Her Face Lay Still On The Air

Don't Rely On Our Knowledge Of What's Best For Your Future. We Do Know, But It Can't Be Best Until You Know It.

P.61 He [roark] Was Usually Disliked, From The First Sight Of His Face, Anywhere He Went. His Face Was Closed Like The Door Of A Safety Vault; Things Locked In Safety Vaults Are Valuable; Men Did Not Care To Feel That. He Was A Cold, Disquieting Presence In The Room; His Presence Had A Strange Quality: It Made Itself Felt And Yet It Made Them Feel That He Was Not There; Or Perhaps That He Was And They Weren't.

Competition Is A By-product Of Productive Work, Not Its Goal.

The Majority Of Those Who Are Loosely Identified By The Term 'liberals' Are Afraid To Let Themselves Discover That What They Advocate Is Statism. They Want To Keep All The Advantages And Effects Of Capitalism, While Destroying The Cause, And They Want To Establish Statism Without Its Necessary Effects. They Do Not Want To Know Or To Admit That They Are The Champions Of Dictatorship And Slavery.

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 . . .