"The woman had a coat thrown over a nightgown; the coat was slipping open and her stomach protruded under the gown's thin cloth, with that loose obscenity of manner which assumes all human self-revelation to be ugliness and makes no effort to conceal it."
Ayn Rand makes me bitter.
It's only been four days since I last posted, but it feels like a year. Every day, I wake into this world, but slip suddenly into another, lost existence. This book, this trapdoor into an alternate universe, sits innocently open, masquerading as nothing more than dead words on aging pages . . . But I know better. Words are the last things in this world to taste death. There is no stagnation in the solemn black print; eternity, but not stagnation. Every phrase is unabashedly alive, weaving an intricate and untraceable path through my own reality. By the end, I have nothing to do but stare out across the knotted landscape and attempt to separate my anger with the human race from the crumbling precepts of true morality.
If I haven't drowned in the last 300 pages of Atlas Shrugged, I'll hopefully have a more insightful post within a week.