For The First Time Since Her Return,

Look, Gail." Roark Got Up, Reached Out, Tore A Thick Branch Off A Tree, Held It In Both Hands, One Fist Closed At Each End; Then, His Wrists And Knuckles Tensed Against The Resistance, He Bent The Branch Slowly Into An Arc. "now I Can Make What I Want Of It: A Bow, A Spear, A Cane, A Railing. That's The Meaning Of Life." "your Strength?" "your Work." He Tossed The Branch Aside. "the Material The Earth Offers You And What You Make Of It . . .

Love Is The Expression Of One's Values, The Greatest Reward You Can Earn For The Moral Qualities You Have Achieved In Your Character And Person, The Emotional Price Paid By One Man For The Joy He Receives From The Virtues Of Another.

There Are No Contradictions. If You Find One, Check Your Premises.

When She Had Gone Upstairs, He Walked To A Window And Stood Looking Up At The Sky. His Head Thrown Back, He Felt The Pull Of His Throat Muscles And He Wondered Whether The Peculiar Solemnity Of Looking At The Sky Comes, Not From What One Contemplates, But From That Uplift Of One's Head.

I Like To Think Of Fire Held In A Man's Hand. Fire, A Dangerous Force, Tamed At His Fingertips. I Often Wonder About The Hours When A Man Sits Alone, Watching The Smoke Of A Cigarette, Thinking. I Wonder What Great Things Have Come From Such Hours. When A Man Thinks, There Is A Spot Of Fire Alive In His Mind--and It Is Proper That He Should Have The Burning Point Of A Cigarette As His One Expression.