My Years with Ayn Rand by Nathaniel Branden

Author:Nathaniel Branden [Branden, Nathaniel]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: John Wiley and Sons
Published: 1999-02-26T00:00:00+00:00

Meanwhile, the response to the lecture courses was growing. We were now receiving inquiries from all over the country, as well as from Canada, Europe, India, and Australia. An enormous demand was mounting for our courses and for more information about Objectivism.

“This is the one bright spot in my life,” Ayn said, “so far as my view of the culture is concerned. I could not have imagined this. Ideas do matter to some people. I see it in your students. From week to week, they’re changing. Because of your lectures, all of them are becoming better human beings.”

She could extravagantly praise my students one moment, then be furiously impatient with them the next. In the question periods following my lectures, she often became angry with any question she felt should not have been asked, perhaps because it had been answered in Atlas Shrugged or perhaps because she believed that any honest person would figure it out for himself. Most of our students seemed to love her, but sometimes she could be terrifying.

Once, a man with a thick Hungarian accent began his question, “In his speech, Galt contends that ...” He never got any further because Ayn exploded. “Galt does not contend,” she shouted. “If you have read Atlas Shrugged, if you profess to be an admirer of mine, then you should know that Galt does not ‘strive,’ ‘debate,’ ‘argue,’ or ‘contend.’ ” The man looked stricken. He pleaded, “But Miss Rand, all I meant was ...” Ayn thundered back at him, “If you wish to speak to me, first learn to remember to whom and about what you are speaking!” Ayn was obsessed with clarity and precision in speaking and writing. It was a passion I generally shared. Certainly, we trained the Collective to achieve high standards in this regard. But I did not feel sympathy for the passion in this instance; I thought it totally misapplied. The man sank back into his chair, embarrassed and defeated. I felt concerned for him, appalled by Ayn, and annoyed with myself for not speaking up on the spot. Later, when I was alone with Ayn, I pointed out that the man had a foreign accent and probably was not aware of the nuances contained in the word contend. “I never thought of that,” Ayn replied with a look of astonished, childlike innocence. I noticed, sadly, that the man never came back. I can still see the expression of hurt and shock on his face.

There were, of course, question-and-answer sessions when Ayn was warm, friendly, benevolent, and charming. Once, when a student apologized for the naïveté of some question, she told him encouragingly, “There are no stupid questions, only stupid answers.” Yet the rage was always there, lingering in the background of her consciousness, and it could be activated anytime she felt that a student had brought the perspective of “the world” into the lecture room by asking a question that hinted too loudly at alien influences. Sometimes, Ayn would apologize to me later for her outbursts.

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