Sacrifice Is The Surrender Of That Which

As A Cultural-intellectual Power And A Moral Ideal, Collectivism Died In World War Ii. If We Are Still Rolling In Its Direction, It Is Only By The Inertia Of A Void And The Momentum Of Disintegration. A Social Movement That Began With The Ponderous, Brain-cracking, Dialectical Constructs Of Hegel And Marx, And Ends Up With A Horde Of Morally Unwashed Children Stamping Their Foot And Shrieking: "i Want It Now Is Through."

But You See," Said Roark Quietly, "i Have, Let’s Say, Sixty Years To Live. Most Of That Time Will Be Spent Working. I’ve Chosen The Work I Want To Do. If I Find No Joy In It, Then I’m Only Condemning Myself To Sixty Years Of Torture. And I Can Find The Joy Only If I Do My Work In The Best Way Possible To Me. But The Best Is A Matter Of Standards—and I Set My Own Standards. I Inherit Nothing. I Stand At The End Of No Tradition. I May, Perhaps, Stand At The Beginning Of One.

When You Have Civilized Men Fighting Savages, You Support The Civilized Men, No Matter Who They Are.

Whether It’s A Symphony Or A Coal Mine, All Work Is An Act Of Creating And Comes From The Same Source: From An Inviolate Capacity To See Through One’s Own Eyes-which Means: The Capacity To Perform A Rational Identification- Which Means: The Capacity To See, To Connect And To Make What Had Not Been Seen, Connected And Made Before.

Money Is Only A Tool. It Will Take You Wherever You Wish, But It Will Not Replace You As The Driver.