riskyhomo/ayn_rand · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 169
Don't let it go!—while he was seeing the smoke rising proudly from factory
chimneys, while he was struggling to cut through the smoke and reach the
vision at the root of these visions.
He was pulling at coils of wire, he was linking them and tearing them
apart—while the sudden sense of sunrays and pine trees kept pulling at the
corners of his mind. Dagny!—he heard himself crying soundlessly—
Dagny, in the name of the best within us! . . . He was jerking at futile
levers and at a throttle that had nothing to move. . . . Dagny!—he was crying
to a twelve-year-old girl in a sunlit clearing of the woods—
in the name of the best within us, I must now start this train! . . .
Dagny, that is what it was . . . and you knew it, then, but I didn't . . .
you knew it when you turned to look at the rails. . . . I said, "not business
or earning a living" . . . but, Dagny, business and earning a living and that
in man which makes it possible—that is the best within us, that was the thing
to defend . . . in the name of saving it, Dagny, I must now start this train.
. . .
When he found that he had collapsed on the floor of the cab and knew that
there was nothing he could do here any longer, he rose and he climbed down

the ladder, thinking dimly of the engine's wheels, even though he knew that
the engineer had checked them. He felt the crunch of the desert dust under
his feet when he let himself drop to the ground. He stood still and, in the
enormous silence, he heard the rustle of tumbleweeds stirring in the
darkness, like the chuckle of an invisible army made free to move when the
Comet was not. He heard a sharper rustle close by—and he saw the small gray
shape of a rabbit rise on its haunches to sniff at the steps of a car of the
Taggart Comet. With a jolt of murderous fury, he lunged in the direction of
the rabbit, as if he could defeat the advance of the enemy in the person of
that tiny gray form. The rabbit darted off into the darkness—but he knew that
the advance was not to be defeated.
He stepped to the front of the engine and looked up at the letters TT.
Then he collapsed across the rail and lay sobbing at the foot of the engine,
with the beam of a motionless headlight above him going off into a limitless
night.
The music of Richard Halley's Fifth Concerto streamed from his keyboard,
past the glass of the window, and spread through the air, over the lights of
the valley. It was a symphony of triumph. The notes flowed up, they spoke of
rising and they were the rising itself, they were the essence and the form of
upward motion, they seemed to embody every human act and thought that had
ascent as its motive. It was a sunburst of sound, breaking out of hiding and
spreading open. It had the freedom of release and the tension of purpose. It
swept space clean and left nothing but the joy of an unobstructed effort.
Only a faint echo within the sounds spoke of that from which the music had
escaped, but spoke in laughing astonishment at the discovery that there was
no ugliness or pain, and there never had had to be. It was the song of an
immense deliverance.
The lights of the valley fell in glowing patches on the snow still
covering the ground. There were shelves of snow on the granite ledges and on
the heavy limbs of the pines. But the naked branches of the birch trees had a
faintly upward thrust, as if in confident promise of the coming leaves of
spring.
The rectangle of light on the side of a mountain was the window of
Mulligan's study. Midas Mulligan sat at his desk, with a map and a column of
figures before him. He was listing the assets of his bank and working on a
plan of projected investments. He was noting down the locations he was
choosing: "New York—Cleveland—Chicago . . . New York—Philadelphia . . . New
York . . . New York . . . New York . . ."
The rectangle of light at the bottom of the valley was the window of
Danneskjold's home. Kay Ludlow sat before a mirror, thoughtfully studying the
shades of film make-up, spread open in a battered case.
Ragnar Danneskjold lay stretched on a couch, reading a volume of the works
of Aristotle: ". . . for these truths hold good for everything that is, and
not for some special genus apart from others. And all men use them, because
they are true of being qua being. . . . For a principle which every one must
have who understands anything that is, is not a hypothesis. . . . Evidently
then such a principle is the most certain of all; which principle this is,
let us proceed to say. It is, that the same attribute cannot at the same time
belong and not belong to the same subject in the same respect. . ."
The rectangle of light in the acres of a farm was the window of the
library of Judge Narragansett. He sat at a table, and the light of his lamp
fell on the copy of an ancient document. He had marked and crossed out the
contradictions in its statements that had once been the cause of its
destruction. He was now adding a new clause to its pages: "Congress shall
make no law abridging the freedom of production and trade . . ."
The rectangle of light in the midst of a forest was the window of the
cabin of Francisco d'Anconia. Francisco lay stretched on the floor, by the

