Table of Contents
PART I: NON-CONTRADICTION
CHAPTER I THE THEME
CHAPTER II THE CHAIN
CHAPTER III THE TOP AND THE BOTTOM
CHAPTER IV THE IMMOVABLE MOVERS
CHAPTER V THE CLIMAX OF THE D’ANCONIAS
CHAPTER VI THE NON-COMMERCIAL
CHAPTER VII THE EXPLOITERS AND THE EXPLOITED
CHAPTER VIII THE JOHN GALT LINE
CHAPTER IX THE SACRED AND THE PROFANE
CHAPTER X WYATT’S TORCH
PART II: EITHER-OR
CHAPTER I THE MAN WHO BELONGED ON EARTH
CHAPTER II THE ARISTOCRACY OF PULL
CHAPTER III WHITE BLACKMAIL
CHAPTER IV THE SANCTION OF THE VICTIM
CHAPTER V ACCOUNT OVERDRAWN
CHAPTER VI MIRACLE METAL
CHAPTER VII THE MORATORIUM ON BRAINS
CHAPTER VIII BY OUR LOVE
CHAPTER IX THE FACE WITHOUT PAIN OR FEAR OR GUILT
CHAPTER X THE SIGN OF THE DOLLAR
PART III: A is A
CHAPTER I ATLANTIS
CHAPTER II THE UTOPIA OF GREED
CHAPTER III ANTI-GREED
CHAPTER IV ANTI-LIFE
CHAPTER V THEIR BROTHERS’ KEEPERS
CHAPTER VI THE CONCERTO OF DELIVERANCE
CHAPTER VII “THIS IS JOHN GALT SPEAKING”
CHAPTER VIII THE EGOIST
CHAPTER IX THE GENERATOR
CHAPTER X IN THE NAME OF THE BEST AMONG US
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“Who is John Galt?”
The light was ebbing, and Eddie Willers could not distinguish the bum’s face. The bum had said it simply, without expression. But from the sunset far at the end of the street, yellow glints caught his eyes, and the eyes looked straight at Eddie Willers, mocking and stillas if the question had been addressed to the causeless uneasiness within him.
“Why did you say that?” asked Eddie Willers, his voice tense.
The bum leaned against the side of the doorway; a wedge of broken glass behind him reflected the metal yellow of
“Why does it bother you?” he asked.
“It doesn’t,” snapped Eddie Willers.
He reached hastily into his pocket. The bum had stopped him and asked for a dime, then had gone on talking, as if to kill that moment and postpone the problem of the next. Pleas for dimes were so frequent in the streets these days that it was not necessary to listen to explanations, and he had no desire to hear the details of this bum’s particular despair.
“Go get your cup of coffee,” he said, handing the dime to the shadow that had no face.
“Thank you, sir,” said the voice, without interest, and the face leaned forward for a moment. The face was wind-browned, cut by lines of weariness and cynical resignation; the eyes were intelligent. Eddie Willers walked on, wondering why he always felt it at this time of day, this sense of dread without reason. No, he thought, not dread, there’s nothing to fear: just an immense, diffused apprehension, with no source or object. He had become accustomed to the feeling, but he could find no explanation for it; yet the bum had spoken as if he knew that Eddie felt it, as if he thought that one should feel it, and more: as if he knew the reason.
Eddie Willers pulled his shoulders straight, in conscientious self-discipline. He had to stop this, he thought; he was beginning to imagine things. Had he always felt it? He was thirty-two years old. He tried to think back. No, he hadn’t; but he could not remember when it had started. The feeling came to him Suddenly, at random intervals, and now it was coming more often than ever. It’s the twilight, he thought; I hate the twilight.
The clouds and the shafts of skyscrapers against them were turning brown, like an old painting in oil, the color of a fading masterpiece.