly un-human, only in a very different sort of way). Her characters rarely, if ever, make mistakes. When they do, it is usually due to an over-estimation of the rest of the human race. John Galt is perfect in every way. How, then, can his principles apply to the common man? Rand writes in such a way that it seems that, in order to practice her philosophy correctly, one must be a genius in every sense of the term. Personally, I cannot build a revolutionary static-electricity motor, as Galt did. I cannot keep a transcontinental railroad running smoothly single-handedly, or invent a new type of metal that's stronger and lighter and cheaper than steel, and I cannot devise a way to pump oil out of solid rock. Perhaps I could do these things if I tried really really hard, but industry is not my calling, and I do not have a brilliant inventive mind. I wouldn't last a split-second in the executive office of Francisco D'Anconia. How, then, can I be a good little objectivist? The way I see it, I can't if I expect to stay alive. The only thing I can do is to run my business (because a business is about the only thing you can run effectively under the doctrines of Objectivism... Try running a
family that only knows how to love conditionally) to the best of my capabilities, work my butt off, and pour my entire life into having the very best hardware store on Main Street. When I'm on my deathbed, though, am I going to be satisfied with my life, knowing that my family hated me and that I missed countless opportunities to enrich myself, but that, hey, I had the
very best hardware store on Main Street? Not if I have an ounce of humanity in me.
Looking back on a life like that - in which material gain was my only objective, and my mind was my only friend - would be like looking at a great golden serving platter without a scrap of food on it. Is that where logic gets us?
To conclude this hasty mess of philosophical reflections (and what has kind of turned into a book report), I will once again remark at what a provocative set of ideals that Ayn Rand has given the world. Many things can - and perhaps should - be learned from it: the concepts of hard work, business integrity, and proper use of the mind; and the condemnation of laziness, second-handing, and unjust distribution of wealth. But just as evil cannot exist without good, the shortcomings of this philosophy couldn't exist without its truthful tenets. The sanctity of the ego is an inflation of these tenets to the point where they become the
only truths - where self-acclamation becomes the sole purpose in one's life. Yet Rand fails to explain, "
WHY?". If, logically, we are nothing more than chemicals and minerals, bound back to earth, then what's the point of creating a million new motors and amassing the world's largest wealth? In one of the saddest scenes in the book, a minor character who had been a villain throughout, finally "gets it" after being mortally wounded during a factory riot. His last moments were witnessed by the great Hank Rearden, who was the source of the character's change of heart. Rearden, attempting to carry him to safety, acknowledges that this character has finally changed. But then he dies, and Rearden feels nothing at the fact that his new "son" is now little more than well-organized dirt... As I read this, my mind was screaming, "What's the point?!?" So the guy had two minutes of "realization", but then what? Nothing? He just
dies and
that's it? THAT, not the big "O", is the gaping hole in Objectivism.
...
At my brother's request, I decided to make this a full-fledged book report and include a
very abridged Character Log:
Dagny Taggart - The protagonist. She is the Vice-President of Operations of Taggart Transcontinental, the nation's largest railroad.
Henry Rearden - Owner of a number of productive enterprises, including Rearden Metal - a revolutionary metal that is stronger, lighter, and cheaper than steel.
Francisco D'Anconia - Childhood friend of the Taggarts. A genius in everything he did, from business to recreation, and owner of the giant D'Anconia Copper dynasty. Turned into a worthless playboy for no apparent reason.
James Taggart - President of Taggart Transcontinental. Older brother of Dagny. Weak-spirited and uninspired, he feeds on the successes of others.
Wesley Mouch - The Economic Controller of the United States. Nothing happens to the economy without his permission or the oversight of himself or one of his scrooges.
John Galt - A mystery. A legend. People talk about him, but nobody seems to know who he is. "Who is John Galt?" is a common slang expression meant to convey hopelessness.
...
So yeah. Hopefully you haven't given up reading by this time. If you're still with me, I thank you for sticking it out! I really would recommend
Atlas Shrugged to anyone. It's an excellent read; rich in thought-provoking ideas and practical lessons. However, I encourage that you read with a grain of salt. I don't believe that Rand had a very good understanding of how life is meant to be lived, despite her undeniable brilliance. There's another book that I would recommend anyone consult with questions about life. It's extremely long, but I consider it to be pretty much exhaustive when it comes to advice about life... It's called The Bible, and you probably have a copy lying around your house somewhere. It's an excellent read.
I'd say it's the best read ever read.
