Ayn Rand created herself out of whole cloth. This must be acknowledged, and yes it's impressive. Often an immigrant, who had to struggle for freedom, ends up doing more than a rank and file American, who takes it for granted. Rand was definitely a force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately... paradoxically... over-achievers can also be full of cr*p. Any admiration for Rand must be tempered by the fact that her writing is a mono-maniacal, unpersuasive snooze. Add to that the sheer creepy, oiliness of the also-Rands she left behind, and she's a complete wash-out. No college studies Rand's disreputable "philosophy."
Rand didn't have a body of work that became a school; instead she had a lot of hard-won, reactive opinions that became serviceable as a personal philosophy; and a generous segment of the population without rudders came to grovel at her feet, and hear why being selfish was actually a good thing; uniting sociopaths and young capitalists under one umbrella.
She quickly became a self-parody. She hated collectives terribly but paradoxically could only conceive of individualism as a cultish dogma she constrained you with. (!?) As few in America have a philosophical life, an early naive encounter with her material (as with $cientology, and Moonie literature) is apt to derail the development of actual emotional depth or a conscience for five to thirty years, lost in the fog of mystification and hero worship.
Her work follows an absurd tiresome pattern. You could write the next Rand tome by just following this handy template: A vigorously independent industrialist wants to use (insert some industry) to prove he's got big brass ones. For 1,500 pages he must endure a bizarre gang of paper-deep anti-individualists motivated by volition that no one has ever actually encountered on earth (Bad man: "grrrrr... I hate maverick individuals!" Good man: "I hate collectives!"). But with the attention of an impressively miserable woman, who only experiences joy when (pick two: she breaks beautiful things / gets put in her place sexually / she can pursue her erotic fixation with machinery) they stand together in triumph on top of (pick one: his own skyscraper, his train, some other phallic symbol) in the end. Spare yourself a read of Atlas Shrugged and just wait for Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie's self-impressed, half-understood production which should be putting theater-goers to sleep in the next year or so.
The ultimate refutation of her ideas comes from Allen Greenspan, a Rand acolyte who when asked to explain why he allowed the country's economy to run itself into the ground, stated that he couldn't fathom that bankers would act in their own self-interest without concern for the well-being of the nation. Well, I guess that makes me smarter than you Allen. Please go away, Randlings.
Rand didn't have a body of work that became a school; instead she had a lot of hard-won, reactive opinions that became serviceable as a personal philosophy; and a generous segment of the population without rudders came to grovel at her feet, and hear why being selfish was actually a good thing; uniting sociopaths and young capitalists under one umbrella.
She quickly became a self-parody. She hated collectives terribly but paradoxically could only conceive of individualism as a cultish dogma she constrained you with. (!?) As few in America have a philosophical life, an early naive encounter with her material (as with $cientology, and Moonie literature) is apt to derail the development of actual emotional depth or a conscience for five to thirty years, lost in the fog of mystification and hero worship.
Her work follows an absurd tiresome pattern. You could write the next Rand tome by just following this handy template: A vigorously independent industrialist wants to use (insert some industry) to prove he's got big brass ones. For 1,500 pages he must endure a bizarre gang of paper-deep anti-individualists motivated by volition that no one has ever actually encountered on earth (Bad man: "grrrrr... I hate maverick individuals!" Good man: "I hate collectives!"). But with the attention of an impressively miserable woman, who only experiences joy when (pick two: she breaks beautiful things / gets put in her place sexually / she can pursue her erotic fixation with machinery) they stand together in triumph on top of (pick one: his own skyscraper, his train, some other phallic symbol) in the end. Spare yourself a read of Atlas Shrugged and just wait for Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie's self-impressed, half-understood production which should be putting theater-goers to sleep in the next year or so.
The ultimate refutation of her ideas comes from Allen Greenspan, a Rand acolyte who when asked to explain why he allowed the country's economy to run itself into the ground, stated that he couldn't fathom that bankers would act in their own self-interest without concern for the well-being of the nation. Well, I guess that makes me smarter than you Allen. Please go away, Randlings.