dancing tongues of a fire, bent over sheets of paper, completing the drawing
of his smelter. Hank Rearden and Ellis Wyatt sat by the fireplace. "John will
design the new locomotives," Rearden was saying, "and Dagny will run the
first railroad between New York and Philadelphia. She—" And, suddenly, on
hearing the next sentence, Francisco threw his head up and burst out
laughing, a laughter of greeting, triumph and release. They could not hear
the music of Halley's Fifth Concerto now flowing somewhere high above the
roof, but Francisco's laughter matched its sounds. Contained in the sentence
he had heard, Francisco was seeing the sunlight of spring on the open lawns
of homes across the country, he was seeing the sparkle of motors, he was
seeing the glow of the steel in the rising frames of new skyscrapers, he was
seeing the eyes of youth looking at the future with no uncertainty or fear.
The sentence Rearden had uttered was: "She will probably try to take the
shirt off my back with the freight rates she's going to charge, but— I’ll be
able to meet them."
The faint glitter of light weaving slowly through space, on the highest
accessible ledge of a mountain, was the starlight on the strands of Galt's
hair. He stood looking, not at the valley below, but at the darkness of the
world beyond its walls. Dagny's hand rested on his shoulder, and the wind
blew her hair to blend with his. She knew why he had wanted to walk through
the mountains tonight and what he had stopped to consider. She knew what
words were his to speak and that she would be first to hear them.
They could not see the world beyond the mountains, there was only a void

Don't let it go!—while he was seeing the smoke rising proudly from factory

chimneys, while he was struggling to cut through the smoke and reach the

vision at the root of these visions.

He was pulling at coils of wire, he was linking them and tearing them

apart—while the sudden sense of sunrays and pine trees kept pulling at the

corners of his mind. Dagny!—he heard himself crying soundlessly—

Dagny, in the name of the best within us! . . . He was jerking at futile

levers and at a throttle that had nothing to move. . . . Dagny!—he was crying

to a twelve-year-old girl in a sunlit clearing of the woods—

in the name of the best within us, I must now start this train! . . .

Dagny, that is what it was . . . and you knew it, then, but I didn't . . .

you knew it when you turned to look at the rails. . . . I said, "not business

or earning a living" . . . but, Dagny, business and earning a living and that

in man which makes it possible—that is the best within us, that was the thing

to defend . . . in the name of saving it, Dagny, I must now start this train.

. . .

When he found that he had collapsed on the floor of the cab and knew that

there was nothing he could do here any longer, he rose and he climbed down

the ladder, thinking dimly of the engine's wheels, even though he knew that

the engineer had checked them. He felt the crunch of the desert dust under

his feet when he let himself drop to the ground. He stood still and, in the

enormous silence, he heard the rustle of tumbleweeds stirring in the

darkness, like the chuckle of an invisible army made free to move when the

Comet was not. He heard a sharper rustle close by—and he saw the small gray

shape of a rabbit rise on its haunches to sniff at the steps of a car of the

Taggart Comet. With a jolt of murderous fury, he lunged in the direction of

the rabbit, as if he could defeat the advance of the enemy in the person of

that tiny gray form. The rabbit darted off into the darkness—but he knew that

the advance was not to be defeated.

He stepped to the front of the engine and looked up at the letters TT.

Then he collapsed across the rail and lay sobbing at the foot of the engine,

with the beam of a motionless headlight above him going off into a limitless

night.

The music of Richard Halley's Fifth Concerto streamed from his keyboard,

past the glass of the window, and spread through the air, over the lights of

the valley. It was a symphony of triumph. The notes flowed up, they spoke of

rising and they were the rising itself, they were the essence and the form of

upward motion, they seemed to embody every human act and thought that had

ascent as its motive. It was a sunburst of sound, breaking out of hiding and

spreading open. It had the freedom of release and the tension of purpose. It

swept space clean and left nothing but the joy of an unobstructed effort.

Only a faint echo within the sounds spoke of that from which the music had

escaped, but spoke in laughing astonishment at the discovery that there was

no ugliness or pain, and there never had had to be. It was the song of an

immense deliverance.

The lights of the valley fell in glowing patches on the snow still

covering the ground. There were shelves of snow on the granite ledges and on

the heavy limbs of the pines. But the naked branches of the birch trees had a

faintly upward thrust, as if in confident promise of the coming leaves of

spring.

The rectangle of light on the side of a mountain was the window of

Mulligan's study. Midas Mulligan sat at his desk, with a map and a column of

figures before him. He was listing the assets of his bank and working on a

plan of projected investments. He was noting down the locations he was

choosing: "New York—Cleveland—Chicago . . . New York—Philadelphia . . . New

York . . . New York . . . New York . . ."

The rectangle of light at the bottom of the valley was the window of

Danneskjold's home. Kay Ludlow sat before a mirror, thoughtfully studying the

shades of film make-up, spread open in a battered case.

Ragnar Danneskjold lay stretched on a couch, reading a volume of the works

of Aristotle: ". . . for these truths hold good for everything that is, and

not for some special genus apart from others. And all men use them, because

they are true of being qua being. . . . For a principle which every one must

have who understands anything that is, is not a hypothesis. . . . Evidently

then such a principle is the most certain of all; which principle this is,

let us proceed to say. It is, that the same attribute cannot at the same time

belong and not belong to the same subject in the same respect. . ."

The rectangle of light in the acres of a farm was the window of the

library of Judge Narragansett. He sat at a table, and the light of his lamp

fell on the copy of an ancient document. He had marked and crossed out the

contradictions in its statements that had once been the cause of its

destruction. He was now adding a new clause to its pages: "Congress shall

make no law abridging the freedom of production and trade . . ."

The rectangle of light in the midst of a forest was the window of the

cabin of Francisco d'Anconia. Francisco lay stretched on the floor, by the

dancing tongues of a fire, bent over sheets of paper, completing the drawing

of his smelter. Hank Rearden and Ellis Wyatt sat by the fireplace. "John will

design the new locomotives," Rearden was saying, "and Dagny will run the

first railroad between New York and Philadelphia. She—" And, suddenly, on

hearing the next sentence, Francisco threw his head up and burst out

laughing, a laughter of greeting, triumph and release. They could not hear

the music of Halley's Fifth Concerto now flowing somewhere high above the

roof, but Francisco's laughter matched its sounds. Contained in the sentence

he had heard, Francisco was seeing the sunlight of spring on the open lawns

of homes across the country, he was seeing the sparkle of motors, he was

seeing the glow of the steel in the rising frames of new skyscrapers, he was

seeing the eyes of youth looking at the future with no uncertainty or fear.

The sentence Rearden had uttered was: "She will probably try to take the

shirt off my back with the freight rates she's going to charge, but— I’ll be

able to meet them."

The faint glitter of light weaving slowly through space, on the highest

accessible ledge of a mountain, was the starlight on the strands of Galt's

hair. He stood looking, not at the valley below, but at the darkness of the

world beyond its walls. Dagny's hand rested on his shoulder, and the wind

blew her hair to blend with his. She knew why he had wanted to walk through

the mountains tonight and what he had stopped to consider. She knew what

words were his to speak and that she would be first to hear them.

They could not see the world beyond the mountains, there was only a void